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Chapter Text

Prologue

I was never supposed to be a hero. Not in Faerûn, and certainly not here.

The gods marked her long before she had the chance to become anything else. Lilith was born of shadow and ritual, raised with blood beneath her nails and a hunger not entirely her own. Or maybe it was.

She’s worn more masks than she could remember. Prodigy. Villain. Lover. Saviour. But none of them ever felt right - like they truly belonged to her. Maybe that’s the price of being a Bhaalspawn. Or maybe that’s just the cost of survival.

It’s been a year. One long, aching, bleeding year since she helped him ascend. She remembers the ritual vividly. The circle of death, the spawn, terrified and pleading, and the look in Astarion’s eyes. Not remorse or fear, but hunger. Triumph.

I should have stopped him.

But I didn’t.

She told herself she was helping him take back control. That she was freeing him from Cazador, from the agony and trauma that haunted his every step. He begged her - trusted her - and by the hells, she loved him. Even when she knew it was wrong, even when the others warned her, she still wanted to give him what he wanted. To be the one who stood by his side.

And somewhere inside her… a depraved part of her whispered that maybe she didn’t deserve to be the one who stopped him. What were 7,000 souls compared to the thousands upon thousands she’d killed in Bhaal’s name? She was already damned - what difference did it make?

So, she used the parasite to link their minds. Felt the knife in his hand as if it were her own. Watched in the periphery as he carved into Cazador’s back. Listened to his siblings’ screams as their power flowed into the man she loved.

At first, it was everything he’d wanted - and everything she’d ached for him to have, after centuries of pain. Freedom. Power. Safety. They stayed in Cazador’s manor, his old prison turned sanctuary. Astarion redecorated, of course - no more cages or blood stained floors. Just velvet, wine, and whispered laughter. 

And for a while, it felt like something close to peace. He brought Lilith breakfast in bed. Kissed her forehead after nightmares. Made love to her in the quiet hours of the morning. He told her that she’d saved him. That she was the only person who ever truly cared for him.

But it didn’t last. Nothing ever does.

The obsession came slowly, creeping in at the edges like rot beneath fine wood. He started asking where she went when she left the manor. Then why she’d gone at all. Then he stopped asking. He simply… made her stay. A well-placed suggestion and a compelling tone.

She still remembers the first time - she’d felt a tug at her spine, a glaze over her eyes, and found herself sitting down beside him; smiling, laughing at his jokes, forgetting what she had just been doing. 

A deeper part of her screamed. Something sacred had been taken from her. Something she hadn't even realized she'd lost. 

It was subtle at first, so subtle she almost convinced herself she was imagining it. A shift in the air when he looked at her too long, or a lingering hand on her wrist that felt more like a tether than a touch. She stopped trusting her instincts, started second-guessing her own memories. Was it magic? Or was it just him? She couldn't tell where he ended and she began. Maybe that was the point.

*** The first time he hit her, he cried afterward. The second time, he didn’t. ***

She tried to leave. Gods know she tried. She wrote to Gale, to Shadowheart, even to Lae’zel. None of them answered. She didn’t know if the letters were burned or intercepted or just simply ignored. The world she helped save had turned its back on her - or maybe it had just forgotten.

He never let her forget.

Every day, he reminded her of what she was. Bhaal’s Chosen. A butcher, a murderer, carved from crimson history, baptized in screams and flame.

In the quiet moments of dawn and lonely evenings spent alone, he’d whisper that no one else would ever love her. She was too broken, too damned, too soaked in blood. That only he could understand her. That only he could love her despite it all.

He made her wear a dress when he compelled her into marriage. A white one; mocking, cruel. She remembers the ceremony like a dream she was watching from across a vast chasm. Everything felt slow, as if she were underwater. She studied the way her mouth moved - saying vows she didn’t mean, her hands trembling around his. The guests (his servants) were enthralled, though they didn't have a choice either. Lilith’s doubts any of them remember it. She wishes she didn’t.

** That night, he didn’t even need to compel her into sex. She was too tired, too broken to deny him, her body moving on instinct while her mind floated somewhere far above - detached, numb. Part of her had convinced herself that she deserved it, that this was the punishment she’d earned for everything she’d done. **

** She just let him take what he wanted and prayed it would be over quickly. It was easier to let him think she wanted it, than to endure what happened when she resisted. **

She hated him. 

The final straw was a mirror. Just a simple, gilded thing hanging in the hall. 

*** Walking by, she saw herself in it and didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Hollow eyes and bruised lips. A trembling smile carved into place like it had been stitched there. ***

She left again that night. He caught her, of course. He always did. But someone else found her too.

Raphael.

She ran into him - literally - in an alley, him leaning against the wall like he owned it. Eyes like coals and a grin that promised ruin. “My dear Lilith,” he tsked, “what a shame to see such potential squandered.”

She told him she’d die before making a deal with him. He said that could be arranged.

But he was patient, teetering on kind, even. She saw the manipulation for what it was, of course, but he told her he could get her out. 

There was no place she could escape to that Astarion couldn’t eventually reach. He would never stop hunting her - not while he still believed she belonged to him. But if she vanished completely, if she slipped into some quiet, forgotten fold of Faerûn, far from the eyes of gods and monsters, then maybe, just maybe, she could finally be free.

That was what Raphael had promised her - obscurity. A place so small, so hidden, so steeped in stillness that even Astarion’s ambition couldn’t sniff her out. “A quiet corner of Faerûn, untouched and unbothered ” - the kind of place where no one would ask who she was or what she’d done. Where the weight of her name would never follow.

He’d even smiled, that too-smooth smile of his - like a mask stretching over something sharper beneath - and said, “There are always ways to ensure the right eyes stay closed.”

At the time, it sounded like salvation. Only later would she wonder what quiet corner of the world ever came without a price.

Standing in the Chamber of Egress a week later, Raphael twisted magic and bent the bones of old, forgotten portals to carve a path to a forgotten corner of the world; somewhere no vampire, nor god, nor devil could track Lilith.

Obviously, she didn’t believe for a second that a devil (read: Raphael) couldn’t follow her through - but beggars can’t be choosers.

In return, she’d owe him her soul. But not now. Not even soon. In one hundred years. Long enough for a new start, a fulfilling life. She could be happy. She could breathe again. 

So, she signed. She remembers the smell of the ink - spiced, cloying, like cinnamon over rot. The parchment burned when she touched it, her signature gleaming gold. Raphael smiled. 

He brought her to the House of Hope, told her to wait while things were being prepared for her departure. For the first time in months, she felt… hope. She could almost taste freedom.

Until Astarion came.

He sliced through Raphael’s guards like smoke. His eyes were wild, red, livid. How did he find her? Maybe the bond. Maybe something else. But he knew . He screamed her name - begged her, threatened her.

“I’ll kill them all!” he shouted. “Everyone, Lilith - the fucking city - I’ll burn it to the ground if you leave me!”

Now, standing at the precipice, the edge of the portal shimmered like water, humming with power. Raphael stood behind her, hand hovering over her back, ready to push her through. 

She looked back at Astarion - her husband, the man she had once longed to marry, but no longer the man she loved. She still remembered the good memories: whispered jokes and bottles of wine shared under moonlight, the brush of his hand against hers, nights spent dreaming of a future that never came. But they felt like echoes now, fading beneath the weight of what he’d done. Who he’s become. Their love had rotted into grief, and grief had hardened into something colder. Turning back around, Lilith took the final step forward, one foot moving through the portal.

Astarion lunged.

His hand caught hers, fingertips like claws, digging deep. She screamed, fire erupting from her palm. The portal pulsed; magic suddenly surged, overflowing like water bursting over a dam. Too powerful, too chaotic. Raphael cursed in an ancient tongue as the spell - the portal - cracked and buckled beneath the strain.

And then she fell.

Through worlds, through stars, through screams. She saw the tattered edges of the Weave. She saw gods watching from vast corners. She saw her past, stretching out behind her like a trail of blood.

And then- 

Cold. A stone floor beneath her, damp and dark. Shackles on her wrists. The sharp, unmistakable smell of iron. 

Then, a voice. Low, suspicious. Unfamiliarly accented.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now .”

Lilith raised her head. Blood dripped into her eye. And she smiled, giggled even. Because death, at least, would mean this was over.

But, she thinks, I didn’t crawl out of one nightmare just to die in another.

Chapter One 

“The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

Lilith blinked slowly, vision swimming in and out of focus, each breath rasping like she’d inhaled smoke. The voice cut through the fog like a blade, slicing through the haze clouding her mind. Her body ached like she’d been trampled by a pack of pissed-off owlbears. Again .

“You think I’m responsible?” she rasped, voice dry and cracked. She barely recognized it.

The woman in front of her grabbed her marked hand with surprising strength. “Explain this.”

A dull pain flared in her left hand - sharp, hot, and completely wrong. She turned her head to look and saw the mark, glowing an eerie, unnatural green against her skin. It pulsed in time with something she couldn’t see, something vast and cold and distant. And she had the sinking, marrow-deep suspicion that she had made a very big mistake.

“I… I can’t,” she said, her gaze dropping to the stone floor.

“What do you mean you can’t?” the woman snapped.

“I don’t know what that is. Or how it got there.”

The woman’s eyes flared. She lunged forward, fury boiling just beneath the surface. “You’re lying!”

“We need her, Cassandra,” said a second voice - calmer, quieter, but no less commanding.

Lilith finally flicked her eyes upward to get a look at her captors. The first woman - Cassandra - stood over her, dark-eyed and grim. With fury carved into every line of her face, her sharp features suggested that she’d only smile when hell froze over. She looked like she was built from sword steel and stubbornness. She wasn’t holding a weapon - but Lilith was deeply confident that she didn’t need one to kill her.

The second woman stood between them, her face mostly hidden beneath a hood, expression unreadable. Where Cassandra was all fire and raw flame, this woman appeared a cool shadow - composed, calculating. She studied Lilith with an intensity that made her wonder if she was praying for her or planning her funeral. The room suddenly felt suffocating - there was a quiet weight to her presence, like a blade you didn’t see until it was already pressed to your throat.

“Where-” Lilith coughed, throat scraping like broken glass. “Where the fuck am I?”

“You’re in Haven. Ferelden,” Cassandra said.

Ferelden. That word was familiar in the way nightmares are - something half-remembered from a book, or a fever dream. She tried to lift her chin to meet Cassandra’s eyes, but nausea hit her like a wave. She dropped back onto the cold stone with a groan.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” the hooded woman asked.

She tried. Gods, she tried. But everything was a blur. One moment, she was stepping through Raphael’s portal, Astarion’s scream still echoing behind her, and the next, white-hot magic had swallowed her whole. She remembered nothing after that. Just pain. Cold. And now… this.

The mark on her hand pulsed again, worse this time. She bit back a whimper, bile rising in her throat. “I… I…”

She shut her eyes, willing herself to breathe, to concentrate.

“I remember… running… things were chasing me, and… a woman?”

“A woman?” the hooded one echoed.

“She reached out to me. But then…” Lilith trailed off, shaking her head.

“I wasn’t even supposed to end up here,” she muttered, voice tight. “I was aiming for the other side of Faerûn. Maybe start a quiet life. Farming, hiding - something simple. Not…” She gestured vaguely at the dungeon around her. “This.”

Cassandra’s brow furrowed. “Faerûn?”

Lilith blinked at her, confusion flickering across her face. She looked between them, slowly realizing the problem. “…You’ve never heard of it?”

Cassandra gave her a flat, expectant look.

Lilith leaned back slightly, processing. “Huh,” she said, mostly to herself. “I guess I’m a little farther from home than I thought.” Then, she added, dryly: “Not a common vacation spot for you, I take it?”

Cassandra exhaled sharply - something between a scoff and a sigh. “Can you tell us your name?”

“Lilith.”

“And your allegiance?” the hooded woman asked.

She blinked. “To myself. Is that an option?”

Neither of them looked amused. Figures .

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift,” Cassandra said.

Leliana - so that was the shadow’s name - nodded once before slipping silently from the room.

Cassandra leaned forward and uncuffed the shackles holding Lilith to the stone floor.

“What… did happen?” she asked, her voice low.

She slowly met Lilith’s eyes. “It will be easier to show you,” she replied.

The cold hit Lilith like a slap as Cassandra led her outside, her wrists still bound. She blinked against the sudden light, against the wind that carried the scent of snow and something worse - burned wood, ash, and death.

Then she saw it.

A tear in the sky itself. Green and sickly, pulsating with a foul, magical energy. It looked like the world had been stabbed open, and the wound refused to close. Lightning flickered along its edges; debris floated into it and didn’t come back out.

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra said grimly. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

“The… Conclave…” Lilith repeated, the word tasting foreign. She couldn’t make sense of it, of any of this. So she latched onto the one question she could ask without giving too much away.

“An explosion can do that?”

“This one did,” Cassandra said. “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

Her mark flared violently, and pain shooting through her like wildfire. She collapsed to one knee, choking on the scream that tore its way out of her throat.

Cassandra dropped to eye level. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads. And it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

Doomed. Again. Honestly, this might’ve been funny if I weren’t currently being flayed from the inside out by a divine tattoo I didn’t ask for.

They started walking, her legs still shaky.

“They have decided your guilt,” Cassandra said, her voice hard. “They need it. The people of Haven mourn our most holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.”

She continued, “We lash out like the sky, but we must think beyond ourselves, as she did. Until the Breach is sealed.”

So - Lilith recounted, a thought in her head - Divine Justinia had arranged a peace summit between the warring mages and templars, and someone had blown it sky-high, killing her and everyone else. Now there was a hole in the sky - a literal glowing, swirling, green hole - and I fall out of said sky with a mysterious glowing hand. 

Convenient, that.

She glanced back at Cassandra. Lilith thought she was intense (okay, terrifying) but sincere. Cassandra really believed in this Divine, in peace, in doing what was right.

Lilith didn’t believe in gods. Not anymore. And after Bhaal, after Astarion… no divine being got - no, deserved - the benefit of the doubt. But Cassandra? She might actually want to save the world. And Lilith respected the hell out of that.

“You were found at the Temple ruins,” Cassandra continued. “They say you stepped out of a rift, and fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was. And the mark on your hand - no one knows what it is, or why you survived when everyone else died.”

A horrible suspicion twisted in Lilith’s stomach. “Raphael,” she muttered, laughing weakly. “That smug bastard might’ve actually sent me somewhere worse.”

Cassandra stepped back, eyeing her like she’d sprouted horns.

“I told you I have no idea how I got here,” she said, and that was technically true. But muttering under her breath about devils and Bhaal and escaping her undead ex was probably not helping. 

“One minute I’m getting a crash course in infernal contract law, the next, I’m face-first on your dungeon floor with a green hand. Trust me, this wasn’t on the itinerary.”

At the word infernal , Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. Her hand twitched near her sword.

Lilith rolled her eyes, sighing. “Oh, relax. I’m not a demon worshipper or anything - I banish devils, thank you very much. Well. Banished. Once. It was more of a mutual… fleeing.”

Her expression sharpened. “You are a mage?” she asked suddenly, ignoring everything else Lilith had said.

“Wizard,” she corrected automatically. Then paused. “Wait, what did you call me?”

“Mage. You… wield magic, yes?”

“Yes,” she replied slowly. “But where I’m from, ‘mage’ is more of a job title. Not a catch-all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are not from Ferelden?”

“Definitely not.”

They stared at each other. Snow drifted in lazy spirals, the Breach crackling above them like the sky itself had come undone.

Then Cassandra pulled out a dagger. And turned to face her.

…Great.

Lilith held up her hands again. “Look, if you’re going to sacrifice me to your gods, at least buy me a drink first.”

Now Cassandra rolled her eyes, slicing the ropes binding Lilith’s wrists and letting them fall to the snow. “There will be a trial. I can promise no more.” 

“Come,” she continued. “It is not far.”

Lilith rubbed her wrists, grimacing. “Where are you taking me?”

“Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach.”

Of course it did.

The climb toward the rift was steep and brutal. Lilith’s legs screamed with every step, and the mark throbbed harder the closer they got.

Then, as they reached the crest of the hill, the Breach pulsed - like it was breathing. She fell to the ground again, gasping in pain.

Cassandra dropped beside her and grabbed her arm, pulling her back up. “The pulses are coming faster, now.”

She looked at Lilith like she didn’t expect to see her live to the end of the day.

Lilith coughed. “Great. Love a deadline.”

“The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear - and the more demons we face.”

Lilith nodded as she turned back, continuing their climb. “Awesome. Demons . Because today wasn’t hard enough.”

Halfway across another bridge, it suddenly exploded beneath their feet. Lilith hit the ground hard, rolling onto a frozen lake with a crack of ice beneath her.

Then something hissed in the air.

A wraith. Or at least, that’s what Lilith thought it resembled - floating, shrieking, cloaked in shadow. Not unlike the horrors from the Shadow-Cursed Lands, though this one shimmered with the same energy as the Breach.

She scrambled to her feet and thrust her hand forward, willing fire into her palm. A bolt of flame seared through the air, striking the creature dead-on with a shriek. If she’d had her staff, she could’ve ended this quickly - but she’d just have to make do without it.

The ice hissed under her feet as she spun toward another wraith, sending a volley of crackling energy hurtling into its chest. Another closed in behind her - she flung a blast over her shoulder without looking, buying herself seconds. Just enough.

She watched as a third lunged for Cassandra. She threw out her palm, lightning leaving her fingertips, rippling through the air as the spell hit home, leaving the creature a smoldering heap on the frozen lake.

When the last one vanished in a swirl of smoke, Lilith exhaled.

“It’s over,” she said, walking toward Cassandra.

She spun on her, sword raised.

Lilith scoffed, “One of the wraiths attacked me. What was I supposed to do!?” she snapped.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. “Wraith?”

“Demon, whatever!” she threw up her hands. “What, was I supposed to let it eat me for dramatic effect?”

Cassandra stared at her for a long moment, then sighed.

“You’re right. I cannot protect you. And I cannot expect you to be defenseless. Your life is threatened enough as it is.”

Lilith fidgeted, unsettled by the note of concern. “Okay, but if you start getting mushy on me, I’m turning around. Let’s just… get this over with.”

Cassandra nodded, then turned toward the hill. The light from the Breach lit the path ahead in ghostly green.

And Lilith followed her, hand still burning.

We’re getting close to the rift, you can hear fighting!” Cassandra said as they raced up the hill.

“Who’s fighting?” Lilith asked.

“You’ll see soon. We must help them,” she replied.

They crested the hill to find a small squad locked in battle with creatures from a nightmare: ethereal, screeching things that flickered and shimmered beneath a rift pulsing in the sky. The air stank of smoke and rot; buildings around them lay shattered, as if a wrathful god had struck them down. Splintered beams jutted from the ground, stone scorched black and cracked open.

Without hesitation, Lilith hurled herself into the fray, flame erupting from her fingers in a roaring arc. The fire collided with the demons, forcing them back.

But as she cast, the pain in her marked hand surged sharply - agony blooming up her arm like venom under her skin. Gritting her teeth, she stopped casting. Instead, she grabbed a dagger dropped by one of the fallen soldiers and lunged into melee, slashing at the creatures with grim efficiency.

The fight dragged on, chaotic and brutal, but at last, the last wraith dissipated into nothing.

Then, without warning, an elf was beside her. Tall, pale.

“Quickly, before more come through!” he barked. His hand reached for Lilith - her marked hand - and thrust it upward toward the rift.

The green mark flared, searing hot. Light erupted from her palm and struck the rift, clashing with the pulsing magic. The pain was unbearable, but she kept her arm raised. Her teeth clenched, body trembling.

And then, like a scream snapping off mid-note, the rift sealed shut. The air stilled. She wrenched her hand back, staring at the burning sigil embedded in her flesh.

Turning to the elf, she demanded, “What did you do?”

He met her gaze evenly. “I did nothing. The credit is yours.”

She scoffed, flexing her hand. “At least this is good for something.”

“Whatever magic opened the Breach also placed that mark upon your hand,” he said, tone studious. “I theorized it might allow you to close the rifts it leaves in its wake. And it seems I was correct.”

Cassandra stepped forward. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.”

“Possibly.” The elf’s eyes didn’t leave Lilith’s. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

She tried not to roll her eyes. That kind of talk had a way of making people sound stupid. Or dangerous.

“That’s good to know,” another voice cut in - low and amused. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

A dwarf strolled up, shirt open, showcasing his chest hair, and crossbow slung across his back. Wide-shouldered and smug, he looked like someone who’d walked out of a salacious story with a drink in one hand and a wink in the other.

“Varric Tethras,” he said, with a slight bow. “Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tag-along.”

He winked at Cassandra. She grimaced in response.

Lilith eyed him, already pegging him as trouble, but the useful kind. The kind who could talk his way out of a jail cell and into someone’s pants. He had the air of a man used to danger, but not unfamiliar with loyalty - if you earned it.

“Are you with the Chantry, or…?” she asked, curious.

The elf beside her laughed. “Was that a serious question?”

Varric tried not to smirk. “Technically I’m a prisoner. Just like you.”

Cassandra jumped in. “I brought you to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly that is no longer necessary.”

“Yet here I am,” Varric said, gesturing broadly. “Lucky for you, considering current events.”

Lilith tilted her head toward him. “That’s a nice crossbow you have.”

His smile broadened. “Ah, isn’t she? Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

She raised a brow. “You named your crossbow Bianca?”

“Of course. And she’ll be great company in the valley.”

Cassandra turned to him, unimpressed. “Absolutely not. Your help is appreciated, Varric, but-”

He cut her off. “Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

Cassandra scoffed and turned away.

The elf stepped forward. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

His phrasing made Lilith quirk a brow - until Varric added helpfully, “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you as you slept.’”

She stared at the elf - Solas - for a beat. “You seem to know a great deal about this.”

“Solas is an apostate,” Cassandra said. “Like yourself. He is well-versed in such matters.”

“Technically,” he corrected her as Lilith turned back toward him, “all mages are now apostates, Cassandra.”

He examined Lilith. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade - far beyond the experience of any Circle mage.”

He continued, more gently, “I came to offer whatever help I can give for the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed - regardless of origin.”

Lilith tried to keep her expression neutral as she scrambled to make sense of half of what he just said.

“And what will you do once this is over?” she asked.

“One hopes those in power remember who helped, and who did not.”

He turned to Cassandra. “You should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I’ve seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

Lilith’s heart thudded once, hard. She looked between them quickly.

Cassandra arched an eyebrow. Her suspicion was sharp.

Lilith forced a smile. “Actually, I am a mage. Where I’m from, we employed… unconventional tactics for teaching and using magic.”

Solas tilted his head, unconvinced. “Fascinating.” He studied her again.

In return, Lilith took stock of him more closely now. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a face carved in patience and pale grey-purple eyes that watched her like she was both a puzzle and the answer to one. His presence set her on edge - not because he was unfriendly, but because he was too calm. Too still. 

She’d seen that kind of stillness before. In herself. In Astarion. In killers who didn’t need to raise their voices to be dangerous.

She held his gaze a moment too long. He finally looked away first.

“We must get to the forward camp,” Cassandra said.

Before they could start moving, Lilith said suddenly, “My name is Lilith.”

Solas glanced back at her. “Pleased to meet you, Lilith.”

Varric gave her a once-over, his eyes flicking to Cassandra and back. “Despite what I’ve been hearing, you don’t look like a world-ending threat.”

Lilith laughed - a real, surprised laugh. “Give it time.”

He grinned. “We’re gonna get along fine.”

“So,” Varric said, strolling beside Lilith, “are you innocent?”

She snorted. “I don’t remember what happened.”

He chuckled. “That’ll get you every time. Should’ve spun a story.”

Cassandra interjected, “That’s what you would have done.”

“It’s more believable,” Varric replied, “and less prone to result in premature execution.”

Then, Solas drifted up beside her. “Where are you from, Lilith?”

“Oh, a far, remote village,” she replied vaguely. “I doubt any of you would’ve heard of it. We’re pretty secluded.”

She realized how sketchy that sounded, so she added, “I was sent to observe the Conclave. My village is primarily wiz- mages. We were trying to stay informed.”

Solas seemed mollified by that and asked nothing more.

They pressed on through the wreckage of the valley, fighting off more demons and sealing rifts. Varric’s earlier comment about execution echoed in the back of her mind. But for now, she was useful - which bought her time.

Eventually, they reached a bridge. Ahead, they saw Leliana beside a man leaning over a map. He looked up at Lilith sharply.

“Ah. Here they come.”

“You made it,” Leliana said. “Chancellor Roderick, this is-”

“I know who she is. As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux for execution.”

Lilith bristled. This prick.

Cassandra bristled faster. “Order me ? You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat.”

“And you are a thug, though supposedly in service to the Chantry.”

Leliana stepped in. “We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.”

“She is dead! We must elect her replacement and obey her orders on the matter!”

Lilith’s anger snapped. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!”

His eyes shot to hers and he spat, “You shouldn’t even be here!”

She took a step forward, snarling, “Talk to me like that again and I'll show you what else I shouldn't be." 

A hand caught her bicep. Solas’s voice was low by her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “Not here.”

She breathed through her nose and forced herself to step back.

Cassandra rounded on Roderick again.

“Call a retreat, Seeker! Our position is hopeless!” he cried.

“We can stop this,” she said. “Before it’s too late.”

“How?” he demanded.

The climb up the mountain path was grueling. Snow and ice clung to the stone, and jagged rocks jutted like teeth. They passed crumbled statues and broken watchtowers. Varric muttered complaints about the cold. Solas was quiet, though Lilith caught him watching her more than once.

Demons found them again before they reached the temple. Lilith held her ground, flinging spells with one hand, gripping a blade in the other. The mark flared with each cast. The pain was no less sharp, but she was getting used to it.

Once the rift was closed, Solas appeared beside her. “Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.” He sounded impressed. 

Varric nearby, said, “Let’s hope it works on the big one,” patting his crossbow before securing it behind him. 

A blonde man in heavy armour decorated with fur approached, “Lady Cassandra,” he greeted,  “You managed to close the rift? Well done.”

Cassandra replied, “Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner’s doing.”

“Is it?” His eyes locked on Lilith’s, cool and stern. “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

She watched him for a moment, recognizing the look of a warrior. Distantly, he reminded her of Lae’zel, Karlach. Their determination. Their brutal, unshakable certainty that the fight mattered - no matter how many pieces it left them in. 

Her throat tightened. She missed them - her whole team.

Realizing she’d zoned out, Lilith gave him an amused look, and said, “You're not the only one”. 

The Commander spoke again, “The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we’d best move quickly,” Cassandra agreed. “Give us time, Commander.”

“Maker watch over you - for all our sakes.” The Commander then turned to help an injured soldier limp away.

They moved quickly, approaching the Temple of Sacred Ashes. At the summit, the Temple lay in ruins. The Breach pulsed in the sky overhead - huge, radiant, terrifying.

Suddenly, like a thunderclap, the magnitude of this disaster hit Lilith. The temple was destroyed, decimated. Hundreds of people died.

And it’s my fault.

She stared at the wreckage, throat tight. Stone shattered like glass. Ash still drifting on the wind. This was supposed to be sacred ground - a place of peace, of reverence. Now it’s a mass grave.

She didn’t remember what happened in the explosion, but the mark on her hand told her that she was at the center of it. The Breach screamed overhead like a wound in the world, and Lilith felt it humming in her bones. Whatever tore it open, it chose her. Or used her.  And she let it.

Her hands flexed uselessly at her sides. Back in Faerûn, she'd spilled oceans of blood, convinced it was the only way to survive. But this? These deaths weren’t calculated. They weren’t strategic. They were collateral. And somehow, that made them worse. No spell, no clever lie, no bargain with a devil can undo this.

The truth crawled beneath her skin, burrowing itself into the depths of her heart: I am the monster they think I am.

Cassandra suddenly turned to her, pulling her out of her daze. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

Not trusting her voice at the moment, she nodded her head firmly. It wasn't a hesitation - it was resolve. Words would wobble and break, but her body knew what must be done.

They descended into the Temple, footsteps echoing across broken stone and crumbled arches. The air here felt wrong - thick, humming, charged with something unnatural. Then her hand began to crackle with power; the mark searing her like it was waking up.

“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

The voice didn’t echo in the temple - it pierced through it. Cold and triumphant. Lilith’s head snapped up toward the Breach. The sky above was still torn, a gaping maw of green light, but now it spoke.

From beside her, Cassandra said, “What are we hearing?”

Solas replied, calm but grim, “At a guess, the person who created the Breach.”

They continued down the shattered path. Each step felt heavier, like they were sinking deeper into something sacred now spoiled. Lilith’s breath caught when she spotted strange red crystals embedded in the stone walls - jagged, glistening like wet wounds. At a glance, they reminded her of the ones that had bound Orpheus in the Astral Prism. Massive, ominous, watching. Those had pulsed with infernal magic. These hummed with something equally vile.

She drifted closer, reaching toward them almost without thinking. Curious.

Suddenly, a firm grip closed around her wrist. She turned, startled.

Varric stared at her, unusually serious. “Don’t touch it - it’s red lyrium,” he said.

The name meant nothing to her, but his tone did. She let her hand fall. The last time she ignored a warning like that, she lost too much to get it back.

As they moved on, she heard him murmur to Cassandra behind her. “What is it doing here?”

From above, another voice thundered down. “Keep the sacrifice still.”

And then - a woman’s voice, desperate. Pained. Human.

“Someone help me!”

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “That is Divine Justinia’s voice!”

A cold thread winded through Lilith’s spine. The Divine. Alive? Or something worse?

They kept descending, deeper into ruin. The mark pulsed, then flared - so violently Lilith staggered. Agony ripped through her, bright and white and blinding. She grit her teeth, one hand braced against the wall. Her vision wavered.

Again, they heard the voice of Justinia cry out - raw, terrified. “Someone help me!”

The sound tore through the Temple like a knife, and before Lilith could process it, another voice followed, familiar in a way that turned her stomach to ice.

Her own voice. Echoing from above. “What’s going on here?”

Cassandra whirled to look at her, her brow furrowed in confusion and alarm. “That was your voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…”

A burst of white light blinded them for a moment, like the world itself held its breath. Then, shadows coalesced - ghostly, translucent figures forming from the air. A vision. A memory? No, something stranger.

They could see Divine Justinia suspended in place, bound by writhing red energy that snaked around her arms like living chains. She struggled, luminous and terrified, a beacon of desperation in the gloom. And then a figure emerged from the haze - a towering silhouette cloaked in shadow, its eyes glowing with an unnatural red light. It loomed over her like a sentence waiting to be passed.

And then - Lilith saw herself.

She entered the shadowed room, unmistakably her. Same clothes, same gait. Her hand - her real hand, not the one reflected above - began to spark with wild, unstable magic, leaping and crackling with violent intent.

She staggered back a step, breath catching in her throat. The colour drained from her face.

I was there. Or…was I?  Is this an illusion? A memory I’ve lost? Or one planted by something cruel?

The phantom version of her spoke again, her voice echoing unnervingly through the ruins. “What’s going on here?”

Divine Justinia turned to her illusion, eyes wide with urgency. “Run while you can! Warn them!”

Then a dark, guttural voice cut through the vision like a blade. “We have an intruder. Slay the elf!”

The words hit like a physical blow. She tensed instinctively, chest tightening.

Another flash of white light - and the vision was gone. The chamber was silent once more, but the air felt heavier, the truth pressed like a weight on all of them.

Cassandra rounded on her, disbelief and fear tightening her features. “You were there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

Lilith’s mouth went dry. The words tore from her, “I don’t remember!” The admission ringing out too loud, too raw.

Solas stepped forward, eyes fixed on the gaping rift above them. His voice was steady, but there was something sharp beneath it - curiosity laced with concern.

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.”

He glanced at Lilith, then back to the rift. “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Cassandra nodded grimly, drawing her blade. “That means demons. Stand ready!”

The others steeled themselves, weapons raised. Lilith glanced at them, then at the mark on her hand, now pulsing with energy like a living thing eager to strike.

She gave Cassandra a brief nod of her head - half warning, half promise - and raised her hand toward the rift. The magic surged, and she willed it to open.

The air warped with heat and shrieking force as the rift burst open - demons spilling forth like blood from a wound. Shades screeching and darting in erratic, jerking motions, their malformed limbs slashing at anything in reach.

And then it stepped through.

It was larger than the rest. Towering. Radiating arrogance and malice in equal measure, with a horned, armored body that seems carved from molten pride itself.

From beside her, Solas narrowed his eyes and breathed, “A Pride demon.”

Lilith laughed in disbelief. “Of course it’s a Pride demon. My day just wouldn’t be complete without getting judged by a ten-foot tall magical asshole.”

From beside her, she saw the corner of Solas’ mouth quirk upwards. 

The creature roared, charging forward.

She and Solas peeled off from the others, instinctively flanking it. He raised his hand, conjuring a wall of shimmering magic to block the demon’s lunge, while she ducked low and swept a blast of cold energy across its legs. Ice blossomed over its hide, cracking in jagged, glittering patterns.

Meanwhile, Cassandra, Varric, and the soldiers were holding the swarm at bay. Cassandra’s shield bashed through a cluster of snarling shades, while Varric fired bolts with surgical precision, Bianca humming in his hands.

The Pride demon backhanded Solas, sending him staggering across the stone floor. Before it could strike again, Lilith darted forward, lightning crackling across her fingertips like a brewing storm. She thrust her hand out, sending a bolt straight into the demon’s chest. It roared, smoke curling from the impact as it staggered back a step.

But the demon retaliated fast. Its massive claw lashed out, catching her across the side - not a glancing blow this time. The force lifted her off her feet and hurled her sideways into a pile of broken stone. Pain tore through her ribs and shoulder, sharp and immediate. She hit the ground hard, gasping, vision swimming as blood soaked into the fabric of her tunic.

For a moment, she couldn't move. Her breath caught, shallow and ragged, as adrenaline roared in her ears. And then - just beneath the pain - came a flicker of something colder. Familiar. Terrifying. Like the psychic pull of a mind flayer. Like Bhaal whispering sweet murder into her skull.

No. Not now.

She shoved the darkness down, gritted her teeth, and forced herself upright with a hiss. Her side screamed in protest, but she stood.

“Quickly! Disrupt the rift!” Cassandra’s voice rang out behind her, sharp with urgency.

Lilith stumbled forward, dragging magic to her fingers once more, the crackle of power barely masking the sound of her own ragged breathing.

She spun toward the breach, raising her marked hand. Power surged, unruly and wild, through her veins as she thrust it toward the rift. Green lightning shot out from the mark, slamming into the magical wound in the sky. It shuddered violently.

Cassandra called out, “The demon is vulnerable – now!”

They didn't hesitate. Solas hurled a series of ice shards that exploded against its hide. Cassandra charged, sword gleaming, striking at its exposed flank. Varric planted a bolt right in the demon’s head.

Lilith followed with a fire spell, flames roaring to life around the demon’s legs, licking upwards; charring and twisting the already grotesque form. It screamed - high and furious - and began to falter.

One last coordinated barrage, and it fell with a thunderous crash, dissolving into ash and smoke.

From across the ruins, Cassandra yelled, “Now! Seal the rift!

Staggering towards it, Lilith raised her hand again. The mark blazed to life, white-hot with energy. It was like trying to wrestle a tempest into submission - magic searing through her muscles, her bones, her skull.

She screamed through clenched teeth and forced the rift to close.

And, with a final wrenching pull, it did. The rift sealed with a brilliant burst of light - and silence fell.

Her knees buckled. Vision swimming, heart hammering, she swayed-

-and the world tipped sideways.

Darkness took her before she hit the ground.

Chapter Text

The market was a hive of sound and scent - roasting meat, overripe fruit, the clang of hammers and bark of merchants shouting over one another. Lilith kept her hood low, more out of habit than need. Just another elf in a city that had seen worse.

Astarion walked beside her, fingers intertwined with hers, too beautiful and too still to be unremarkable. He drew eyes like honey drew flies, and he loved it.

They were halfway past a fruit stall when she felt it - a tug at her belt, quick fingers brushing too close to her hip. She spun, caught the boy by the wrist. He couldn’t have been older than fourteen. Dirty face, too-thin frame. Bold little shit.

He stammered something about being lost, but his eyes darted to her pouch.

“Nice try,” Lilith said, tightening her grip just enough to make him wince. He was young - too young. His eyes wide, panicked breath coming quickly. Then, she let him go.

He staggered back, startled by the mercy. She gave him a flat look, then flicked her eyes past him, as if telling him to run along. The boy didn’t need to be told twice. 

“He’s just a kid,” she said over her shoulder to Astarion. “Didn’t even have a weapon.”

Astarion didn’t answer. He just smiled.

It was faint - barely there. A quiet thing; tight, deliberate. Like the ghost of a private thought. His eyes tracked the boy as he vanished into the crowd. Unblinking. Disturbingly patient. 

The smile didn’t reach his eyes either. There was a stillness to him in that moment - a tension. Like something held carefully in check. 

When his attention finally returned to her, it softened. Almost. But the edge hadn’t fully left - it lingered behind his eyes, coiled and waiting. 

Lilith felt it pass over her like a shadow, a shift in pressure. Too strange to linger on. 

And then he took her hand again, lacing their fingers once more. Perfectly calm, as if nothing at all had passed between them. 

They continued walking, stopping at a few more stalls to browse trinkets, dried herbs, and mismatched odds and ends. Eventually, Lilith drifted away from Astarion, her steps slow and aimless as she lingered alone at a booth selling glass pendants and old books with curling pages. She welcomed the space, brief as it was.

Later that day, as the sun was going down, the alley was a relief - quiet, tucked behind a row of crumbling buildings where the noise of the market faded into flies and dust. Lilith stepped into the shade and ran a hand along the cool stone, enjoying the moment of stillness.

Then, she saw it.

A body, half-hidden behind a broken crate. The same boy - his tunic torn, his neck at a wrong angle, a pool of blood soaking into the dirt beneath him. One shoe gone, the other twisted on his foot.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“You were right,” Astarion’s voice came softly from behind her, almost affectionate. “He didn’t have a weapon.” 

She spun as he stepped closer, his mouth brushing her ear, lips trailing the curve of her neck like a lover.

“You followed him?” she asked, stiff.

“I didn’t need to. He lingered when he should have run.” His eyes gleamed. “Rats often do.”

“He was a child .”

He made a small, amused sound. “He was a thief. And a rather careless one, at that. I did him a favour - saved him the consequences of a life he was clearly too ill-equipped to survive.”

“Astarion, you can’t-” she said, voice sharp, clipped. “You didn’t give him a chance.”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “And you gave him too much of one. Mercy makes you predictable, darling.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make.”

“No,” he said, stopping just in front of her, arms on either side of her body, caging her in against the stone wall. “But I made it anyway.”

She looked back at the body. Then to him.

“I protected you,” he said, quiet, but resolute. He tucked a hair behind her ear. “Or would you rather we let every desperate little urchin rifle through our pockets until one of them slips a knife between your ribs?”

Her jaw clenched. “He didn’t even touch me.”

He smiled. “Yet.”

She scoffed - angry, unthinking - then slapped him. It was instinct, more than anything; her palm cracking across his cheek. Not enough to wound, but just enough to mark something. To draw a line.

He didn’t flinch - he laughed. Low and soft and far too pleased.

His hand caught her wrist, pinning it to the wall. His body pressed into hers, danger and control wrapped in silk. “There you are,” he murmured. “I was wondering how long you’d keep pretending.”

His eyes burned red - possessive and hungry. She should’ve shoved him away. Should’ve yelled. Should’ve done something.

Instead, she let him kiss her.

Let him press her back against the stone. His mouth was rough, claiming, and she opened to it like she always did - like she didn’t know better. She tasted blood and wine and ashes.

Their bodies moved together like something practiced, something sharpened. His hands were unforgiving. Hers, eager.

“You’re mine, darling.” he whispered against her throat, voice low and curling. A purr of triumph. “You always will be.”

The alley echoed with the rustle of cloth, the scrape of boots, breath gasped against stone.

When it ended, she leaned against the wall, skin flushed, heart hammering. Astarion kissed her temple like a man in love.

And neither of them looked at the boy again.

She woke to the scent of crushed herbs, firewood, and something sharp and sterile - antiseptic, maybe? Her fingers twitched against the scratchy wool sheets, tucked snug around her like a cocoon she hadn’t asked for.

Safe. Technically .

But Astarion’s voice still echoed in the back of her skull, oily and sweet and terrible.

“You’re mine, darling. You always will be.”

She sat up, clutching her chest. The mark beneath her palm throbbed - not with pain, but like a second heartbeat.

A warning. Or maybe a promise.

The ceiling above her was low and wooden, thick beams crisscrossing overhead, their surfaces warped with age and soot. Morning light bled through the window, catching dust motes in a soft golden haze. Beyond the four walls, she heard voices - faint and muffled by snow and stone. A fire popped and hissed somewhere to her left. Someone had removed her cloak and boots. The blood had been cleaned from her skin. But the taste of ash still clung to her lips.

The door creaked open, and she looked up, heart skipping. A young elf stood in the doorway with a stack of linens in her arms. She locked eyes with Lilith, startled, and immediately flinched back like she’d seen a monster.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” she squeaked.

Lilith blinked. Why was she afraid of me?

She pulled her expression into something neutral - gentle, even. Not a threat. Not a monster. Definitely not whatever this girl thought she was.

“Why are you frightened?”  Lilith asked softly. “What happened?”

Her gaze stayed pinned to the floor. She set the linens down with trembling hands and mumbled, “That’s wrong, isn’t it? I said the wrong thing…”

“I don’t think so-”

She dropped to her knees before Lilith could finish.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

The words hit Lilith like a punch to the gut. Bhaal’s temple rose in her mind - dark corridors, the scent of blood and incense, voices chanting her name in reverent terror. Daughter of Murder. Chosen of Bhaal. Dozens kneeling. Dozens worshipping.

She shoved the memory away like it burned.

“You’re back in Haven, my lady,” the elf stammered. “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days!”

She inclined her head. Three days?

“Three… days?” Lilith repeated, barely recognizing her own voice.

The girl nodded quickly, nervously. 

“Then… is the danger over?”

“The Breach is still in the sky, but yes, that’s what they say!”

Lilith threw the blankets off and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Fur carpet met bare feet and the room tilted dangerously. She pressed a hand to her forehead, breathing slowly until the nausea ebbed.

“I’m sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve awakened,” the elf added hastily. “She said ‘at once’!”

“And where is she?” Lilith asked, blinking through the dizziness.

“In the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor. ‘At once,’ she said!”

She turned to leave, already halfway to the door when Lilith called out, “Wait.”

The girl froze mid-step, shoulders tensing like she’d just shouted a curse.

Lilith squinted at her. “Tell me the truth. Did I die?”

The young elf glanced over her shoulder, startled and blinking. “No…?”

She sighed, rubbing at her eyes. “Damn. That would’ve been less complicated.”

The girl didn’t respond - just gave a nervous little nod and scurried out, the door clicking shut behind her like she couldn’t get away fast enough.

Lilith exhaled slowly and dragged her hands down her face, resting her marked hand in her lap. Complicated didn’t begin to cover it.

It pulsed again, as if to remind her that she was still alive. But she wasn’t just alive. She was something more now. Revered. Feared. Either one made her stomach twist.

She hadn’t escaped anything. She’d only traded one nightmare for another.

She stood with a hiss, one hand clutching her side as white-hot pain flared across her ribs, shooting up into her shoulder. The Pride demon had slammed her hard - probably cracked something, if the sharp stab under her lungs was any indication. The mark on her hand continued to glow, an eerie, persistent green pulse in time with her heartbeat. Not currently painful, exactly. Just… wrong. Like her skin remembered something she didn’t.

She flexed her fingers, testing the movement, and immediately regretted it. Nausea punched her in the gut so hard she had to steady herself on the bedpost, swallowing back bile.

Wonderful. Hero of the hour, possibly dying of internal bleeding.

She dressed in silence, fumbling through unfamiliar clothes someone had left neatly folded on a nearby bench - plain, practical, not the kind of thing she ever wore back in Baldur’s Gate. She cinched the belt tighter than necessary, trying to anchor herself to something physical, something real.

Her fingers stopped at her throat. The chain was gone.

Her heart jumped - a rush of panic she knew was ridiculous. The last few days had been a bloody whirlwind, and she was tired. Exhausted. On edge.

Still, losing Kaelen’s necklace felt like losing a part of herself.

She tore through her things - cloak, boots, pouch - until she felt the cold steel pressed against her skin again. She slipped it over her head, letting the pendant settle beneath her shirt.

She pressed a thumb lightly against the metal and scolded herself for the dramatic moment. For the panic. For how much she still cared.

But it was there. That was what mattered.

Bracing herself, she moved to exit the cabin and pushed open the door.

And stopped.

Lining the path from her little cabin into the heart of the village stood two full rows of soldiers - at least twenty of them - each one with their fist pressed solemnly to their chest in salute. Their expressions were unreadable, somewhere between reverence and wary awe.

Lilith blinked, instinctively checking for weapons at their sides. They were armed. All of them.

Scanning the area, she realized it wasn’t just soldiers. Dozens more had gathered outside - villagers, Chantry sisters, even a few wide-eyed children clinging to their mothers’ legs. All of them staring at her like she might start glowing or levitate at any second.

No one spoke to her directly, but the whispers began the moment she stepped onto the path.

“That’s her. That’s the Herald of Andraste. They said when she came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over her.”

“Hush! We shouldn’t disturb her.”

“Why did Lady Cassandra have her in chains? I thought Seekers knew everything.”

“It’s complicated. We were all frightened after the explosion at the Conclave.”

“It isn’t complicated. Andraste herself blessed her.”

“Maker be with you.”

“Blessings upon you, Herald of Andraste.”

The words hit like stones in her gut. Herald of Andraste? Her stomach lurched. What in the Nine Hells did that even mean? Why were they calling her that?

She approached one of the soldiers carefully, trying not to wince with each step. “Which way to the Chantry?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

He didn’t speak - just pointed silently up the path.

She nodded in return and started walking, swallowing hard against the heat rising in her throat.

The reverence. The whispered awe. The fear. It was all too familiar. Grossly, sickeningly familiar.

Back in Bhaal’s temple, she’d been surrounded by this kind of worship. Devotees had fallen to their knees when she passed, too afraid to meet her eyes. They had kissed her hands, called her divine - a vessel of Bhaal, his Chosen of Murder. At the time, she’d soaked it in like sunlight, never questioning the terror in their eyes - only now does she see the cruelty she once called power.

And now it was happening again. Another name. Another title. Another prophecy she didn’t ask for etched into her skin like a brand.

The Chantry loomed at the end of the path, all stone and solemn elegance. Its thick walls rose with quiet authority, built to impose reverence and restraint. The entrance was marked by a towering wooden door, dark with age and carved with an intricate sunburst - rays flaring outward in sharp, sweeping lines that caught the light like the edges of a blade. It didn’t feel warm or inviting. It felt watchful. As if the building itself was waiting to pass judgment.

She hesitated only a moment before pushing it open.

Inside, the air was cooler, quieter. The main hall was empty, save for the faint flicker of candlelight clustered around tall stone pillars. The scent of beeswax and incense hung in the air, sweet and stifling. A stained-glass window high above let in fractured daylight, casting shards of colour across the floor - reds and golds and bloody blues.

No one greeted her. No one bowed. And for the first time since waking, she was grateful to be alone. Or at least, mostly alone.

She exhaled slowly, letting the door close behind her with a solid thunk. Even here, she could feel it - the weight of expectation, of divinity projected onto her skin like a second cloak.

Herald of Andraste. If this was a blessing, it felt an awful lot like a curse.

As she approached the heavy door at the end of the hallway, the sound of raised voices carried through the stone like distant thunder.

“Have you gone completely mad?” a man barked. “She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine.”

Chancellor Roderick, she guessed. His voice had the unmistakable edge of authority sharpened by fear. Prick.

“I do not believe she is guilty,” Cassandra responded, her tone calm, but firm.

“The elf failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way.”

“I do not believe that,” Cassandra repeated, steady as ever.

“That is not for you to decide. Your duty is to serve the Chantry,” Roderick snapped.

There was a beat of silence, then Cassandra’s voice cut back, colder. “My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded , Chancellor. As is yours.”

That was enough.

Lilith pushed open the door without knocking. The room fell silent as she stepped inside.

Two soldiers flanked the entrance, tense at her arrival. At the table stood Cassandra, Leliana, and a furious Chancellor Roderick. Parchments, books, and half-drunk goblets littered the surface between them, as if the debate had been going on for hours. The air was thick with tension - and incense, faint and cloying.

Roderick’s gaze locked on her, jaw tightening. “Chain her,” he ordered the guards. “I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

Cassandra didn’t even flinch. She rolled her eyes and turned to the guards. “Disregard that, and leave us.”

The soldiers exchanged glances, then saluted her and marched out without a word.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” Roderick growled, frustrated and humiliated.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat,” Cassandra said. “I will not ignore it.”

Lilith looked between the two of them, unimpressed. “So, I’m still a suspect? Even after what we just did?”

“You absolutely are,” Roderick snapped.

“No,” Cassandra countered, voice sharp. “She is not.”

Leliana stepped forward from where she’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes ever-watchful. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave,” she said. “Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others - or have allies who yet live.”

Roderick turned on her. “I am a suspect?”

Leliana’s expression was unreadable, with just a hint of amusement curling at the edges. “You, and many others.”

“But not the prisoner,” Roderick said, his glare returning to Lilith.

Cassandra didn’t budge. “I heard the voices in the temple. The Divine called to her for help.”

Roderick’s face twisted. “So her survival, that thing on her hand - what, all a coincidence?”

“Providence,” Cassandra said, stepping closer to the table. “The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

Lilith laughed, sharp and bitter. “I am not a Chosen One.”

Cassandra’s gaze softened slightly. “No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

Leliana added, “The Breach remains, and your mark is our only hope of closing it.”

“This is not for you to decide,” Roderick cut in, voice rising-

But before he could continue, Cassandra slammed a thick tome down onto the table with a resounding thud. Dust leapt from its cover, curling in the candlelight like smoke.

“You know what this is, Chancellor?” she said, voice low and dangerous. “A writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

She stalked toward him, backing him against the wall with surprising speed, jabbing a finger into his chest. “We will close the Breach. We will find those responsible. And we will restore order - with or without your approval.”

Roderick scowled, then turned to Lilith with a sneer. He said nothing as he stormed past, the door slamming shut behind him.

Silence fell.

Leliana stepped closer to the table, glancing between Cassandra and the book. “This is the Divine’s directive,” she said quietly. “Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice,” Cassandra replied. “We must act now.”

She turned to Lilith.

“With you at our side.”

Their eyes were on her - hopeful, expectant. Lilith felt it pressing into her skin, that old, heavy weight of reverence. It was too close to the way people used to look at her in Bhaal’s temple.

She sighed, long and low, running a hand over her face. “I want to help. I really do…”

She turned away, staring at the wall. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be a symbol, and I don’t want to be the center of another bloody religion. I don’t even know what the Inquisition is, beyond an ominous name. But… I believe Cassandra. I believe Leliana. And I know what it’s like to stand alone against chaos. If they truly want to bring stability to the world…maybe I could do some good.

She turned back toward them.

“If you’re truly trying to restore order…”

“That is the plan,” Leliana said at once.

She let out a breath through her nose, half a laugh. “You know, when I woke up in that dungeon, this certainly wasn’t the outcome I pictured.”

“Neither did we,” Leliana said, her lips curving into a small, dry smile.

Cassandra stepped forward, extending her hand. “Help us fix this before it’s too late.”

Lilith stared at her hand. At the mark still glowing faintly on her own. At their faces - earnest, tired, unflinching.

She took a deep breath.

And she shook her hand.

Cassandra and Lilith shared a quiet moment in the room now officially dubbed the war room, its name still feeling slightly ironic given the chaos that had christened it. Maps lay sprawled across the war table like open wounds, and the flickering torches along the stone walls cast long shadows, making the space feel both cavernous and close.

The silence was not uncomfortable, but heavy - weighted with exhaustion, uncertainty, and the echoes of lives recently lost. Lilith flexed her fingers absently, and the sickly green glow of the mark pulsed faintly in the dim light. Cassandra’s eyes flicked toward it, her expression unreadable at first - then softening into something between concern and curiosity.

“Does it trouble you?” Cassandra asked, her voice low but steady.

Lilith spared her a glance. “Not really,” she said too quickly, brushing a thumb across her palm like she could scrub the magic off. “Just looks worse than it feels.”

A lie. A flimsy one. But Cassandra didn’t press.

Instead, she nodded once, gaze lingering on the mark. “What’s important is that it’s stable now. As is the Breach. You’ve given us time, and Solas believes a second attempt might succeed - provided the mark gains more power. The same level of power that opened the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by.”

Lilith raised a brow. “Now that sounds like fun. What harm could there be in powering up something we barely understand?”

Cassandra let out a dry chuckle - rare, but sincere. “Hold on to that sense of humor,” she said, folding her arms. “You may need it more than you think.”

Lilith smirked. “That’s the plan. Gallows humour’s gotten me this far.”

There was a pause, but it no longer felt strained.

“You hide it well,” Cassandra said eventually, more thoughtful now. “The fear.”

Lilith’s smirk faltered. “You make it sound noble. It’s just habit.”

Cassandra inclined her head. “Still. Strength takes many forms. I’m not certain I would be so composed, were I in your place.”

That caught Lilith off guard. Not the words exactly, but the fact that Cassandra had offered them.

“You’d be surprised,” Lilith said, voice softer. Then added, “But… thanks. Really.”

Another beat of silence passed between them. Then:

“You fight?” Cassandra asked, tilting her head slightly.

Lilith blinked. “With swords? Not usually. I’m more of a point-and-incinerate kind of girl. Flashy spells, minimal cardio.”

A rare smile tugged at the corners of Cassandra’s mouth. “You may not fight with a blade, but you clearly have some combat instincts.”

Lilith tilted her head. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“It was meant as one.”

Lilith considered her for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “Is there a training yard here?”

Cassandra gave her a curious look. “You want to spar with me?”

“I don’t see why not,” Lilith said, feigning nonchalance. “You seem like the type who could teach me a thing or two. Or knock me flat on my ass. Either way, I’m curious.”

Cassandra hesitated, just a moment - caught between propriety and interest - then gave a short nod. “I won’t go easy on you.”

Lilith grinned. “I’d be offended if you did.”

Before Cassandra could reply, the heavy doors of the war room creaked open, Leliana returning, accompanied by two figures. Cassandra stood and gestured toward the man. “May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

The commander gave Lilith a grave look. “Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.”

Cassandra introduced the woman beside him. “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

Josephine smiled warmly, stepping forward. “Andaran Atish’an.”

Lilith blinked, holding back a frown. She was fluent in Elvish back home, but the words here sounded... off. Like a song slightly out of tune. She guessed it was a greeting - something about peace - but the meaning slipped just out of reach. 

Maybe the fall from the rift had scrambled my mind more than I realized.

“You speak Elven?” Lilith asked politely.

Josephine smiled, almost apologetically. “You’ve just heard the entirety of it, I’m afraid.”

Cassandra motioned toward Leliana. “And of course, you know Sister Leliana.”

Leliana dipped her head with a slight bow. “My position here involves a degree of-”

“She is our spymaster.”

Leliana’s smile was amused, though a little strained. “Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra.”

Lilith looked around the room, the weight of their gazes settling on her. “Pleased to meet you all.”

Cassandra circled the table, returning focus to the matter at hand. “I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good.”

Leliana added, “Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help.”

Cullen frowned, cutting in, “And I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well.”

“We need power, Commander,” Cassandra insisted. “Enough magic poured into that mark-”

“Might destroy us all. Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so-”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana countered sharply.

“I was a Templar,” Cullen said. “I know what they’re capable of.”

Josephine sighed. “Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition - and you, specifically.”

Lilith’s eyebrows lifted in amusement. “Well, that didn’t take long.”

Cullen smiled wryly. “Shouldn’t they be busy arguing over who’s going to become Divine?”

Josephine’s expression darkened. “Some are calling you - an elf - the ‘Herald of Andraste.’ That frightens the Chantry.”

She smirked, unamused. “Just how am I the ‘Herald of Andraste’?”

Cassandra explained patiently, “People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”

Leliana added, “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading-”

“Which we have not,” Cassandra interrupted.

“The point is, everyone is talking about you,” Leliana said.

Cullen tilted his head. “It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about that?”

The words struck her hard, the bitter irony biting deep. From Bhaalspawn to Herald. I should start a collection of titles no one asked me to wear.

“It’s unsettling. I’m no herald of anything. Particularly Andraste.”

Cullen smirked. “I’m sure the Chantry would agree.”

Leliana’s voice softened, almost wistful. “People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign.”

Josephine added, “And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong.”

Lilith nodded, agreeing with Josephine, “Calling me a sign? What happens when they realize I’m not what they want me to be?”

The room fell silent at her words. She pressed on. “Why aren’t they more concerned about the Breach? The real threat?”

Cullen replied grimly, “They do know it’s a threat. They just don’t think we can stop it.”

Josephine’s voice was heavy. “The Chantry is telling everyone that you’ll make it worse.”

Frustration bubbled up. “Oh for fucks-” Lilith turned from the group, running her hands through her hair.

Leliana reached out gently. “There is something you can do. A Chantry Cleric by the name Mother Giselle has asked to speak with you. She’s nearby and knows those involved far better than I do. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

Lilith turned and studied her face. “She’s asked for me? You don’t think that could be an ambush?”

Leliana shook her head firmly. “I doubt it. From what I know of her, she is a kind soul - not one to involve herself in violence.”

That should have been reassuring. And maybe it would’ve been, if it were someone else. Someone who hadn’t been lured into more than one 'harmless' meeting that ended with a knife at their throat - or worse.

Still… this wasn’t Faerûn. And as much as Leliana struck Lilith as a knife hidden in silk, her concern didn’t feel like an act. Not entirely, anyway.

Lilith glanced away, jaw tightening. If it was a trap, I’d deal with it. I always did.

“…Okay,” Lilith said at last. “I’ll see what she has to say.”

“You’ll find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe,” Leliana said.

Cullen added, “Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there.”

Josephine nodded. “We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them.”

Cassandra caught Lilith’s eye. “In the meantime, let’s consider other options. I won’t leave this all to the Herald.”

Lilith inhaled slowly, the tightness in her chest loosening just a little. Whatever else she might be - rigid, intimidating - Cassandra wasn’t trying to throw her to the wolves. That was something.

“Thanks, everyone,” Lilith said, glancing between them. “If it’s alright with you, I’m going to find a meal. I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

Josephine’s eyes widened, horror flickering across her otherwise poised face. “Oh dear - yes, of course! Go to the tavern. They’ll know who you are and make sure you’re taken care of.”

Lilith managed a faint smile, nodding in silent thanks before turning on her heel and leaving the war room behind.

The door shut behind her with a soft thunk, muffling the low murmur of continued conversation. Outside the Chantry, the cold air hit her like a slap - bracing and immediate. She paused on the steps, dragging in a breath of crisp mountain air.

Pain bloomed along her ribs - sharp, insistent. She winced, pressing a hand to her side.

Right. First, a healer. Then food. Then maybe a minute to think without someone pointing a title or a weapon at her.

She squared her shoulders and set off in what she hoped was the direction of the tavern, boots crunching over the layer of frost, one aching step at a time. The village paths wound around makeshift barricades and tents, crowded with people who didn’t quite know whether to stare at her or pretend not to.

Lilith didn’t blame them. She wasn’t sure what she was either.

The tavern had to be nearby - or, at least, someone who could point her toward a healer. Her side throbbed with every step, each breath tugging at bruised ribs like a warning.

A few turns later, she found herself in front of a small cabin, its door framed by curling woodwork and a swinging sign etched in unfamiliar lettering. The script didn’t match anything she knew - no Elvish, no Infernal, not even Thayan.

"Of course it’s in another language," she muttered, squinting up at it like it might yield a translation if she glared hard enough.

She took a step forward, reaching to push open the door, when a voice spoke behind her - calm, measured, but unmistakably firm.

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

Not loud, but clear enough to cut through the morning bustle. Lilith stiffened, instantly regretting that she hadn’t stolen a cloak - or a glamor spell - before stepping outside.

She turned sharply - too sharply. Pain stabbed through her ribs, and she hissed through her teeth, one hand immediately moving to her side.

Solas stood a few paces behind her, hands folded neatly behind his back, watching her with an expression that sat somewhere between curiosity and concern. His gaze lingered not on her eyes, but on the wince she hadn’t hidden fast enough.

She raised an eyebrow. “Am I riding in on a shining steed?”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. “I would have suggested a griffon, but sadly they’re extinct. Joke as you will - posturing is necessary. People need a symbol in trying times. You, unfortunately, fit the role.”

“I suppose I should be flattered.”

He stepped closer, his tone gentler now. “You should be careful.”

Lilith gave him a sideways glance, trying not to read too much into the soft edge in his voice - or the way her pulse picked up, uninvited, unwelcome. It was probably just the pain. Or the chill. That had to be it.

Hells, she was pathetic. The first man in ages to show her a shred of kindness without some hidden agenda, and her heart had the audacity to flutter. It wasn’t real. Just proximity. Attention. The dangerous sort of relief that came when someone didn’t want to use her, hurt her, or worship her.

Still, she didn’t step away. She quirked a faint, automatic smile. Dry. Deflective.

“I’ll add that to the list.”

Solas began walking, his stride purposeful, as if he simply assumed she’d follow. Of course he did.

“I have journeyed deep into the Fade,” he said, “in ancient ruins and battlefields, to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past of wars both famous and forgotten.”

He glanced back at her then, sharp-eyed. Evaluating.

“Every great war has its heroes,” he continued. “I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

A knot formed in her stomach, tightening like a noose. The conversation, once teasing, now felt like a trap - too abstract, too metaphysical. The Fade? She didn’t know what that was. Another plane? A state of mind? A dream realm? How many damn invisible realms could one world have?

She sidestepped the uncertainty. “What do you mean, ruins and battlefields? You study ancient ruins?”

At that, his expression softened. He smiled - not the smug little curl he wore when he thought he was clever, but something real. Warm.

“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history,” he said. “Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

Lilith blinked. Shit. Spirits and veils - she barely knew what half of that meant, let alone how to respond without sounding like an idiot.

Still, the way he lit up when he spoke… it was hard not to be charmed. Or at least intrigued.

“That’s… impressive,” she said honestly.

Another smile. That made two. Something light stirred in her chest - faint, flickering, dangerous. The anticipation of wanting to see what it would take to make him smile again.

It’s just proximity. 

“Thank you,” he replied. “It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. But the thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream?” He exhaled, reverent. “I would not trade it for anything.”

Lilith studied him for a beat longer. She didn't trust him, not yet. But Maker, he was interesting.

And for now, that was enough.

Solas paused at the foot of the path, his expression unreadable in that way she recognized - carefully measured and precise.

“I will stay then,” he said at last, “at least until the Breach has been closed.”

Lilith turned her head slightly, brow furrowed. “Was that in doubt?”

He gave her a knowing look. Not smug, exactly - something subtler. Like he was telling a joke she didn’t quite have the cultural context for.

“I am an apostate mage,” he said, “surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion. And, unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me.”

She blinked once. Then again. The meaning settled slowly - less like a weight, more like a shift in gravity. Subtle, disorienting.

He thought they’d turn on him. That once they got what they needed - his insight, his magic - they’d discard him. Worse.

“You came here to help, Solas,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “I won’t let them use that against you.”

He tilted his head, gave her a wry, unconvinced look. “How would you stop them?”

Lilith hesitated. She didn’t know Cassandra well, Leliana either. And Josephine seemed nice, but nice wasn’t the same as principled. She had no footing here - no political knowledge, no allies, not even a map of the damn place.

But if the Inquisition would turn its back on someone who offered help freely, who risked themselves for people who didn’t trust him, then maybe she didn’t want a place here anyway.

“However I had to,” she said.

Just for a moment, that stopped him. Something in his face - behind his eyes - shifted. Surprise, maybe. Caution softened by something unspoken.

It passed quickly. He schooled his features back to neutral, but not before she caught the edge of gratitude.

“Thank you,” he said.

He continued, “For now, we must focus on finding a way to seal the Breach.” He turned then, starting toward his cabin with that same fluid, deliberate grace he always moved with.

Lilith’s arm lifted before she even thought it through, reaching out instinctively as if to stop him. But her hand hung awkwardly in the space between them, uncertainty making it tremble. She didn’t touch him. Couldn’t.

Her mind raced. All the missing knowledge of this world - the endless layers of politics, customs, magic, and unspoken expectations she hadn’t even begun to grasp. The terrifying thought that if they discovered she’d been lying, or simply ignorant, they might act without mercy. Premature execution was no fantasy here.

But then there was Solas. He’d looked genuinely pleased answering her questions, patient in a way few had been. And they were both elves - surely that meant something. Kinship, maybe? A thread to hold onto in a world that felt increasingly alien.

Her chest tightened. Vulnerability mingled with a flicker of hope, and with it, an unexpected flush she tried to hide.

“I-” She faltered, biting back the instinct to retreat. “I was hoping you could… help me with… something.”

He hummed softly, encouraging without pressing. Patient, waiting.

Lilith took a deep breath. “You can probably tell, but I have led a… sheltered life.”

She leaned in, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret shared. “There are some things I’m expected to know about... that I don’t. And I don’t think the… Advisors would appreciate finding out.”

Solas nodded slowly, eyes narrowing slightly - focused, yet unreadable. He was waiting for her to go on.

She sighed, a little theatrically, tired of dancing around it. “Would you be open to answering some questions for me? When there are things I don’t understand - things maybe I should ?”

Her eyes met his, searching for any hint of refusal. But in the quiet between them, the unspoken offer hung, fragile but real.

The corner of Solas’s lips quirked up in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Yes, da’len,” he said softly, the word carrying a measured, thoughtful calm, “I would be happy to.”

Lilith breathed out a long, shaky sigh of relief. For the first time in what felt like days, a small thread of calm wove through her nerves. “Thank you - thank you . I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Hells, I can’t tell you how stupid I’ve been feeling. Like-, even just now, what in the Hells is the Fade ? And the Chantry, I mean-”

“The Fade?” Solas repeated, his tone mild but edged with surprise.

She blinked, unsure what mistake she’d just made. “The Fade,” she said again, clearer this time.

His eyebrows lowered, shadowing his eyes. “You… are not familiar?”

Shit. Shit. Shit .

Lilith shrugged, noncommittal, doing her best to purposefully look even more clueless than she felt - which was no small feat. She forced a laugh, trying to keep the mood light. “Where I’m from, ‘fade’ means to die. Or disappear.”

Solas studied her carefully, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. She was sure he was cataloguing every nuance, weighing her words, deciding if she was telling the truth - or just fumbling through ignorance. Still, she hoped he was willing to play along in their fragile, unlikely alliance.

Before she could say more, a low whistle came from behind her.

“Already interrogating her, Chuckles?” Varric’s voice was teasing, full of easy camaraderie, like they’d known each other forever.

Solas didn’t flinch, didn’t even acknowledge the nickname.

Varric turned toward Lilith. “You’re not from around here, are you, Scorcher?”

“Scorcher?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, Scorcher,” Varric said with a grin, stepping forward. “You’ve got that look - like your magic might blow half a tavern sky-high if someone bumps your elbow. Thought I’d get ahead of it and give you a nickname before the flames do. I mean, did you see the way you torched that Pride Demon?”

Lilith laughed, the sound lighter than she expected. If only he knew how on the nose that was.

Solas’s lips twitched, amused despite himself.

“Careful, Scorcher,” Varric said, giving her a mock-warnful look. “Around here, nicknames stick faster than a blood stain on a fine shirt.”

Lilith smirked, the tension loosening between them. “Guess I’d better keep the fire in check, then. Wouldn’t want to burn down my welcome party.”

Varric laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you a seat by the hearth - just far enough away to stay safe.”

Solas shook his head, a rare note of dry humor slipping through. “A wise precaution,” he hummed. “She does have a talent for chaos.”

The three of them shared a moment of easy banter - a small island of warmth in a sea of uncertainty.

“Well, thanks, you two, but I’m actually looking for some healing and food, so if you’ll excuse me-” Lilith began, a polite edge to her voice as she started to move.

Solas opened his mouth as if to respond, but Varric cut in smoothly, grinning like he’d been waiting for the moment. “Tavern’s right over there,” he said, nodding toward a nearby door, “and the apothecary’s just down that way. Ask for Adan - he’s the best in these parts.”

Lilith hesitated, shaking her head slightly. “Oh - thank you, really, but- well, do you know anyone here who could heal a-” she gestured toward the hand still pressed against her side, “-well, probably a cracked rib?”

Varric turned toward Solas with an amused smirk, clearly passing the baton. “Ah, I’ll let you take this one, Chuckles.”

Then, grinning back at Lilith, he added, “I’ll be in the tavern, whenever you drop by for your meal.”

Lilith’s mouth opened and shut once or twice, wordless, before she just nodded after him as he sauntered off toward the tavern’s warmth.

She turned back to Solas, eyes expectant, silently waiting for him to elaborate.

Solas smirked, the faintest curve of amusement touching his lips. “You collapsed after stabilizing the Breach. You were unconscious for nearly three days.”

Lilith nodded slowly, the memory of pain, blinding light, and that terrifying explosion of raw, untamed power flooding back in sharp flashes.

He continued, his voice calm and steady, “When we returned to Haven, we - Adan and I - attempted to heal your injuries. Adan tended to the superficial wounds with prepared potions, while I focused on your internal, more severe injuries.”

She nodded again, biting back the urge to snap that his ‘healing’ left much to be desired.

Solas seemed to catch the unspoken critique, his smirk deepening just a touch. “In your… addled state, you resisted any help or healing. Adan managed to provide potions, but any attempt to heal was repeatedly thwarted.”

“Thwarted…?” Lilith echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Precisely,” he said, eyes calm but piercing. “You were quite determined to prevent anyone from touching you, even in your sleep.”

Mortification flushed through her. “Did…I hit either of you? Gods, I’ve never- I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged lightly, amusement softening his tone. “It is quite alright. You were in no state to understand your own strength or actions.

He studied her for a moment, the way his gaze flickered over her, measuring and remeasuring. Then, as if wrestling with his own hesitation, he asked the question that clearly weighed on him.

“While in your clouded state, you spoke in unfamiliar tongues. And uttered a number of names.”

Lilith tensed. 

He continued, tone casual but too precise to be anything but deliberate. “You mentioned someone named Astarion a number of times.”

She winced, barely perceptible - but not to him. Of course he caught it. She forced her expression to smooth over before he could read more. Even as she expected it - she knew he would say the name - it still landed like a blade.

“And Bhaal,” he added evenly, “and Raphael.”

The rocks in her gut churned. Her skin was suddenly too tight. Perfect. Excellent. Wonderful. She'd survived gods and monsters, escaped across realms, clawed her way into this world - and within hours, she'd spilled everything to a complete stranger while half-conscious and hallucinating.

She met his eyes again, letting a faint glimmer of curiosity soften her expression. “I don’t remember much from before the explosion, to be honest. I think the fall from the rift rattled something loose. Most of it is a blur.”

It was a careful smokescreen - flippant, airy, all too happy to let him assume she was suffering from partial amnesia rather than unpack the truth. She had no intention of discussing who Astarion was. Or what Bhaal had done to her. Or the deal she'd made with Raphael. Gods, she couldn’t even unpack it for herself.

Solas didn’t respond immediately. He just looked at her. Not coldly, not cruelly - just deeply. Like he was trying to read a cipher without a key.

Then he gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that was almost kind.

“Memory loss is not uncommon in the wake of a traumatic passage,” he said. “Particularly when magic is involved.”

There was something in his tone, though. Subtle. A polite agreement that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t believe her, not fully. But he wasn’t going to press.

She had the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that he was filing it away for later. Logging every word. Quietly sharpening his insight like a blade in a drawer.

And still - somehow - she trusted that he wouldn’t say anything.

Yet.

A pause hung between them, then Lilith cleared her throat, eyes meeting his. “So, the healing?”

Solas nodded, his voice steady as he replied, “Yes. Healing.” He gestured toward his cabin, opening the door and holding it open for her. “Please, come in.”

Lilith hesitated, stopped at the threshold. The familiar wariness - her survival instincts - flared up. Following a stranger behind a closed door was never wise, especially a man she barely knew. 

Her pause did not go unnoticed. Solas’s expression softened with understanding. “I can leave the door open, if that would ease your mind.”

She offered a faint, appreciative smile. His offer - simple, thoughtful - paired with the quiet steadiness in his presence eased her discomfort. That - and the unwavering certainty that she could handle herself in a fight if it came to that - nudged her forward. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

The cabin was small and unassuming. Rough-hewn wooden walls absorbed the flickering firelight, casting warm amber shadows. A simple bed tucked in the corner, its linen rough but clean. A worn desk cluttered with scattered scrolls and a faint scent of dried herbs and earth hung softly in the air. 

Solas led her toward a sturdy wooden chair by the hearth. He motioned gently for her to sit. Once settled, he knelt before her, hands raised slightly as if asking permission.

Lilith straightened her back and gave a small nod, her skin still prickling under his steady gaze. 

His fingers brushed lightly over her ribs, careful and deliberate. A sharp, involuntary whimper escaped her lips, betraying the pain beneath her calm. The touch was gentle but insistent, like a soft wind coaxing broken branches to heal.

With a soft murmur, Solas’s hands glowed faintly with a cool, shimmering light. The warmth of his magic seeped into her side, soothing and mending, threading together the cracked ribs with quiet precision. She sucked in a breath, surprised at how soothing it felt - a balm to more than just flesh.

When he moved on to her shoulder, pressing healing energy into the sore muscle, the tension visibly eased from her face.

He finished and rose to his feet, stepping back a few paces. Lilith stood as well, stretching carefully - testing the repaired areas. “Thank you,” she said, relief clear in her voice. “That’s much better. You’ll have to teach me that sometime.”

Solas’s lips curved into a small smile. “Of course, da’len. I’m glad I could be of help.”

The nickname hung in the air - da’len. Lilith’s curiosity flickered. It was Elvish, but its meaning was a mystery she didn’t press - at least, not yet. 

Her eyes met his briefly, something unspoken passing between them, before she turned away to compose her breath.

Pulling her from her thoughts, Solas said quietly, “If I may ask…”

She met his gaze steadily.

He studied her in silence before speaking, his tone carefully neutral. “Your techniques in battle were… unfamiliar. But effective. You wield power with precision, and a style I haven’t seen among southern mages. Or northern ones, for that matter.”

He continued, voice still mild but laced with interest. “Most mages - particularly those raised in Circles - are taught to rely on a staff or focus to safely channel their magic. Even then, few can cast without one, and fewer make a habit of it.”

His gaze sharpened, just slightly. “But you have said you were raised… far from such institutions.”

There it was again, another unfamiliar term. Circle . It rang hollow in her head like a song she should know the tune to, but didn’t.

Lilith paused. Well, he had offered to fill in the gaps of her so-called education. Time to take him up on it. “You said ‘Circle’ earlier too. What is that?”

He paused. Just briefly. Like someone turning a page slower than needed to absorb the weight of it.

“You don’t know what the Circles are?” he asked, gently - too gently not to carry some wariness beneath it. 

Lilith shrugged, trying to look unbothered. “I grew up in a small, isolated village, remember? We didn’t exactly have field trips.”

Solas inclined his head slightly, the ghost of a frown passing over his features. “The Circles of Magi were institutions established to train and contain mages. Overseen by templars - knights tasked with keeping magic in check.”

Contain. Not protect. That word choice told her more than he probably meant to.

“Hm.” She nodded slowly, filing that away. A school and a prison, she guessed.

“We didn’t have anything like that where I grew up,” she said aloud. “Magic just… was. You learned, or you didn’t.”

“Hm.” Thoughtful. But behind the sound was the unmistakable edge of someone filing away the inconsistencies.

“Still,” he added, “your control is remarkable. To cast with such force - and without a foci - takes years of structured training and discipline, or a great deal of self-taught experience.” A pause. “Or desperation.” 

Lilith offered a lopsided grin, arms folding loosely over her chest. “You watched me nearly get eaten by a glowing green hole in the sky. Let’s go with desperation.”

Solas didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched - not unkind, but deliberate. His gaze lingered on her, thoughtful in a way that made her feel exposed and seen all at once. It wasn’t the cold scrutiny of someone searching for weakness. It was quieter than that. Like he was trying to understand something about her without prying.

She turned to go, hand brushing the doorframe, then hesitated.

“You should come to the tavern,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink for healing me.” Her grin returned, playful now. “I’m sure Varric would love it if you joined us. He really wants to make ‘Chuckles’ stick.” 

That pulled something genuine from him - a soft huff of amusement, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile not entirely hidden.

“I doubt I would enjoy being the subject of Varric’s embellishments,” he said. Then, after a breath, “But… thank you. I will consider it.”

His voice had shifted - still even, still composed, but warmer. Not quite acceptance. Not rejection either. Just… open.

Lilith didn’t press further. She gave a small nod, her smile curving into something quieter. Something grateful.

“All right,” she said. “Just don’t wait too long. If Varric starts singing, I might never forgive you.”

That earned her a low chuckle - so brief it could’ve been imagined, but she’d take the win.

She stepped outside, letting the door fall gently shut behind her, the warmth of the cabin trailing like an afterthought.

For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

Chapter Text

Leaving Solas’ cabin, the cold hit her like a slap - sharp and biting. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she made her way down the path to the tavern, the scent of woodsmoke and the faint buzz of laughter drawing her onward like a beacon. Winter in Haven had teeth, but she’d grown used to weather with attitude.

From outside, the tavern looked pretty much like every other cabin in Haven - rough-hewn wood and snow piled against the walls, but inside, it was warm and bustling. A long bar stretched across the wall with barrels stacked behind it, and a handful of sturdy tables scattered around the hearth. Firelight danced across mugs and plates, and a bard in the corner plucked a slow, winding tune on a lute, her voice low and pleasant. The scent of roasted meat and mead clung to the air, her stomach giving her a hopeful growl.

Her eyes swept the room and landed on a familiar figure tucked in the corner - boots up on a second chair, drink in hand, grin already cocked.

“Scorcher!” Varric called, raising his mug in greeting.

Lilith groaned theatrically. “That nickname again? I swear, I’m going to find one for you. How do you feel about ‘Lord of the Chest Hair’?”

Varric clutched at his heart. “You wound me, Sparkles.”

“Better,” she said, slipping into the seat across from him. “That one’s got flair.”

He took a sip of his drink, eyes twinkling. “Sure, but I’m already so emotionally invested in Scorcher . It really sings, don’t you think?”

She rolled her eyes in response. 

A plate was already waiting for her - steaming, generous, and smelling like the gods had taken pity on her. “You ordered for me?”

“I figured it was either this or watch you gnaw through the furniture,” he said, sipping his drink. 

Lilith didn’t argue. She dug in with the desperation of someone who’d just remembered she hadn’t eaten all day. Her ribs twinged faintly with the motion - healed, but not forgotten.

“So,” Varric said, “a mysterious elf who fell from a hole in the sky, with a magical brand on her hand and a working knowledge of sarcasm. You really know how to make an entrance.”

“I aim to please,” Lilith said, smiling through the food in her mouth.

“Where you from?”

She grinned. “Baldur’s Gate.”

Varric blinked. “That in Tevinter or something?”

Lilith shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Something like that.”

As she ate, they talked - half banter, half interrogation. Varric was subtle about it, wrapping his questions in jokes, but Lilith could see the pattern. Where had she trained? What kind of magic was that? Had she ever heard of the Free Marches?

She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re fishing, Varric.”

“Me?” He gave an exaggerated expression of innocence. “I just enjoy a good story. Yours is shaping up to be epic.”

“Mhm.” She took a long drink. “You’re not the only one who can play the long game.”

He gave her a wink. “That’s why I like you, Scorcher.”

Time passed in warmth and laughter, the tavern slowly filling with the scent of woodsmoke and spiced drink. Somewhere near the hearth, someone struck up a tune on a battered lute - the kind of music meant to blur grief into something bearable.

Then Varric leaned in slightly, his voice lowered. “So, are you holding up alright? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

Lilith gave a breathless laugh. “I can barely keep up.”

“That makes two of us.”

He sat back, running a hand through his hair. “For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“If it was that bad,” she asked quietly, “why did you stay? Cassandra said you were free to go.”

Varric sighed. “I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy,” he said. “But this… Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there’s a hole in the sky. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.”

Lilith stared into her mug. After a moment, “It’s pure luck that I escaped.”

“Good luck or bad?”

She laughed weakly. “I don't know. I’m still not sure I believe that any of this is really happening.”

“If this is all just the Maker winding us up,” Varric said, “I hope there’s a damn good punchline coming.”

She gave a soft, bitter chuckle.

He tapped a finger on the edge of the table, gaze turning serious again. “You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere - I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

Lilith took a sip from her mug, then set it down with a quiet clink. “If a miracle’s coming,” she said, “it’s taking its sweet time.”

Varric studied her for a beat - something flickering behind his easy expression, the kind of look that said he’d heard that tone before, in too many camps and too many war stories.

“Well,” he said, easing back in his chair, “lucky for us, miracles don’t run on anyone’s schedule.”

That earned a faint smile from her - crooked, tired, but real.

“Thanks, Varric.”

He lifted his tankard in salute. “Anytime, Scorcher. Just don’t die before I get to finish the book.”

Someone opened the door again, letting in a gust of cold air and snow. Cassandra stepped inside, followed by a younger woman - she was small and slight, her auburn hair tied back in a loose braid, an apothecary’s apron still dusted with dried herbs. She hesitated in the entryway, blinking against the shift from darkness to firelight, eyes scanning the room before landing - nervously - on their table.

Cassandra led her over. “Lilith, this is Mira. She works in the apothecary with Adan.”

Lilith stood, brushing her hands on her trousers before extending one. “Nice to meet you.”

Mira took her hand. Her grip was firmer than expected, her palm calloused from mortar and pestle work. “Likewise. I’ve… heard a bit about you already.”

Lilith arched her brow, the corner of her mouth quirking. “All good things, I hope.”

Mira gave a soft huff of a laugh, dry and understated. “Depends on who you ask.”

Lilith chuckled, then nodded toward the bar. “You just stopping in?”

Mira shrugged lightly. “I was dropping off some tinctures for Flissa - Adan’s idea of a favour. Figured I’d thaw out a bit before heading back.”

She made to turn away, clearly expecting to leave them to their drinks and game - but Lilith caught her with a warm, easy smile. “Sit with us for a bit. Have a drink.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t-”

“It’s just one,” Lilith said, already pulling out a chair. “I promise not to make you play cards.”

Varric snorted. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

Mira hesitated a heartbeat longer, then slid into the seat beside Cassandra. “Alright. One drink.”

Varric waved toward the bar. “Flissa! Another round, if you’d be so kind.”

Behind the bar, a tall redhead with sleeves rolled to her elbows gave a brisk nod. “You keep drinking like that, dwarf, I’ll have to start charging double.”

“Flissa owns the place.” Mira said quietly to Lilith, tipping her head toward the barkeep. “She pretends not to like Varric, but I think he’s become her favourite customer.”

Lilith leaned in a little, intrigued. “Oh, do go on. I love gossip.”

Mira offered a lopsided smile. “Well, over there by the fire - see the guy with soot on his face, drinking like his forge is on fire?”

“Charming image,” Lilith said, following her gaze.

“That’s Harritt. He’s the blacksmith. Gruff as a bear with a hangover, but he sharpens a blade like he’s sculpting a damn cathedral.”

“I like him already.”

Mira pointed subtly toward a man hunched over a conversation with a blonde elf in armor. “That’s Seggrit. He’s a merchant - mostly weapons and armor. If you want anything decent, you’ll have to haggle.”

“And the elf?”

“That’s Threnn. Quartermaster - very organized. Has a list for everything.”

Lilith gave a low, appreciative whistle. “I’d be more intimidated if she didn’t look like she could kill someone with a spoon.”

“She probably could.”

Mira’s gaze drifted across the tavern, softening slightly. “And that’s Minaeve, over by the back shelves - see her, with the stack of books and that poor apprentice who looks like he’s about to cry?”

Lilith spotted her - a young elven woman in scholar’s robes, gesturing animatedly with one hand while balancing an overfilled satchel with the other.

“She’s our researcher. Knows more about herbs, runes, and arcane theory than most mages I’ve met. Don’t let the quiet voice fool you - she’ll talk your ear off if you bring up anything remotely magical.”

“Dangerous,” Lilith murmured, eyes glinting. “I like her too.”

“Seems you’ve got a type.”

Lilith grinned. “And Adan?” she asked.

“He’s probably asleep in a pile of half-finished tinctures by now,” Mira said with a wry smile. “But if you smell something burning tomorrow morning, it’s probably best to stay outside the apothecary.”

Lilith laughed - warm and unguarded. It felt strange, like stretching a muscle she hadn’t used in too long. “Gods, it’s been a while since I had a nice drink like this.” 

Mira glanced at her, surprised by the honesty. “Tough couple of days?”

Lilith exhaled through her nose, half a smile lingering. “You have no idea.”

There was a beat of silence, just long enough to edge into something heavier, before Varric clapped his hands. “Alright, enough brooding! Wicked Grace it is. Who’s in?”

Lilith glanced at Mira. “You playing?”

“I’ve… never played before.”

“Perfect,” said Varric. “You’ll fit right in.”

Cassandra groaned, already reaching for the deck. “This game is trouble.”

“And yet, here you are,” Varric said, dealing the cards with a flourish.

Chairs scraped, drinks clinked, and the table filled with laughter again. Cassandra grumbled good-naturedly, Mira looked apprehensive but intrigued, and Lilith was immediately competitive despite having no idea how the game worked.

The cards were passed around, drinks refilled, and conversation drifted between stories and good-natured ribbing. Cassandra was in the middle of a story - something about a chevalier in Orlais who once challenged a wyvern to single combat - when the conversation veered into the specifics of noble titles and heraldry.

Lilith kept her expression even, swirling her drink idly, but her stomach tensed. The titles meant nothing to her - “Marquis,” “Viscount” - they might as well have been positions in a theatre troupe.

She laughed when the others did, nodded thoughtfully at Varric’s sarcastic commentary, but she couldn’t shake the unease creeping up her spine. She didn’t know what a “Divine” actually was, and she wasn’t sure if a “Knight-Enchanter” rode a horse or blew things up with magic.

Then, quietly, Mira leaned over. “She’s the head of the Chantry,” she whispered, close to Lilith’s ear. “The Divine. Kind of like a holy queen. With a silly hat.” 

Lilith stiffened just slightly, her hand freezing mid-sip. She didn’t look at Mira - couldn’t, not right away - but she could feel those eyes on her, soft and careful. Had her confusion been that obvious?

Mira added, slightly louder, “Knight-Enchanters are mages who train like warriors. Very rare. Mostly Orlesian. Cassandra hates them.”

“I do not hate them,” Cassandra snapped from across the table, entirely missing the context. “I simply question the wisdom of putting a sword in a mage’s hand and calling it innovation.”

Lilith let out a surprised laugh, and Mira grinned, sinking back into her chair like she’d done nothing at all.

Lilith risked a glance her way. Mira’s face was innocent, unassuming - just a helpful girl offering a bit of context, not someone who might be unraveling every lie Lilith had been trying to build since Haven.

Still, she felt seen in a way that unsettled her. But Mira only smiled again - genuine and warm - and Lilith found herself relaxing despite the coil of instinct still knotted beneath her ribs.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

Mira just raised her glass. “Anytime.”

Varric leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh, tapping his cards against the table. “Maker, this group’s got everything. A Seeker, a walking mystery, and a quartermaster with a color-coded vengeance list.”

Lilith grinned. “The cunning, the muscle, the brains - it’s like something out of a novel.”

“Oh, don’t tempt him,” Cassandra muttered, glaring over her drink. “He’ll write it down.”

Lilith’s brow lifted. “Wait - what do you mean? Write it down?”

Varric shrugged, ever casual. “I write stories. Tale of the Champion , Hard in Hightown - a few other masterpieces, depending on how much wine you’ve had.”

“You’re serious?” Lilith blinked. “You’ve actually written books?”

“It’s not exactly something I announce at every tavern,” Varric said, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “But yes, I put quill to parchment every now and then. Some even have page numbers in order.”

“Well, now I have questions. Do you do readings? Signings? Dramatic reenactments by firelight?”

“I could be persuaded,” he said, swirling his drink like a noble. “If asked nicely.”

Lilith leaned her elbow on the table and smirked. “Please, great and noble scribe, tell me everything about Hard in Hightown . I’m desperate to know who thought that was a good title.”

Varric, wounded, put an exaggerated hand to his chest. “It was an instant classic! Ask Cassandra - she’s my number one fan.”

Cassandra groaned into her mug.

Cups clinked. Cards were dealt.

Lilith quickly discovered that Cassandra’s bluffing skills were nonexistent and Mira had the worst luck she’d ever seen - but both were fierce about the rules. Varric, of course, cheated with the kind of flair that made it entertaining.

They were halfway through a second round when the tavern door opened again - and Solas stepped inside.

Lilith blinked, surprised.

He approached the table without fanfare and sat down across from her, beside Varric, smooth and silent. He didn’t explain himself, and she didn’t ask, but there was a flicker in his eyes - something that suggested he’d been curious enough to come, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud.

“Maker’s breath,” Cassandra muttered. “Now the scholar joins the game.”

Solas’s gaze flicked briefly to Lilith before he said, dry and reserved, “I suppose that means I am the esteemed opponent.”

Lilith grinned, tilting her head. “Baldilocks,” she greeted him with a teasing nod.

Solas gave a mock-disappointed look, lips twitching into a small smirk. “Baldilocks. How… charming .” His voice was dry, almost dismissive, but the faint gleam in his eyes gave away his amusement.

Varric threw back his head and roared with laughter, nearly slapping the table. “Baldilocks! Maker, that’s brilliant! You wear it well, even if you pretend to hate it.” He shook his head, grinning wide, clearly enjoying the moment - and the drink.

They played again. Solas, unsurprisingly, was excellent - measured, strategic, and impossible to read. Lilith began to match his tempo, her grin widening with every trick she picked up. Her final hand was all luck and cunning, and she laid it down with a dramatic flourish that made even Varric whistle.

“Remind me never to play against you for money,” he said.

Lilith leaned back, victorious. “Remind me to start charging for lessons.”

As the tavern began to thin, Cassandra told the group that they’d be heading to the Hinterlands at dawn to speak with Mother Giselle - Lilith, Varric, Solas, and herself.

Lilith nodded, mind already turning toward the road ahead. Another trek. More questions. More danger.

Eventually, the group dispersed - Varric with a clap on the shoulder, Cassandra with a firm goodnight, Mira with a quiet smile and a promise to send along some potions for the journey.

Lilith lingered, and so did Solas. They walked out into the snow-dusted night, breath curling in the cold, the sounds of the tavern fading behind them. The moon hung low over the peaks, casting the village in silver.

Solas’s gaze lingered on her hand a moment before returning to her face. “You don’t seem surprised by any of this.”

Lilith tilted her head, offering a faint smile. “Should I be?”

He gave a soft huff and slid his hands neatly behind his back, a hint of amusement in his posture. “You’re remarkably pragmatic for someone in your situation.”

She let out a dry laugh, more breath than sound. “You’d be surprised what you get used to when dying isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to you.”

His gaze sharpened, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Then, just as quickly, she waved a hand. “I cope with humour. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”

A beat passed.

“I imagine I will,” he murmured, voice softer now, contemplative.

But he didn’t look away. His eyes lingered - studying her, yes, but not with suspicion anymore. Something gentler. As though he were observing a candle that burned too steadily for how battered the wick appeared, wondering what kind of fire lived inside it - and what storms it had already weathered.

Lilith held his gaze, smiling again - charming, effortless - but something beneath her ribs twisted, a knot beginning to pull tight behind the grin.

Solas’s expression didn’t shift, but a faint glint sparked behind his eyes, like the flicker of kindling catching light.

He smirked suddenly. “Perhaps I should warn you, Scorcher ,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth, “not all flames are so easily contained.”

Her brow arched and head cocked, heat blooming in her cheeks despite herself. “Is that so? And what do you suggest I do with this… dangerous fire of mine?”

His head tilted ever so slightly, his tone dropping to something conspiratorial, almost amused. “Harness it wisely. Fire can burn, or it can illuminate. The difference lies in intention.”

She tilted her head right back, considering him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment wrapped in a lecture.”

His mouth quirked, the barest hint of a smile. “Only if you’re prone to flattery.”

Lilith laughed, genuine this time - light - despite the heaviness in her chest. “Careful, Solas. Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you enjoy my company.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her for a moment longer, eyes steady, expression cool - but not cold. His smile didn’t widen, but something in his posture eased.

Then he turned slightly, gaze shifting. “You may think what you like.”

And in that quiet non-answer, she heard more than a yes or no could give. Enough to keep her guessing. And, gods help her, enough to make her want to.

She smiled quietly. “Good night, Solas.”

His smile deepened, steady and gentle. “Good night, Lilith.”

Behind her, the tavern’s laughter softened to a distant murmur as she stepped onto the frost-dusted path to her cabin. The buzz in her head had faded, replaced by a quiet ache she couldn’t name. Sleep wouldn’t come easily - but she was too weary to resist it.

The manor was quiet that night - too quiet. The flicker of the hearth cast long shadows that danced like whispers across the walls, gilding the room in golden light. Lilith sat curled near the fire with a book open but forgotten on her lap. Astarion moved silently beside her, the crystal of a wine decanter catching the flames and fracturing them into a kaleidoscope of light.

He poured, slow and deliberate, rich red spilling into two glasses. The calm was a mask - something taut and fragile beneath the surface.

He set the glass down with a soft clink, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I’m bored,” he said, voice low, a silken thread wrapped in something darker. “Let’s play a game.”

Lilith looked up, curiosity flickering. “What sort of game?”

“Simple,” he said, voice coaxing yet commanding. “We each tell a lie. Then the other pretends to believe it. Hard enough - convincingly enough - the lie becomes real. A truth by sheer force of will.”

She blinked, hesitant, but the gleam in his eyes left little room for refusal.

“You go first,” he urged, voice dipped in amusement.

Lilith’s breath caught. She thought for a moment, then chose her lie carefully. “I’ve forgiven myself.”

He smiled - slow, satisfied, like unveiling a secret prize. “Lovely. Now say it again. As if it’s true.”

She repeated it - softly, uncertain.

“No,” he interrupted, voice sharp, “stronger. More… certain.”

She tried again, the words catching in her throat. Her posture stiffened under his gaze.

“Again.” 

And again.

Each time, he shifted her shoulders, adjusted her chin, corrected the tilt of her head, coached the inflection of her voice. His hands were never heavy, but they were everywhere - in the curve of her neck, the line of her jaw - demanding obedience.

When she faltered, his laugh was light, cruel. “No, no. You’re mistaking performance for conviction. This isn’t freedom, my love. It’s choreography. And I’m the one setting the steps.”

Her lips trembled. The room seemed to close in, the fire’s warmth turning sharp and oppressive.

Finally, she whispered the lie with a conviction that wasn’t hers. He leaned back, eyes gleaming triumphantly.

“Now it’s my turn.”

He closed the distance between them, the heat of his breath brushing her ear. 

“I would never hurt you.”

His voice was a promise and a threat tangled together. She stared at him, searching his face.

“Say you believe me,” he demanded.

“Astarion-”

“Say it.”

Her voice cracked as the words slipped free. “I believe you.”

He smiled then - the kind of smile that swallowed light and left only shadow behind.

His lips found hers, slow and possessive, sealing the lie with a kiss. It tasted of control, of ownership, of a truth forced into existence not by trust, but by surrender.

And in that moment, the lines between what was real and what was performance blurred together until they were indistinguishable.

Lilith stirred with a sharp breath, eyes snapping open to the dawn of the morning. For a moment, she didn’t move - she just lay there, chest rising and falling too fast, a cold sweat drying against her skin. The remnants of the nightmare clung to her like fog, all teeth and blood and laughter that wasn’t hers.

Her hand twitched toward her throat before she caught herself.

“Just a dream” she muttered, voice raw. The words were always a lie, but they helped her move.

She swung her legs off the cot, elbows braced against her knees, and pressed her palms into her face. Her fingers felt cold, and the candle she’d forgotten to snuff the night before had burned to a stub, casting only a faint orange glow across the walls of her cabin. She stared out the small frost-kissed window, watching the grey light of morning creep over Haven.

Time to go. She dressed quickly - tightened the straps on her leathers, threw on her coat, and grabbed her pack. Her fingers lingered briefly on the small satchel of potions Mira had tucked into her gear the night before, “just in case,” she’d said.

Lilith paused, just long enough to breathe, then slipped out into the cold.

The gates of Haven were already stirring. Soldiers drilled in the courtyard, their boots crunching in the snow. A Templar was barking instructions near the Chantry. And at the outer edge, just before the gates opened to the winding road below, her companions waited.

Cassandra was already there, seated on a flat stone and sharpening her sword with crisp, practiced strokes. She barely looked up, but the scrape of metal paused when she saw Lilith approaching.

Solas leaned against the gatepost, robes swept around him like windblown smoke. His eyes were distant - watching the frost melt on the fence posts, or maybe something beyond it. He didn’t seem cold.

Varric arrived last, sauntering up with all the urgency of a man who knew better than to rush toward danger. Bianca sat comfortably on his back, polished and ready. 

Cassandra squinted as Lilith drew closer. “You look like you wrestled a demon in your sleep.”

“Close enough,” Lilith said, rubbing the back of her neck. “But the demon lost.”

Varric chuckled. “So, Lilith, ready to lead us into the Hinterlands and find some trouble? Because trouble seems to like you.”

Lilith smirked. “Trouble’s just the appetizer. I’m here for the main course.”

From the side, a voice rang out. “Herald!”

Lilith winced. Every time someone used that title, it scraped against her nerves like broken glass.

She turned to find Harritt approaching with a long wooden staff in hand. He looked more blacksmith than mage-smith, his sleeves still rolled from hammering something into shape.

“I was told you were in need of a proper staff,” he said, offering it forward.

Lilith glanced at the weapon. It wasn’t ornate - smooth oak darkened by fire-oil, polished along the grip, and capped with a dull iron head that flickered with faint enchantment runes. Basic. Honest. A weapon meant for use, not ceremony.

She looked to Cassandra, who had suddenly become very focused on pretending her sword needed more sharpening. Lilith arched her brow. “Subtle.”

But she accepted the staff with a faint smile. “Thank you, Harritt. It’s perfect.”

He nodded once, businesslike. “Make it back in one piece, yeah?”

“We’ll try.”

Harritt turned and made his way back toward his forge, already muttering about some hinge that wouldn’t hold.

Lilith gave the staff a small twirl, feeling the balance. It wasn’t anything like her last one, but it didn’t need to be. That was gone - this would do.

She turned to the others. “Ready?”

Cassandra rose, sliding her sword home with a satisfying shink . “Let’s not waste daylight.”

“Last chance to turn around,” Varric said. “Pretend we’re doing something heroic while drinking in the tavern instead.”

Solas pushed off the gatepost and fell into step beside them. “Some of us prefer a challenge, Master Tethras.”

Lilith adjusted her pack and started walking. “Then let’s go make some poor decisions.”

And with that, they descended into the valley road - toward the Hinterlands, and whatever waited for them in the smoke and fire ahead.

It started as a vibration - low, thrumming, crawling beneath her skin like something alive.

Lilith stood with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas at the edge of a narrow clearing where the forest broke open into grass and scattered stones. Tall trees loomed around them like silent sentinels, their branches brittle. Crows circled overhead, agitated by the unnatural hum splitting the air.

And in the center of it all: the rift.

It hovered fifteen feet above the ground, green and sickly, pulsing like a wounded organ. Lightning cracked outward from its edges, warping the world around it. It made a sound that didn’t belong in the waking world - like a whisper laced with screams, a choir of broken voices speaking in broken tongues.

Lilith’s marked hand twitched. The pull of the thing echoed in her bones.

“Another rift?” she asked, flexing her fingers. Her voice was light, but she could feel the weight in her gut. That cold knot again.

Cassandra, squinting at the tear, said grimly, “Stand ready. It will not go quietly.”

“Gods, I missed optimism,” Lilith muttered, sarcastically.

She lifted her hand and the mark flared to life - green fire erupting along her palm, casting sickly light across her face.

The rift screamed.

A shade burst from the tear like a shot, its claws raking the air, body flickering between smoke and sinew. It landed hard and charged straight for them.

Cassandra didn’t wait. She surged forward with a battle cry, steel flashing as her sword met the thing head-on. Sparks flew.

Varric dropped into a crouch beside a fallen log, raising Bianca. “Let’s not let Seeker steal all the glory.” He fired - once, twice - each bolt thudding into the shade’s writhing form.

Lilith stepped forward, hands already glowing. She pulled fire from the air and let it fly. The blast hit the shade square in the chest and set it ablaze. The creature reeled, shrieking, and then Cassandra ended it with a clean downward swing, slicing it into smoke and ash.

Solas stepped up beside Lilith, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Effective,” he murmured.

Lilith grinned, breath misting in the cold air. “Scorcher. Remember?”

He quirked a brow. “Your flair for dramatics rivals your magic.”

“I contain multitudes.”

The rift pulsed again - and two more demons clawed their way out, spitting and shrieking as they hit the ground. One charged Solas. He spun neatly out of the way, staff raised, summoning a barrier that shimmered blue around him just as claws scraped the surface.

Lilith hurled a fireball at the second, catching it mid-lunge. It howled, flailing as flames engulfed its body, and staggered straight into Cassandra’s waiting blade.

The mark flared again. She nearly dropped to one knee from the sudden jolt.

“The mark!” Solas called, urgency cutting through his usual calm. “It’s reacting - use it now!”

Lilith forced herself upright, planting her feet in the grass. She raised her hand, grit her teeth - and the beam shot out, latching onto the rift like a chain.

It felt like grabbing raw lightning. Pain arced through her body. Her knees buckled slightly and the mark hissed, blazing with unnatural heat. But she held on.

The rift shrieked and thrashed in the air. Its edges buckled inward, warping like stretched skin. With a final, earsplitting crack, the tear collapsed in on itself and vanished, sending a burst of pressure that knocked them all back a step.

Then - silence. No more screaming. No more whispers. Just the wind through the trees and the breath of four people who weren’t dead.

Lilith straightened slowly, flexing her burned hand. “Well. That sucked.”

Varric, dusting ash off his coat, gave a low whistle. “You’ve got a real talent for terrifying explosions, Scorcher.”

“Was that a compliment?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“I’m still deciding.”

Solas was watching Lilith. Not her hand. Not the rift. Her . “How did it feel?”

“Like being punched in the soul,” she said dryly. “But thanks for asking.”

He hummed, thinking for a moment, then smiled faintly. “You’re adapting.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned toward the path ahead, smoke still clinging to her coat and the mark still smoldering faintly under her glove.

“Let’s keep moving,” she said. “I’m in the mood for a few more near-death experiences.”

“Charming,” Varric muttered.

But they followed her just the same, stepping over scorched earth into the cold, bright morning.

They made camp just before nightfall, tucked into a small hollow between the rolling hills and dense thickets of the Hinterlands’ outskirts. The road behind them was quiet now, the trees whispering with wind and distant crows; the sky a deepening blue streaked with gold and rose. 

Two tents went up - Lilith and Cassandra in one, Solas and Varric in the other. The campfire crackled steadily in the center of their clearing, its glow pushing back the chill. Lilith crouched beside it, stirring a pot slung over the flames. The stew was mostly root vegetables, dried meat, and a few crushed herbs she’d tucked into her pack. Passable, barely. But warm.

Solas organized his satchel nearby, murmuring a faint ward over a circle of glyphs drawn in the dirt. Varric lounged on a log, his boots kicked up and sleeves rolled to his elbows, while Cassandra did what Cassandra always seemed to do: clean and sharpen her sword with a precision that bordered on obsessive.

Eventually, the food was declared “done enough," and they gathered around the fire, their bowls in hand.

Lilith took the first bite and grimaced. “Well. It’s food-shaped.”

Varric coughed a laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s not your cooking,” Cassandra said through a mouthful. “It’s the lack of ingredients.”

“Still,” Lilith replied, poking a chunk of something vaguely tuber-like. “I weep for the spices left behind.”

“It’s better than anything I ever ate in Kirkwall,” Varric offered cheerfully. “Though the rats there were more tender.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “That better be a joke.”

“Mostly.”

“Disgusting,” Cassandra muttered, not looking up from her bowl.

They ate in companionable quiet for a few minutes - only the sounds of chewing and the pop of the fire. Once finished, Varric was already rummaging in his pack for a flask. He took a generous swig, wiped his mouth, and launched into a tale.

“So there we were - me, Hawke, and a wheel of Orlesian cheese we’d definitely not stolen - being chased through the Vimmark Mountains by a bear the size of a tavern.”

Lilith leaned back, arms braced behind her, blinking slowly. “And you survived because...?”

“Because I’m irresistible to bears,” Varric said, grinning. “I told it a joke so filthy it passed out from shock.”

Cassandra groaned. “I do not believe a word of this.”

“Hey, I don’t blame you. Truth like this defies belief.”

Lilith deadpanned, “Just so we’re clear - if I get eaten by a bear tonight, I’m haunting the lot of you.”

Cassandra looked up sharply. “Is that likely?”

Lilith blinked at her, then smirked. “Not unless your sword smells like honey.”

Solas cracked a faint smile where he sat off to the side, legs crossed in meditation. His voice was smooth and dry. “If you perish to a bear after surviving the Breach, I’ll be deeply unimpressed.”

Lilith huffed a laugh. “Glad we’ve set a standard.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest, folding into herself against the fire’s warmth. “Still gonna haunt you all, though. Just to make a point.”

“That would be quite fascinating,” Solas murmured. “I would love to study the metaphysics of a haunting firsthand.”

“You’d turn my ghost into a thesis!?”

“I’d cite you properly.”

Varric snorted, reaching over with the flask. “Here. Drink before he starts quoting Fade theory again.”

Lilith took it gratefully. “Thanks. I’ll pass on the lecture, though.”

Solas smirked in response. 

Cassandra shook her head, lips twitching faintly despite herself. She resumed sharpening her blade with renewed vigor. “If we are finished flirting with spirits and wild animals, I suggest we set watches.”

“Fine by me,” Lilith said, rising and stretching. “I’ll take the first watch. You all get some rest. I’ll wake you before the bears arrive.”

“I am regretting sharing a tent with you,” Cassandra muttered, gathering her things and retreating to her bedroll.

“Only just now?” Lilith called after her.

The tents rustled. Varric made a show of grumbling as he vanished into his own, and Solas lingered a moment longer, gazing at the fire with something unreadable in his expression before nodding and slipping into the shadows.

Lilith settled onto a nearby rock, flask still in hand, her breath curling in the air. She looked up.

The stars in this world were wrong. Two moons, and no constellations she recognized. Just strange patterns in a stranger sky. It was still beautiful, but in that quiet, it hit her how far she really was from Faerûn. From Baldur’s Gate. From-

Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard and leaned back, forcing her breath steady.

The fire crackled. The wind whispered.

And Lilith watched the stars like they might someday whisper back.

Chapter Text

The manor was quiet that evening - unnaturally so. No footsteps from the servants, no hum of conversation behind closed doors. Just the low crackle of the hearth and the occasional flick of Astarion’s brush against canvas.

Lilith sat near the window, though the curtains were drawn shut tight. She hadn’t asked why. She rarely asked anymore.

The chair beneath her was velvet-lined and far too ornate, as if plucked from a theatre set. It did nothing to ease the tension in her spine.

“You’re slouching,” Astarion murmured.

She stiffened. “I’m tired,” she said, carefully.

Astarion’s brush paused mid-air. “Then be tired beautifully, darling. Chin up.”

Lilith obeyed. She tilted her head just slightly, lifted her gaze toward the candlelight instead of the locked door. Her back ached from holding still.

He resumed painting.

The room smelled of wax and wine, turpentine and dried blood. It was a grand space, all illusion: thick carpets to muffle sound, silk-covered walls to make decay seem romantic. She hated it, but she told herself she didn’t.

Behind the easel, Astarion hummed faintly to himself, utterly focused. He looked content. At peace.

“I don’t see why I have to sit like this,” she muttered after a long stretch of silence.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m waiting to be kissed or killed.”

A breath of laughter escaped him. “Well,” he said, peeking around the easel, “the two are hardly mutually exclusive.”

She rolled her eyes. But her hands clenched in her lap.

Eventually, he stepped back, assessing the canvas with a faint, pleased smile. “Come. Have a look.”

She rose, joints protesting from sitting too long, and crossed the room with reluctant steps.

The painting was exquisite. Astarion’s skill had always unnerved her - he didn’t just recreate her, he interpreted her. Lilith stared at her likeness: reclining like a courtesan, limbs loose, head tilted, lips parted in a way that looked more like invitation than expression. Her eyes were too wide. Her smile too sharp. Her posture submissive in a way she’d never posed.

“That’s… not…” she started, but trailed off.

“It’s how I see you,” he said, almost gently.

She frowned. “You see me like that?”

“Of course.” His voice was soft, unhurried. “Worshipped. Beautiful. Tamed, in the way only I know how. It's not an insult, darling - it's a tribute.”

Lilith blinked. “I don’t look like myself in it.”

Astarion stepped closer, looking at the painting, then back to her. “Because you’ve changed. Because I’ve changed you.”

She turned to look at him, frowning. “Is that what you wanted? To turn me into something else?”

He smiled faintly. “No. Just to show you what you already were. You think this is invention. It’s revelation .”

Then, a beat - his gaze settling on her with the weight of something heavier.

“Do you remember who you were when I met you?” he asked, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Do you forget the way they whispered your name in fear all that time ago? You were a goddess.”

“I was a monster,” she said, quieter.

Astarion’s hand slid to cup her face. “And I loved you for it,” he whispered. “Don’t insult the parts of you I cherish.”

She swallowed. “That wasn’t love,” she said, but even to her own ears, it sounded unsure.

His smile faltered - just for a moment. Then, without warning, he gripped her jaw. Not bruising, but firm enough to make her still. To remind her who had the power here.

“Then why are you still here?” he murmured, tilting her face up to his. His tone was honeyed with mockery, soft and poisonous. “Hm? Tell me, darling - what do you call this, if not love?”

She glared at him, jaw tight in his grasp. She refused to flinch, nor did she answer. 

She didn’t say: I’ve stayed because you don’t let me leave.
Didn’t say: I’ve stayed because some part of me still loves you, even now.
Didn’t say: I’ve stayed because you said you love me too, and I need that to mean something.

For a moment, the tension stretched between them - taut, volatile. Then Astarion released her, stepping back with the smug ease of a man who believed he’d already won. He adjusted his sleeve, composed and satisfied.

“I’m tired,” she said, quieter now.

Astarion nodded, still watching her. “Rest, then. We have another sitting tomorrow.”

Once he left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him, Lilith stood in silence for a moment, staring at the fire as it died down to glowing embers. 

She walked to the window beside the bed. The heavy curtains were still drawn tight, suffocating the room in false warmth and candlelight. Slipping her fingers beneath the velvet, she tugged them open just enough to let the night in.

Moonlight spilled across the floor in a silver blade, catching the sharp angles of the furniture, the glint of glass, the edge of the ornate frame looming above the bed. It felt like breathing again.

A small act of defiance.

She climbed into bed and pulled the sheets around her, but the portrait was impossible to ignore. Watching. Smiling. Obedient.

She turned away from it, curling toward the moonlight, letting it wash over her face. The cold glow was a balm to the room’s stale heat. She focused on that, on the coolness of it, trying to settle her nerves - but the feeling of being watched didn’t fade.

Just before sleep claimed her, her eyes fluttered open one last time - drawn to the window. Something moved there, just beyond the glass.

A glint. Pale eyes in the dark. A shadow, low and still, shaped unmistakably like a wolf.

Lilith blinked, confused. That wasn’t part of this memory. There hadn’t been a wolf. She would’ve remembered something like that.

Wouldn’t she?

When she looked again, the space beyond the window was empty. Just branches, gently swaying. Just moonlight.

The thought slipped away with the rest of the dream.

The next morning, the group crested a hill and arrived at the Inquisition’s outpost in the Hinterlands. A scattering of tents dotted the ridge, flanked by worn fences and makeshift barriers. Smoke curled from a campfire near the command post, and soldiers bustled about - repairing armor, tending to wounded, and glancing nervously toward the hills.

Lilith stifled a yawn and rolled her shoulders. Her limbs ached like she’d been frozen in one position all night.

“Didn’t sleep well?” Varric asked, tossing her a sidelong glance as he adjusted Bianca on his back.

“Dreamt about bad taste in furniture,” she said dryly. “Very distressing.”

Varric chuckled, but Solas, standing by the supply crates, didn’t smile. His gaze lingered on her for a beat too long - steady, curious, knowing.

Lilith caught it and looked away, busying herself with her satchel.

As they approached, a red-haired dwarf jogged over, grinning wide beneath a well-worn helmet. “The Herald of Andraste! I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach.”

Lilith grimaced. “Hells, I’m starting to worry about these ‘stories’ everyone’s heard.”

The dwarf laughed. “Nothing to worry about. They only say you’re the last great hope for Thedas.”

Lilith blinked. “Oh. Wonderful.”

The dwarf stuck out a hand. “Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I - all of us here - we’ll do whatever we can to help.”

“The Hinterlands are as good a place as any to start fixing things,” she added brightly. “Everyone’s a little jumpy around mages these days, but you’ll get no back talk from us. That’s a promise.”

Lilith shook her hand, offering a tired smile. “Lilith.”

From behind her, Varric stepped forward with a grin. “Harding, huh? Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?”

She frowned. “Can’t say I have. Why?”

“You’d be Harding in-” He paused, winced. “Ah, forget it.”

Cassandra sighed sharply. “That was not even a proper joke.”

Lilith bit back a snort. “Points for effort, though.”

Harding looked between them, bemused but unfazed. “We should get to business. The situation here’s… rough.”

Lilith folded her arms. “How bad?”

Harding’s cheer dimmed slightly. “We came to secure horses from Redcliffe’s old horsemaster, Dennet. I grew up around here - people always said his herd was the fastest this side of the Frostbacks. But with the mage-templar fighting, we couldn’t reach him. Maker only knows if he’s even still alive.”

She stepped aside, gesturing toward the valley below. “Meanwhile, Mother Giselle’s at the crossroads, tending to the wounded. Our last reports said the fighting’s reached them, too. Corporal Vale and a handful of our men are holding out, but they won’t last long. You’d best get moving.”

Harding gave a sharp nod and turned away, already shouting instructions to a passing scout.

Lilith glanced at the others. Cassandra had already adjusted her grip on her sword. Varric was muttering to Bianca, checking her bolts. Solas stood still, quiet and alert.

They followed the rocky dirt trail downhill, the outpost shrinking behind them. The air was thick with smoke, and damp with the morning’s chill. As they neared the crossroads, shouting broke out ahead - steel clashed against steel, and magic crackled in the air.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “Inquisition forces. They’re protecting the refugees!”

Varric loaded a bolt. “Looks like they could use a hand.”

A skirmish was already underway - three rebel templars in battered armor were closing in on a cluster of wounded and Inquisition scouts.

“Go!” Cassandra barked, and the group charged forward.

Lilith raised her staff and hurled a fireball into the fray, the blast catching one templar in the shoulder. He staggered, howling, as Cassandra met him blade-to-blade, driving him back. Solas conjured a shimmering barrier just in time to deflect a blow from another, while Varric loosed bolt after bolt into exposed joints with deadly efficiency.

Amid the clash, Cassandra shouted, “Hold! We are not apostates!” But the templars didn’t slow. One of them snarled something unintelligible and swung harder.

Solas, ducking under a wild swing, snapped, “I do not believe they care, Seeker!”

Lilith pivoted and sent a shockwave through the last templar’s feet, knocking him flat. Cassandra finished him with a clean strike.

Before they could catch their breath, a second wave surged toward them - this time, rebel mages. Wild-eyed, crackling with chaotic magic, they came screaming down the slope.

Lilith let out a long-suffering sigh. “Great. More uninvited guests.”

Solas stepped forward, palms raised. “We are not templars! We mean you no harm!”

“Don’t think they’re not interested in chatting,” Varric muttered.

The mages unleashed a volley - arcane bolts, frost shards, fire. Lilith threw up a barrier, gritting her teeth as the spells impacted, and retaliated with a column of flame that burst from the ground beneath one attacker’s feet. Varric dropped another with a clean shot to the chest. Solas flanked, casting chilling glyphs to slow the enemies’ charge, while Cassandra engaged a pair of them in brutal, up-close combat.

Eventually, the mages fell. The last one collapsed in a heap, smoke curling from his robes.

Breathing hard, Lilith leaned on her staff, surveying the aftermath. “Well,” she muttered, “that was welcoming.”

Solas brushed ash from his sleeve. “This is what fear makes of people.”

Cassandra knelt briefly beside a fallen scout, checking his pulse before rising with a grim nod. “Then let’s find Mother Giselle. If she’s still alive, she’ll need us.”

Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder. “And maybe, just maybe, someone around here will not try to kill us on sight.”

Lilith started down the path. “Fingers crossed, Varric. But I wouldn’t bet on it.”

The group pressed forward through the smoke-stained crossroads. Refugees huddled near dwindling campfires, Inquisition soldiers moved between the wounded, and the air smelled faintly of burned cloth and fear.

Lilith scanned the area, eyes catching on a robed figure kneeling beside an injured man. The woman’s presence was calm - rooted, like the still point in a storm.

“That her?” Varric asked, following her gaze.

“I think so,” Lilith said.

She turned to the others. “I’ll talk to her. Can you guys help with the wounded?”

Cassandra gave a firm nod. “Of course.”

“Try not to get recruited into any more cults,” Varric added, already walking off toward a soldier groaning near the rubble.

Solas raised a brow but said nothing, following Cassandra to where a healer was calling for more bandages.

Lilith crossed the muddy square alone. As she drew closer, she heard the tail end of a conversation - Mother Giselle’s voice low but clear as she knelt beside a trembling soldier, his hand slick with blood.

“There are mages here who can ease your wounds. Lie still.”

The young man grimaced. “Don’t… don’t let them touch me, Mother. Their magic - it’s unnatural.”

Giselle’s voice remained soft, but firm. “Turned to noble purpose, their magic is no more evil than your blade. Let them help you.”

The soldier hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Giselle stood, brushing ash from her robes, and turned - her eyes meeting Lilith’s.

“You must be the one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste.”

Lilith winced. “Not by choice.”

“A rare thing, to choose our titles,” Giselle said, a note of sympathy in her voice. “We seldom have much say in our fate, I’m sad to say.”

Lilith tilted her head. “So, you agree with them? The ones calling me chosen?”

Giselle’s smile didn’t waver. “I do not presume to know the Maker’s will for any of us. But I did not ask you here to argue theology.”

“Then why did you ask me here?”

Giselle gestured for her to walk, and together they began a slow circle through the makeshift camp. Children cried in the distance. Smoke rose from a collapsed tent. The wounded were everywhere.

“I know of the Chantry’s denouncement,” Giselle said quietly. “And I know those behind it. Some are opportunists - hoping to increase their chances of becoming Divine. Others are simply afraid. So many lives lost, so suddenly…”

Lilith’s expression tightened. “It was horrible .”

“Fear makes us desperate,” Giselle continued. “But I hope not beyond reason.”

She looked to Lilith. “Go to them. Speak to the remaining clerics. Show them you’re no demon. They’ve heard only tales - grim ones. Give them something else to believe.”

Lilith slowed, surprised. “You think they’ll listen to me?”

“If I thought you were incapable, I wouldn’t suggest it.”

“They want to execute me, and you think I should just stroll in for a chat?”

Giselle’s eyes glinted with dry amusement. “You are no longer alone. You are surrounded by allies. They cannot imprison or attack you.”

Lilith gave her a crooked smirk. “Oh, they could try.”

“That would be unwise of them,” Giselle said gently.

They stopped near a half-collapsed cart. Giselle turned to face her fully now, hands folded before her. “Let me put it this way: you needn’t convince them all. You just need some of them to doubt. Their power is their unified voice. Take that from them, and you receive the time you need.” 

Lilith looked down, then off toward the hills. The sunrise cut through the smoky air, thin and bruised, casting long shadows across the grass. For a moment, she just watched it - silent, still.

She’d known many gods, many would-be gods, all in many forms. Statues carved from obsidian, and voices that whispered from the dark between stars. Smiling mouths promising revelation, atonement, salvation - so long as you bled the right way, bowed low enough, obeyed.

All of them promised power. Divine, redemptive, destructive. A cure for guilt, or a weapon to outrun it. But none had saved her.

That kind of power was poison. It didn't just stain the skin - it soaked into the bones, curdled the thoughts, made you hunger. Not for justice, not for freedom. Just more . More control. More worship. More blood. It rewrote your name and then made you thank it.

And she’d drunk deep from it once. Willingly. 

The gods she knew didn’t lift you from the abyss. They asked you to dig it deeper - and smile while you did it.

Her eyes narrowed against the light. “Sorry,” she muttered at last. “I’m not really a fan of gods. Haven’t had many great experiences.”

Giselle didn’t flinch. She simply offered a kind, quiet look. “You do not need to believe,” she said, “for your actions to have meaning.”

Lilith blinked, caught off guard. She’d braced for a sermon, not softness. “You make it sound simple,” she said finally.

“It’s not,” Giselle replied. “But simple things rarely are.”

A gust of wind stirred Lilith’s cloak. Giselle continued, “I honestly don’t know if you’ve been touched by fate or sent to help us… but I hope. Hope is what we need now.” 

She glanced toward the camp behind them. “The people will listen to your rallying call, as they will listen to no other. You could build the Inquisition into a force that will deliver us… or destroy us.”

Lilith let that hang in the air.

Giselle stepped back then. “I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana the names of those in the Chantry that would be amenable to a gathering. It is not much, but I will do whatever I can.” 

Lilith nodded slowly. “That’s more than most - thank you.”

Giselle gave her a warm, solemn smile. “And it may be enough.”

With that, she turned and walked away, robes trailing in the dirt. Lilith watched her go, her thoughts heavy, the “Herald” title clinging like damp cloth to her skin.

She wasn’t used to kindness that asked nothing in return. And she wasn’t sure if it made her feel comforted, or utterly exposed.

As Mother Giselle disappeared into the bustle of the camp, Lilith lingered. The air was still thick with smoke and tension. Soldiers barked orders, healers knelt beside the wounded, and somewhere a child was crying - sharp, short wails like they were trying not to cry but couldn’t quite stop.

Lilith turned to head back toward the group. But as she did, a flicker of movement caught her eye: a wiry figure crouched behind a half-toppled cart, eyes watching her with the quiet calculation of someone used to going unnoticed.

An elven girl - no older than nine or ten, if that - barefoot, dirt-smudged, and half-hidden in shadow. Her eyes were striking: gold-flecked and far too old for her face.

Lilith stopped. Tilted her head slightly. “You planning to rob me?” 

It came out more sharply than she’d meant. Too quick. Reflexive.

The girl didn’t flinch. Just narrowed her eyes. “Not unless you’ve got something worth stealing.”

Lilith let out a dry chuckle. “Fair.”

But her hand had already twitched toward her belt. Muscle memory. She remembered another street, another pair of wide eyes - too young, too hungry. The tug at her hip. The boy’s wrist in hers. Astarion’s silence.

Her fingers curled and relaxed.

She crouched slowly, careful not to startle the girl. “What’s your name?”

A long pause. Then: “Seren.”

“Seren,” Lilith repeated, like testing a flavor on her tongue. “That’s a good name. I’m Lilith.”

Seren’s brow furrowed. “You’re the Herald. The one with the glowing hand.”

Lilith sighed, dropping her gaze to her marked palm. “Unfortunately.”

Seren looked unconvinced. “You don’t look like Andraste.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “Good. She probably didn’t curse as much.”

That won her the faintest twitch of a smile.

Lilith reached into her belt pouch and pulled out a small bundle of wrapped and dried provisions - a little stale, but still good. She’d tucked it away that morning, more out of habit than hunger. Breaking the bundle in two, she held out a piece.

Seren eyed it warily, then inched forward and took it without a word.

“You ever cast a spell?” Lilith asked casually.

Seren’s eyes lit up, then dimmed. “I’m not allowed.”

Lilith leaned in slightly, voice low and conspiratorial. “No one ever gave me permission, either. I just did it.”

The girl’s expression shifted - something between awe and suspicion.

Lilith placed two fingers to her palm and drew a quick, glowing rune in the air. A simple light spell - just enough to make her fingers glow faintly gold. Seren gasped.

“Can you show me?” she asked, voice almost a whisper.

Lilith hesitated only a second, then nodded. She moved beside her, drawing the rune again, slower this time. “It’s not fire or lightning. Just a little light. Something to help you see in the dark. Or scare off rats.”

Seren copied the gesture. The first time, nothing happened. The second - just a flicker.

“Good,” Lilith said. “You’ve got the shape. Now think about something warm. Something steady.”

The third time, the rune caught - and Seren’s fingers glowed faintly, golden and trembling like candlelight.

Her eyes went wide. Shit,” she breathed.

Lilith snorted. “That’s my girl.”

A chuckle from behind them made her glance over her shoulder. Solas stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a bemused expression on his face. “I see you’ve found a promising apprentice.”

Lilith shrugged, smiling faintly. “Figured if I’m going to corrupt the youth, might as well start small.”

He nodded toward Seren. “She’s quick. That light spell is not as simple as it seems.”

Seren beamed at the praise, clutching her glowing fingers close like they might vanish if she let go.

Lilith rose to her feet. “I was a bit of a menace at her age, too.”

“I would never have guessed,” Solas said dryly, but his voice was warm.

Seren looked shy suddenly, ducking behind Lilith’s cloak. Lilith ruffled her hair, awkward but affectionate.

“I should get back to the others,” she said. “You going to be alright?”

Seren nodded, serious again. “I’ll practice.”

“You’d better.” Lilith winked. “If I come back and you’ve set yourself on fire, I’m going to pretend I never met you.”

She turned and walked away, Solas falling into step beside her. “She reminds me of you,” he said.

Lilith glanced sideways. “Because of the fire hazard?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Because she endures.”

Lilith didn’t answer. But for a long time, she didn’t look away from the glow on her fingertips.

They’d barely made it halfway back to the others when Solas stopped. “Lilith,” he said, voice soft but purposeful. “Come with me.”

She paused. He wasn’t looking at her - his gaze fixed on a nearby cluster of tents. One of them sagged under the weight of overuse, the canvas stained with blood and ash. Inside, she could hear someone groaning in pain.

“Another fan?” she deadpanned, though her eyes had narrowed.

“A scout,” Solas replied. “He was caught in the fighting earlier. They’ve stabilized him, but…” He hesitated. “The healers are overwhelmed. You said you wanted to learn.”

Lilith blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’m rarely anything else.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. She shifted her weight, uncertain. “I meant that back in Haven - wanting to learn. But I was thinking theory. Books. Charts. You know. Less… bleeding.”

“Real healing magic is messy,” Solas said, and though he kept his tone gentle, there was no mockery in it. “But if you’d rather wait-”

She squared her shoulders before he could finish. “No. Let’s go.”

They ducked inside the tent. The scout - a young man, only a bit older than Seren - lay pale and sweating on a cot, a deep gash running across his abdomen. Someone had hastily packed it with poultices, but infection had already set in. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and iron.

Solas knelt beside the cot and nodded toward the wound. “You won’t need much. Focus on the tissue - close it from beneath. Do not force it closed. Convince it to knit.”

Lilith swallowed hard. “That sounds like poetry, not instructions.”

“Magic is both.”

He touched her arm gently, guiding her hand to hover above the wound. “Breathe. Let your power respond, not react.”

Lilith inhaled. Her palm glowed - first faintly, then brighter, raw green-white energy spilling through her fingers. 

It surged too fast. The soldier cried out, muscles seizing. The magic hissed and crackled, like it was trying to cauterize the wound by sheer force of will.

Lilith flinched. “Shit-!”

Solas’s hand caught hers. Firm, steady. “Slow,” he said, voice low near her ear. “Not a blaze. A balm.”

She exhaled shakily. Focus . She imagined warmth instead of heat. A steady, gentle pressure instead of fire. Then the power shifted in response. 

Light shimmered over the wound like silk drawn tight over a tear. The angry flesh began to close, the soldier’s breathing easing. When the magic faded, the wound had sealed - ruddy but whole. The soldier had fallen into a heavy, healing sleep.

Lilith stared at her hand, then looked at Solas. “That was - did you see that? I actually did it!”

“I did,” he said. And though his smile was slight, it lit his whole face. “You adapted quickly. That is not easy, especially for someone more used to incineration than restoration.”

Lilith elbowed him, just a little. “I’m not just a walking fireball, you know.”

“I’ve noticed.”

They lingered for a moment, the air between them still and close. He hadn’t moved his hand from her wrist.

Lilith looked at him, really looked. For all his cool detachment, there was something in his expression now - unguarded, maybe even proud. Something warmer than she expected - and it startled her more than the magic had.

And then, like a door slamming shut, it was gone. Solas blinked, withdrawing his hand as if remembering himself. The mask returned - quiet, thoughtful, unreadable.

“I should… speak with Mother Giselle,” he said abruptly, rising to his feet. “She’ll want to know the wounded are stable.”

Lilith straightened, caught off guard. “Right. Of course.”

He gave her a nod - too formal, too sudden - and slipped out of the tent without another word.

Lilith stared after him, confused. Then looked down at her hand again. It still tingled. Warm.

“…Weird elf,” she muttered.

But she was smiling.

She stood, brushing dirt from her hands as she stepped out of the healer’s tent. She scanned the crossroads, eyes landing on Cassandra, who was giving orders to a group of Inquisition scouts near the makeshift barricades.

“Hey,” Lilith called, jogging up. “We need to regroup.”

Cassandra turned, expression tightening with readiness. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just… horses.”

A few minutes later, the four of them were gathered near the edge of the path leading away from the main camp. Lilith gestured toward the eastern hills. “Dennet’s farm is out there. Harding said he’s got the best horses in the region, but he won’t help us unless we go in person.”

Cassandra nodded. “Then we should move quickly.”

“I was thinking we split up,” Lilith continued. “You and I go find Dennet. Solas, Varric - you two stay here, help the soldiers and healers hold the crossroads. It’s not the Breach, but there’s still enough chaos to go around.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Splitting the party already, huh? Bold move.”

“Try not to get eaten while we’re gone,” Lilith replied dryly.

“Perish the thought,” Solas murmured, offering a faint smirk.

With nods all around, they parted ways - Cassandra and Lilith heading deeper into the Hinterlands as Solas and Varric turned back toward the wounded.

The path to Dennet’s farm wound through patches of open forest and grassy fields, crossing a narrow stream that glittered in the late morning sun. A sharp-eyed boy with a bow spotted them first, calling for his mother - Elaina - who emerged from the farmhouse with steel in her eyes. Tension quickly faded once Cassandra introduced herself and Lilith offered a polite, if awkward, wave. Dennet himself came stomping down from the barn, all muscle and mud and no time for pleasantries.

He listened as Cassandra outlined the Inquisition’s purpose. Lilith, letting the Seeker take the lead, added only a few quiet observations about the conditions of the roads and the need for safe travel through the region. Her restraint seemed to earn Dennet’s approval more than any show of force.

“Fine,” he said at last, arms crossed over his chest. “You want horses, you help us first. Wolves have been harassing the herds for weeks. They’re not acting right - bold, smart, like they’re being driven. You take care of them, build me a few watchtowers to keep the bandits out, and we’ll talk.”

Lilith and Cassandra made short work of it. The wolves were fast but predictable, and Cassandra moved through them like a blade through parchment. Lilith supported with precise bolts of fire and force magic, careful to avoid hurting the horses that scattered nearby. The watchtowers took more time, but with help from a few locals, they were raised by mid-afternoon - crude, but sturdy. Before sundown, they returned to Dennet, who, impressed by their speed and efficiency, agreed to lend his stables to the Inquisition’s cause.

By the time they returned to the crossroads, the sun was dipping low on the horizon, painting the rocks and tents in warm amber light. Lilith and Cassandra rode side by side, leading a string of sleek, well-trained horses behind them.

Solas looked up from where he knelt beside a wounded scout, raising a brow at their arrival. Varric, seated atop an overturned crate, let out a low whistle.

“Now that’s what I like to see,” he said. “You get us our cavalry, Scorcher?”

Lilith patted her horse’s neck. “We aim to please.”

Solas rose, brushing dust from his robes. He met Lilith’s gaze - warmth flickering behind the cool green of his eyes. “A timely success.”

Lilith smiled, just a little. “Don’t get used to it.”

Cassandra’s gaze sharpened as a messenger approached, handing her a folded parchment sealed with the mark of the Inquisition.

Breaking the seal, she unfolded the letter and read Leliana’s familiar script:

"There’s a potential ally waiting on the Storm Coast - a mercenary group called the Bull’s Chargers. They could prove invaluable. I trust you’ll assess him wisely. Travel swiftly."

Cassandra folded the letter with a resolute nod, tucking it away. She turned to the others, voice steady.

“We’re headed to the Storm Coast. There’s a recruit we need to meet.”

Chapter Text

The Storm Coast was doing its level best to drown them.

Rain hammered down in relentless sheets, flattening Lilith’s hood against her head and soaking through every layer she owned. The ground was more mud than dirt, sucking at their boots with every step and spattering their legs with each hoofbeat from the horses.

“How is this much rain even possible?” Lilith called, half-shouting over the downpour. “Surely it can’t always be raining?”

Cassandra, grim as ever, muttered, “This is the Storm Coast. The name is not metaphorical.”

“Well,” Varric chimed in from behind her, “on the bright side, at least none of us can smell how bad we probably stink.”

Lilith snorted, barely ducking a branch. “That’s what you’re going with? The smell ?”

Their trek led them downhill, boots sliding on slick shale, until the trees gave way to rocky coastline. Waves crashed against jagged black rocks below, and through the fog and rain, shouts rang out - metal clashed against metal.

Lilith pulled her staff instinctively. “That our contact?”

They crested the final ridge and saw the beach below in chaos. A group of warriors - likely mercenaries - were engaged in fierce combat with a gang of Tevinter soldiers. A few bodies already lay in the sand, and several men and women were fighting in formation, clearly experienced. Lilith counted at least a dozen, though more moved through the smoke and mist, obscured.

“That’s probably the Chargers,” Varric said. “And if it’s not, well... we’ll find out soon.”

With little fanfare, Lilith joined the fray - bolts of lightning and flame arcing from her staff. Cassandra dove in beside her, shield raised. Solas cast barriers and frost spells with elegant precision. Varric’s crossbow rattled off bolts with mechanical rhythm.

By the time the last Tevinter soldier crumpled to the ground, the rain had slackened to a mist, leaving behind a battlefield slick with blood and seawater.

A massive figure strode toward the Inquisition group, brushing sand from his armored arms. He had the horns of a minotaur, but the smirk of a man far too pleased with himself. 

“Chargers, stand down!” he barked. “Krem! How’d we do?”

A wiry man jogged over, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. “Five or six wounded, chief. No dead.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” the big man said, grinning. “Let the Throatcutters finish up, then break out the casks.”

He turned toward the newcomers, his golden gaze landing squarely and unabashedly - on Lilith. His eyes raked her from head to toe. Slowly. Deliberately. “So you’re with the Inquisition, huh?” he said, broad smile never faltering. “Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

Lilith arched a brow, soaked and unimpressed. “You must be The Iron Bull, I presume.”

“Yeah,” he said with a low chuckle. “The horns usually give it away.”

She gestured at the remains of the battlefield. “Nicely done. I hear you’re looking for work?”

“I am,” he replied, rolling his broad shoulders. “Not before my drink, though.”

He waved them down the beach toward a cluster of rocks and driftwood where makeshift casks were already being pried open. Another mercenary passed around rough mugs.

“This is my lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi. Krem, for short.”

Krem nodded, offering a quick but respectful look Lilith’s way. “Good to meet you.” He turned to Bull. “Throatcutters are done, chief.”

“Already? Have ‘em check again. I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem.”

Krem smirked. “None taken. Least a bastard knows who his mother was. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?”

Lilith’s eyes flicked between the two men. Qunari? He sort of reminded Lilith of a tiefling - like Karlach, but bigger. Perhaps that’s what they called tieflings here? She made a mental note to ask Solas later. Maybe over dry clothes and a fire, if such luxuries still existed.

As Krem wandered off, Bull turned back to the group. “So, you’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it… and I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

Lilith let out a breathy scoff. “How much is this going to cost me, exactly?”

“Wouldn’t cost you anything personally,” Bull said, eyeing her with a slow grin. “Unless you wanna buy drinks later. Your ambassador - Josephine? - she’ll sort out the details. The gold takes care of itself. All that matters is, we’re worth it.”

Lilith folded her arms, teasing. “You do seem useful.”

Bull’s grin widened, far too pleased. “We are. But you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me .”

“Oh Maker,” Varric muttered behind her. “And here I thought I had an ego.”

“I’m your man,” Bull went on, undeterred. “You need a frontline bodyguard? I’ve got you. Demons, dragons - the bigger, the better. And there’s one other thing. Might be useful. Might piss you off. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

The name meant nothing, but it sounded like something she should know. Lilith’s posture stiffened. “Only a little.”

“They’re a Qunari order,” Bull explained, surprisingly casual. “Spies, basically. Loyalty, security, interrogation, that kind of thing. They sent me here to keep an eye on the Breach. Magic like that? Could tear the world apart. So I’m supposed to get close, report on what’s happening. In return, I’ll share my reports with you.”

Lilith blinked. “You’re a spy, and you just… told me?”

“Yeah,” Bull said easily. “Whatever happened at that Conclave thing - it’s bad. Someone needs to fix it. So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

“You still could’ve hidden what you are,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“From something called the Inquisition ?” he asked, amused. “I’d’ve been found out sooner or later. Better you hear it up front.”

She watched him carefully. Lilith had known men like him. Big, loud, charming. Swore loyalty until it meant following orders. Then came the pushback. The second-guessing. The danger.

“What would you send home in these little reports of yours?” she asked, voice deliberately patronizing.

“Enough to keep the higher-ups off my back,” Bull replied with no offense taken. “Nothing that’d compromise your ops. I keep them calm, you don’t get a Qunari invasion. Win-win.”

“And these reports you’re offering to share?”

“Enemy movements, suspicious activity, a bit of gossip. Your spymaster will love it. She is good, right?”

Lilith tilted her head. “ She ?”

Bull’s smirk returned. “I did a little research.” He let his gaze linger a second too long, eyes flicking to Lilith’s ginger hair, his tone dropping just slightly. “Plus, I’ve always had a weakness for redheads.”

Lilith rolled her eyes and tugged her hood further down. “Of course you have.”

She straightened. “You run every report through Leliana. Nothing leaves your tent she hasn’t read. And if your reports compromise us - if this is some kind of long game or trap - I will kill you myself.”

Bull looked her over again, but this time, there was something more serious behind the smirk. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He turned and shouted, “Krem! Tell the men to finish their drinks on the road. The Chargers just got hired!”

Krem groaned from across the beach. “What about the casks, chief? We just opened them. With axes.”

“Find a way to seal ‘em,” Bull called back. “You’re Tevinter, right? Try blood magic.”

Bull turned back, voice lighter now. “We’ll see you back at Haven, Boss.”

“Boss?” she echoed, dry.

“Well, you did just hire us. Gotta call you something. Think of it as a compliment.”

Lilith shook her head and mounted her horse, rain starting to pick up again.

Varric muttered behind her, “We just signed on a seven-foot horned flirt with spy credentials. Leliana’s gonna love this.”

Lilith sighed. “If she doesn’t kill me, I’ll count it as a win.”

The rain had let up by the time the group trudged into the Inquisition’s camp, nestled between a craggy cliffside and the dark edge of the forest. Damp cloaks dripped by the fire, horses were handed off to stablehands, and Lilith stretched with a groan, rolling out her shoulders.

She spotted the familiar bob of Scout Harding’s braid just ahead, speaking with one of her men near a table of weather-warped maps. Without hesitation, Lilith called out, smirking.

“Harding! Working hard, or hardly working?”

Harding turned, a familiar grin lighting up her face. “You again? I’m starting to think you enjoy trouble, Herald.”

Lilith shrugged, smirking. “What can I say? I follow the chaos - and your reports are always the most detailed.”

Harding laughed, brushing a curl from her face. “Flattery won’t get you out of slogging through mud, you know.”

Varric whistled, eyebrows raised. “Careful, Scout - she’ll charm you into paperwork.”

“I’ve seen her handwriting,” Harding shot back. “I’ll take my chances.”

Lilith chuckled and stepped closer, more serious now. “You called us back for something?”

Harding nodded, frown returning. “Yeah. It’s great you're here, actually. A few of our scouts were sent to open negotiations with a group calling themselves the Blades of Hessarian. Old bandits, but we’d hoped to bring them under our banner. They never reported back.”

Lilith’s smile faded. “How long ago?”

“Three days. I sent a runner but he didn’t come back either. We’ve traced their last known position south of here, near a burnt-out fort. I’d go myself, but… well.” Harding gestured to the few scouts still resting, bandaged or exhausted.

Lilith’s expression sharpened. “We’ll look into it. No one touches our people and gets away with it.”

“Thanks, Herald. Be careful. They’re well-armed and don’t exactly hold tea parties.”

They headed south, trudging through heavy brush and damp forest paths until they reached a clearing dotted with crude barricades. Bandits in mismatched armor lounged by a campfire, weapons within arm’s reach.

Lilith barely had time to speak before the first arrow flew.

“Incoming!” Cassandra shouted, ducking out of the way.

“Why is it never a welcome party?” Varric growled, Bianca drawn.

Solas, calm as ever, lifted his hand and sent a shimmering wall of frost arcing across the battlefield, slowing their enemies.

Lilith darted through the chaos, spells flying, her blood singing with the rhythm of combat. It was fast - gritty but manageable. Soon, the few remaining bandits either fled or lay groaning in the mud.

“That’s the warm-up done,” Lilith said, brushing mud from her robes.

A short climb brought them to the top of a nearby hill, where a run-down shack squatted like a forgotten relic of some long-lost war. The door creaked ominously when Lilith pushed it open.

The smell hit them first - blood, rot, decay. Inside, the bodies of the missing Inquisition scouts were sprawled haphazardly across the floor, their armor stripped, wounds fresh. Someone had made an example of them.

Lilith’s jaw tightened. “Bastards.”

Solas crouched beside one of the corpses. “There are signs of restraint… and torture. They were interrogated before they died.”

“Found a map,” Varric said grimly, pulling a parchment from the blood-smeared table. “Looks like the main camp’s two hills over. Think it’s time we paid them a visit?”

Lilith’s voice was flat. “No more negotiating.”

The Blades of Hessarian camp was larger, guarded, and more organized than they expected. Dozens of bandits milled about, sharpening blades and laughing over stolen ale. At the center stood a massive figure - muscular, scarred, and crowned with a helmet fashioned from a dragon’s jawbone.

“That’s the chief,” Varric murmured. “Big guy. Not stupid.”

Lilith strode forward, fire in her eyes.

“Hessarian dogs!” she shouted. “You killed my scouts.”

The camp quieted. The leader turned to face her, unamused. “They came into our land without respect. They died like dogs.”

“You want to be dogs of the Inquisition?” Lilith snapped. “Then submit. Or I’ll put you down myself.”

A low chuckle rolled through the camp. The chief stepped forward. “You? You're barely out of your robes. Challenge me then, girl. You win, we follow. You die… well. I get your pretty head as a trophy.”

“I was hoping you'd say that,” Lilith replied coldly.

“Lilith,” Cassandra warned in a low voice. “You don’t have to do this.”

Varric grinned. “I like her odds.”

She looked at Solas. He regarded her with a slight, knowing tilt of his head, amused. “If this is your way of diplomacy, I am both intrigued and mildly concerned.”

Lilith and the chief stepped into the makeshift ring, bandits cheering and pounding on shields.

The fight was brutal. The Hessarian chief was fast and savage, swinging his battleaxe with deadly precision. But Lilith was faster. Each movement was measured, every spell a precise strike. She ducked low, seared his leg with fire, then struck upward with a blast of force that cracked his ribcage.

He charged, screaming - and she met him with a blade of pure arcane energy.

It pierced his chest. He fell.

Silence. Then, slowly, the bandits dropped their weapons and knelt.

One of them stood, raising a hand. “We follow strength. We follow her .”

Lilith, panting, wiped blood from her lip and looked back at her companions.

Varric let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

As the sun dipped low behind the ridge, the new recruits began gathering their things, preparing to march. The Inquisition had grown again - bloody, but stronger.

They began the slow journey back to Haven.

Night had fallen by the time the group made camp, settling in the lee of a mossy ridge. The fire crackled low, casting long shadows over the worn leathers and muddied boots strewn haphazardly nearby. Their new Hessarian recruits camped further down the slope, leaving Lilith and her companions with a rare moment of quiet.

Lilith leaned back on her elbows, legs outstretched near the flames. Her red hair was tangled from the day’s travel, boots unlaced and kicked half-off. Varric sat beside her, crossbow balanced across his lap as he cleaned the mechanism with a practiced hand. Cassandra was sharpening her sword with steady, rhythmic strokes. Solas, as always, sat a little apart, fingers tracing faint runes in the dirt beside him like absent-minded sketches.

It was the most relaxed they’d all been in days.

“Well,” Varric said finally, breaking the quiet. “That was one hell of a recruiting drive. You win one bare-knuckle mage duel to the death and suddenly everyone’s loyal. Should try that in Orlais.”

“I would pay good coin to see Lilith challenge a court noble to single combat,” Solas murmured without looking up. “Imagine the scandal.”

“Only if she wears a dress with one of those ridiculous collars,” Cassandra muttered.

“I’ve worn worse,” Lilith replied dryly. “There was a phase back home where everyone was obsessed with feathers. For some reason.”

Varric snorted. “Maker. A fashion statement or a cult ritual?”

Lilith tilted her head thoughtfully. “Bit of both.”

Cassandra sheathed her sword with a soft hiss of steel. “You fought well today. Reckless, but impressive.”

Lilith looked over, blinking. “Is that a compliment, Seeker?”

Cassandra gave her a side-eye. “It is a qualified compliment. Do not let it go to your head.”

“She’s right,” Solas added. “Your command over magic during the duel was… elegant. You’ve trained with discipline. Or someone drilled it into you, at least.”

Lilith’s smile faltered briefly, then recovered. “You’d be amazed what a little trauma and a thousand hours in the forest will do for a girl’s technique.”

A pause.

Then Varric laughed, raising a canteen. “To trauma and technique!”

Cassandra groaned, but raised her waterskin in mock toast. Solas, predictably, lifted a brow but nodded slightly.

They drank.

The fire popped. Crickets murmured in the brush. For a moment, Lilith let herself enjoy the warmth of the fire, the hush of the woods, and the rare quiet that followed a hard-won day. She wasn’t ready to name this feeling, not yet - but it was starting to feel a little like belonging .

“I’m going to the lake before any of you decide to,” she said at last, pushing to her feet with a stretch. “If I spend one more minute caked in bandit blood and mud, I’m going to set my own skin on fire.”

“Ominous,” Varric said. “But fair.”

“Watch out for lake monsters,” Cassandra added, half-teasing.

Lilith turned, walking backwards toward the trees with a lazy smile. “If I go under, avenge me with dramatic poetry.”

And disappeared into the dark.

She found a quiet glade tucked behind a rise, where a narrow lake reflected the unfamiliar stars like scattered glass.

She stripped and waded in, shivering at first, before whispering a simple heat spell into the water. It warmed around her limbs like a sigh. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax. The stars were strange, constellations unknown to her, but the peace felt almost real.

Then came the ripple. Not hers.

She twisted sharply, magic already flaring at her fingertips. Nothing. Just trees, and the low hush of wind through branches, and the faint smell of sulphur. 

Then, from the shore:

“My dear Lilith. You always did have a flair for the dramatic. A moonlit bath? Alone? You make exile look elegant .”

Her heart seized. She turned - and there he was.

Raphael lounged atop a mossy rock like it was a throne, one knee crossed over the other, smile sharp as ever.

“How the fuck are you here?” she spat.

He placed a hand over his chest in mock injury. “Now, now. Is that any way to greet a business partner?”

She suddenly felt naked in more than body. She knew he wasn’t looking at her body, not exactly, but the power imbalance was the point - and he wielded it like a knife; deliberate and suffocating. He was enjoying this.

With a flourish, he conjured a towel from smoke and silk, then held it out like a gentleman offering a rose. She didn’t move.

He dropped it theatrically at his feet. “Come now. Modesty ill suits a woman who’s gutted gods.”

“What do you want?” she bit out.

“To visit an old friend,” he replied lightly. “I’ve a vested interest in your survival, after all. Dead mice make for poor investments.”

“We both know what I signed. Don’t pretend this is a courtesy call.”

He gave her a smile full of teeth. “Oh, I never pretend. Not with you.”

She glared at him. “How did you get here?”

His grin widened, vulpine and void of warmth. “When you owe as many favours as I’m owed, doors tend to open. Some even beg to be walked through.”

Raphael’s gaze lingered on her hand, just above the waterline. The mark shimmered faintly - alive, restless. He smiled, teeth like secrets. “Such a delicate little curse,” he murmured. “Etched with purpose… and something almost like fondness.”

Lilith didn’t move. “You know what it is?”

“Oh, I know what it wants,” he said, tapping a finger to his lips. “What it hungers for. And I know the kind of hand that carves meaning into a soul instead of flesh.”

He tilted his head, voice dipping to something more lyrical. “Marks like that… they’re not made in haste. They’re composed. Like poetry. Like lies. The kind only an old name might pen, when the world’s too loud to speak it aloud.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt. She didn’t have to. Raphael’s grin widened.

“Tell me - does it sing louder when certain voices call to you? When the air bends wrong and the Veil thins like paper?”

She said nothing.

“No matter,” he said lightly. “Just be careful, little mouse. Some symphonies weren’t meant to be finished. And some composers? They never stopped conducting.”

He turned his head then - casual, almost bored, glancing in the direction of the Inquisition’s camp.

“You’ve always performed best with an audience.” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

Lilith stiffened. “Are we finished?”

He looked back at her with a venomous kind of glee. “He misses you, you know. In his own… unwell way.”

Her jaw tightened. The water, though warm, felt suddenly too cold.

“The mask you wear here suits you. Brave. Measured. Penitent.” He leaned forward, voice lowering like the closing of a trap. “But masks always slip, Lilith. What will you do when they see the monster beneath?”

“I’m not-” she started, then exhaled. Her voice dropped. “What do you want , Raphael? I’m not that anymore. I’m trying to fix what I can. I’ve paid enough.”

He tilted his head, as if considering her. “Paid?” he echoed, voice a murmur. “Oh, my dear. Suffering is interest. The debt remains.”

“And you?” he continued, “You were always your own greatest cruelty.”

He said it softly, almost fondly. Then he smiled - wide, wicked, knowing - and snapped his fingers.

The air shimmered. A rush of sulfur and roses. He was gone.

Lilith stood frozen in the echo of his absence, heart pounding. The stillness returned, but it felt different now. Thinner. Watched.

She exhaled a shaky breath and waded to shore. The towel he’d left behind remained, untouched by his vanishing act. Soft, red, and branded with a sigil she didn’t recognize, but knew was his.

She stared at it for a beat, then whispered a word. Flames crawled up the fabric in an instant. She let it burn, just long enough to satisfy something feral in her chest, then hurled it into the lake. It sizzled, sank, and disappeared beneath the surface.

Just like him.

She stood there for a moment before grabbing her towel, water dripping down her arms, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. The stars overhead were unfamiliar, but the silence? That was too familiar. The kind that followed a scream.

Then-

A soft shuffle. Barely audible, but she caught it.

Lilith didn’t turn. “How long have you been watching?”

A pause. Then, quietly-

“Long enough.” His voice was calm. Too calm.

She closed her eyes.

Of course it would be him. Of all the people in this damned world, of course Solas would be the one to find her like this - dripping, exposed, gutted open by a devil.

“Didn’t realize I had an audience,” she said bitterly, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Another pause. The air between them thickened, heavy with something unspoken.

“Who was he?”

Lilith let out a humorless breath. “A mistake.”

She bent down, gathering her clothes with hands that didn’t quite stop trembling.

“You said… you weren’t that anymore.” Solas said, not moving. Not leaving.

That hung between them like fog - dense, impossible to ignore.

Lilith didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not yet.

She pulled her tunic over damp skin, still not looking at him. “You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured.

She finally turned, eyes meeting his. And for a heartbeat, neither of them said a word.

There was too much between them. And yet - not enough had been said.

At first, it is warm.

The manor is quiet, dust motes dancing in late afternoon sunbeams. A breeze filters through the silk curtains, carrying the scent of lilac and honey wine. Her head rests in Astarion’s lap, a book forgotten in her hands, his fingers idly threading through her hair.

“You always relax when I touch your scalp,” he murmurs. “Like a cat in a sunbeam.”

She huffs a quiet laugh, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m not a cat, my love.”

“No,” he agrees, grinning cheekily. “You’re something far more dangerous.”

His voice is low, reverent. There’s no bite in it. Only affection.

She feels safe.

Astarion leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Stay like this forever,” he whispers.

She opens her mouth to respond - but freezes. The timbre of his voice has shifted. Something oily beneath the silk.

His eyes suddenly sharpened. “You’re so much prettier when you’re quiet.”

Lilith opened her eyes.

The room is different. The curtains hang limp and colorless. The air is heavy, sickly. Astarion is no longer stroking her hair - his hand is curled around a lock, pulling, just a little too hard.

“What…?” she breathes.

His eyes are wrong. Too black. Too wide. His smile is stretched, inhuman. “You used to like it when I praised you,” he says, cocking his head. “Or is that another thing you’ve chosen to forget?”

Her skin crawls. She tries to rise, but he shoves her back down. Hard. Her head cracks against the arm of the chaise. She tastes copper.

“No,” she rasps. “This-this isn’t how it happened.”

“Isn’t it?” the creature says, voice deepening into something ancient and wrong. “You remember what you want . You dress up the rot and call it love.”

His body shifts - flesh rippling like melted wax, fangs lengthening, hands twisting into claws. Horns curl from his temples. The mockery of Astarion grins with jagged teeth.

“But I was always honest with you, wasn’t I?” the demon hisses, looming over her. “You were mine.”

It lunges.

She scrambles backward, throwing up a ward with trembling fingers. Magic flares, but it’s clumsy, desperate. It crashes against the demon, but barely slows it. Claws rake across her shoulder. Pain burns, sharp and sudden.

I’m going to die here, she thinks.

She raises her hands again - but the Fade warps, shifts.

A snarl echoes through the air, low and guttural. A massive black wolf bursts into view from the shadows, slamming into the demon mid-strike. It snarls with impossible force, teeth snapping against the creature’s throat. The two figures collide in a blur of claw and magic, light and shadow tearing across the dreamscape.

Lilith watches, stunned, blood dripping down her arm. The demon shrieks once - then vanishes, scattered into smoke.

The wolf turns to her. Its fur is a deep, midnight black, absorbing the light around it like a living shadow. Subtle hints of blue flicker beneath the surface, shifting with each movement. Its eyes - sharp, and unyielding - lock onto hers. She can’t breathe.

“What… are you?” she whispers.

The wolf tilts its head. Not unkind. Almost sad.

Then, with a sound like wind rushing through leaves, it vanishes.

She’s left alone in the ruined parlor. No blood. No torn upholstery. Only silence.

And then-

Lilith jerked awake with a gasp, her hand flying to her neck.

No claws. No blood. Just sweat slicking her skin and the thudding pulse of panic behind her ribs.

She sat there for a long moment, heart racing, waiting for her breathing to slow. One breath. Then another.

It was just a dream.

But she could still feel the ghost of it. The dream hadn’t fully left her. The weight of his hand in her hair. The warmth, turned sour. That voice - his voice - curdling into something else. Her shoulder still ached from where the demon’s claws had raked across her. Phantom pain. It had to be.

The flap of her tent rustled. Cassandra entered without preamble, clad in armor softened by wear and a tired expression.

“Good,” she said quietly. “You’re awake. I’ve just finished my watch. You’re up?”

Lilith nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.” She didn't sound convincing, but Cassandra didn’t press. Another thing she liked about the Seeker - she gave people space unless blood or treason was involved.

Lilith dressed quickly and stepped out into the pale hush of pre-dawn. The camp was still, cloaked in the kind of cold that made your breath curl visibly in the air. She tugged her cloak tighter and settled beside the firepit, coaxing it back to life with a flick of her fingers. Sparks flared, catching on kindling, and the glow slowly spread.

She stared into the flames.

Raphael’s smug voice still echoed in the back of her skull.

Why now? Why show himself again, here? Sure, he had every reason to keep her alive - he’d invested in her survival, after all. But devils never did anything for free. They didn’t drop by just to say hello.

And Solas had overheard.

She grimaced, tucking her hands into her sleeves. She wasn’t angry at him, exactly - it wasn’t like he’d done it on purpose. She was annoyed with herself, for not being more careful. For letting her guard down, even for a moment. He had questions now. Of course he did.

But he hadn’t pressed. Just looked at her with those inscrutable eyes and then walked away.

She shifted on the log, trying to shake off the memory. Her mind drifted back to the dream - no, nightmare.

It had started so gently. A moment of peace she hadn’t let herself remember in months. Astarion’s voice, soft. His touch in her hair. Her guard lowered, utterly.

And then… the rot underneath.

She closed her eyes, teeth gritted. The image of the demon still clung to her thoughts. The way it had twisted Astarion’s face, taken something tender and defiled it. The words still echoed, even if she tried to forget them. You dress up the rot and call it love.

Why had it changed like that? She’d lived worse, survived worse, and yet she’d never dreamed like that. The pain had felt real. The taste of blood, the crack of her head on the chaise-

And the wolf.

Lilith frowned.

This wasn’t the first time she’d seen it. Black, dark as the space between stars. Its fur like a shadow given shape, eyes burning like twin coals. But it hadn't been threatening. Not to her. She could still feel the shape of it - the way it had turned to look at her. The way it had tilted its head. A kind of recognition in its eyes, almost sad. It had protected her. Again. But what was it?

Lilith reached beneath her tunic and touched the pendant she never took off. Two wolves - two sides of the self. Kaelen used to joke that they were both the worst and best things they’d ever killed for. She closed her hand around it tightly, her thoughts drifted, reluctantly, to him. 

Was the nightmare guilt? Some twisted manifestation of her subconscious? That seemed more likely than anything else. Easier to explain than… magic.

Still.

A sound stirred her from her thoughts. Soft footsteps on cold ground. She turned, instinctively tense, but it was only Solas, his silhouette backlit by the faint glow of the campfire.

He paused beside the fire, silhouetted in the shifting light. “May I sit?”

Lilith nodded, her voice hoarse. “Can’t sleep?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Not particularly.”

He settled beside her, and for a few minutes they sat in companionable silence, listening to the wind rustling through the grass and the crackle of the fire. Then:

“Can I ask you something?” she said quietly.

He glanced at her, attentive. “Of course.”

She stared into the flames. “Have you ever had… really vivid dreams? Ones that feel so real it’s like you lived them?”

Solas leaned back slightly, studying her face, eyes thoughtful. “How do you mean?”

She hesitated. “Like... it wasn’t just a dream. I could feel things - hear them. It hurt.” She swallowed. “Something attacked me. Not a metaphor or some shadow of emotion - I actually bled. I woke up and thought... I felt the wounds.”

Solas was quiet for a long moment. Then, gently, “I thought… you said you were unfamiliar with the Fade?”

Lilith’s heart gave a quick, nervous stutter, but didn’t lie. “I did.”

Solas thought for a moment. “You… don’t know what that means for your dreams,” he said slowly, “but, I think you may be more connected to the Fade than you realize.”

She frowned. “You keep saying that word. What does the Fade have to do with this?”

“It is the realm of spirits, of thought, memory, and emotion. Most people only visit it in dreams. But those dreams are rarely more than reflections. Echoes.” He looked at her, brows furrowing slightly. “But what you’re describing… it sounds like more than that.

She hugged her knees, feeling oddly vulnerable. “So what does that mean? That I’m losing it?”

“No,” he said, gently but firmly. “It might mean you’re a somniari. A dreamer.”

Lilith blinked. “A what?”

“A dreamer,” he repeated. “A rare mage who can navigate - and even shape - the Fade consciously. Most people lose themselves there. Dreamers don’t. They control it.”

She met his gaze. “So you’re saying I could be one of these… dream mages?”

“Possibly,” Solas said. “I am one myself.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “Of course you are.”

“It is not common. Most who are born with the gift never learn to control it. But those who do…” He trailed off, then met her gaze. “It is powerful. And dangerous.”

Lilith looked away. “Wonderful.”

“So,” she said dryly, “I’m sleepwalking into magical trauma?”

He gave a soft, amused huff. “In a manner of speaking.”

She hesitated. “And the Fade - that’s where magic comes from?”

He nodded. “It’s where spirits dwell, where memories linger like echoes. Sometimes, fears or thoughts take form there, reshaped by something else.”

Lilith shivered. “That explains… some things. But not the wolf.”

Solas’s brows rose slightly. “The wolf?”

She considered telling him everything. Then chose something just shy of it. “Like I said, something attacked me. And something else - a wolf - saved me. I’ve seen it before.”

His expression sharpened, curious yet calm. 

He hummed, thinking, then said quietly, “I can teach you, if you’d like. I could try to enter your dreams and teach you how to defend yourself. How to recognize when something is not of your own mind.”

She looked back at him sharply. “You can do that?”

He smirked. “I told you - I’m a dreamer as well.”

Lilith was silent, cautious. He didn’t know who - or what - she truly was. But there was something genuine in his offer. No games. Just understanding.

“…Alright,” she said at last. “Just don’t expect me to start flying around in there or anything.”

Solas smiled faintly. “I’ll leave the theatrics to you.” He only gave her that slight, unreadable smile - and walked off into the shadows.

Lilith sat a moment longer by the fire, heart steadying.

“Dreamer,” she murmured to herself.

Then she shook her head, and watched the first light of day break over the trees.

Chapter Text

Walking up to the gates of Haven, Lilith considered kissing the ground. The past few weeks had been nothing but mud, blood, and moral ambiguity, and the thought of sleeping in a bed tonight - not on rocks or beneath an overturned cart - made her want to weep with joy.

“Home sweet fortified mountain village,” Varric said dryly, stretching his arms over his head.

“A curious definition of ‘home,’” Solas observed, his gaze lingering on the town. “Shelter, certainly - but home implies belonging. And it seems we are, at best, tolerated.”

“If there’s a roof and no one’s actively trying to kill me, I’ll take it,” Lilith said, brushing a curl from her face. “You disagree, Solas?”

Solas gave her a sidelong glance, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “I find it wiser to disagree with you by default. It saves time.”

Lilith grinned. “That’s fair.”

Their light mood soured as they reached the Chantry. A large, angry crowd had gathered outside its doors - mages and templars alike, faces red with fury, their voices raised in accusation.

“You mages killed the Most Holy!” a Templar barked.

A mage shouted back, “Lies! Your kind stood by and let her die!”

“Shut your mouth, mage!”

Lilith stepped in without thinking, slipping between them with her hands raised. “Easy! Screaming at each other solves nothing-”

The Templar reached for his sword, venom in his gaze.

Before Lilith could react, Cullen was there, placing himself firmly between her and the armed man. “Enough!”

The Templar blinked at him. “Knight-Captain?”

“That is not my title,” Cullen said, voice low but furious. “We are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition.”

That was when Chancellor Roderick slithered up, looking as smug and self-important as ever. He practically oozed sanctimony. “And what does that mean, exactly?” he asked, his tone a sneer.

Cullen scowled. “Back already, Chancellor? Haven’t you done enough damage?”

Roderick spread his hands as if wounded by the accusation. “I merely wonder how your fledgling Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ intend to restore order, as promised.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.” He then raised his voice. “Everyone - back to your duties.”

As the crowd reluctantly dispersed, Lilith approached the two men, folding her arms in front of her.

Cullen turned to her, voice quieter. “The mages and templars were already at war. Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death.”

Roderick cut in smoothly, “Which is why we require proper authority to guide them back to order.”

Cullen gave him a withering look. “Who, you ? A random cleric not important enough to be invited to the Conclave?”

Lilith choked on a laugh.

Roderick glared at her. “Instead, the rebel Inquisition and its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’? I think not.”

Lilith returned his stare. “I don’t believe I’m Andraste’s Herald any more than you do, Chancellor.”

“Ah,” Roderick said, voice slick with condescension. “That laudable humility won’t stop the Inquisition from using the misconception when it suits them.”

Cullen cut in sharply. “The Inquisition claims only this: we close the Breach, or we die.”

Roderick sniffed. “You say that now, Commander. We’ll see how long that sentiment lasts.”

Lilith narrowed her eyes. “So far, you’re the only one insisting we can’t work together.”

“We might,” Roderick said with false patience, “if your Inquisition would acknowledge the Chantry’s authority.”

“There is no authority,” Cullen snapped. “Not until another Divine is chosen.”

Roderick gave a sanctimonious nod. “In due time. Andraste will be our guide - not some dazed elf stumbling down a mountainside.”

Lilith’s smile was slow and sharp. “If the ‘proper’ authority hadn’t completely failed, you wouldn’t have needed a Conclave in the first place.”

Roderick’s face flushed. “So you suggest I blame the Chantry and exalt a murderer? What of justice ?”

“Justice won’t restore order,” Cullen said flatly. “Not now.”

“No,” Roderick said coldly, “but allowing this rebellion to fester will ensure chaos.”

Lilith sighed and turned to Cullen. “Remind me again why you’re letting him stay?”

Roderick sneered. “Clearly, your templar knows where to draw the line.”

“He’s toothless,” Cullen said to Lilith with a dismissive shrug. “Turning him into a martyr for being insufferable isn’t worth it. But he is a good indication of what we’ll be facing in Val Royeaux.”

Lilith inhaled slowly, steadying herself. “Then I’ll make sure they see reason.”

Cullen gave a tired chuckle. “I pray you’re right.”

She smirked. “Don’t let anyone set the place on fire while we’re gone.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “The walls will still be standing when you return. I hope.”

As Lilith turned to leave, she called over her shoulder, “Let’s hope we find a solution - and not a cathedral full of chancellors.”

Cullen's dry reply followed her down the path. “The stuff of nightmares.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head, but as her boots crunched down the packed path, the mirth faded. A headache bloomed behind her eyes - sharp, insistent, and entirely unsurprising. She rubbed at her temples, sighing.

Of course, she wasn’t five steps from the Chantry before Cullen’s voice called out behind her again. “Herald - wait.”

She paused, turning with a raised brow. “Forget something?”

“The Advisors will want a debrief. As soon as possible.”

She groaned, not bothering to hide her dismay. “Of course they do. Fine. Let’s go play politics.”

As they made their way to the war room, Cullen glanced over at Lilith with an almost reluctant admiration. “You know, for someone who looks like they’d rather be anywhere else, you have a surprising knack for leading people.”

Lilith shot him a dry look. “That’s because I am usually somewhere else - mentally, at least.”

He chuckled softly. “Fair enough. But people tend to follow someone who doesn’t waste time with nonsense.”

She shrugged. “Or maybe they just don’t know any better.”

Cullen smirked. “You’re lucky I’m on your side. Someone else might have told you that’s a terrible leadership philosophy.”

Lilith arched an eyebrow. “And yet here you are, still sticking around. Must mean I’m doing something right.”

“Or maybe I’m just stubborn.” He shook his head with a faint grin. “I’ve seen plenty try to lead. Most end up with their heads in the dirt.”

Lilith glanced sideways at him. “You planning to give me tips or just keeping score?”

“Maybe a little of both.” He tapped the war room door. “But I’ll admit, I’m curious to see how long you keep it up.”

“Don’t blink,” Lilith teased. “You might miss it.”

A few hours later, Lilith stepped out of the Chantry, blinking in the late afternoon light. Her back ached from leaning over the strategy table for far too long - Hinterlands reports, Storm Coast skirmishes, and the looming diplomatic nightmare that was Val Royeaux. Leliana and Josephine had picked apart every rumor and report with meticulous precision, and Cassandra had argued for increased patrols with the fervor of someone who hadn’t eaten or slept in three days.

Lilith had nodded and nodded until she thought her head might fall off. At least the worst of it was over - for now.

She turned toward the tavern - named the Singing Maiden , she’d recently learned - drawn by the low hum of laughter and the warm glow of firelight. As she pushed open the door, the familiar scent of ale and sweat wrapped around her like a blanket.

Varric sat at his usual table, a half-empty mug in hand and his feet kicked up on a stool. Across from him sat Iron Bull, laughing loudly, while Krem leaned back in his chair nearby. The rest of the Chargers were scattered around the tavern, drinking, arm-wrestling, and playing dice games. It was the most alive the place had felt since she’d arrived in Haven.

“Hey, look who’s back from playing Queen of the War Table,” Varric called, lifting his drink in salute.

Lilith dropped into the empty chair beside him with a groan. “Remind me to fake a fatal illness next time Leliana says ‘briefing.’”

Bull grinned, eyes sweeping over her lazily. “If you wanted a massage, Boss, all you had to do was ask.”

Lilith let out a bark of laughter. “Pretty sure that would involve more horns than I’m comfortable with.”

Krem raised his mug. “You get used to it.”

“I thought you were the reasonable one,” she said, nudging Krem’s boot with hers. “Glad you lot made it to Haven in one piece.”

“We did,” Krem replied with a grin. “Two, if you count Bull’s ego.”

“Damn right,” Bull said, raising his mug. “I don’t like anything getting between me and a drink.”

They all laughed, and Lilith allowed herself to relax, just a little. It was nice, sitting here with people who didn’t expect sermons or strategy. No talk of miracles or Maker-blessed destinies. Just drinks and banter and warm firelight.

She nudged Krem with a grin. “So, how did you end up with the Chargers?”

Krem chuckled, rubbing his chin. “Ran into trouble in Tevinter, got caught by a tribune’s men in a border tavern. They wanted to make an example of me. Bull showed up, killed them all - lost his eye doing it. Then he patched me up and asked if I wanted to work for him. Been stuck with his terrible jokes ever since.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “Wait, that’s how Bull lost his eye?”

Krem laughed. “Yep. Took a flail blow meant for me. Big horned idiot didn’t even know me then.”

Lilith smirked. “And what’s he like leading you lot?”

Krem shrugged. “Fair. If you pull your weight, he’s easy. Leads from the front, listens to good ideas, and keeps us alive. We rag on him plenty, but we’d all die for him.”

Bull snorted. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Krem.”

Varric rolled his eyes. Lilith grinned and jabbed Krem lightly. “Got any more heroic tales? Or just the usual ‘Bull saves the day’?”

Krem smirked. “Plenty, but they mostly involve me putting up with his nonsense.”

The group chuckled, the easy camaraderie settling in like a well-worn cloak.

Bull leaned in again, this time with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “So, how about that massage?”

Lilith smirked. “In your dreams, Bull.”

He raised his mug. “Every night.”

Varric let out a cackle, slapping the table. “You know she’s just humoring you, right?”

“Oh, I know,” Bull said, winking at her. “But she flirts like she means it.”

Lilith chuckled, swirling the dregs in her cup. She leaned back, gaze drifting toward the hearth. Things had changed while she’d been away. More tents in the snow. More injured men limping past the smithy. Giselle’s arrival had brought legitimacy to the Inquisition, and with it, an uneasy hope. The refugees had started looking at Lilith differently - some with awe, others with reverence.

“Herald,” they’d whispered when she passed earlier. Like it was a holy word. Like she might burn them to ash if they said it too loud.

She hated it.

Not just because it was false - but because a part of her still felt like the monster they thought she wasn’t. The blood on her hands hadn’t come from some celestial destiny. It had come from Bhaal’s altar, and her own eager smile as she carved.

Lilith blinked, the firelight blurring for a moment. She drew in a quiet breath, pushing the past back into its box. She rose to her feet, stretching. “Alright, gentlemen. I’m calling it. If I don’t get horizontal soon, I’ll start confusing Cullen with a bottle of brandy.”

“Scandalous,” Varric said. “I’d ask for details, but I value my life.”

“Sleep well, Boss,” Bull said with a grin. “Try not to dream of me.”

“No promises,” she called back over her shoulder, grinning.

As the tavern door swung shut behind her, the cold air hit her like a slap. Stars glittered overhead, and her breath steamed in the night. Haven was quieting down, preparing for whatever chaos tomorrow would bring.

The dream began like a memory.

A soft glow spilled across cobbled stone, moonlight catching in puddles. Lilith stood on the banks of the River Chionthar. Baldur’s Gate lay behind her, still for once. No shouting, no blood - just the hush of midnight, the scent of wet stone and old magic.

And the man at her back.

“I missed you,” he murmured, voice silken at her ear. “Did you miss me?”

She didn’t turn. Her fists clenched. “No.”

A chuckle - delighted, familiar. “Liar.”

She turned.

Astarion. Radiant and ruinous. His smile curled sharp, eyes gleaming red and knowing, like he could see through her, through time, distance, guilt.

“You look…” she began.

“Perfect?” he finished, pleased. “Don’t pretend you’re not relieved to see me.”

She shook her head, heart stuttering. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” he stepped closer, graceful as ever. “You used to tell me the nights were colder without me. And your bed lonelier. Has that changed?”

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t pretend it was real.”

“It was real,” he said, voice bruised with something like hurt. Almost . “Every second. The blood. The fire. The way you said my name - like a prayer to something terrible.”

“You once killed a man for looking at me too long,” she whispered. “And you called it love .”

“And wasn’t it?” he breathed. “Possessive. Hungry. Eternal. Isn’t that what you craved?”

“I craved peace.”

“You craved power .” His voice darkened, velvet over steel. “And you had it. With me.”

The world shifted. Gone was the riverbank.

They stood in a cathedral, vast and pulsing like a wound. Candles burned cold and wet. The walls bled shadow, and the floor beneath her bare feet was warm, damp, and glistening. A white gown clung to her skin like silk and smoke, its hem soaked in red. Pew after pew of faceless guests sat silent and motionless. She tried not to look at their hands - some skeletal, some clawed, some unmistakably her own.

“He comes,” a voice murmured - no direction, no source.

Trumpets blared from nowhere. The music was familiar, but warped - something she’d once heard in the Temple of Bhaal, twisted into a mockery of a bridal march. 

Her breath caught as Gortash walked toward her down the aisle. His smile was perfect, razor-sharp. He held a dagger instead of a bouquet.

“You look radiant,” he said as he reached her. “Just as I remember.”

She opened her mouth to protest, to run, to scream - and found herself saying, “I do.”

The crowd erupted into applause made of static. Her throat burnt. Her feet wouldn’t move.

Gortash’s voice poured honey over knives. “Do you remember what you said to me, when we set the city on fire?”

"We deserve to rule the world."

It felt like a punch to the gut. Her knees buckled.

“And look at you now,” he went on. “Begging for penance. Playing at redemption. When you and I both know - your first joy was blood.”

“This isn’t real,” she whispered. “This is a dream. You’re not-”

He took her hand - her palms were wet. He lifted her veil, and the face in front of her shifted. 

Astarion - again. Smiling too wide, “Dream or not, dearest, you keep coming back to me.”

He leaned in, lips close to her ear. “You made me. With every kill, every whisper, every time you looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.”

She flinched. “That wasn’t- I wasn’t”

“You crowned me, with 7,000 souls.” he said. “You didn’t just allow this - you wanted it. You made me into this because it justified what you already are.”

“Finish the vow,” he hissed. “Name the ones you sacrificed.”

The altar began to rise. Blood ran like wine.

And then-

Kaelen.

No theatrics. No cruelty. Just Kaelen, before her in roughspun clothes. His smile, soft. His eyes, gold and kind. The world stilled.

His face. His warmth. His heartbreak. 

“You looked at me like I was your way out,” he said. “But you were already bound.”

“I tried to save you,” she breathed.

“You got me killed.”

“I came back-”

“You came back too late.”

She reached for him - but her hands passed through.

He looked at her chest. The wolf pendant was gone.

“You were his, you always have been,” he said quietly.

She knew who he meant. Not Kaelen. Not Astarion. Not Gortash.

Him . Bhaal. Her father. The Murder Lord.

Behind Kaelen, laughter spilled into bile.

Orin. Gory and giggling, her blades slick with fresh meat. Her eyes gleamed with madness.

“The bride wears white and bone tonight. All hollowed out, all cleaned up, ready to kneel. The Murder Lord is waiting, and he’s so hungry. Guess who’s on the menu, sweet sister.”

Lilith backed away. “This isn’t real.”

“Of course it is,” Astarion murmured. “You chose all of this.”

“Stop,” she said. “I didn’t choose to be his.”

“But you enjoyed it,” Orin sang. “You carved your name in skin and smiled through the blood. You kissed your little vampire while Kaelen rotted in the dark, still clutching that damned necklace like it meant something.”

“Stop!”

“You could’ve turned back,” Gortash offered, voice low. “But you didn’t. Not when you stole the Crown. Not when the Elder Brain rose. Not even when he begged you not to go.”

Kaelen. Kneeling in blood.
Astarion. Laughing from his throne of corpses.
Gortash. Holding her old blade.
Orin. Spinning in delight.
A wolf. Black-furred, watchful. Its eyes met hers - and knew her.

Wait, a wolf?

Orin giggled. “Shall we count the things you’ve done? Was it for pleasure? Or pride? Or just to see what would happen if you pulled? You giggled while the blood ran down your wrists, don’t pretend you didn’t. There’s nothing clean in you, sister. The dark isn’t just inside you - you are the dark.”

The cathedral cracked. The walls peeled back like skin. The altar vomited smoke.

From it, a creature emerged - too large, too slick, too wrong. It wore her face, then Gortash’s, then Astarion’s, then his - the Urge. The thing she once surrendered to willingly. Its crown was bone. Its mouth was full of her voice.

“You belong to me,” it said. “You belonged to him.”

It lunged. Lilith didn’t scream.

She raised her hands, silvery flame bursting forth in instinct; wrath; survival. A shimmering ward flared around her, pure and blinding.

The demon hit it and shrieked. It slashed at her with visions:

Kaelen dying, reaching for her.
Astarion bathed in red, laughing as he drank.
Gortash holding the Crown, whispering, “You wanted this.”
Her Inquisition companions - Solas, Cassandra, Varric, Bull - strewn in a pool of blood.
Her friends in Faerun - Gale turning to ash, Karlach burning, Shadowheart screaming.
The scent of velvet and rot in Bhaal’s temple.
Her own hands - bloodied, trembling - carving runes into living flesh.

“You chose this,” it hissed.

She shoved back. The ward cracked, then surged.

With a wordless scream, Lilith cast the demon from her mind. The dream shattered, and the cathedral exploded into smoke.

Silence. She stood alone, breathing hard.

Then-

“I see the lesson began without me.”

She whirled.

Solas emerged from the mist of the Fade, brow furrowed, his silhouette half-formed against the dreamscape. He watched her for a moment, taking in the damage, the shimmering ward still in her hands, and the echo of what she’d fought.

“Impressive,” he said after a pause. “You’re adapting faster than most.”

She let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “It came at me swinging memories like a sword.”

He tilted his head, watching her closely. “Of people you knew?”

“Does it matter?” she deflected.

A beat of silence. Then, gently: “Only if they still cut.”

Lilith lowered her hand. The light flickered out. “Not anymore,” she lied.

Solas regarded her for a moment more, then stepped beside her. The dreamscape rippled like oil on water - shadows dissolving, edges softening - as the nightmare bled away. In its place, a new space unfolded: quiet, open, and strange in its stillness.

A grove of trees rose around them, tall and silvered in a light that had no clear source. The air was cool, clean, humming with an almost imperceptible rhythm - like breath, or memory.

“We can use this place now,” he said, voice low and even.

Lilith looked around slowly, arms crossed tight against her chest. Her pulse hadn’t quite slowed yet. “Where are we?”

“A safe corner of the Fade,” he replied. “One of mine.”

She raised a brow. “What, you have property here?”

He gave a faint smile. “Think of it more as a neutral space. A place I know well. Somewhere I can hold the shape of things.” He gestured to the grove. “The Fade is… impressionable. Here, my will is stronger than most.”

“Convenient,” she muttered. She touched the edge of a tree and watched it ripple like cloth under her fingers.

He hesitated a breath before continuing. “You were remarkably difficult to find.”

Lilith looked at him sidelong. “What do you mean?”

“I knew you were here,” he said, folding his arms behind his back, the way he always did when his mind was already two steps ahead. “Demons have been circling you since you arrived in Haven. Drawn like moths to a torch. But reaching you… that was another matter entirely.”

She tensed, her voice sharpening. “And you’re just now telling me?”

“You weren’t at risk until recently,” he said.

“Until recently?”

He paused, “It is unusual. Mages typically leave a certain… imprint in the Fade. A resonance. However, yours is muted. Distant. Wrong.”

She bristled. “Wrong?”

“Not in a moral sense,” he added quickly. “But, alien. Close enough to pass unnoticed by most - but not by the Fade. Or myself.”

Lilith looked away. “I didn’t realize I was being studied.”

“I would not call it studying,” he said gently. “More… listening. The Fade speaks, if you know how to hear it. Lately, it has been whispering your name.”

She snorted. “Lovely. Do they also chant it in unison when I sleep?”

His expression didn’t shift, but something in his gaze sharpened. “Lilith, this is not a joke. Demons do not always attack with claws and fire. They seduce. Erode. Convince. And you… you burn too brightly for them to ignore.”

“Brightly,” she echoed. “Even though I’m hard to find.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Which is curious. You are both cloaked and luminous. Your presence flickers at the edge of my awareness - like a candle behind glass. I had to slip through the cracks of your nightmare just to find you.”

A chill ran down her spine. “Well, that explains the welcoming committee.”

He stepped closer. “That’s why I’m here. You need to learn how to navigate this place - to know when you are dreaming, and when something is trying to use that dream against you.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “So you’re going to teach me to lucid dream?”

“In a manner of speaking. The first lesson is simple: in the Fade, will is power. If you cannot tell what is real, you become vulnerable to those who can.”

Lilith exhaled through her nose. “Great. So I’m either a mysterious beacon for demon attention or a freakishly well-camouflaged mage.”

“Perhaps both,” he said, and there was something like intrigue in his voice. “But whatever the cause, your defenses must improve.”

She gave him a long look.

Not a glare, not exactly - more the kind of assessing glance she used to give strangers in taverns when they offered her something too generous, too convenient. Solas had reasons to help her, she knew that. She was the one closing rifts, after all. If she fell apart, so did the Inquisition’s best hope at mending the world. Still, there was something about his timing, his certainty, that made her hesitate.

They were friendly - more than that, sometimes. She liked his dry wit, his quiet insight, the way he listened. But he was still a mystery. Still not someone she trusted enough to turn her back on.

And lately, he always had the answer. The moment she flailed, he was there - quiet, steady, impossibly well-informed. He spoke of demons, of the Fade, of dreams and power as if he’d invented them. Like he’d been waiting for her to stumble, just so he could be the one to catch her.

It made her uneasy. She didn’t trust wisdom handed out so freely. Nor the idea that someone like Solas - reserved, aloof, always watching - might have chosen her as some kind of project.

Or - worse - he might actually care. That thought unsettled her more than the others. She was used to manipulation. She wasn’t used to kindness with no visible hooks.

Still, she needed help. And whether Solas was angling for some deeper purpose or just indulging his fascination with the Fade, the reality was simple: she was drowning. If she wanted to survive it, she’d have to swim. Even if the lifeline came from him.

“And what do you get out of playing dream guide?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Fewer corpses. And fewer tears.”

Lilith hesitated, then relented with a small sigh. “Fine. Teach away, oh Fade expert. But if I wake up screaming, I expect hazard pay.”

He allowed himself a rare smirk. “Dreams have their price, da’len. Better to learn its rules now, before the Fade decides them for you.”

The frost-crisp morning broke over the mountains as the group rode out from Haven - Lilith, Varric, Solas, Cassandra, and Iron Bull moving at a steady pace along the narrow path leading down toward the lowlands. A quiet anticipation hummed in the air, mingling with tension none of them quite acknowledged. Val Royeaux loomed ahead like a gilded mirage: beautiful, self-important, and dangerous.

"Tell me there’s a tavern at the end of this parade of bureaucratic hell," Varric groaned, shifting in his saddle like a man who’d just been stabbed - and not in the fun way. "Because if one more velvet-gloved idiot asks if Kirkwall’s paved with corpses, I’m jumping off this damn horse. Andraste’s knickers, at least the corpses were good conversationalists."

“I thought you enjoyed Orlesian drama,” Lilith said, smirking.

“I enjoy it from afar . Preferably with a bottle in one hand and plausible deniability in the other.”

Bull laughed, the sound booming down the trail. “You all worry too much. Nobles love a good party, and I happen to clean up very well.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Cassandra muttered.

“Oh, you will,” Bull said with a wink. “Sash, cologne, everything.”

“Maker, don’t wear cologne,” Varric groaned.

Lilith chuckled, letting the rhythm of travel lull her. It was the first time in days she didn’t feel anchored to a strategy table or trying to talk a dozen angry people off a metaphorical ledge. Even so, the weight hadn’t fully lifted. Not with the road ahead. Or with the knowledge of her recent visitor at the lake. 

Solas drew his horse closer to hers as they crested a hill, the pair naturally falling into quieter conversation.

“You hide it well,” he said, his voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear. “But the role unsettles you.”

She arched a brow. “You read minds now?”

“Hardly. However you flinch every time someone calls you ‘Herald.’”

Lilith looked away. “It’s not a title I asked for.”

“Nor one you can easily shed.”

There was a pause as the wind picked up, rustling through the branches around them.

“You think this will work?” she asked, watching the distant silhouette of Val Royeaux form on the horizon. “Diplomacy. Alliances. Talking reason into people who’ve spent decades building walls around their beliefs.”

“It must,” Solas said simply. “The Breach grows with every hour. If left unchecked, it will devour what remains.”

Lilith snorted softly. “Unity built on fear never lasts. Mages fight for freedom. Templars fight for control. The Chantry’s burning at the seams. Everyone’s either bleeding, screaming, or trying to kill each other.”

“A fair assessment,” Solas allowed. “But you paint with a wide brush.”

Lilith hums. “I’ve had reason to.”

He studied her a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. “Then what do you believe in?”

She hesitated, frowning. “I believe in surviving the day. Everything else is just politics.”

After a moment, he asked, more gently, “Do you believe in the potential for good mages?”

She hesitated - then shrugged. “I… I don’t know. Power demands a price. Maybe some people pay it without harming others, but I haven’t met many. Myself included.”

Solas studied her. “That sounds more like guilt than reason.”

“It’s both,” she said flatly.

Another pause. The conversation wasn’t tense, exactly, but there was a charge to it - like flint striking stone. Neither raising their voice, neither looking to win, but both deeply entrenched in the shape of their beliefs.

“If the Circle had better trained its students,” Solas said, “if it had respected them rather than caging them, perhaps you would feel differently.”

“Maybe,” Lilith murmured. “But it appears they didn’t. So here we are.”

Before Solas could respond, Cassandra raised a hand from ahead, signaling the group to stop.

“Rift ahead,” she said. “Small, but active.”

A faint, green shimmer twisted in the air just off the road, its sickly glow seeping through the forest gloom. As they dismounted, the air thickened with pressure - cold, biting, humming with unnatural energy.

“Lovely,” Varric muttered. “We just can’t go anywhere without a welcoming committee.”

Demons began to tear their way into the world - twisted shades first, flickering and half-formed, followed by a larger demon that hit the earth with enough force to rattle teeth.

“Eyes up!” Cassandra shouted, already drawing her sword.

Iron Bull whooped and charged into the fray, hammer smashing down into the nearest shade with a wet crunch. Varric found high ground and let Bianca sing, bolts ripping into any demon that wandered too close. Cassandra moved like a hurricane - disciplined and furious - striking down shade after shade.

Lilith’s hands lit with arcane fire, her magic snapping from her fingertips like a whip. A barrier flared around Solas as he murmured a spell, the air around him shimmering with protective force. She darted to his flank, hurling a fireball into the cluster of shades swarming Bull.

Then the larger demon roared, its attention snapping to her. It charged.

She braced her staff and threw out her palm, the mark on her hand flaring to life. The green light crackled, wild and bright, and the demon staggered, howling.

“Now!” she shouted.

Solas cast a freezing glyph beneath the demon’s feet. Bull crashed into it like a battering ram, knocking it into the path of Cassandra’s blade. The moment its form began to destabilize, Lilith lifted her hand again - reaching for the rift.

The pain was immediate. A surge of agony screamed through her arm as the mark latched onto the Veil and dragged it shut.

The world snapped still. The last echoes of the demon’s wail died in the wind.

And she stood panting, hand smoking faintly, her legs unsteady.

“Damn,” Bull said, eyeing her with new appreciation. “That thing’s like a portable apocalypse.”

Lilith gave a shaky laugh. “Feels more like a bad hangover.”

“Efficient, though,” Varric said, dropping down beside her. “Nice work.”

Solas stepped close, something like concern flickering in his eyes. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. That reaction - it grows stronger.”

She forced a smile. “So does everything else.”

They didn’t speak again for a while.

But as they rode on, Lilith couldn’t help glancing down at the mark still burning faintly on her palm. The more rifts she closed, the more it seemed to claim her. And somewhere behind all the banter, the arguing, the fighting - was a quiet question she didn’t want to answer.

What happens when it wants something she can’t give?

The gates of Val Royeaux rose before them, tall and imposing, and carved with Maker-centric iconography, guarded by heavy-set statues of Andraste in gleaming gold. Sunlight caught the stone and made it shine like it was untouched by chaos, but the city felt cold beneath its grandeur.

Cassandra pulled her horse to a halt, eyes scanning the skyline. “The city still mourns.”

As the party proceeded inside, they passed a couple walking arm in arm near a vendor’s stall. The pair caught sight of Lilith’s face - her elven features unmistakable beneath her hood - and bolted, eyes wide with fear.

“Well,” Varric said dryly, “just a guess, Seeker, but I think they know who we are.”

Cassandra didn’t even turn her head. “Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric.”

They were met at the outer courtyard by a young scout, clad in Inquisition livery, who gave a hurried bow. “Herald.”

Cassandra stepped forward. “You’re one of Leliana’s people. What have you found?”

The scout glanced nervously over his shoulder, lowering his voice. “The Chantry mothers await you, but… so do a great many templars.”

Cassandra’s brows knit. “Templars? Here?”

The scout nodded. “People seem to think the templars will protect them… from the Inquisition. They’re gathered on the far end of the market. I think that’s where they intend to confront you.”

“Of course they are,” Varric muttered. “Because that’s what this morning was missing - armed zealots.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened. “Only one thing to do, then.”

They moved into the capital proper, footsteps echoing along the pristine stone walkways, flanked by solemn statues of long-dead saints. Though the Chantry bells tolled in the distance, the market ahead was eerily quiet. Not empty - just hushed. Watching.

“They wish to protect the people,” Cassandra said under her breath, voice tight. “From us .”

“We knew there would be a reaction,” Lilith replied. Her tone was measured, but her shoulders were tense beneath her cloak. “We just didn’t know how loud it would be.”

“I didn’t expect the templars,” Cassandra admitted.

“They haven’t declared anything officially,” the scout offered. “The people may just be assuming what they’ll do.”

“Do you think the Order’s come crawling back to the fold?” Varric asked. “Righteous swords, ready to defend the flock from us upstarts?”

“I know Lord Seeker Lucius,” Cassandra said. “I can’t imagine him rallying to the Chantry’s side. Not after everything.”

Lilith’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then I suppose I’ve got a bigger audience to convince.”

Cassandra gave her a sidelong glance. “Perhaps.”

Turning to the scout, she added, “Return to Haven. Someone will need to inform them if we are… delayed.”

The scout gave a shaky bow. “As you say, my lady.”

They continued forward through the walkway, emerging into the open square. The Chantry loomed ahead, flanked by a low platform. A crowd had gathered, and three Chantry mothers stood atop the stage, surrounded by armored templars. Tension rippled through the air like lightning waiting for a strike.

One of the mothers stepped forward - Revered Mother Hevara, her robes pristine, her voice sharp.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” she cried. “Together, we mourn our Divine. Her naive and beautiful heart, silenced by treachery!”

Lilith exhaled, bracing herself.

“You wonder what will become of her murderer? Well, wonder no more! Behold - the so-called Herald of Andraste!” Hevara’s voice grew shrill. “Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet!”

The crowd murmured and shifted, some gasping, others nodding with fervent agreement.

“The Maker would send no elf mage in our hour of need!”

Lilith stepped forward, voice steady despite the lump rising in her throat. “I make no such claim. I wasn’t sent by the Maker or Andraste. I- we are just trying to close the Breach. It threatens all of us. We came here in peace - only to talk.”

She gestured to the stage, to the crowd. “Let us sit down, together, and deal with the real threat.”

Cassandra added, “It’s true. The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it’s too late.”

“It is already too late!” Hevara shouted.

She turned and pointed toward a group of templars marching through the square, armor clanking like a war drum.

“The templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘Inquisition,’ and the people will be safe once more!”

Before she could say more, one of the templars - face cold and unflinching - struck her across the jaw with a mailed fist. The crack of impact echoed off the stone, silencing the crowd. She collapsed with a cry, blood smearing her chin.

“Revered Mother!” Barris exclaimed, surging forward.

Lucius raised a hand, stopping him. “Still yourself. She is beneath us.”

Lilith flinched, not from fear - but fury. “What the hell are you doing?!” she snapped. 

Lucius regarded her with barely veiled contempt. “Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own.”

She moved before thinking, stepping toward Hevara to help, dropping to a knee. Then, the cold bite of steel pressed against her throat. A templar’s sword gleamed in the sun, its point pressed flush to her neck. It bit in just enough to sting, blood welling in a thin line across her skin.

Lilith didn’t flinch. Her gaze snapped up to the templar holding the sword, eyes narrowed to slits, her voice deadly quiet. “Move,” she said, low and dangerous. “She needs healing.”

“Don’t,” the templar growled, dripping with venom. “ Mage .”

Her body tensed under the threat, caught in a half-crouch, her weight uneven. One leg spasmed slightly with the strain, her muscles burning as she held still. If she shifted, even a breath too far, the blade would slide deeper.

The others froze, weapons half-drawn. Varric’s fingers tightened on Bianca. Iron Bull’s knuckles cracked. Solas shifted forward, barely contained magic thrumming around him like a stormcloud.

Lilith decided to give the templar a dry, crooked smile despite the sharp pain at her throat. “Maker’s breath… do all your first dates end like this?”

Nothing. The templar didn’t even blink.

“Tough crowd.”

Varric muttered behind her, voice tight. “Not the time, Scorcher.”

Cassandra stepped forward, jaw tense. “Lord Seeker Lucius, it’s imperative that we speak with-”

“You will not address me,” Lucius snapped, turning his back on her.

“Lord Seeker?” Cassandra called again, disbelief bleeding through.

Lucius raised his voice, letting it echo across the stunned square. “You shame yourselves. Creating a heretical movement, raising a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. The Templars failed no one when we left the Chantry to purge the mages. You are the failures! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!”

Lilith gritted her teeth. The position was killing her. Her back ached from holding still, her legs starting to shake. The sword hadn’t moved. Neither had she.

She forced her voice through the tension in her body. “If you’re not here to help the Chantry,” she rasped through gritted teeth, “then, what? You just came to make speeches? You’ve got the drama down - next time bring a choir.”

Solas exhaled sharply. “Perhaps sarcasm is best saved for when you’re not one breath from decapitation, Lilith.”

The sword remained fixed against her throat, and Lilith’s bravado frayed at the edges. Her skin crawled beneath the pressure, a memory suddenly flaring - Astarion’s breath at her neck, cold hands pinning her down, the puncture of fangs always sudden, always inevitable. Back then, she'd learned how to keep still or bleed more. 

Even now, the threat of a blade to her throat made her pulse spike in that same old rhythm - fear dressed up as obedience. Her fingers twitched toward her staff, but she stopped herself. One wrong move and she’d be right back in that cage - different man, same sharp edge. She swallowed hard, the movement dragging the blade closer, and tasted copper on her tongue.

Lucius sneered. “You certainly have no power to do anything about the Breach.”

“But Lord Seeker…” Barris stepped forward, hesitating. “What if she was sent by the Maker? What if-”

“You are called to a higher purpose,” a templar officer barked. “Do not question!”

Lucius turned his back on the entire affair. “The Breach is a threat, yes. But the Inquisition? Less than nothing.”

He turned toward his templars. “We will make the Order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition. Independence.”

He raised his voice. “Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!”

The templar holding Lilith paused - his sword still pressed to her skin. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a disgusted huff, he lifted the blade and walked away.

Lucius and the templars exited the square, leaving only silence behind them.

Lilith fell to her knees, her legs finally giving out after holding the crouch too long, her breath catching as the tension ebbed from her chest. She pressed a hand to the ground to steady herself, inhaling slow, shaking gulps of air as the phantom pressure of the Templar’s blade lingered like a bruise on her throat. Footsteps approached - quick, concerned - and then Solas was at her side, one hand gently cupping her elbow. Varric hovered close, eyes sharp, while Cassandra and Bull flanked them, weapons still drawn. “You all right?” Varric asked, his voice unusually soft. Lilith nodded, barely, and allowed Solas to help her up.

“Charming fellow, isn’t he,” Varric muttered.

“Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad ?” Cassandra demanded.

Lilith rubbed her neck where the blade had been, crimson staining her fingers. “How well did you know him?”

“He took over the Seekers two years ago,” Cassandra replied, shaken. “After Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was… decent. Disciplined. Never a man for theatrics.”

“Can he be reasoned with?”

“I hope so. If not him, then there must be others in the Order who see what he’s become.”

Lilith glanced toward the crowd, already dispersing, the Chantry mothers huddled on the stage. “Either way, the templars aren’t our only option.”

“Perhaps,” Cassandra said, though her tone lacked conviction. “But I wouldn’t write them off so quickly.”

Lilith exhaled. “Then we find another way.”

The crowd dispersed slowly, whispers trailing in the Templars’ wake like smoke on a battlefield. Lilith remained on the platform, jaw tight, hands balled into fists at her sides. She could still feel the phantom press of a blade at her throat, the sting of shame prickling beneath her skin like a rash.

She exhaled through her nose and turned to follow the others, only to pause as a soft voice called out behind them.

“If I might have a moment of your time?”

An elven woman stood just beyond the departing crowd, her Circle robes unmistakable even in their travel-worn state.

Cassandra stepped forward, ever on alert. “Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

Solas’ eyes narrowed slightly. “Leader of the mage rebellion. I would think it unwise for you to appear here, of all places.”

Fiona offered a smile - polite, but thin. “I heard of this gathering. I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste for myself.”

Her gaze settled on Lilith, assessing and speculative, like she was inspecting a newly-discovered artifact. Lilith straightened under the scrutiny, her expression unreadable.

“If it’s aid with the Breach you’re after,” Fiona continued, “you may find it wiser to look among your fellow mages.”

Lilith tilted her head. “Does that mean the mages would help us?”

“We’re willing to discuss the possibility,” Fiona said smoothly.

Cassandra frowned. “You’ve refused talks with the Inquisition before. Why now?”

Fiona’s smile sharpened, just slightly. “Because now I’ve seen what the Chantry truly is. And I’ve seen what you are.” Her eyes flicked once more to Lilith. “The world is changing. Best we not cling to crumbling institutions out of habit.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “What do you want in return?”

“Oh, I haven’t promised our help,” Fiona said, almost coy. “Consider this an invitation. Come to Redcliffe. Speak with our people. Perhaps an alliance would serve us both.”

She inclined her head with courtly precision. “I hope to see you there, my lady Herald.”

Without waiting for a reply, Fiona turned and disappeared into the crowd.

A beat of silence followed.

“Let’s find somewhere to rest,” Cassandra said at last, her voice taut. “We may not have secured allies yet, but we’ve certainly made an impression.”

Iron Bull chuckled. “Yeah. The ‘don’t mess with us or we’ll dropkick your clergy’ kind of impression.”

No one argued.

They moved on from the Chantry’s platform into the bustling heart of Val Royeaux. Market stalls spilled over with silks, sweetmeats, and outrageously shaped soaps. Carved arches shaded them from the summer heat, and flower petals floated down from balconies like a romantic comedy gone wrong. Musicians played something upbeat nearby, but the melody clashed with the tension still gnawing at Lilith’s ribs.

She caught the scent of rosewater and baking bread. Her stomach grumbled - stubbornly alive - but the rest of her was still reeling. Lucius and that templar’s sword had touched something primal. The memory of blood at her throat, the wrongness of it, still lingered like a bruise on her soul.

They ended up finding an inn tucked between two overgrown courtyards, just clean enough for Cassandra and just anonymous enough for Varric. Cassandra and Lilith in one room, and Solas, Varric, and Bull in the other. They had agreed to regroup in half an hour.

Lilith had just managed to pry her boots off and was about to collapse on the bed when something sliced through the window.

Thunk .

She blinked. There, buried halfway into the wooden beam beside her head, was an arrow.

“Oh, for fu—”

Cassandra turned, sword half-drawn. “Herald?”

“I’m fine,” she said, crossing to the arrow. It had a note tied to the shaft with red ribbon.

Varric pushed open the door, peering around the doorframe. “Either someone’s really bad at sending love letters, or you’ve got a secret admirer with poor impulse control.”

Lilith unrolled the parchment. The handwriting was a mess, all slant and chaos.

People say you’re special. I want to help, and I can bring everyone.

There’s a baddie in Val Royeaux. I hear he wants to hurt you.

Have a search for red things in the market, the docks, and 'round the cafe, and maybe you’ll meet him first. Bring swords.

– Friends of Red Jenny

Lilith looked up, incredulous. “Who the hell writes an assassination warning like this?”

“Someone with a flair for murder and the arts,” Varric said. “Honestly? Respect.”

“I hate this city,” Cassandra muttered again.

Their scavenger hunt was swift and baffling.

In the market, they found a red silk glove nailed to the back of a stall. At the café, a crate of tomatoes bore a note pinned beneath one with “NOSEY” scrawled across it. And at the docks, Bull located a red-painted key hidden in the mouth of a statue of Andraste, which felt extremely sacrilegious and also extremely on brand.

All together, the items revealed a time - midnight - and a location: Rue de l’Ombre.

“Could be a trap,” Cassandra said.

“Or dinner and a show,” Varric offered.

They went anyway.

Making their way to the meeting spot, Lilith fell into step beside Solas. They walked in silence for a few steps. 

“I didn’t mean to sound like I hated mages earlier,” she said eventually. “I don’t. I just-” Her voice caught for a moment, more emotion behind it than she intended. “I’ve seen what power turns people into. I’ve been what it turns people into.”

Solas didn’t look at her when he spoke. “Then you understand its weight.”

“I understand the mess people make when they think the weight makes them special.” Her voice was flat. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “You tell me.”

He was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Power is not inherently corrupting. It is merely honest. It reveals what was already there - ambition, cruelty, mercy, restraint. Or lack thereof.”

Lilith scoffed. “You say that like people are either monsters or saints waiting to be tested.”

“No,” Solas said. “I say it like we are all capable of becoming either.”

She considered that. Her breath clouded in the cold of the night. “That’s comforting.”

He smiled faintly. “It’s meant to be cautionary.”

Lilith kicked a stone from their path. “What about you?”

Solas raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“You speak like someone who’s seen power up close,” she said.

“I have.” He didn’t elaborate.

Lilith gave him a sideways look. “Yours, or someone else’s?”

Solas only said, “Both.” He studied her, thoughtful. “And you?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she looked up at the stars, then away. “There was a time - a short time, mind you - I thought power would make me free. That if I had enough of it, I could finally breathe without looking over my shoulder.”

Solas was watching her now, the moonlight catching the sharpness in his profile.

“And did it?” he asked gently.

She gave a humorless smile. “For a while. Right up until it didn’t.”

A breeze stirred the trees, brittle branches clattering softly overhead.

He said nothing, only matched her pace, his silence the kind that invited truth rather than suffocated it.

“Still don’t know if I believe in good mages,” she said after a while. “But I think I believe in trying to be one. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Solas glanced at her sidelong, eyes bright in the dark. “It is.”

The group finally arrived at the courtyard - shadowed and quiet, hemmed in by ivy-covered walls. As Lilith stepped through the iron gates, someone shouted above them.

“At last !” a man cried, dropping down from a balcony with all the finesse of a cat that’d misjudged the jump. He staggered upright, robes billowing, and flourished a staff.

“You have arrived - just as I planned!”

Before anyone could speak, he launched a fireball.

Lilith rolled her eyes and deflected it midair, the flames fizzing out like a damp candle. She crossed her arms.

“Was that supposed to impress me?”

The man faltered. “You…,” he cleared his throat. “You followed my clues. Took the bait. And now the Herald of Andraste stands before me! My destiny - my revenge - begins!”

Lilith glanced at the others.

“I thought we were following Red Jenny clues?” Varric said, frowning.

“We were,” Cassandra confirmed.

Iron Bull scratched his head. “Did this guy leave a tomato note too?”

Lilith looked back at the would-be mastermind. “Sorry, I genuinely have no idea who you are.”

He gaped. “But… the clues? The messages!”

“Wasn’t you,” she said flatly.

“I don’t- this… this is my moment!”

“Is it though?” Varric offered helpfully. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re crashing someone else’s plotline.”

The man’s face twisted. “You don’t fool me ! I am too important for this to be chance!”

“Oh, Maker,” Cassandra sighed.

“Ten silver says he’s the cousin of a noble we pissed off last week,” Varric muttered.

“Twenty says he monologues again,” Bull added.

“Oh! Maybe he’s the 'baddie' from that note-” Lilith exclaimed.

“Just say what.” A girl’s voice rang clear from the shadows. They turned to see a wiry young elf perched on a crate, bow drawn, expression somewhere between amused and bored.

The man turned, already indignant. “What is the-”

Squelch.

An arrow sank into his face. He toppled like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Eugh,” said the girl, wrinkling her nose. “Squishy one.”

She hopped down and approached, muttering as she bent to yank the arrow out of the man’s skull. “‘Obey me! Arrow in my face!’ Blah blah blah. Drama, drama, codpiece.”

She turned to Lilith, giving her a once-over. “So, you followed the notes well enough. Glad to see you’re… ah, aaaand, you’re an elf. Well, hope you’re not too elfy .”

Lilith snorted. “I’ll tone it down, I guess .”

“It’s all good, innit? The important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

Lilith shrugged. “Sure, why not? I glow. What’s going on?”

“No idea. Don’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

“Your people? Elves?”

Sera laughed. “Ha! No. People people.” She gestured to the crates. “Name’s Sera. This is cover. Get round it. For the reinforcements. Don’t worry. Someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches. ”

Shouting echoed down the alley. More guards.

Lilith raised her staff as blades flashed in the darkness. “Why didn’t you take their weapons?”

“Because no breeches !” Sera cackled.

After the fight, Lilith wiped sweat from her brow. Bodies lay scattered across the cobbles.

Sera looked delighted. “Friends really came through with that tip. No breaches !”

Lilith eyed her. “You’re dangerously cheerful.”

Sera grinned. “So, Herald of Andraste. You’re a strange one. I’d like to join.”

Lilith tilted her head. “And how would you… contribute?”

“One name. No, wait, two. It’s… well, it’s like this.”

She began to pace. “I sent you a note to look for hidden stuff by my friends. The Friends of Red Jenny. That’s me. Well, I’m one. So is a fence in Montfort, some woman in Kirkwall. There were three in Starkhaven. Brothers or something. It’s just a name, yeah? It lets little people, ‘Friends,’ be part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate. So here, in your face, I’m Sera. ‘The Friends of Red Jenny’ are sort of out there. I used them to help you. Plus arrows.”

Lilith crossed her arms, intrigued. “You’ve got flair. I’ll give you that.”

Sera grinned wider. “Here’s how it is. You ‘important’ people are up here, shoving your cods around. ‘Blah, blah, I’ll crush you. I’ll crush you!’” She pantomimed a kiss. “‘Oh, crush you .’ Ahem.”

She jabbed a finger at the noble corpse.

“Step down, and you’ve got big lords with big purses like him . Or one of the arselickers. Doesn’t matter. His grand plan got ruined by some desk scraps and a red sock. From someone who couldn’t read it.”

She stood taller.

“So no, I’m not Lord Poncyfart, all ruffled. But if you don’t listen down here too, you risk your breeches. Like those guards. I stole their- look, do you need people or not? I want to get everything back to normal. Like you?”

Lilith hesitated, then smiled. “All right, Sera. I can use you and your ‘Friends.’”

Sera fist-pumped. “ Yes ! Get in good before you’re too big to like. That’ll keep your breeches where they should be. Plus extra breeches , because I have all these… you have merchants who buy that pish, yeah?”

She winked.

“Anyway - Haven. See you there, Inquisitor. This’ll be grand .”

Chapter Text

The tavern they found in Val Royeaux wasn’t much - low beams, scarred wooden tables, and a bar that smelled like old wine and newer regret - but it was quiet, and the food was hot. Varric declared it “tolerable,” which, for him, meant it was practically a palace.

They pushed two tables together near the hearth. Plates clattered with roasted pheasant, fresh bread, and greasy Orlesian cheese rolls that Iron Bull devoured with alarming speed. A bottle of Antivan red was passed around, chased by stronger spirits Bull had somehow convinced the barkeep to part with.

Lilith leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine and watching her companions unwind. Cassandra was still half-tense, but even she allowed herself a small smile at something Varric said. Solas sipped from a tin cup, eyes half-lidded, his fingers tapping absently against the rim. For once, his silence didn’t feel like judgment. Just quiet company.

“So,” Varric said, pointing his fork toward Lilith. “What’s your take on the new girl? Arrows in faces, obsession with breeches, unsolicited murders - I think she fits right in.”

“She’s chaotic,” Lilith said, biting into a piece of bread. “But competent. And apparently resourced. I’m not about to turn down free arrows.”

“She reminds me of some of the Chargers,” Bull said, licking oil from his fingers. “If the Chargers were raised by prank demons.”

“She is... unconventional,” Cassandra muttered into her cup.

“A trait that tends to attract both trouble and brilliance,” Solas said mildly, getting up to leave the table. “Which, from what I have seen, is rather consistent with this group.”

Varric grinned and called after him. “Spoken like a man who’s never had prank demons turn his boots into soup pots.”

Lilith snorted. “Give it time.”

A few minutes later, Varric slammed his mug down onto the table, leaning over to Lilith. In a mock-whisper, “Two coppers says Cassandra tries to arrest the musician before the night is over.”

“I heard that,” came Cassandra’s voice from across the table. With an air of long-suffering patience, she set down a cup of something dark, “I am not going to arrest anyone. Though if he insists on singing off-key…”

“See?” Varric grinned and raised his mug. “The Seeker’s got standards.”

Lilith gave a faint smile and swirled her wine. “I like him. He reminds me of someone I knew. Terrible taste in melody, good heart. Probably ends up stabbed in an alley.”

“You really know how to inspire cheer,” Varric said, but he was watching her more closely now. He leaned in again, lowering his voice, “You doing all right?”

Lilith nodded without looking at him. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

Before Varric could say anything else, Solas appeared with a tray and a curious look. He set down a steaming cup of something herbal in front of Lilith. “You are shivering,” he said simply.

She blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I noticed,” he replied, seating himself back down at their table.

Cassandra lifted an eyebrow but said nothing, sipping her drink with a disapproving sort of grace. Iron Bull, meanwhile, looked between the two of them like he was watching a slow-moving chess match.

“Maker’s balls,” Varric muttered. “You’re all brooding so hard I’m developing secondhand angst.”

Lilith smirked, finally letting out a small laugh. “We’re in Val Royeaux. I thought brooding was part of the fashion.”

“Not wrong,” Varric admitted, glancing at a noble nearby with a ruffled collar the size of a dinner plate. “Still. I was hoping for one night without any soul-searching.”

“I have no soul,” Lilith said dryly, “so you are safe from me.”

That earned a proper laugh from the whole table - even Solas, who shook his head with a wry smile. Lilith leaned back in her chair, cradling the warm mug he’d brought her, and allowed herself to relax for the first time that day. 

They were just finishing the last of the meal when Lilith’s gaze drifted across the tavern. The candlelight flickered strangely - gold and red shadows stretching long over the wooden walls. Then, she caught movement - a tall figure in the far corner. His posture, the pale skin, the sharp cheekbones… Her heart stopped, breath catching in her chest. 

The others talked on, laughter rising and falling around her, muffled now as if underwater. Lilith’s eyes locked on the man. The angle of his jaw. The way he smirked - not kindly. Like he knew her.

Her blood turned to ice.

She stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping harshly against the floor. The conversation paused, four heads turning toward her.

“Scorcher?” Varric asked.

But she was already moving. She pushed through the crowd, past the sticky bar counter and the smoke-curled hearth, and burst out into the night air. The street was colder than she expected. Her breath came fast and shallow as she ducked into the shadowed alley beside the tavern, one hand pressed flat to the stone wall.

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t. He doesn’t know where you are. He can’t follow you. He can’t follow you here.

It couldn’t be him. But what if it was?

The night pulsed too loud around her - drunken laughter, distant horseshoes, the crack of barrels being unloaded. None of it drowned the echo of that old voice in her head, the way his gaze had once followed her through shadows like silk. She clenched her jaw, forcing her body to still.

A hand brushed her shoulder.

She spun, breath caught sharp in her throat. She grabbed the stranger’s wrist while magic flickered to life in her other palm, only to find it was Bull. He stepped back immediately, his hands up.

“Hey, whoa. Easy. It’s just me.”

She forced herself to exhale, unclenching her jaw. “I’m fine,” she lied, but the phantom weight of another hand still lingered - cool fingers against her neck, a voice like silk behind her ear:

“Careful, darling. One of these days, I might not be so gentle.”

She remembered how he used to appear without a sound, like fog rolling in, always a breath too close. The only one who could ever catch her unaware.

Now, for her, surprise always felt like danger.

She turned quickly, hoping Bull didn’t notice the tremble in her hands. She leaned against the stone wall, eyes closed. Focus. Breathe. One. Two. Three.

When she looked again, Bull was still there, arms folded loosely across his chest. He wasn’t crowding her, just keeping an eye out. Casual, but alert.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he said. “You bolted outta there pretty fast.”

“I needed air,” she said.

Bull nodded, not pressing. “Yeah, I get that. Taverns can get stuffy.”

She gave a faint, humorless smile. “Not exactly the part that bothered me.”

He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Didn’t think so. You want me to deck someone, or just stand here and be large?”

That coaxed a breath of laughter from her, thin but real. “I’ll let you know.”

“Good. I’m told I’m very reassuring in dim alleys.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the city still humming at their backs. Then Bull added, more gently, “You don’t have to say what it was, Boss. Just... if you need someone around, I’ve got time.”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded. “Thanks, Bull.”

Behind him, the others had stepped out into the street. Bull glanced back over his shoulder, then looked at her again.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “We’ll take it slow. Give you a second.”

She didn’t reply, just fell into step beside him, her breathing starting to steady.

They caught up with the others and began the walk back to the inn. Lilith trailed a few steps behind, glancing over her shoulder more than once to scan the thinning crowd outside the tavern, but she couldn't find the man she saw. Varric watched her out of the corner of his eye, then moved a little closer.

“You alright?”

Lilith opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Walking a pace behind the group now, Varric lowered his voice. “You looked like you saw a ghost. Or something worse.”

She exhaled shakily. “I thought I saw someone,” she murmured. “Someone I left behind.”

Varric’s expression didn’t change, but his voice softened further. “Someone you don’t want to find you?”

She debated lying. It would be so easy - just a shrug, a dismissive “It’s nothing” - and he’d let it drop. Varric was good like that. Or she could say nothing at all, let the silence stretch until it became its own answer. But the weight of it, coiled tight in her chest for so long, ached like a bruise. Maybe it was the way the moonlight caught the lines of concern on his face, or the way her own resolve had worn thin from carrying this alone.

Instead, she gave a shallow nod, the barest dip of her chin, as if admitting it too loudly might summon the past right to her doorstep.

“Alright,” he said. “Well, good news is, you’ve got at least three heavily armed lunatics on your side and a mage who thinks he's smarter than everyone in Orlais combined.”

That coaxed a small, dry laugh from her. “Four lunatics, if you count me.”

Varric grinned. “Nah. You’re our charmingly unstable mascot.”

The group returned to the inn in a hush, the last of their laughter forgotten. And in the quiet that followed, Lilith couldn’t shake the feeling that something had watched her walk away.

The manor’s music room was quiet save for the rain. It tapped the tall windows in restless rhythm, each droplet punctuated by the occasional low growl of thunder overhead. Candlelight trembled across the dark wood panels and velvet drapes, casting long shadows over the grand piano at the centre of the room.

Lilith stood near it, spine straight, jaw tight. The silence in the hall behind her had settled into something colder the moment the guest had left - a merchant from Athkatla, all smug assumptions and honeyed flattery. Easy prey.

Astarion had been in rare form, his velvet charm and carefully placed innuendo, dangling the promise of favour like a lure. And Lilith - tired, irritable, and already bristling from the merchant’s gaze lingering where it shouldn’t - had let a single comment slip.

“He must be very successful,” she’d said, voice dry as old parchment. “Given how quickly he’s willing to debase himself for a discount.”

A pause had followed, just long enough to be noticed. The merchant had laughed, uncertain. Astarion had smoothed over the moment with a chuckle and a deft change of subject, but the damage had been done. The spell had cracked.

She hadn’t insulted Astarion, but she'd made him look less in control. Less worshipped. And that, for him, was enough.

The door clicked shut behind them.

“You made quite the scene,” Astarion said softly. His tone was light, like a hand brushing across silk - but it held the glint of a blade beneath. “Tell me, was it intentional? Or are you simply forgetting how to behave?”

Lilith didn’t look at him. Her arms folded across her chest, more to contain the heat crawling up her throat than anything else.

“I didn’t mean to-”

“Ah, so it was just carelessness,” he murmured, as if that were somehow worse. “That’s so much better.”

He moved past her, slow and theatrical, like a cat circling prey. One pale hand extended toward the piano.

“Sit.”

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t move.

Astarion’s head tilted. “I said, sit .”

She obeyed. The bench creaked faintly as she lowered herself onto it. Her posture straightened by instinct - an old defense masquerading as grace. Her hands folded in her lap, fingers curled into themselves.

He circled behind her, the brush of his fingers on her shoulders like frost. “You’re going to perform,” he said. “A song of your choosing. Something lovely. Something sad .”

“Why?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Because I want to see if you can still be beautiful when you’re ashamed.”

The breath caught in her chest, sharp and cold. But she said nothing. Astarion moved to the chaise opposite her, crossing one leg over the other. His eyes gleamed red in the candlelight, fixed on her with unsettling patience.

“And afterward,” he said, lips curling, “you’ll apologize.”

Lilith’s hands rose toward the keys as if remembering the motion from a dream. She hadn’t played in a while. Once, music had been hers - a refuge, a voice. Now it felt like a test. A weapon handed back to her with the blade turned inward.

The first notes were hesitant, fragile. Her fingers stumbled, but she kept going. Astarion didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His gaze was weight enough.

The melody found its rhythm midway through - something haunting from her childhood in Baldur’s Gate, full of narrow alleys and window light. Her mind slipped backward with it, away from velvet walls and vampires and courtly pretense. Somewhere simpler. Somewhere freer.

But the last note faded, and the silence snapped like a tether.

Astarion clapped. Once. Sharp and solitary. “Good girl,” he said, rising. “Now. The apology.”

Her mouth was dry. Her tongue felt too large behind her teeth. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, no,” he said, stepping close. “ Look at me when you say it.”

She lifted her eyes. It felt like peeling off armor. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”

“And?”

“It won’t happen again.”

He leaned down, brushing a kiss against her temple. Cold. Possessive. “Of course it won’t.”

He offered her his hand. She took it.

But something shifted. A ripple. A prickle at the base of her spine - she felt someone else’s magic, soft and familiar, like ink spreading through parchment.

Solas.

Lilith drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening. The dream was unraveling. She reached into herself, into that quiet place he’d shown her during their last Fade lesson - where her will lived, sharp and bright. She seized the dream’s edges, and cut .

The manor dissolved. Shadows pulled inward like a reverse bloom. Suddenly, she was alone.

The music room remained only in outline - stone replaced velvet, candlelight replaced by the shimmering grey-blue haze of the Fade. She sat at the piano still, but it was ghostly now, unrooted from any specific memory. Her hands hovered over its keys like they belonged to someone else.

A sound - soft footfalls over nothing - drew her attention. Solas stepped into view, his expression unreadable. She noticed how he always seemed to walk in dreams like he’d never learned to doubt his presence - as if the Fade had simply been waiting for him.

He glanced at the piano, then at her. “Do you play?”

Lilith blinked. “I used to.”

His eyes lingered on her hands, then her face. “Would you play something now?”

She hesitated. Her fingers hovered again - but nothing came. The desire was there, somewhere, flickering faintly like a candle in the wind. But the music itself… felt stolen. Not hers, not anymore.

She deflected, pulling her hands into her lap. “It’s been a long time.” 

Solas nodded slowly. There was no judgment in it, just observation. “May I?”

She nodded and slid to the side. He sat beside her, his body carefully angled so they weren’t quite touching. His fingers lowered onto the keys with quiet reverence.

The song that emerged wasn’t elven, not quite - and yet it felt like him. Cool, clean, melancholy. Like snowfall over ruins. Like a language that had once been sacred.

Lilith watched him, quietly transfixed. The way his brow furrowed slightly in concentration. The scar above his eyebrow. The softness in his touch. How he didn’t play to perform, but to remember. As if music, to him, was a form of truth. 

It made something twist inside her.

Her adopted mother had taught her how to play. Short lessons in the evening after supper, her mother’s hands guiding hers with patient warmth. Back then, music had been a comfort. A place to retreat, to feel something that wasn’t sharp or weaponized. It had been joy.

And then it hadn’t.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d played for pleasure. Over the years, music had become something distant - frivolous. A softness she couldn’t afford. Every time she sat at the keys, her hands felt like they belonged to someone else. Someone who hadn’t done the things she’d done.

Watching Solas now - how calm he looked, how lost in it he was - she felt a flash of something awful and small rise in her throat.

Jealousy.

He looked almost peaceful. Like he hadn’t been hollowed out in the same way. Like music still lived in his bones, unbroken. And some part of her hated that. Hated that he could still have this - this closeness to beauty, to memory - when it had been stolen from her.

The feeling curled tight in her gut, sharp with shame. She swallowed it down, tucked it somewhere deep. Not now.

She hadn’t realized she was still watching him - really watching him - until she noticed the silence, and the way his gaze had shifted to her. He wasn’t just looking. He was studying her. Quietly. As though trying to map the place her mind had gone.

Solas tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are staring.”

“You’re not exactly making it easy to look away,” she said, before she could stop herself.

He blinked, then gave a soft, surprised huff of laughter. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Lilith arched a brow. “Almost?”

“Mm,” he said, glancing back at the keys. “I’ll reserve judgment until I hear how you play.”

She made a show of scoffing. “You’re assuming I can’t.”

“I’m assuming nothing,” he said smoothly. “Only that if you were about to impress me, you likely would not have stalled this long.”

A spark of challenge lit in her eyes. “I was being polite. Letting you have your moment.”

“Ah. Generous and modest.”

She grinned, pushing back the faint flush rising in her cheeks. “We should probably start the lesson before your ego expands any further.”

He gestured to the keys with mock solemnity. “By all means, impress me.”

And just like that, the tension softened - but it lingered still, tucked between their words like a shared secret neither of them had quite named yet.

The invitation had arrived on a square of thick, cream-colored parchment - an ornate thing sealed in deep red wax and penned in exquisite calligraphy:

You are cordially invited to attend my salon held at the château of Duke Bastien de Ghislain.

Yours,

Vivienne de Fer

First Enchanter of Montsimmard

Enchanter to the Imperial Court

Now, standing outside the gilded gates of the Duke’s sprawling estate, Lilith muttered under her breath, “Terrible idea.” Orlesians made her itch. Everything they did reeked of artifice - of poisoned smiles and conversation sharpened into weapons. She hated nobles. 

But she'd come anyway.

Inside, the chateau glittered like a jewelry box overturned. Gilded moldings caught the candlelight, silk dresses swept across polished floors, and conversations drifted on laughter that felt far too rehearsed.

Lilith stood just beyond the threshold, spine straight, expression composed. She could feel the weight of eyes already beginning to turn.

A steward in elegant livery cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Presenting Lady Stormshadow, on behalf of the Inquisition.”

Stormshadow .

The name rang out through the golden hall like something stolen from a cheap bard’s tale. A name that didn’t belong to her - not really.

She hadn’t been given a last name in the temple. Bhaal had no use for lineage. She was his creation, his blade, his voice in the dark. That had been identity enough.

But the Inquisition required forms. Records. Something to fill the line after “Lilith.” So she gave them the name her adopted parents once used, half-remembered from a childhood blurred by blood and time. It was fake, in its way. A name built for someone she never truly got to be.

Most Bhaalspawn didn’t bother with surnames, she thought distantly. Why claim a family when you were born from a god’s shadow?

She swallowed hard, forcing her expression blank again. She didn’t want to think about Bhaal right now, and regardless, none of that mattered here. Not in a place full of silk and candlelight, where names were more costumes than truths. Let them think her some noble exile, some minor lady cloaked in mystery. It was easier that way.

She stepped forward into the glittering hall, the name echoing after her like the sound of distant thunder. Heads turned, conversations paused mid-sentence. The sea of powdered faces parted just enough to make room for curious stares and not-so-subtle whispers.

An older man with a trimmed silver beard approached first, grinning as if delighted by his own charm. “What a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” he said smoothly. “Seeing the same faces at every affair becomes dreadfully dull. You are…refreshing.”

Lilith gave a polite nod, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“So,” the man continued, “are you here as a guest of Madame de Fer? Or do we owe your visit to the good Duke Bastien himself?”

Before she could reply, a woman in violet lace leaned in, her perfume floral and cloying. “Or are you here on business?” she asked. “I’ve heard the most curious tales about you. I can hardly believe half of them.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “Only half?”

The woman laughed delicately, delighted.

“They say Andraste herself plucked you from the Fade to fight the Old Gods,” another Comtess chimed in.

“They say you stormed the Templar stronghold and dragged them back to faith by the scruff of their necks,” added a third, fanning herself with anticipation.

“They say when the Veil tore open, Andraste placed her mark on your hand and cast you back to save us all,” finished the first.

Lilith blinked, deadpan. “Everything you’ve heard? Completely true.”

The Comtesses exchanged thrilled gasps and approving giggles, utterly oblivious to the sarcasm dripping from her tone.

“Better and better,” one said. “The Inquisition should come to more of these parties.”

The illusion shattered with the sound of slurred derision from across the room.

“The Inquisition?” a man barked. “What a load of pig shit!”

A Marquis - judging by the fine tailoring and poorly concealed drunkenness - stumbled forward, sneering. Wine sloshed dangerously in his goblet. “Washed-up sisters and crazed Seekers,” he scoffed. “No one takes them seriously. It’s just an excuse for political exiles to claw back power.”

Lilith’s smile vanished. “The Inquisition is working to restore peace and order to Thedas.”

“Ah, yes. The outsider speaks,” the Marquis said with mock grandeur. “Restoring peace with an army behind her. That’s rich.”

He took another step forward, swaying slightly. “We know what your Inquisition really is. If you had a shred of honor, you’d step outside and answer for it.”

Before Lilith could speak, the air shifted. Cold bloomed in the room like a phantom breeze, and a sudden crack of ice silenced the hall.

The Marquis froze mid-stride - literally. Frost bloomed across his cuffs and collar, locking his limbs in place as his glass shattered to the floor.

Above, descending the grand staircase with the poise of a queen, stood Vivienne de Fer. “My dear Marquis,” she said coolly, “how unkind of you to use such language in my house… and to my guests. You know I cannot abide rudeness.”

The Marquis’s face paled beneath the frost. “Madame Vivienne, I- I beg your pardon!”

She regarded him like one might a particularly disappointing sculpture. “You should ,” she said. “Whatever am I to do with you?”

Her gaze turned to Lilith, and a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “My lady, you are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair,” she said. “What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?”

Lilith tilted her head in mock consideration. “I think the Marquis has seen the error of his ways.”

Vivienne’s smile widened. “By the grace of Andraste, you have your life, my dear. Do be more careful with it.”

The spell dissipated. The Marquis collapsed to his knees, coughing and humiliated as guests politely turned away to give him the dignity of not watching.

Vivienne extended an arm. “Shall we?”

Lilith followed her through an arched corridor and onto a private balcony, where the noise of the salon softened beneath stars and quiet.

“I’m delighted you could attend,” Vivienne said, offering a goblet of wine. “I’ve so wanted to meet you.”

Lilith declined the drink with a slight shake of her head. “You have an… interesting definition of a gathering.”

Vivienne laughed lightly. “I do like to entertain. But I’ve heard so much about you. Only one rebel survived the explosion that killed the Divine. One hardly knows what to think.”

She extended a hand, formal and precise. “Vivienne. First Enchanter of Montsimmard. Enchantress to the Imperial Court.”

Lilith clasped it. “Charmed, Lady Vivienne.”

“But I didn’t invite you here for pleasantries,” Vivienne said, her eyes sharp despite her easy smile.

Lilith leaned one elbow against the balcony railing. “Your salon has certainly exceeded my expectations.”

“I’m glad to keep you entertained.”

“So, what did you invite me here for?”

Vivienne’s gaze flicked toward the parlor beyond the balcony, then back. “To see you for myself. It’s important to choose one’s allies with care.”

Lilith’s expression darkened slightly. “That Marquis - he going to be a problem?”

“Alphonse?” Vivienne made a sound of disdain. “His aunt is the Vicomtesse of Mont-de-Glace. Not powerful, but respected - and devout. He’ll be disowned for tonight. Likely he’ll scurry off to the Dales to redeem himself in the Empress’s war. Or die trying.”

Vivienne’s eyes swept over Lilith with the precision of a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem. “I was told you were a mage.”

Lilith inclined her head. “I am.”

“How curious,” Vivienne said, folding her gloved hands. “I can usually feel the presence of a fellow practitioner. You, however, are remarkably… quiet.”

Lilith offered a polite, unreadable smile. “I’ve been called worse.”

Inside, her mind ticked over the familiar observation. Solas had remarked on it when they first met, and - though more tactfully - had admitted there was something odd about her magical presence. Mages in Thedas seemed to recognize one another by a subtle resonance in the Fade, like notes in a shared harmony. But Lilith didn’t draw from the Fade, she drew from the Weave - and though the result looked the same on the surface, it felt different. A few others in Haven had noticed too, casting her strange looks, as if they were trying to place something that wasn’t quite there. 

She could only hope no one looked too closely. Sooner or later, someone would stop writing it off as an oddity and start asking the wrong questions.

Vivienne’s gaze narrowed, just slightly. “How unusual .”

"Unusual seems to be the standard these days," Lilith replied, tone smooth but cool. "I'm sure you'll get used to me."

A pause passed between them.

Vivienne continued, content to let it go, “With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. People are frightened, angry. No leadership. No vision.”

She turned to Lilith with a practiced intensity. “Only the Inquisition has a chance to restore sanity and order.”

“And you want to help,” Lilith said.

“I intend to.”

Lilith studied her. “What exactly do you bring to the table?”

Vivienne’s chin lifted a fraction. “I know the Imperial Court - every whisper, every scheme. I have the Circle’s remaining resources at my command. And I am, as you’ve seen, a mage of no small talent.”

She tilted her head. “Will that do?”

Lilith exhaled slowly, then nodded. “The Inquisition would be glad to have you, Lady Vivienne.”

Vivienne’s lips curled upward. “Excellent. Great things are beginning, my dear.” Her voice was velvet and steel. “I can promise you that.”

The gates of Haven creaked open under a grey sky. Snow flurried gently in the air, clinging to the eaves and the shoulders of returning riders. Lilith dismounted in silence, ignoring the ache in her thighs from days in the saddle. Behind her, Cassandra swung down with practiced grace, already turning toward the Chantry steps without waiting for the others.

Lilith lingered a moment, casting a glance over the village. It looked smaller after the road - quieter. And yet, it was home now. Or the closest thing she had to it.

She made her way back to her cabin first, stripping off her travel leathers and washing up in her basin. The small mirror nearby caught her reflection: tired eyes, windburned cheeks, a mouth set too tightly. Not the face of a Herald. Just a girl playing dress-up in someone else's war.

Still, she pulled on a clean tunic, belted her sash, and made her way uphill to the Chantry.

She was halfway up the path when she heard someone call her name.

“Lilith!”

She turned. Mira stood a few paces back, cheeks pink from the cold, a bundled satchel tucked under one arm.

“You’re back,” Mira said, hurrying to catch up, breath puffing in the chill. “I mean - I heard you were. I was just on my way to Adan, but - how did it go?”

Lilith exhaled, slow. “About as well as you’d expect.”

Mira blinked. “So... not great.”

“Not great,” Lilith agreed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Mira huffed a laugh, then hesitated. “Are you heading to the advisors?”

Lilith nodded. “Apparently there's much to discuss and little time to breathe.”

“I figured.” Mira dug into her satchel and pulled out a small glass vial, its contents a cloudy lavender. “Here. Just in case. For stress. Or headaches. Or... people.”

Lilith took it with a raised brow. “You prescribe potions for people now?”

“Only the especially difficult ones.” Mira gave her a lopsided smile. “No charge.”

Lilith turned the vial in her fingers, expression softening. “Thanks, Mira. You don’t have to keep doing this, you know?”

“I know,” Mira said simply. “But I want to.”

Their eyes met - brief, steady.

Lilith gave a tired nod. “Well, thank you. Really.”

Mira smiled faintly. “If you need anything - sleep draught, burn salve, a reason to hide in the apothecary for an hour - just come find me.”

“I might take you up on that,” Lilith said, and though her voice was quiet, the edge of exhaustion softened.

Mira gave her a small wave and turned back toward the apothecary. Lilith watched her go, the warmth of the offered kindness lingering longer than the wind’s bite.

Then she squared her shoulders and made for the Chantry.

The heavy wooden doors were open when she arrived, voices echoing faintly inside. Cassandra stood just outside, arms crossed in her usual grim pose. Beside her was Josephine, posture straight despite the chill, as if diplomacy alone might ward off the wind.

Josephine’s eyes lit up as they saw her approach. “It’s good you’ve returned. We heard of your encounter. Are you alright?” 

Lilith blinked. “You heard ?”

“I always hear,” came Leliana’s voice as she stepped into view, all hood and calm menace.

Cullen trailed behind her, arms clasped behind his back, brow already furrowed with disapproval.

“My agents in the city sent word ahead, of course,” Leliana continued, as if it were obvious.

Cullen grunted. “It’s a shame the templars abandoned their senses as well as the capital.”

“They weren’t exactly lining up for diplomacy,” Lilith said, falling into step beside them as the group moved toward the war room. “But it was worth the risk. We had to do something . And now we have an opportunity.”

“Yes,” Josephine agreed. “And that opportunity may be enough for us to approach either faction - the templars or the rebel mages.”

Cassandra’s expression was dark. “Do we? Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember.”

“True,” Leliana said. “He’s taken the Order somewhere - but to what end? My reports have been… strange.”

“They always are,” Cullen muttered, then more clearly: “We must investigate. Not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker’s actions.”

“Or,” Josephine countered, voice sharp with restrained tact, “the Herald could simply go to meet the mages in Redcliffe instead.”

Cullen stopped. His boots scuffed against the stone floor as he turned. “You think the mage rebellion is more united?” His brow arched. “That could be ten times worse. We don’t even know who leads them now.”

Lilith exhaled, the beginnings of a headache curling behind her eyes. The back-and-forth was exhausting, a loop of hypotheticals and second-guessing.

“We need to stop bickering and make a decision,” she said, folding her arms. “Time isn’t something we have an abundance of.”

“I agree,” Cassandra said.

“We shouldn’t discount Redcliffe,” Josephine insisted. “The mages may be worth the risk.”

“They are powerful, yes,” Cassandra replied. “But more desperate than you realize.”

Lilith felt the familiar flicker of danger - of politics cloaked as reason. She kept her voice even. “So it’ll be dangerous,” she said. “I’ve been in danger since I walked out of the Fade. After the Divine’s death, the rebel mages are probably scrambling for allies. We may be the only ones left who’ll listen.”

Cassandra’s mouth tightened. “If some among them are responsible for what happened at the Conclave…”

“The same could be said for the templars,” Josephine cut in, her tone still polite, but clipped.

Cullen gave a reluctant nod. “True enough. But I’m not sure we have the influence to approach the Order safely. Not yet.”

“Then the Inquisition needs more agents,” Cassandra said, glancing at Lilith. “People we can trust. That’s something you can help with.”

She didn’t specify how - and Lilith didn’t ask. She suspected she’d find out soon enough.

“In the meantime,” Josephine added, smoothing her skirts, “we should prepare for both options. Secure routes. Quiet inquiries. We’ll reconvene once more information arrives.”

One by one, they peeled away - Cullen toward the training yard, Cassandra to oversee patrols, Josephine likely back to her tower of parchment and polite refusals.

Only Leliana remained. Her silence lingered like incense.

“There’s one other matter,” she said quietly, gaze fixed ahead. “Several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished.”

Lilith tilted her head. “The Grey Wardens?” She made sure the question was curious, not too pointed. She’d learned the trick from Astarion: ask like you know more than you do. People fill in the blanks for you.

“They are an ancient order,” Leliana said. “Founded to battle the darkspawn. Since the First Blight, thousands of years ago. Fewer now than there once were, but still a presence.”

“Darkspawn,” Lilith repeated, with a mild, purposeful blankness. Another name for monsters. Probably.

“They’re not usually political,” Leliana continued, “but they have a habit of appearing in strange places. And now they’ve disappeared entirely - not just in Ferelden, but in Orlais as well. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

Lilith nodded slowly. “That does sound odd. I agree.”

“The others dismiss it,” Leliana said, her gaze sharp and assessing. “But I cannot ignore the timing. Two days ago, one of my agents in the Hinterlands reported spotting a lone Grey Warden - a man named Blackwall.”

The name meant nothing to her, but she committed it to memory anyway.

“If you find him, speak to him,” Leliana continued. “He may be able to ease my suspicions.”

Lilith glanced at her. “And if he doesn’t?”

A pause. Leliana’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Then there may be more going on than any of us realize.”

The flicker in her eye was familiar. Lilith had seen it in the mirror too often: suspicion sharpened into certainty. The quiet dread that you weren’t just being paranoid - you were right.

She nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Good.” Leliana’s smile was faint, barely a curve at the corners of her lips. 

Lilith kept her eyes on the map, fingers idly tracing the edge of Orlais. She could feel Leliana’s gaze on her - sharp, unwavering, like the pull of a hidden blade.

“I’m sorry to hear about what happened in Val Royeaux,” Leliana said at last, her voice soft, but not gentle. “The Templar. The sword.”

Lilith didn’t look up. “It’s already been handled.”

“Mm.” A pause. “Still. I imagine that kind of moment… lingers.”

Something about her tone made Lilith glance up. Leliana’s expression was calm, unreadable - but her eyes were calculating, the way one might study a lock before picking it.

“I’m fine,” Lilith said, too quickly.

Leliana smiled, just barely. “So you’ve said. But forgive me if I find it strange. Most people - even most soldiers - flinch after a blade at their throat. I heard you barely reacted.”

Lilith held her gaze. “Experience, I suppose.”

“Of course.” Leliana’s voice was light, but there was steel beneath it. She stepped back from the table, shadow trailing behind her like a second cloak. “You’ll let me know if you remember anything… relevant.”

Lilith watched her go, the war table between them now feeling more like a chessboard.

She exhaled. Then turned toward the exit.

Lilith shut her cabin door behind her and let the quiet settle, blinking against the dim, snow-lit interior. The fire in the hearth had gone out, and the air bit at her fingers as she tugged off her gloves and set them on the table.

Hells. The last couple of weeks had been brutal.

She moved on instinct, relighting the hearth and coaxing the fire back to life. When warmth began to chase away the cabin’s chill, she finally sat - knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. Not collapsed, exactly. But close.

Everything had happened so fast.

The Storm Coast - the air sharp with salt and wet stone. Raphael’s voice, smooth as ever, curling out of the shadows by that lake. He hadn’t asked for anything. That was the worst part. He’d only reminded her - softly, smugly - that he still could. All wrapped in cryptic rhymes about the mark on her hand.

And then Solas, appearing just as Raphael vanished. His gaze narrowing, but his mouth silent. He hadn’t asked questions, either. Not really. She still didn’t know if that was better or worse.

Then back to Haven, just long enough to breathe before leaving again for Val Royeaux. She couldn’t stop thinking about the templar, his blade cold and close against her throat. She’d tasted iron. Fury. Restraint.

And after? Fiona’s offer. Sera’s cackling irreverence. Vivienne’s velvet-edged judgment.

And that tavern. She rubbed her temples, fingers pressing deep. She hadn’t seen Astarion. She was sure of it. Mostly. It was too dark, too brief - just a flicker of a face, that impossible grin. Her mind playing tricks. That was all. Had to be.

“Because that’s what I need right now,” she muttered, “delusions and devils.”

She pushed off the bed and began pacing. The movement helped her think.

She hated how untethered she felt. How reactive. Like the world had knocked her off balance and every decision was a coin toss. Even the people she trusted - or, at least wanted to - weren't easy to read. Or she was out of practice.

Like Solas.

She stopped pacing at the thought of him, arms crossed loosely, one brow arching in frustration or fascination. She hadn’t decided which.

There was something about him. Not just the usual mystery every mage liked to drape around themselves like a theatrical cloak. Solas felt careful. Like an ever-shifting library that kept moving the one book she needed. He spoke in riddles, offered almost-answers, and never quite gave away what he was thinking. 

And he was frustratingly hard to rattle. She’d tried sarcasm. Dry humor. Earnest questions. Nothing cracked.

Well, not nothing. There’d been moments. Fleeting. A twitch of his mouth when she’d rolled her eyes. The way he lingered after everyone else had gone. A sidelong glance when she teased him about the Fade. Not enough to trust him - but enough to notice.

Lilith let out a breath, half a laugh. Honesty hadn’t gotten her far, and she didn’t like how uneven it all felt. She was vulnerable, asking questions she should know the answers to, and she knew almost nothing about him in return.

She didn’t want to manipulate him, not really. But she wasn’t above a little playful misdirection. 

And he was attractive. In that carved-from-stone, unknowable way. It made her want to get under his skin - just to see what he’d do.

A little flirting couldn’t hurt. Probably.

Maybe she was tired of being alone in her own head. Maybe part of her wanted someone - anyone - to see her and not flinch.

She looked down at her hands. They’d done terrible things. They still shook sometimes. Not from fear. From memory. But they were steady now.

She smirked to herself, faintly. If she couldn’t sleep tonight - which she knew she wouldn’t - she might as well make herself useful.

She crossed the room, tugged on her coat, and paused by the door. Fingers hovering at the handle.

A quick glance back toward the fire. And then she stepped into the cold.

Lilith knocked once on the wooden door, then let herself in without waiting.

“You always leave your door unlocked,” she said, holding up a wrapped bundle of cloth. “That’s dangerous.”

Solas didn’t look up from his desk. “I am not often in danger.”

“Bold assumption,” she said, stepping into the warm glow of the fire. “You haven’t met me on a bad day yet.”

That earned her a glance - dry, assessing. “Have I not?”

She grinned and placed the cloth bundle down on the table near his ink pots. “Peace offering.”

He raised a brow. “Peace for what offense?”

“For what I’m about to do.”

At that, he turned fully, eyes narrowing - not unkind, but suspicious in the same way a cat might be when handed a cucumber. He eyed the bundle, then unwrapped it. A honeyed biscuit, lightly dusted with sugar, sat inside.

Solas blinked.

“Everyone loves sweets,” Lilith said, matter-of-factly. “So. Consider it a bribe.”

His lips twitched. “Payment before the request. Clever.”

“I’m told that’s how you avoid owing- well. Let’s just say favours .”

He huffed a laugh. “And what precisely am I being sweet-talked into?”

She pulled a notebook from her satchel and dropped into the chair across from him, flipping it open to a page littered with messy scrawl and ink smudges. “I have questions,” she said, solemn as a judge. “So, so many questions.”

He stared. “That is... quite a list.”

“ Mister Elvhen Lore Expert ,” she said, wiggling her brows. “Don’t act surprised.”

Solas picked up the biscuit like it might vanish. “Very well. Begin the interrogation.”

Lilith clicked her tongue, scanning her notes. “Alright. First: why do the Templars keep glaring at me like I owe them money?”

“They likely believe you are a mage.”

“I am a mage.”

“Yes. That is the problem.”

She scribbled something. “ Fascists . Noted.”

Solas took a bite of the biscuit and paused, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before he forced himself back into composure. Lilith didn’t notice - she was too busy rifling through pages.

“Okay, next. Why is Orlais obsessed with masks?”

“Because their nobility thrives on artifice and deception.”

“Ugh. So do-” She caught herself. “So do... other people I’ve known. Must be a cultural thing.”

Another bite of the biscuit.

“Why does everyone act like Andraste is personally watching them poop?”

Solas choked.

Lilith didn’t look up. “That’s not a joke. I said ‘shit’ near the Chantry and some old lady gasped so hard I thought she was about to drop dead.”

“They hold her as a divine figure,” Solas managed, brushing crumbs from his robe. “Some believe she ascended bodily into the Fade.”

Lilith tilted her head. “You don’t?”

“I believe... less than most.”

She glanced at him then, more closely. “We’ll circle back to that.”

Solas nodded solemnly, finishing the biscuit. “Please. Continue.”

Lilith grinned. “What’s a 'Grand Enchanter'?”

Solas gave her a look of gentle exasperation. “We met Grand Enchanter Fiona days ago.”

She blinked. “Oh. Right. She had the cloak and the... attitude.”

Solas looked skyward, as though appealing to a higher power. “Yes. That one.”

They shared a brief, rare laugh.

She flipped another page. “Alright, here’s a weird one: what does da’len mean?”

Solas blinked. “It is... Elven. You should know that, no?”

“I know Elvish,” she said, frowning. “But it sounds different than from back home. Warped. Softer, maybe.”

Solas tilted his head, studying her now in a way that made her shift in her seat. “ Da’len means ‘little child.’ It’s a term of endearment.”

She raised a brow. “So when you called me that at the gate the other day, you were being nice?”

He cleared his throat. “I was being... familiar. There’s a difference.”

“Oh,” she said, pretending to write it down. “ Familiar . Adding that to the flirt column.”

Solas froze mid-movement. His brows knit slightly. “There’s a... column?”

She looked up with mock innocence. “You didn’t realize we were flirting?”

His expression shifted - surprise, uncertainty, something unreadable in the mix. “I wasn’t aware that’s what we were doing.”

Lilith smirked. “Tragic. Now I’ll have to start over.”

“I-” He stopped himself, then exhaled sharply through his nose and looked away. “Please continue your list.”

Lilith looked entirely too pleased with herself.

“Okay, this one sounds made up: what are darkspawn ? Someone mentioned them in a meeting and everyone looked grim.”

Solas sobered. “They are not made up. They were once men and women - twisted by a corruption known as the Blight. They dwell beneath the earth, and when they rise... they bring death, madness, and war.”

Lilith blinked. “So - infected demons, minus the charm.”

“A crude summary,” he said. “But not inaccurate.”

She shivered slightly. “Right. So, avoid murder tunnels.”

“Always wise,” he said dryly.

Silence stretched between them then - not tense, not awkward. Just quiet. The fire crackled. Wind howled somewhere beyond the walls. Solas, finally, spoke.

“You’re adapting quickly.”

Lilith shrugged. “I’ve had practice. You learn fast or you die confused.”

Solas regarded her over the rim of his cup, his expression unreadable. The firelight caught on the sharp lines of his face, softened only slightly by the quiet between them.

“You are clearly sharp, da’len ,” he said at last, his voice low. “Quick to learn. Keen of mind. But so much of this - names, places, history - it surprises you.” He paused, tilting his head, as if studying a puzzle he hadn't quite pieced together. “Will you ever tell me why?”

He didn’t ask it like an accusation. There was no edge, no demand - just the careful curiosity of someone who’d noticed something strange and was waiting, patiently, for the story beneath it.

Lilith stilled, pen hovering above her page. For a moment, she didn’t answer - didn’t breathe. Then she smiled, slow and practiced, and tapped her notes lightly.

“Maybe when I run out of questions.”

Solas let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Then I suspect I’ll be waiting a very long time.”

Then, softly, “I appreciate the gift. And the company.”

Lilith paused. The words were simple, but something in the way he said them made her hesitate. Not because they were cold - on the contrary, they felt… warm. Maybe even genuine. And that was the problem.

In her world, praise was bait. Kindness, currency. She searched his face for a tell, an angle - mockery at the corners of his mouth, calculation in his eyes - but found only the soft gleam of firelight and the unreadable calm he wore like armor.

Maybe he meant it. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe this was another kind of game she hadn’t yet learned the rules for.

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched him.

And Solas, to his credit, noticed.

His gaze flicked to her hands - still, silent on her notes - then back to her face. Something thoughtful passed over his expression, too brief to name. But he said nothing. He didn’t push, didn’t question, didn’t call attention to her delay. Only waited, the way he always did. With too much patience to be innocent.

So, she smiled, crooked and careless, like she hadn’t just turned that single sentence over in her mind a dozen ways.

“Don’t get used to it,” she said lightly. “I might start charging.”

He smiled back. “You already are.”

The next morning, Lilith found Cassandra in the training yard, the sun just beginning to slip out from behind the mountains. The Seeker was hacking away at a training dummy with all the fury of someone who would rather be fighting something that could scream.

The dummy’s straw-stuffed form gave way under the relentless strikes, bits of it littering the stone around her like snow. Lilith approached slowly, arms crossed, keeping just enough distance to not be in the way of a blade gone wild.

“I think you need dummies made of sturdier stuff,” she said lightly.

Cassandra grunted, delivered one last blow, and sent the dummy’s head toppling to the ground.

“That would be nice,” she muttered, sheathing her sword with a practiced motion.

“Maybe iron next time,” Lilith added. “Or dragonbone. Something that fights back.”

That earned a faint sound - almost a laugh, though not quite. Cassandra stepped away from the wreckage, her breath still sharp, shoulders still tense. She fell into step beside Lilith, the two of them walking without a clear destination.

After a moment, Cassandra spoke. “Did I do the right thing? What I’ve set in motion… it could destroy everything I’ve spent my life protecting. The Chantry, the Seekers, the Order. One day, they might write about me as a traitor. A madwoman. A fool.” She paused. “And they may be right.”

Lilith glanced at her. “What does your faith tell you?”

Cassandra let out a breath. “I believe you’re innocent. I believe there’s more at play here than we can see. And I believe no one else is willing to do anything about it. Most people would rather stand in the fire and complain that it’s hot. But whether any of this is the Maker’s will…” She shook her head. “I can only guess.”

Lilith looked toward the mountains, where the scar of the Breach split the sky wide open.  “You don’t think I’m the Herald of Andraste,” she said.

Cassandra didn’t deny it. “I think you were sent to help us. I hope you were. But the Maker’s help takes many forms. Sometimes it’s hard to say who it’s meant to help - or why.”

“What happens now?” Lilith asked.

Cassandra’s answer was immediate. “Now we manage the Chantry’s panic before they make things worse. Then we close the Breach. We’re the only ones who can. After that, we find out who’s behind all of this and end them.”

Her voice was iron. But after a pause, it softened.

“And if there are consequences for what I’ve done… I’ll face them. I only pray the price isn’t too high.”

Lilith tilted her head. “You didn’t have much choice.”

Cassandra stopped walking, looking down at her boots for a long moment. “Didn’t I?”

She straightened again, the fire in her eyes returning. “My trainers used to say, ‘Cassandra, you’re too brash. You must think before you act.’ But I’ve always done what I thought needed doing. I don’t see the point in running around in circles like a dog chasing its tail. I see what must be done - and I do it.”

She met Lilith’s gaze. “I misjudged you in the beginning. I thought the answer was clear as day. I cannot afford to be so careless again.”

Lilith offered a faint smile. “Well, I can’t say I’m not glad to hear it. But it’s not like you had no reason to be suspicious.”

Cassandra exhaled. “I was determined to have someone to blame. Anyone.”

There was a silence between them then, and when Cassandra next spoke, her voice was quieter.

“You said before that you don’t believe you’re chosen. Does that mean you don’t believe in the Maker at all?”

Lilith hesitated. She felt it then, the edge of something old and bitter rising in her throat. It would be easy to speak plainly - too easy. But she wasn’t ready for that. Not here. Not with Cassandra, who still believed the world had a structure, a pattern, a divine will guiding it forward.

“I’m not sure it’s a question I have the right to answer,” Lilith said softly. “Not with any certainty.”

Cassandra looked at her sideways. “That sounds like a no.”

“I’ve seen… different gods,” Lilith murmured. “In different forms. Some kinder than others. Some who demand blood, and call it devotion. It makes it hard to know what to believe. But I know people find comfort in their faith. I don’t want to take that from anyone.”

Cassandra considered her for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“It must be comforting, to be so certain of your doubt.”

Lilith gave a small shrug. “Or just the only thing left when certainty’s burned out.”

Cassandra looked ahead again. “I have to believe we’re on this path for a reason. Even if you do not.”

Lilith didn’t answer right away. The wind had picked up, stirring the broken straw behind them. The air smelled like steel and ash and something faintly green - magic, restless and sharp.

“Then I suppose,” she said at last, “we’ll see where it leads.”

Cassandra nodded. “Yes. We will.”

The weight of their conversation still lingered in the cool afternoon air, but some of the tension had bled from Cassandra’s frame. She stood taller now, shoulders squared, purpose reclaiming its place in her posture.

Lilith, walking just beside her, let the quiet stretch a little longer before breaking it. “I was thinking,” she said, tone light, “about something you said to me. Back when I was still your favourite prisoner.”

Cassandra arched a brow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You mentioned I had some combat instincts,” Lilith replied. “Which, thank you - rare praise from a Seeker. But more importantly, you agreed to spar with me… if I survived.”

Cassandra gave her a sidelong glance. “I remember.”

“Well,” Lilith drawled, spreading her hands. “Here I am. Alive. Singed around the edges, maybe, but technically intact. I thought I might collect.”

Cassandra gave a soft huff, almost a laugh, and shook her head. “You are relentless.”

Lilith smiled. “Only when I want something.”

“I can’t promise I’ll last more than a few minutes,” Lilith continued. “But I figure if anyone can teach me to hold my own in close quarters, it’s you.”

Cassandra studied her for a moment. Then, without a word, she began walking towards the training yard. 

Lilith’s grin returned, quick and bright. “That’s a yes, then.”

Cassandra turned slightly, motioning her forward. “Try not to die.”

“I’ll do my best,” Lilith said, rolling her shoulders. “But no promises.”

Chapter Text

Haven’s training ring was buzzing - armor clinked, swords clashed, and the scent of sweat and frost filled the air. Lilith tossed her staff into a snowbank with a satisfying thunk , tugging her sleeves up to her elbows, preparing for her spar with Cassandra. 

"I'm starting to think people believe I can only set things on fire ," she muttered.

Cassandra shot her a sidelong look. "Because you often set things on fire ."

Lilith planted her hands on her hips, indignant. “Once. Twice . A week.”

“Three times yesterday,” Varric called from his perch on a barrel, flipping a coin. “Andraste’s ass, you're basically a fireplace with legs.”

A soft laugh to Lilith’s left made her glance over. Mira stood by the fence, arms wrapped tightly around a mug of tea that was probably half her body temperature by now. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, but she hadn’t moved since Lilith arrived. Just watching.

Lilith grinned. “You know what? Five silver says I beat Cassandra. No magic. Weapons only.”

Varric perked up immediately. “You’re betting on yourself?”

“Damn right I am.”

Cassandra’s sword paused mid-arc. “What?”

“I said no fire, no spells. Let’s see what else I’m good at.” Lilith was already striding into the sparring ring, the knife she’d borrowed from the armory spinning lazily between her fingers.

Mira blinked. “Wait, you’re fighting Cassandra?”

Lilith winked. “Hell yeah I am. She’s got the sword, I’ve got flair.”

Cassandra exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders. “As I said, don’t expect mercy.”

A few soldiers nearby slowed their drills, murmuring as they turned to watch. Varric stood up for a better view. Mira inched closer, eyes darting nervously between the Seeker and the grinning elf in the ring.

Round One

Lilith moved like a whisper - fast, precise, far more graceful than the stomping, shoulder-bashing style common to Haven’s yard. Cassandra’s opening strikes were heavy and sure, aimed to overwhelm. But Lilith ducked beneath one, slid to the side of another, her feet light on the snow-packed ground.

She wasn’t fighting like a soldier. She was fighting like something else - something older, blood-bound, and born to kill. Her movements were too precise, too ruthless. This wasn’t the training of a guard or a knight. This was the hand of Bhaal, sharpened on the screams of his victims and raised in the dark to slit throats before she learned how to write her name.

A flick of her wrist reversed the grip on her dagger. Cassandra overreached on a downward swing - and Lilith stepped inside the arc, batted the sword away, pivoting behind her in a blink.

The knife’s edge pressed to the back of Cassandra’s neck.

“Yield,” Lilith said sweetly.

The silence that followed was immediate, broken only by the faint clink of Varric’s coin as it dropped to the ground.

Cassandra straightened slowly. Her nostrils flared; her brows twitched just once. Then - grudgingly - she nodded. “You’ve had training.”

Lilith flashed teeth. “Please. I’ve killed people for less than bad ale.”

Varric whooped. “Alright, now who had ‘Cranky Seeker gets bested in under two minutes’? Payout’s ten to one!”

A couple of soldiers groaned and reached for their coin pouches. Even Mira let out a stunned laugh - quiet and startled, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just seen.

Cassandra turned her gaze to Lilith, sharper now. “Again.”

Lilith tilted her head. “Really?”

“You caught me off guard.”

“Mm,” Lilith said, stepping back. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Round Two

This time, Cassandra didn’t hold back.

She opened with a feint, then spun into a broad arc meant to knock Lilith clean off her feet. Lilith dodged, but just barely - already the tempo had changed. Cassandra’s strikes were relentless, and the ring suddenly felt much smaller.

Lilith adjusted fast. She slipped under a thrust, slid behind Cassandra again, tried the same maneuver - and found herself blocked by a swift back elbow and a low sweep of the leg that nearly sent her flying.

Cassandra smiled thinly. “You’re not the only one who adapts.”

“Oh, good,” Lilith panted. “It’s more fun when I have to try.”

She darted in with a flurry of quick strikes meant to disorient. The dagger flashed in the light, Cassandra blocked three, dodged the fourth - but not the fifth. Lilith caught the fabric just beneath her pauldron and pivoted hard.

The Seeker staggered, recovered - and then Lilith was behind her again, blade against her ribs.

A sharp intake of breath. Cassandra looked down, her sword halfway through a counter that hadn’t landed.

“Yield,” Lilith said again, quieter this time.

Cassandra held still for a beat. Then, with the barest edge of amusement - wounded pride beneath it - she nodded.

“Twice,” she muttered. “That’s twice.”

Lilith smiled and offered her hand. “You’re getting slower, Seeker.”

Cassandra took it with a snort. “Or you’re not just a mage.”

“Never said I was.”

From the edge of the ring, Varric applauded. “We have to start training days like this more often.”

Mira clapped her hands once, then immediately looked guilty for doing it. “That was... impressive.”

Lilith caught her eye and gave a two-finger salute. “Five silver well earned.”

“You still owe me tea,” Mira said, holding up her empty cup.

“Right. First I set things on fire, then I make tea. That’s the natural order of things.”

Round Three

Before Lilith could fully catch her breath, two cocky soldier recruits sauntered into the ring, blades drawn and grinning like idiots.

“Two on one’s hardly fair,” one said.

Lilith rolled her neck. “You’re absolutely right,” she said, voice dry. “I’ll try not to cry.”

A light ring of onlookers began to gather - Cullen, Bull, and Solas among them. Gasps and laughter rippled through the crowd.

They moved fast, but Lilith moved faster - and smarter. She baited the first into lunging, sidestepped, and kicked his knee inward with a brutal crack. While he was down, the second came from behind.

She let him grab her - then slammed her elbow into his ribs and headbutted him with a satisfying crack.

Both soldiers collapsed into the snow, wheezing and groaning.

Varric clutched his chest. “She’s feral! I love it!”

Lilith bowed deeply. “Was that fair enough for you?”

Mira clapped, startled. “That was incredible.”

Lilith winked at her, giving a mock bow. “Thank you, I try.”

“Nice footwork,” Cassandra called from the sideline, arms crossed.

Lilith offered her a quick salute. “Thanks. You weren’t exactly gentle with the warm-up.”

“She never is,” Varric muttered. “Remind me not to insult your mother in earshot again.”

Round 4

Then, before Lilith could respond, a voice piped up from the edge of the training yard.

“You’ve still got some fight in you.” Krem stepped forward, arms folded and eyes gleaming. “Feel like making it four for four?”

Lilith turned, brows lifting. “You volunteering?”

“I am,” he said, flashing a grin. “Think of it as charity. Or maybe community engagement.”

Behind him, Bull snorted. “More like pride management. He’s been dying to test you since you knocked him on his ass a few weeks ago.”

“I tripped,” Krem protested, not looking away from Lilith. “That’s different.”

Lilith tilted her head, arms folded across her chest, dagger swinging lazily in her fingertips. “Alright. I’ll bite. But don’t go crying to Bull when you’re eating dirt.”

Krem grinned as they squared off. “Don’t worry, I already warned him I’d be insufferable when I win.”

Lilith and Krem began to circle. He feinted left, then darted right, quick as a whip. Lilith caught the move in time, steel clashing with steel as their blades met. He was fast, clever - definitely not brute force like Bull. She had to give him credit: he knew how to dance.

Krem grinned through gritted teeth. “What, no snark? You’re starting to worry me.”

Lilith ducked beneath a sweeping arc and tried to get behind him. “I like to let the dagger do the talking.”

“Aw, and here I thought we had a rapport.”

Their blades clashed again, loud and bright in the open air. The rhythm of the fight sped up - strike, dodge, counter, twist. Krem tried to sweep her legs; she jumped it and pivoted, catching him lightly on the side with the flat of her blade.

“Point,” she said.

“Cheap shot,” he muttered, rubbing his ribs. “I was distracted by your charm.”

“Next time, try blinking less.”

Laughter rippled from the sidelines. Varric gave a low whistle. “I’m gonna need a pen. This is gold.”

“You’re both showboating,” Cassandra said, arms crossed but mouth twitching.

Krem adjusted his stance, not quite winded, but sweating now. “Alright,” he said, exhaling. “No more Mr. Nice Me.”

“Wait,” Lilith mock gasped. “That was you being nice?”

He lunged, feinted high, and went low - but Lilith twisted mid-step and swept behind him, slapping the flat of her blade against the back of his thigh. Krem staggered forward and turned, breathless, laughing.

“Damn, you’re quick.”

“I’ve been told.”

He swung again, and this time Lilith let him get closer. The clash rang through the air, and they locked blades, bracing against each other.

“You’re not bad,” she admitted, breath warm between them.

Krem’s grin widened. “Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

With a twist, she unbalanced him just enough to knock his blade from his hand. It landed in the dirt with a dull thunk.

“Shit.”

Lilith stepped back, panting lightly, dagger pointed low. “That’s three.”

The crowd clapped, scattered cheers rising as Krem held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Remind me to never pick a fight with you,” he said, grinning as he retrieved his weapon.

“I’ll make a list,” Lilith offered. “You won’t be lonely.”

Bull ambled forward as the onlookers dispersed, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“So let me get this straight,” he said. “Krem gets a round. Two of the soldiers get a round. Cassandra got two rounds. But me? Nothing.”

Lilith arched a brow. “I like having working ribs.”

“Aw, you wound me,” Bull said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “What, no trust?”

“No, just good instincts.”

Krem leaned on his sword and grinned. “She’s just smart, Chief.”

Lilith laughed and kept walking. Bull fell into step beside her, his bulk casting a long shadow over them.

“You were holding back,” he said.

She arched a brow. “With who?”

Bull snorted. “All of them. Cassandra, those soldiers, even Krem - and he was trying .”

“He slipped,” Lilith said with a shrug. “Bad footing.”

Bull gave her a look. “Cassandra’s a war-hardened Seeker, and you still landed clean hits under her guard. Those soldiers? You sized them up in seconds. And Krem - he’s no slouch, but you had him chasing shadows by the end.”

“Maybe I’m just naturally gifted,” she said lightly, feigning interest in a sparring dummy as they passed.

“Uh-huh. That double-feint you used to throw the first soldier? The bait-and-switch on Krem? That’s not instinct. That’s fieldwork. Improvisation. Dirty tricks. Quick kills.”

Lilith’s smile twitched - just a little too tight around the edges. “You always this flattering?”

“Only when someone’s trying to lie with their whole body,” Bull said mildly.

They walked a few more steps in silence. Wind tugged at her hair. Bull’s expression didn’t change much, but she could feel him watching her, weighing something.

“I’m just saying,” he added eventually, tone softer now. “If you ever want to talk shop - not the pretty noble duels, but the real stuff - we’ve got a bottle of something awful stashed away for that.”

Lilith didn’t answer right away. Then, “I’ll think about it.”

He grinned. “You do that. But next time, maybe don’t mop the floor with everyone if you’re trying to look average.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said primly.

“Sure you don’t,” he said, and clapped her on the back hard enough to make her stumble a step. “Just remember who’s watching when you show your teeth.”

Lilith laughed it off, tossing him a mock salute as they parted ways, but the echo of his words lingered. A little less trained. She kept her expression neutral as she made her way down the path, but inwardly, her thoughts spun. Bull wasn’t just making a joke. He’d seen something - read something - in her stance, her footwork, the way she moved like a predator playing at patience. Most people looked at her and just saw the Herald. He saw the mask slipping. And if he was starting to suspect there was more to her than robes and sarcasm… how long before someone else did too?

The sun was high when the road forked. Lilith squinted toward the farmland ahead - what was left of it, at least. Crumbling fences, scorched earth, and the hollow shells of homes lined the edge of the crossroads. She dismounted first, cloak flaring behind her, and approached the nearest living soul - a wiry man stacking stones beside a cart.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A Grey Warden. Might’ve passed through.”

The farmer straightened, brushing his hands on his trousers. “Ah, you mean Blackwall. A good man. Helped us when the demons came through.”

Lilith arched a brow. “During the Breach?”

“That what you’re calling it?” the man said, glancing toward the sky as if afraid it might rip open again. “All I know is things got bad, real bad. Blackwall showed up right after - kept the demons off us while we ran. Would’ve all died otherwise.”

“What happened after?”

“Well, we tried to scrape together what we could from the farms. Then the bandits came, stripped us bare. That seemed to be the last straw for him. He gathered up a few of the others and went after them.” He pointed down a dirt trail veering east. “That way. Haven’t seen them since.”

“I’ll find him,” Lilith said. “Thank you.”

“If you do, tell him we’re grateful,” the man said, a little wistful. “If I were younger, I’d have gone with him. No question.”

She nodded and turned, motioning for the others - Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and Bull - to follow.

They found the hut not far from the treeline, nestled in a grove of wind-warped trees. From a distance, it looked abandoned. But as they approached, the ring of shouted orders made it clear someone had made it a training ground.

“Line there!” a voice barked. “No gaps. Focus. They’ll know what that means!”

A broad-shouldered man paced in front of a small group of ragtag farmers holding worn shields and dulled weapons. His dark beard was flecked with grey, and his presence carried the kind of weight that didn’t come from rank alone.

“Remember how to carry your shields! You’re not hiding, you’re holding!”

Lilith stepped forward. “Warden Blackwall?”

He turned fast, eyes narrowing. “You’re not - how do you know my name? Who sent-?”

An arrow whistled from the trees. Lilith caught the movement just in time, lunging for a discarded shield and raising it in front of her. The arrow thunked into the wood with a solid crack.

Blackwall didn’t hesitate. “That’s it. You’re in or out - bandits are here. Conscripts! Form up!”

They came in fast - bandits in tattered leather and rage - but they weren’t prepared for a trained Warden or an Inquisition squad. Steel met flesh. Magic scorched the ground. The fight was brief but brutal.

When the last bandit fell, Blackwall drove his sword into the earth and knelt beside a corpse. “Sorry bastards,” he muttered, then rose and addressed the stunned farmers.

“Good work. You held. You did more than most would’ve. Take what they stole. Go home. You saved yourselves.”

They shuffled off, murmuring thanks, still clutching their shields like lifelines.

Lilith approached again, this time slower. Blackwall turned, watching her with guarded eyes.

“You’re no farmer,” he said. “Why do you know my name? Who are you?”

She offered a tired smile. “I’ve been called a lot of things lately.”

“Don’t dodge,” he snapped. “I asked you a question.”

Cassandra stepped in, voice clipped. “We’re with the Inquisition. We’re investigating why the Wardens disappeared. And whether that’s connected to the Divine’s murder.”

Lilith nodded. “You’re the first Warden I’ve been able to find. So far, you’re all that’s left.”

Blackwall’s brow furrowed. “The Wardens… vanished?” He shook his head. “Maker’s balls. I didn’t know. But I suppose I wouldn’t. We disappear all the time. Job done, Blight ended - no one remembers us. But no Warden would kill the Divine. We don’t play at politics.”

“I’m not accusing you,” Lilith said. “Not yet. But something’s happening. And it’s hard to ignore.”

“I haven’t seen another Warden in months,” he said. “I travel alone. Recruit where I can. Not many are interested - the Archdemon’s dead, and there’s no sign of another Blight. The treaties give us the right to conscript, so I used it. Those bandits had already taken too much. I told their victims to stand and fight. Now they won’t need me next time.”

“Do you know where the others might’ve gone?” Lilith asked.

“Maybe back to Weisshaupt,” Blackwall said. “It’s our fortress, in the Anderfels. Long way from here. But all of them vanishing? Doesn’t make sense.”

“Then why haven’t you?” she pressed. “If something’s drawing them away, why not you?”

Blackwall hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe I was supposed to. Maybe there’s an order I never got. I’ve been on my own a while. Was planning to stay that way.”

Lilith exhaled. “So I’ve found you. And you don’t know anything.”

He watched her a moment, expression unreadable. Then: “Hold on. You said you’re trying to fix things. The Divine is dead. The sky is torn open. The Wardens should be here. If they’re not - maybe you need one who is .”

Lilith tilted her head. “The Inquisition needs help, yes. But what can one Grey Warden do?”

Blackwall’s voice turned grim. “Save the world, if pressed. I’ve done worse. This may not be a Blight, but it’s a bloody disaster. And if you’re invoking the treaties - maybe it’s time someone honored them.”

She looked him over. There was steel in him, sure, and something like purpose burning beneath the weariness. But there was also something else. A shadow, maybe.

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Warden Blackwall,” she said at last.

His shoulders straightened, and for a moment, he looked almost proud. “Good to hear. Maybe it’s time I stopped skulking through the woods. This Warden walks with the Inquisition.”

As he turned to gather his things, Lilith lingered still. Something about him itched at the back of her mind - not quite wrong, but not right either. She’d met her share of liars, manipulators, men who wore stories like armor. Blackwall didn’t feel false. But he felt... unfinished .

She narrowed her eyes slightly. But she said nothing. Not yet.

The heavy doors groaned open under Lilith’s push, the familiar scent of parchment and polish greeting her like an old friend - or perhaps a wary ally. Inside, the advisors stood gathered around the long, carved table marked with pins and banners. A map of southern Thedas was stretched across it, candlelight casting shadows that danced over the disputed lines of war.

Cassandra was already mid-argument, arms crossed, jaw set. “The templars are organized, disciplined. We know their command structure. If we are to stabilize the region, we need order. The mages have been fractured since the rebellion.”

Leliana, standing just to the side with her hood lowered, gave a small, skeptical smile. “Order that comes with shackles, perhaps. I’ve seen the reports from Ferelden - villages scorched, refugees terrified. The mages are desperate, yes, but that makes them reachable. If we don’t offer an alliance, someone else will.”

Cullen shifted, his posture tight with uncertainty. “The templars could provide a military advantage. Our forces are limited, and they’re trained for battle. But…” He hesitated, then added, “Since leaving the Chantry, they've changed. They're not answering to any central authority. If we reach out, we don’t know what we’ll find.”

“Which is why you speak to the mages first,” Josephine said, voice calm and even. “If we approach them respectfully - as equals - there’s a chance for peace. A chance to gain allies without creating more enemies.”

Lilith lingered by the edge of the map, her fingers brushing the border of Ferelden. Her eyes caught on the tiny mark of Redcliffe - small, almost unremarkable next to the painted wound of the Breach.

“They’re not going to like it,” Cassandra muttered. “The Chantry, I mean. Siding openly with apostates.”

“They’re not going to like anything we do,” Leliana replied. “But the Chantry isn’t the one standing between us and the end of the world.”

Lilith looked up. “Redcliffe,” she said.

All heads turned toward her.

She straightened. “That’s where we go. To the mages. They’ve already organized something, enough to hold a place like that. If there’s even a chance we can reason with them, we need to try. The Breach doesn’t care who started what war. It just swallows everything.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened, but she gave a short nod. “If that is your decision.”

“We’ll make preparations immediately,” Josephine said, already reaching for a stack of reports.

Cullen hesitated. “We should be ready in case it turns hostile.”

“Hopefully it won't,” Lilith said quietly. “We’re not going for a fight.”

Leliana tilted her head. “You sound certain.”

Lilith’s voice softened. “Let’s just say… I know what desperation looks like.”

There was a beat of silence before Leliana gave a knowing nod, and Cassandra turned back to the table, already studying the approach routes to Redcliffe.

The room shifted into motion - scrolls unrolled, quills scratched, and messengers were summoned. Lilith stood at the edge, watching the flickering candlelight over the map. For now, the decision was made. And the path forward, however uncertain, had a direction.

Toward Redcliffe. Toward the mages. And toward whatever waited for them there.

The tavern was loud, hot, and far too full of people - which was precisely why it felt like a gift.

Lilith leaned against the edge of the table, a half-finished drink in one hand and a crooked smile on her lips as she watched Sera try - and fail spectacularly - to land a knife in the dead center of the target on the opposite wall. The blade clattered to the floor, at least a foot wide of the mark. Bull let out a roar of laughter beside her.

“Were you even aiming?” he called, raising his tankard.

Sera shot him a rude gesture. “Shut your trap, ox-man. That wall moved.”

“I believe,” Varric said, lounging nearby with his boots propped on another chair, “that walls are generally known for their stubborn stillness.”

“Y’know what’s not still?” Sera retorted, grabbing another knife from the table. “Your face, once I-”

“All right, all right,” Lilith cut in with a grin. “Let’s keep the games knife-free for now. Hells, we’re not even out of Haven yet.”

She chuckled and took another sip, the burn of the liquor warm and biting. The Singing Maiden was crowded with Inquisition soldiers and companions, all grasping at a final breath of levity before the road to Redcliffe. Laughter rang through the rafters. Someone had dragged in a battered lute and was strumming off-key in the corner. The whole place had the faint scent of spilled ale, sweat, and woodsmoke.

“You look like you’re actually having fun,” Varric said, elbowing her gently. “It suits you.”

“I’m working on it,” she replied, voice wry. “Joy is... a muscle. You have to train it.”

“Careful,” he warned. “If you get too comfortable around us, you might start smiling unironically.”

“Perish the thought.”

He tilted his head, eyeing her with something between curiosity and affection. “Speaking of muscle memory… You and Chuckles have been spending a lot of time together.”

Lilith arched a brow. “Are you trying to gossip with me, Varric?”

“I’m just saying, I saw you duck into his cabin the other night.” He gave a sage nod. “Could be innocent. Could be dramatically brooding with shared trauma. I respect either.”

She snorted. “It’s nothing like that.”

“No waterfall kiss yet?”

She gave him a flat look. “You’re such a writer. Why is there always a waterfall in these scenarios?”

“Atmosphere,” Varric said, gesturing broadly. “Misty lighting. Emotional subtext. Perfect setup for unspoken longing.”

“Tragic,” she murmured, shaking her head. “But no. Just friends, is all.”

Varric nodded, and for a moment, his usual irreverence faded.

“Well, for what it’s worth, Chuckles isn’t the worst company. Bit broody, but he’s got that whole ‘mysterious loner with depth’ thing going. Real crowd-pleaser in the right lighting.”

Lilith glanced across the tavern. Solas sat at the corner of the long table, a cup of wine untouched before him, watching the chaos with faint amusement. 

He caught her eye - and for a moment, something passed between them. Wordless. Subtle. Like a current beneath the surface.

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer,” Bull said, sliding into the seat beside her with the self-assurance of a man twice his already considerable size. “And not just the moody elf. I saw the way one of the scouts was looking at you.”

Lilith turned back, amused. “Which scout?”

“The one who nearly tripped over his own boots when you walked in. Cute, bit scrawny. Definitely not your type.”

“Good to know you’re keeping tabs on my love life.”

“I like to be informed,” Bull said with a wink. “But if you’re ever looking for something a little more… high-impact.” He flexed one enormous bicep.

Lilith laughed. “Bull, you flirt with anything that breathes.”

“Gotta keep morale up. It’s part of my job.”

“And modesty,” she said dryly. “Can’t forget that.”

“Modesty’s for the dead,” he said, lifting his mug in toast. “Or the boring.”

She was about to toss another retort when Bull suddenly nodded toward the back of the tavern. “Walk with me?”

She blinked, caught off guard. A flicker of hesitation passed through her - then she nodded.

They slipped out the side door, into the crisp night air. The tavern’s noise dulled behind them, swallowed by the wind rustling through the trees and the distant crackle of torches. Bull walked beside her, easy and quiet, hands hooked loosely into his belt.

“You’ve got that look about you, boss. You carry yourself like someone who’s used to being hunted.” he said at last, his voice low and even.

She glanced over, her pulse quickening, and huffed out a breath - almost a laugh, attempting to feign nonchalonce. “That obvious?”

“Nah. Not to most.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “Ben-Hassrath, remember? I’m trained to notice the tension under the smile. You laugh, sure, but your eyes are always moving. Still counting the exits.”

Lilith didn’t answer right away. The silence between them was thick, but not uncomfortable.

“I’ve known a lot of dangerous people,” he went on. “Spies, mercs… You- you're something else. Not just dangerous. Disciplined. That kind of control doesn’t come from talent. That’s lived-in. Earned.”

Her jaw tightened as her gaze drifted toward the tree line. She weighed him in silence. It had been so long - over a year - since she’d let herself trust anyone fully. Since she hadn’t been constantly looking over her shoulder. 

She’d been learning about the Qun lately. Idle questions, throwaway lines from Solas, the things Bull said when he wasn’t thinking too hard. A rigid system, brutally efficient. A kind of order built from obedience and erasure.

Not so different from what she’d known.

Maybe she couldn’t trust Bull - not completely. He was Ben-Hassrath, after all. But she was tired of doubting everyone around her. If she wanted to build something real with this strange, stubborn, mismatched group, she had to give a little, too.

“Back where I came from…” She hesitated, choosing each word with care. “I was supposed to be something. Chosen, even. I didn’t really have a choice - I followed every order like it was law. Let them shape me into whatever they wanted. And I believed in it. I thought that made me strong.”

“And now?” Bull asked quietly.

“Now I think it just made me hollow.” She let out a slow breath. “But I got out. Sort of. And I don’t even know who that makes me anymore.”

Bull was quiet for a few beats, his expression unreadable in the torchlight. Then he said, “The Qun teaches that purpose gives clarity. That when you know your place, the rest follows.”

She looked at him, curious.

“But even under the Qun,” he continued, “some questions don’t go away. You still have to live with yourself. Still have to ask who you are when the mission ends and the armor comes off.”

Lilith’s voice was soft. “Does it ever get easier?”

He gave a dry laugh. “No. But you get stronger. You get people who watch your back. And on the good days, you even laugh a little.”

She smiled, faint but genuine. “I want to be someone they can count on. Not just the Herald who fell out of the sky.”

He bumped her shoulder gently. “You’re off to a good start. Just don’t mop the floor with the entire barracks next time if you’re trying to fly under the radar.”

“No promises,” she said, a smirk tugging at her mouth.

They stood together for a moment, watching the wind tug at the torches and the moonlight spilling silver over the snow.

Then Bull clapped a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Alright, enough feelings. You owe me a card game. And I’m absolutely cheating.”

Lilith laughed, and this time it sounded like it belonged to her. “Lead the way.”

Back inside, Mira had joined their table, nursing a small glass of wine and hovering like she wasn’t sure if she was invited.

“Mira,” Lilith said warmly, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. “You joining us?”

“If that’s all right. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not,” Lilith said. “Sit. You’ve more than earned a drink.”

Mira smiled shyly and settled in just as Sera yelled from the other end of the room, holding up a deck of cards like a prize.

“Oi! Lilith! You in or what?”

Lilith glanced toward the gathering group - Sera, Varric, Bull, Krem, even Cassandra trying to look disinterested in a way that fooled absolutely no one.

“What are we playing?”

“Wicked Grace!” Sera declared. “Loser drinks. Winner gloats. Try not to lose your shirt.”

Lilith gave her an exaggerated salute, then glanced once more toward the far corner of the room. Solas still sat alone. Quiet, observing.

She crossed the tavern to him. “You’re not really a tavern person, are you?” she asked.

“I prefer quiet. Books. A fire, perhaps.”

“Of course you do.” She smiled. “But you came anyway.”

“There is value,” he said, “in observing the people one fights alongside.”

She studied him a moment, then offered her hand.

“Come on.”

He looked from her hand to her face. “To what end?”

“Cards. Laughter. Possibly losing your dignity.”

“I do not possess any dignity I cannot afford to part with.”

“Now that,” she said, “sounded suspiciously like fun.”

He hesitated just long enough to make her wonder if he’d refuse - then took her hand.

His fingers were warmer than she expected.

As they rejoined the group, Sera whooped. “Oi, Fancy’s playing? Maker’s saggy left - this’ll be good.”

They made room around the large table, clearing space as Varric claimed dealer rights with the dramatic flourish of a man who lived for the spotlight.

Mira sat on Lilith’s other side, still a little tense, but Lilith bumped her knee gently.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “They’re only terrifying if you let them win.”

The game began.

Varric bluffed boldly with a garbage hand. Sera called him immediately and threw down a straight with a crow of triumph.

Cassandra caught Krem cheating and slapped his hand hard enough to make him drop two extra cards. Bull lost the first round despite loudly claiming he’d never lost a game in his life.

“Luck,” he grumbled.

“Hubris,” Varric corrected.

Solas played with unnerving calm, his face unreadable, which only made Sera more determined to crack him.

“Do you even know how to have fun?” she asked, squinting at him.

“Fun,” he replied, “is a matter of perspective.”

Lilith leaned in. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He didn’t smile - but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Perhaps.”

Mira surprised everyone by winning a hand, whispering her strategy to Lilith under her breath.

“You’re all just loud,” she added, eyes glinting.

Lilith burst out laughing. “Maker, I think she just insulted all of us.”

“It's always the quiet ones!” Bull said cheerfully.

When Lilith finally won a round, Sera threw a peanut at her.

“Witch!” she declared.

“You wound me.”

“Oh, she’s definitely a witch,” Bull said. “The good kind. Cursed my heart the moment she walked in.”

“Bull.”

“I regret nothing.”

The game continued, easy and reckless, edged in drink and light and the comfort of camaraderie. Glances lingered. Jokes hit a little too close to truth. But no one seemed to mind.

Lilith’s knee brushed Solas’. He didn’t move away.

Mira leaned close again. “Think I should go all in?”

Lilith smirked. “Absolutely.”

She did. And won.

“I’m never playing against her again,” Varric declared. “She’s clearly some kind of ringer.”

“Just quiet,” Mira said softly, victorious.

Lilith looked around the table, heart lighter than it had been in weeks. Her people. For now, for this moment, it was enough.

Solas was watching her again. Not as a threat. But as someone trying - genuinely - to understand her.

She tossed another coin into the pot.

“Another hand?”

Sera slapped her cards down. “Always.”

And the game went on.

The dream always began in the same place.

A circle of stone, slick with blood. Walls too dark, too vast to see. Candles flickered at the edges like the eyes of watching beasts. And in the center, a ritual table - familiar. Drenched in memory.

Lilith stood barefoot on the cold floor. Her hands dripped red. Her breath came fast and shallow. 

They were all there.

Karlach knelt at the edge of the circle, bound and bleeding, her fire guttered to smoke. Shadowheart stood beside her, silent, glassy-eyed, reciting a prayer Lilith didn’t recognize in a voice that wasn’t her own. Gale was slumped to the side, half-conscious, mouth twitching as if working through a spell that wouldn't come.

And Astarion, of course, stood nearest her. Not pale - not anymore. His skin glowed with a sickly sheen, like moonlight reflected on bone. His eyes shone red, deep and full of mirth.

"You always were so good at this,” he said, circling her slowly. “You remember the way, don’t you? The blade, the heart, the name. In that order.”

Lilith’s jaw clenched. Her body moved without her will - reaching for the knife laid out before her.

“Don’t disappoint me, darling,” he whispered into her ear. “They all think you’re better now. Brighter. But I know you. I remember who you are when the world stops watching.”

She turned to him, voice flat. “I’m not yours anymore.”

His smile widened. “But you were. And oh, how you shone.”

The knife was in her hand. Her fingers wouldn’t let it go.

Karlach tried to speak. “Lilith, don’t-”

“Shhh,” Astarion crooned. “Let her work.”

Lilith looked down at her hands, at the edge of the blade, and blinked. Once. Twice. No weight. No heat. No scent of blood. Just… illusion. Familiar. Manipulated.

She exhaled sharply. “This isn’t real.”

Astarion tilted his head, mockingly. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” she snarled. With a sudden, fierce surge of will - sharp, brutal, unrelenting - she thrust back against the nightmare.

The blood circle shattered like jagged glass exploding underfoot, and Astarion’s face twisted grotesquely, melting into something boneless and grinning, before dissolving entirely.

The dreamscape buckled-

-and Lilith slammed into the floating stone floor, palms skidding across its cool, polished surface. Jasmine and static filled her lungs. The air was soft and thick, like the moment before a summer storm.

She groaned, breath ragged, and pushed herself upright. The stars below pulsed in a slow rhythm. Her fingers trembled.

And of course, he was already waiting.

Solas sat on a chaise atop a raised platform just ahead, reading a book. This time, he looked up.

“Rough dream?” he asked.

She gave a hollow laugh. “What gave it away? The entrance or the face full of floor?”

He studied her, expression unreadable. “Was it the same dream as before?”

Lilith rose slowly, brushing her hands off on her thighs. “Oh, you know. The classics. Blades. Arrogance.” She made a vague spiral with one hand. “Whimsy.”

Solas tilted his head. “And you dispelled it yourself.”

“Didn’t feel like I had a choice,” she said, exhaling. “But I’m getting better at breaking the spell.”

That earned a faint smirk. “Progress, then.”

She stepped closer, humming. “Or just survival.”

“Perhaps both.”

The Fade shimmered around them - soft, silver light rippling across a dreamscape that resembled a half-forgotten library. Towering shelves curled impossibly into the sky, and the scent of parchment hung thick in the air.

Lilith stood beside a long-forgotten window, the glass warped and starlit. “Do you think we’re making the right call?” she asked quietly, not turning.

Solas glanced up again from his book, one brow lifting. “You mean approaching the mages.”

She nodded, arms folded. “They’re angry. Scared. And not exactly thrilled with the Inquisition. I just… I don’t know if showing up with open hands is wisdom or suicide.”

Solas closed the book gently, dust motes curling around the motion like mist. “Mages are not a monolith,” he said. “Some will listen. Others may not. But they deserve the chance to choose.”

Lilith’s mouth quirked. “You sound idealistic.”

“I am many things,” Solas said, stepping towards her, “but idealism is rarely one of them. I believe in consequence. And in leverage.”

She turned to face him then, searching his expression. “So we bring them a choice. Not a command.”

He inclined his head. “Exactly. That alone may make the difference.”

Lilith exhaled slowly, glancing once more at the unreal stars above. “Still feels like a gamble.”

“All meaningful choices are,” he murmured.

She met his gaze and held it. “And what would you bet on?”

Solas paused. Then, with quiet certainty: “You.”

The Fade rustled around them like breath.

Lilith looked away first, a little too quickly. “Then let’s hope you’re right.”

Solas didn’t answer - but his silence, as always, said plenty.

“So,” she murmured, tone playful but eyes steady, “what’s it like, being the most insufferable scholar in the Fade?”

That earned a rare smile - genuine, crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Fortunately, I have a high tolerance for the insufferable.”

She arched a brow. “You mean me, don’t you?”

He leaned in, voice low and careful, as if weighing each word. “Tolerance is often the quietest beginning.”

She smirked, but didn’t look away - like she’d heard more than he’d said and meant to make him wonder.

They sat in that stillness a moment longer, stars wheeling above them. Eventually, Lilith drew a slow breath. “Do you ever wonder who you’d be, if you hadn’t…” She let the thought trail off. “If things had turned out different?”

Solas’s gaze flicked to her. “Often. Though wondering does not change the road behind us.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You sound like someone who took a wrong turn.”

He offered the ghost of a smile. “Or someone who reached the end of a path and found it wasn’t a destination.”

She huffed softly. “Do you always talk like that?”

“Only when words must serve more than meaning.”

That startled a laugh from her. “And here I thought you were just mysterious by nature.”

He smirked, looking away from her. 

Lilith sat back down and leaned back on her hands, tilting her head up. “When I was little, I used to pretend I came from the stars. I’d make up names for the constellations, stories for how I got stuck down here. Cursed princess. Lost spirit. That sort of thing.”

Solas sat down too, looking at her for a long moment. “What did you decide in the end?”

She smiled faintly. “That I was a monster someone tried to make into a girl.”

A pause. There was a tenderness in the air now, the kind that followed honesty - unguarded, dangerous.

“I don’t see a monster,” Solas said quietly. “Only someone trying to determine what shape her spirit will take.”

She looked over, startled despite herself. “Poetic.”

“I speak the language of the Fade,” he said, as if that explained it. And perhaps it did.

There was something gentle in the quiet that followed, like breath before a question.

“I saw you,” she said, “when I broke the nightmare. Just for a second. Before the floor hit me in the face.”

He chuckled softly. “You are welcome.”

She grinned, leaning a little closer. “You always wait until I’ve done the hard part before showing up?”

“I find people are less inclined to trust what comes too easily.”

Lilith squinted. “Is that a riddle or a confession?”

“Yes.”

That made her laugh again, low and warm. “You’re lucky you’re pretty when you’re cryptic.”

Solas blinked, then gave her a look both startled and amused. “Pretty?”

Lilith gave a faux-thoughtful nod. “Painfully so. Tragic, really. All that brooding. Such a waste.”

He tilted his head, bemused. “And here I believed you merely endured my company out of necessity.”

“Oh, I tolerate you,” she said, inching closer. “But I never said it wasn’t fun.”

He tilted his head, eyes alight with quiet mischief. “Careful. Flattery is a dangerous game in the Fade.”

“I like dangerous games.” Her voice dipped lower, not teasing exactly - just honest.

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her. Really looked.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said softly.

“Good,” she murmured. “I’m tired of being predictable.”

The silence that followed felt different this time - charged, liminal. Like standing on the edge of something neither of them had quite named.

Then Lilith stood, brushing dust from her hands like shaking off the spell. “Come on. If I stay here too long, I might start talking about my feelings, and we can’t have that.”

Solas rose with her, slow and fluid. “Perish the thought.”

She glanced back at him, mouth curling. “Let’s skip the lesson tonight. Same time tomorrow?”

His expression didn’t shift - but something in his voice warmed. “Ma nuvenin, da'len.”

And when she woke, heart pounding in the quiet dark, the dream was already fading. But the feeling lingered - like the ghost of touch, or the moment just before you fall.

Chapter Text

“Why do I always get the feeling we’re walking straight into a trap?” Lilith asked, adjusting her grip on her staff as they climbed the trail up to Redcliffe.

“Because we are,” Varric replied cheerfully. “But at least it’s a trap with fresh air and a lovely view.”

“I was promised mages,” she muttered. “Instead, I get bandits, wolves, and a goat named Gerald who bit me.”

“I told you not to touch it,” Cassandra said over her shoulder.

“It winked at me, Cassandra. How could I resist?.”

Solas chuckled under his breath. “You did attempt to charm a goat. The outcome seems rather proportionate.”

Lilith glanced at him sideways. “Careful. That sounded suspiciously like a joke.”

He didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

The road to Redcliffe curled through hills gone pale with mist, but ahead, the village gates stood sharp and defined - and wrong. Just beyond them, something shimmered in the air, green and pulsing like a wound. A rift, gaping and volatile, hissed magic into the air like breath through broken teeth.

A soldier bolted past the Inquisition party, his face slick with sweat. “Keep a constant watch on the damned thing!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Sound the alarm the moment you see a demon!”

Another guard, this one barely older than a boy, paused long enough to glance at the approaching group. “Watch yourself, traveler!” he cried. “The Veil’s ripped wide open, and Maker-knows-what could come out!”

Lilith narrowed her eyes at the rift. It throbbed with unstable energy, radiating out in strange waves. For a second, she felt her heartbeat skip - then rush, then slow. Time bent around it like heat on stone.

A third soldier tried to intercept them, sword drawn. “Turn back! We can’t open the gates until the threat’s-!”

The rift screamed.

Figures clawed their way from the breach - twisted silhouettes that howled as they emerged, half-formed things of spirit and shadow. The party had barely drawn weapons before the air split with a pulse that sent Lilith reeling.

She staggered sideways. Varric’s shout reached her seconds too late. Iron Bull moved like molasses; a demon flickered forward in a blur.

Time felt like it was breaking .

“Fall back!” Cassandra barked, voice distorted.

No. No time for that. Lilith pulled her staff and pushed through the dissonance, magic crackling at her fingertips. She reached for the rift - into it - and drove her will like a blade.

It shattered open, then imploded. Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

Lilith stood at the center, breath fogging the air. Her limbs trembled slightly, uncertain whether to speed up or slow down. 

“…What was that?” she murmured, eyes still on the space where the rift had been.

Solas stepped forward, gaze fixed on the residual shimmer fading into the air. “That breach altered the flow of time around itself. It didn’t just weaken the Veil - it warped it.” He sounded almost reverent. “Fascinating. And deeply concerning.”

“I think we could’ve skipped these things getting weirder ,” Varric muttered, lowering Bianca.

Iron Bull grunted. “See? This is why my people don’t like magic.”

Lilith shook out her fingers, steadying herself. “There are a lot of mages in Redcliffe. Maybe Fiona will know what’s happening here.”

One of the soldiers crept forward, gawking at the closed rift. “Maker have mercy… is it over? Open the gates!”

The massive wooden doors creaked open. Beyond them, Redcliffe looked peaceful - but it was an illusion. The air still felt off . Too thin, too quiet. They stepped through as the scouts came to meet them.

“You’re from the Inquisition?” the lead scout asked. “We spread word you were coming, but… no one here was expecting you.”

Lilith frowned. “No one? Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

“If she was, she didn’t say. We’ve arranged space for you at the Gull & Lantern, if you want to begin negotiations.”

Before she could respond, a young elf hurried over, nearly tripping in his haste. “Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies!” he said. “Magister Alexius is overseeing things now, but he hasn’t arrived yet. You may speak with the former grand enchanter in the meantime.”

He gestured toward the tavern before ducking away.

Lilith turned, mouthing to the group, “ Former Grand Enchanter?”

Cassandra replied grimly, “We should speak with her immediately.”

Solas, already scanning the horizon and not quite listening, murmured, “The Veil is weaker here than it was in Haven. And not just weak - altered. Shaped. I have never seen anything like it.”

They crossed into the heart of Redcliffe, the village too quiet around them. The Gull & Lantern’s sign creaked in the wind. Inside, warmth and candlelight offered a fragile comfort, one that shattered the moment they stepped through the door and spotted her.

Fiona stood at the far end of the room, tense, but regal. “Welcome, agents of the Inquisition,” she said. “What brings you to Redcliffe?”

Lilith hesitated, watching her closely for any flicker of irony. “We’re here because of your invitation. You approached us in Val Royeaux.”

Fiona blinked. “You must be mistaken. I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no mistake. While the templars were withdrawing, you appeared in the Grand Plaza and invited us here.”

The grand enchanter faltered. “The templars… left Val Royeaux?” She shook her head slightly. “That sounds… odd. Why does that sound strange ?”

Her tone changed, then. Firmer; resigned.

“Whoever sent you, whatever you were told - the situation has changed. The mages of Ferelden have already pledged themselves to the Tevinter Imperium.”

Lilith’s gaze snapped to her companions, searching their expressions for a measure of the fallout. Most were stunned into stillness.

She looked to Solas. His face remained unreadable, but his shoulders had gone rigid - like a bowstring pulled taut.

Varric let out a low whistle. “Andraste’s ass… I’m trying to think of a single worse thing you could’ve done, and I’ve got nothing.”

“I understand you are afraid,” Solas said, calm but firm. “But you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter.”

Iron Bull crossed his arms. “This right here is why you can’t trust mages. First it’s rebellions, now it’s inviting slavers through the front door.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened. “An alliance with Tevinter ? Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you?”

Fiona held up a hand. “I understand your anger. But as one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate.”

Lilith’s voice turned sharp. “So, that’s it? You handed your people over to Tevinter - and what about the rifts? The one we just closed outside your gates ?”

Fiona sighed, the weight of it bowing her shoulders. “All hope of peace died with Divine Justinia. The bargain with Tevinter… it was not my first choice. But we were losing. I chose the survival of my people over annihilation.”

“I have not forgotten the Breach,” she added. “But we can only fight one war at a time. The templars were immediate. If we live, then we can face the Veil.”

Footsteps echoed from the hallway behind her. Two figures stepped into the tavern, both robed in Tevinter finery. One moved with studied grace, a predator in diplomat’s clothing.

“Welcome, my friends,” said Magister Gereon Alexius, lips curling into a pleasant smile. “Apologies for the delay.”

Fiona straightened. “Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Alexius.”

He dipped his head. “The southern mages are now under my command.”

Then, his eyes fell on Lilith, narrowing with unsettling intensity. “And you,” he said, his voice softening, growing silkier with interest. “You are the survivor, yes? The one who emerged from the Fade.”

Lilith’s spine straightened. The air around her felt suddenly colder.

Alexius stepped closer, eyes glittering with a strange hunger. “You’re quite the curiosity, aren’t you?” His voice dropped to something almost intimate - admiring in a way that made her skin crawl. “You’re not like the others. I can see it in the Weave of you.”

Lilith went very still. Not Fade . Not magic . Weave . That word - the way he said it - did not belong in Thedas.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She kept her expression neutral, but her hand drifted, slow and casual, toward the staff strapped at her back.

Alexius’s smile curved into something colder, knowing. “There are those,” he murmured, “who would go to great lengths to understand what you are.”

Lilith didn’t respond. She didn’t trust her voice. A quiet, familiar panic twisted in her gut, dark and thick like smoke. He knew. Maybe not everything, but enough.

She forced herself to speak, cool and measured. “The grand enchanter told me she was - how did she put it - ‘indentured to a magister.’ Was that you?”

Alexius spread his hands, a gesture of affected graciousness. “Our southern brethren, regrettably, have no legal standing in the Imperium. Not having been born citizens, they must serve a period of ten years before attaining full rights. As their patron and protector, I oversee the terms of their service.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. “When, exactly, did you negotiate this arrangement with Fiona?”

Alexius sighed, as though burdened by the weight of necessity. “When the Conclave was destroyed, these poor souls faced slaughter at the hands of the templars, who struck without warning. It could only be through divine providence that I arrived when I did.”

Fiona, standing stiff beside him, nodded with an uneasy smile. “It was certainly… very timely.”

Lilith turned her gaze back to the magister. “What does the Imperium gain from taking in rebel mages from the south? Sounds rather generous.”

Alexius gave a short, pleasant laugh. “At present? The southern mages are quite the expense. But once properly trained, they will be a valuable addition to our legions.”

Fiona’s head whipped around. “You said not all my people would be military! There are children, scholars - those not suited-”

Alexius silenced her with a sharp glance and a smile that never reached his eyes. “And one day,” he said smoothly, “I’m sure they will all make productive citizens of the Imperium. When their debts are paid.”

Cassandra’s voice rang out, hard with suspicion. “I’ve seen no sign of Redcliffe’s Arl or his men.”

Alexius turned toward her with carefully measured regret. “Ah. The Arl of Redcliffe… left the village.”

Varric folded his arms. “ Left . That’s a polite way of saying ‘you threw him out on his ass.’”

Cassandra frowned. “Arl Teagan did not abandon his lands even during the Blight. He stood his ground when monsters were at his gates.”

Alexius waved a hand, as if swatting away a trifling concern. “There were… tensions. I feared an incident. It was best for everyone.”

Lilith tilted her head, voice like ice. “You’re quite a long way from Minrathous, Magister Alexius.”

Alexius’s smile sharpened - not friendly, not warm, but pleased , as though they were sharing a secret. “Indeed,” he murmured. “But then, so are you. I suspect your journey was rather longer than mine.”

It was casual. A throwaway line, meaningless to anyone else. But the way he said it - soft, deliberate, with the faintest tilt of emphasis - landed like a blade between her ribs.

Her jaw tightened. She forced her tone steady. “I’m here to secure the help of the mages. The Breach isn’t going to close itself.”

Alexius let out a light laugh, full of knowing amusement. “Ah, yes. Right to business, of course. How very… pragmatic.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes still locked on hers, watching her like a puzzle he already knew how to solve.

He stepped aside, gesturing to a nearby table tucked in a corner of the tavern, a seat already prepared. “Please, come. We can speak further.”

Lilith hesitated just long enough to catch Fiona’s expression - strained, uncomfortable. But she followed.

Alexius took the seat across from her with practiced ease, folding his hands together. “Felix,” he called over his shoulder, “would you send for a scribe, please?”

A young man, seated nearby and trying not to look exhausted, rose immediately. He bowed to the group, especially to Lilith, and gave a faint smile.

“My son,” Alexius said with a note of pride. “Felix. An excellent boy.”

Felix nodded once more and departed.

“I’m not surprised you’re here,” Alexius said, turning his full attention back to Lilith. “Containing the Breach… not a task for the meek. There is no telling how many mages would be required to sustain such an effort. Ambitious, indeed.”

Lilith leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “When you’re dealing with a gaping tear in the sky that vomits demons into the world, thinking small isn’t an option.”

Across from her, Alexius chuckled. But it was a thin sound, all performance. His eyes remained fixed on her, gleaming - not with humor, but calculation.

“Well said,” he murmured. “There will have to be-”

The door opened behind them. Footsteps hurried across the tavern floor.

“-adjustments,” Alexius finished, turning his head just as a young man approached: Felix, returning with a tightness to his movements that hadn’t been there before.

He looked pale, his jaw clenched as if holding something back. And as he reached the table, his step faltered.

“Felix,” Alexius snapped, just as his son stumbled - directly into Lilith.

Her hand went to her staff out of instinct, but Felix caught himself quickly, grasping her hand in apology.

“My lady,” he said breathlessly, voice tight. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. His hand lingered a moment too long - just long enough for her to feel something pressed into her palm.

Alexius was already rising from his seat, his tone clipped with concern. “Felix. Are you all right?”

Felix stepped back, straightening with effort. “I’m fine, Father.”

Alexius’s expression shifted, irritation glimmering beneath a mask of care. “Come. I’ll get your powders.” He turned back to the table with a thin-lipped smile. “Please excuse me, friends. It seems we must postpone our little discussion. Fiona, I’ll require your assistance back at the castle.”

Fiona hesitated, glancing at Lilith with something like apology. “Of course, Magister.”

“I don’t mean to trouble everyone,” Felix added, eyes briefly meeting Lilith’s - something unspoken and urgent flashing in them.

Alexius placed a guiding hand on his son’s back, too firm to be gentle. “You needn’t explain, Felix. Come.”

He turned toward the door, adding without looking back, “I’ll send word to the Inquisition. We’ll conclude our business soon.”

The three of them departed - Alexius’s robes trailing behind him like a curtain closing on a stage - and the tavern fell abruptly quieter.

Lilith waited, breath tight in her chest, until the door shut behind them. Only then did she look down and slowly uncurl her fingers.

In her palm sat a folded scrap of parchment, hastily creased, the ink slightly smudged. She opened it with care.

Come to the Chantry. You are in danger.

Her stomach twisted. Behind her, Varric gave a low whistle. “Oh, very interesting.”

Cassandra leaned in, catching sight of the parchment. Her expression darkened. “Did the magister’s son give you that? Why would he help us?”

Solas didn’t take his eyes off the note. “It’s unsigned. That suggests he feared it would be found - by someone who wouldn’t take kindly to it.”

Lilith tucked it away into her sleeve. “We’ll be careful. But something’s wrong here. Alexius knew more than he was saying.”

Solas nodded. “A man like that doesn’t waste words. Every phrase is deliberate. If his son risked warning us, we should assume there’s real danger - and likely more than one kind.”

Lilith exhaled through her nose, slow and steady. “Then we need to act - fast.”

“We’ll be cautious,” Cassandra said. “Weapons ready, no one goes alone.”

Varric loaded a fresh bolt into Bianca with a click. “You know, the last time I followed a secret invitation like this, it ended with poison wine and a banshee impersonating someone’s grandmother.”

Lilith arched a brow. “Charming.”

“You’re not wrong,” he said, slinging Bianca over his shoulder. “But, if Felix is on our side, we need to hear him out before dear old dad tightens the leash.”

Solas moved toward the door, his expression unreadable. “Whatever this is, it’s already begun.”

Lilith followed him out into the Redcliffe air, the cold wind catching the edge of her cloak. She could feel the note against her wrist, its presence burning like a brand.

You are in danger.

The heavy doors of the Redcliffe Chantry creaked open on half-broken hinges. Dust motes swirled in the dim light filtering through cracked stained glass. The party stepped inside - only to find chaos already unfolding.

A man stood at the center of the nave, elegant robes disheveled, staff in hand, as he brought it down hard against a shrieking shade. Another flick of his wrist sent a flare of light arcing toward the rift at the altar, where jagged green energy tore at the air.

"Good," the man called, spotting them. "You're finally here! Now help me close this, would you?"

They leapt into the fray. The rift bucked and screamed, warping the air around it as demons spilled forth, flickering in and out of phase like they didn’t belong in the moment they inhabited. They managed to force it closed, the air snapping still.

The man approached, brushing dust from his sleeves. He was striking in the way some people just were - dark hair, a roguish cut to his smile, eyes that burned with wit and disdain in equal measure.

He fixed Lilith with a look that made it feel like she was being measured for something expensive. “Fascinating. How does that work, exactly? You don’t even know , do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom - rifts collapse.”

Lilith cocked her head, lips tugging into a smirk. “And you are?”

“Ah. Forgive me. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. A pleasure.” He sketched a dramatic bow, more flair than formality.

“Watch yourself,” Iron Bull said, arms crossed. “The pretty ones are always the worst.”

Dorian straightened, raising a brow. “Suspicious friends you keep.”

Lilith ignored the jab, eyes flicking to the now-sealed rift. “I was expecting Felix.”

Dorian waved a hand. “He was supposed to pass along the note, then meet us here. I’m sure he’s on his way. Unless his father’s decided to swaddle him in silk and lock him in a tower.”

“Alexius nearly tripped over himself to get to Felix when he collapsed,” Lilith said. “Is he really sick?”

Dorian hesitated for a beat. “He’s been ill for months. Something lingering. Alexius is... attentive. Possibly too attentive.”

Cassandra stepped forward, her voice hard with suspicion. “Are you a magister?”

“Oh, let’s get this over with.” Dorian turned toward her with theatrical weariness. “Yes, I’m a mage from Tevinter. No, I am not a magister. I know you southerners tend to lump us all together, but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”

“Alexius was your mentor?” she asked. “So you’re betraying him because…?”

“Because I’m no longer his apprentice,” Dorian replied crisply, then smirked. “And because I have an almost functioning conscience.”

“Stop talking like you’re expecting applause,” Lilith said, folding her arms. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Dorian made an exaggerated sigh. “No applause? What a cruel world.”

“Was it you who sent the note?” she pressed.

“It was. Someone had to warn you.” His voice dropped a little, eyes narrowing. “You’ve already felt it, haven’t you? That something’s wrong. That this whole Redcliffe arrangement is far too neat. All the rebel mages, tucked away here like ducks in a row, and Alexius just happens to be at the center of it?”

Lilith’s expression didn’t shift, but something cold curled in her gut.

“Let’s start with Alexius claiming all the rebel mages out from under you,” Dorian went on. “As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

Lilith scoffed. “I hope that’s less dangerous than it sounds.”

“More.” Dorian smirked, wryly. 

She sighed. “Great. So, he arranged it so he could arrive here just after the Divine died?”

“You catch on quick.”

Solas, ever the scholar, chimed in, “That is fascinating, if true… and almost certainly dangerous.”

Dorian continued, “The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.”

Lilith watched Dorian for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing. “Why should I believe any of this?”

“I know what I’m talking about. I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it? Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

At that moment, the door creaked again, and Felix slipped inside, his face pale, shoulders tense. “He didn’t do it for the mages.”

Dorian turned. “Took you long enough. Is he getting suspicious?”

Felix shook his head. “Not yet. But I shouldn’t have used the fainting act. He’s hovering more than usual.”

Lilith looked between them. “You’re working against your own father?”

Felix didn’t flinch. “Because I love him. And because I love my country. But this?” He shook his head. “He’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves the Venatori. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you .” 

Lilith blinked. “Cults. Of course. And here I didn’t get Alexius anything, while he went and did all this for me.”

Dorian quirked a smile. “You could always send a fruit basket. Everyone loves those.”

“But seriously,” Lilith said, her smirk fading.  Her voice was quiet now, almost careful. She didn’t say what she was thinking - that somehow, impossibly, he knew. Something about her blood. Her past. And if Alexius had found it… who else had?

“Why me? Why would he go this far?” 

Felix’s expression tightened. “They’re obsessed with you. I don’t know why. Maybe because you survived the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Maybe because you can close the rifts. You’re… significant.”

“Or dangerous,” Dorian added. “Which is the same thing, depending on who’s looking.”

Lilith didn’t answer immediately. She felt the familiar chill of being watched, not just by eyes in a room, but by forces . By fate.

“If the Venatori are involved in this,” Felix said quietly, “if they had anything to do with the Breach, they’re even worse than I feared.”

“Why now?” Cassandra demanded. “Why not stop your father sooner?”

“I’ve tried,” Felix said. “You think I wanted this? I thought he was just chasing influence. But this is beyond politics. Beyond pride. It’s madness. For his sake, for all of Thedas - you have to stop him.”

Dorian nodded solemnly. “And it would be lovely if he didn’t rip the fabric of reality while he’s at it. There’s already a hole in the sky. We don’t need a matching one in the world.”

Lilith narrowed her eyes. “I’m not afraid of Alexius.”

“Good,” Dorian said. “You’re his target. Knowing that? It means you can prepare. Expect the trap. That’s the first step in springing it in your favor.”

He turned to go, then paused. “I can’t stay in Redcliffe. If he learns I’m here, everything changes. But when you move against him - call for me. I want to be there.”

“I’ll send word to Haven,” Lilith said.

Dorian inclined his head in something like respect. “Then until we meet again.”

He stepped away, but glanced over his shoulder at Felix. “And you - try not to get yourself killed.”

Felix gave him a wan smile. “There are worse things than dying, Dorian.”

Lilith watched him leave, a swirl of velvet and firelight.

The others followed her out into the cold, unsettled air of Redcliffe.

“Does Tevinter really need cults?” Varric muttered. “Aren’t they weird enough?”

“The word you’re looking for,” Cassandra replied, “is dangerous .”

Iron Bull cracked his neck. “Vints are all crazy. If it’s not cults, it’s demons, or musical theater, or something.”

Solas spoke last, his voice low. “They have torn open more than just the Veil. So no - I doubt they need a cult on top of it.”

Lilith walked a step behind, her thoughts whirling like ash on the wind.

The road stretched ahead in lazy curves, sun slanting low through the trees. It was the kind of crisp air that hinted at early frost, the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke clinging to every breath. The group rode in loose formation back to Haven, horses plodding steadily along the dirt path.

Varric cleared his throat dramatically, breaking the silence. “Alright. Research question. For a book.”

Lilith twisted in her saddle, half-suspicious. “Don’t tell me you’re writing a book about the Inquisition.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Scorcher,” he said, smirking. “Now - if you had to be haunted by one of your past romantic partners, who would you pick?”

Cassandra made a noise halfway between disbelief and disdain. “What sort of question is that?”

“A good one,” Bull said, amused. “C’mon, Seeker. Don’t pretend you don’t have a tragic ex somewhere in your past.”

“I do not,” she snapped, then muttered, “...and even if I did, they would not be the haunting type.”

“I’d pick Mavris,” Bull said cheerfully. “Fun guy. Great cook. Died screaming, but who hasn’t?”

Lilith laughed under her breath but didn’t answer right away. She felt the warmth of the sun on her cheeks and the way all their voices swam in a soft cocoon around her - safe, if only briefly. The question had been ridiculous, but not pointless.

It had been a long time since anyone asked her something like that. Longer still since she let herself imagine a future where love wasn’t just a weapon - or a liability.

Kaelen. She nearly swallowed the name. Bit it back the moment it touched the tip of her tongue. He didn’t belong in this world, not really. And she wasn’t sure if she could stand the questions if anyone pushed.

But it felt good to talk about him - about this burden she carries. And there was trust here, she realized. Not total, not yet. But enough.

“My haunting would be… Kaelen.”

The others turned toward her with varying expressions.

“He was sweet,” she said, almost defensively. “And had very little shame. He’d probably just whisper bad poetry in my ear at inopportune times.”

A flicker of melancholy crossed her face. Her voice had softened, turned wistful without her meaning it to.

She continued. “He once serenaded me during a bar fight. With a tambourine.”

Varric gave a low whistle. “That’s one way to stay memorable.”

Bull let out a loud, delighted laugh. “Maker’s balls, I like this guy.”

Even Solas blinked, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.

She fell quiet, fingers tightening around the pendant at her throat. Bull had said like, and she hadn’t corrected him. A single word, but it lodged deep - present tense, as though Kaelen still lingered somewhere just out of sight, waiting to be found.

They rounded a bend in the trail, pine needles crackling softly under the horses’ hooves. The silence that followed was warmer now, settled.

“Hey, Scorcher,” Varric called up. “You think ghosts get offended if you pick the wrong one?”

“I assume they’d just add it to the list of things they’re haunting you for ,” she said.

Cassandra sighed. “We are returning from a mission involving dark magic, and this is the conversation?”

“It’s called morale-building,” Varric replied. “You’d miss it if I died.”

“Which we are working very hard to prevent,” she muttered sarcastically.

“I can’t die until I find someone else with Bull’s exact combination of charm and complete moral depravity,” Lilith said.

“Aww,” Bull said, mock-flattered. “You do like me.”

“I tolerate you.” She shot a glance at Solas - pointed, amused. A mirror of what she’d told him not long ago.

“Same thing.”

Solas exhaled quietly, shaking his head. “You’re all deeply unserious.”

“Right,” Lilith said, smiling. “And you’re the paragon of restraint.”

“I am,” he replied, completely straight-faced. “It is exhausting.”

Lilith blinked, then barked a laugh. Even Cassandra snorted despite herself.

They rode on, the mountains rising slowly in the distance, and for a little while longer, the world felt, if not safe, then at least like something they could share.

The war room was quieter than usual, though tension hung over the table like a storm cloud waiting to burst. Candles flickered along the stone walls, throwing long shadows over the gathered advisors. Lilith stepped forward, the faint echo of her boots on stone drawing their eyes.

“We’ve made our decision,” she said. “We’re going to Redcliffe.”

Cullen pushed back from the table with a sharp exhale. “We don’t have the manpower to take the castle,” he said. “Either we find another way in, or give up this nonsense and go get the templars.”

“Redcliffe is in the hands of a magister,” Cassandra cut in before anyone could respond. “That cannot be allowed to stand.”

Josephine folded her hands neatly atop the table. “The letter from Alexius specifically requested a meeting with the Herald of Andraste.” She looked at Lilith, voice tight. “It’s an obvious trap.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow, dry amusement in her tone. “Isn’t that thoughtful of him. Did he say anything flattering?”

Leliana, perched like a hawk in the shadows near the map table, smiled without warmth. “He was so complimentary that we’re fairly certain he wants to kill you.”

Lilith’s smirk faded. “We can’t waste time arguing. We need a plan - and an agreement.”

“A Tevinter magister seizes a Ferelden stronghold, invites you into the heart of it, and some of us suggest doing nothing,” Leliana said. “That’s madness.”

“Not this again,” Josephine muttered under her breath.

Cullen leaned forward, jaw clenched. “Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in all of Ferelden. It has repelled thousands of assaults. If you go in there, you’ll die - and we’ll lose the only person who can close these rifts. I won’t allow it.”

“And if we do nothing?” Leliana snapped. “We lose the mage rebellion and leave a hostile foreign power sitting on Ferelden’s doorstep.”

“Even if we could mount an assault,” Josephine said tightly, “it would do us no good. An Orlesian-led Inquisition storming a Ferelden fortress? The Crown would see it as a declaration of war.”

Cassandra slammed her fist on the table, rattling a few documents. “We cannot simply accept defeat. We must find another way.”

Cullen threw up his hands. “The magister has outplayed us.”

Lilith took a slow breath. “His son, Felix, told me Alexius is working with a cult. Something called the Venatori. Apparently, they’re obsessed with me.”

That got their attention.

“Then they’ll remain a threat,” Leliana said, eyes narrowing. “And a powerful one - unless we act.”

Lilith pressed on. “Where’s Arl Teagan? He could help us retake the castle.”

Josephine shook her head. “After he was ousted, the Arl rode straight to Denerim to appeal to the Crown. I doubt he’ll want our help once Ferelden starts marching to reclaim Redcliffe. Especially not from us.”

Lilith frowned. “There’s got to be another way into the castle. A sewer? Watercourse? Secret passage?”

Cullen grimaced. “Nothing I know of that would get you inside.”

“There is a way,” Leliana said, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her lips. “A secret escape route used by the Redcliffe family. Too narrow for a full force, but agents could slip through.”

Cullen frowned. “Too risky. They’d be discovered before reaching Alexius.”

“Not if they’re distracted,” Leliana said. “Say, by the envoy the magister so graciously invited?”

Cullen rubbed at his temples. “So while Alexius focuses on the Herald, we use that time to strike?”

“It could work,” Cassandra said. “But it’s a huge risk.”

At that moment, the doors to the war room slammed open. A soldier stumbled in, looking half out of breath. “This man claims he has information on the magister,” he said.

Behind him, Dorian strode in like he owned the place. “Fortunately,” he said with a dramatic bow, “you’ll have help.”

Lilith arched an eyebrow. “You always make an entrance like that?”

“Only when it counts.”

Cullen looked the Tevinter mage over, suspicion in his voice. “And what are you offering, exactly?”

“Your spies won’t get anywhere near Alexius without magical help,” Dorian said. “He’ll see them coming a mile off. But me? I know his tricks. I helped invent some of them. If you’re going after him, you need me.”

“You’d be walking into the lion’s den,” Cullen said grimly. “This plan puts you both in the most danger. We won’t force it. We can still abandon this and pursue the templars. The choice is yours.”

Lilith looked between them - Josephine’s worried frown, Cullen’s scowl, Cassandra’s burning conviction, Leliana’s cold pragmatism, and now Dorian, smirking as though he already knew her answer.

“I made my decision,” she said. “We go to Redcliffe.”

Dorian straightened, pleased. “Good. I’ll start packing.”

As the soldier moved to escort him out, Dorian paused beside the door and glanced back toward Lilith. “Oh - and I’m flattered by how many people are obsessed with you. I usually have to try harder.”

Lilith rolled her eyes, but her smile tugged at the corners of her mouth despite the tension.

He turned to go, but not before throwing one last look at the soldier behind him. “Come along, darling. Time waits for no one.”

As the door shut behind them, Cassandra leaned forward, voice ironclad. “We need to move quickly.”

“We’ll prepare the agents,” Leliana said. “They’ll be in position by the time you arrive.”

“And we’ll make sure our scouts are ready to coordinate on your signal,” Cullen added. “Maker watch over us.”

As the advisors dispersed to begin their preparations, Lilith lingered by the table, staring at the map of Ferelden. Her eyes settled on Redcliffe Castle - still cloaked in Alexius’s shadow.

A trap, maybe. But she'd walked into worse. And this time, she wouldn’t walk alone.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled at the heart of their makeshift camp, casting flickering light across bedrolls, saddlebags, and the glint of steel left within arm’s reach. They’d begun making their way (back) to Redcliffe and stopped just off a main road, tucked between a grove of twisted pines and a low rise that shielded them from the wind. The scent of smoke and damp earth hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of something burnt - possibly dinner.

Varric, ever prepared, had produced a suspiciously full bottle of Antivan brandy from the depths of his pack. Dorian, having rejoined them with rather dramatic timing, snapped his fingers and conjured drinking cups out of thin air, the silver catching the firelight with smug flair.

Iron Bull, three drinks in and blissfully sprawled near the fire, raised his cup and declared, “We’re playing something. Drinking without games is for nobles and corpses.”

“Truth or Dare,” Varric said at once, hands behind his head. “A classic. Requires zero effort and lots of chaos.”

Cassandra frowned. “I’d rather spar with demons.”

Lilith slid in beside the flames, stretching her legs toward the heat. “I’d pay to see that. Come on, Seeker. We could all use a little unwinding.”

Cassandra gave her a long-suffering look, but eventually folded her arms and sat. “If this becomes indecent-”

Bull grinned. “Define ‘indecent.’”

“Anything involving nudity, fire, blood, or-”

“Ah,” Varric said. “So just half the things we do anyway.”

The bottle made its way around as the group settled. Solas, as ever, remained a little apart - cross-legged, thoughtful - but he made no move to leave. Lilith nudged the bottle his way with a raised brow.

“Apostate. Truth or dare?”

He looked at her sidelong, as though weighing the merits of participation.

“Truth.”

Lilith grinned as she turned to face him more fully. “What’s one small luxury you refuse to give up?”

Solas didn’t hesitate. “Solitude. The quiet moments between the chaos. Even if fleeting, they are essential.”

Varric raised his cup with a knowing smile. “I’ll drink to that.”

Bull snorted. “Solitude, huh? Sounds suspiciously like an excuse to avoid us.”

Dorian smirked, “Careful, Bull. Or you’ll find yourself with even more alone time.”

Bull shot him a mock glare. “Watch it, Vint. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight.”

Dorian grinned. “Your turn, Solas.”

Solas scanned the group. “Varric. Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Varric said, suspiciously fast.

“Who do you trust the least in our camp?”

“Oh, come on.”

Solas lifted a brow. “You chose.”

Varric groaned. “Fine. Adan . That guy’s brewing something illegal. I know it.”

Laughter rippled through the circle. Next went Bull, who dared Cassandra to do her best impression of Leliana. It was uncomfortably accurate.

Then Cassandra, perhaps seeking revenge, turned to Lilith. “Dare.”

Lilith smirked. “Bring it.”

“I dare you to steal something from Dorian without him noticing.”

“I absolutely will not allow-” Dorian began, but Lilith was already on her feet.

She disappeared behind him, hands deft and quick, and when she reappeared, she held up his embroidered handkerchief triumphantly.

“I hate you,” Dorian muttered, reaching for it.

“You’ll thank me when I return it cleaned and pressed.”

The game rolled on. Bull got dared to chug from a mystery bottle (he did; it smoked slightly). Varric admitted to getting his ear pierced on a drunken dare in Kirkwall and promptly losing the earring. Cassandra confessed - very reluctantly - that she once wrote poetry.

Then Dorian turned to Lilith with a sly look. “Your turn, my dear. Truth.”

She raised a brow. “I didn’t say truth.”

“No, but I’m saying it for you.”

Lilith sighed, amused. “Fine.”

He leaned in theatrically. “Describe your most questionable romantic decision - in vague detail, of course.”

Lilith laughed, sharp and sudden. “Only one?”

Bull raised a hand. “I can think of three, and I wasn’t even there.”

“I’ll say this,” Lilith said, swirling the bottle in her hands. “He was beautiful, and clever, and treated manipulation like a love language. Which, in hindsight, should’ve been a red flag.”

“Sounds like a Tevinter man,” Cassandra muttered.

Lilith smiled without teeth. “Worse. He was charming.”

There was a beat of silence too long, then Varric clapped his hands once. “Alright, your turn to dish it out, Scorcher.”

She turned toward Dorian, eyes gleaming. “Truth or dare?”

He grinned. “Dare.”

“Tell us the worst pick-up line you’ve ever used - and mean it.”

The group groaned.

Dorian cleared his throat, placed a hand over his heart, and delivered, with flourish: “‘Are you made of lyrium? Because you’ve got me glowing.’”

Lilith physically recoiled. “You did not .”

“I was young and drunk,” he said. “And, for the record, it worked .”

More laughter. The fire crackled and hissed like it was in on the joke.

Eventually, the group began to peel off. Cassandra retired to her tent muttering about “immature nonsense,” Varric and Dorian moved to argue over wine quality, and Bull began snoring in a way that might’ve been intentional.

Which left Lilith and Solas beside each other, quiet but not quite alone. Lilith drew her knees up, her hands warming over the flames.

She nudged him with her shoulder, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You know, it’s somewhat amusing that you’re really not mysterious by choice. It’s just who you are.”

Solas gave her a sidelong glance. “It is not an act.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s worse - it’s honest. You don’t even have the decency to be a liar.”

He tilted his head, curious. “And yet you still insist on flirting with me.”

“Who says I’m flirting right now?”

His lips quirked. “You’re sitting closer than necessary.”

She leaned in a touch more, voice low. “Maybe I like the heat.”

“You are very fond of fire.”

“And you’re very fond of resisting things.”

Solas’s gaze flicked to hers - sharp, searching - but he said nothing.

She smirked. “I’m just testing the waters.”

“For what?”

“To see when you’ll swim or sink.”

He looked away, chuckling under his breath. “Your audacity is impressive.”

“I aim to please.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Or at least provoke.”

The fire crackled between them. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Lilith, casual as anything, reached over and plucked a crumb from the collar of his robe. “You still smell like honey biscuit.”

Solas looked like he was torn between speaking and vanishing into the Fade. “That was days ago.”

“You must really savor things.”

He hummed. “Only the rare ones.”

There it was - his shot across the bow.

Lilith’s grin faltered for half a second. Then she leaned back, satisfied. “Well played.”

He inclined his head, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Nearby, Bull called out, “Are you two done whispering sweet nothings or should we take bets?”

Lilith turned, completely unbothered. “Too late. You already lost.”

Lilith moved to sit beside Dorian by the dwindling campfire, a book half-forgotten in his lap and a cup of something strong in hand. The others had turned in for the night, leaving the world in that soft hush where the fire crackles loudest, and thoughts come easier than sleep.

“It occurs to me,” she said, easing down onto a nearby log, “that I barely know anything about you.”

Dorian looked up from his book with a faint smile, the firelight flickering across his sharp cheekbones and well-kept beard. “Beyond my being a mage from Tevinter, you mean?”

She nodded. “Beyond that, yes.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “And beyond my being so charming and well-dressed? Which is obvious to anyone with eyes.”

“You certainly think highly of yourself.”

“It’s true. I could be more modest,” he said, setting the book aside with a casual flick of his wrist, “but I’d be lying.”

Lilith smirked despite herself. She hadn’t meant to enjoy his company - but Dorian had a way of slipping past defenses, his wit quick enough to draw laughter before suspicion could take root.

“Now… what was I talking about?” he continued, tapping his chin. “Ah, yes. Me. I am the scion of House Pavus, a product of generations of careful breeding, and the repository of its hopes and dreams. Naturally, I despised it all - the lies, the scheming, the illusions of supremacy. That’s Tevinter in a nutshell, isn’t it? A gilded rot. Needless to say, my family was not thrilled with the path I chose.”

“Why would they be upset with your choices?” Lilith asked, genuinely curious.

“Because I refused to play the role they wrote for me,” he said simply. “Had they had their way, by now I’d be married to some poor girl from a powerful family. We’d live in luxurious despair, loathing one another in perfect Tevinter fashion, while I waited to inherit my father’s seat in the Magisterium. I declined the honor. They find it less embarrassing if I remain far from home.”

Lilith tilted her head. “What did you mean by ‘generations of careful breeding?”

Dorian gave a humorless chuckle. “The great families of Tevinter don’t just have children. They curate bloodlines. They refine traits - magical prowess, intelligence, beauty, ambition. They weed out what’s undesirable, promote what isn’t. My mother was chosen for my father because magic runs hot in her bloodline. Never mind that they detested each other. They wanted a son who could one day become Archon, make House Pavus the envy of the Imperium.”

He looked into the fire. “They got me instead. A cautionary tale in silk.”

“I’m getting the impression that you don’t care much for your homeland,” she said quietly.

“On the contrary,” Dorian said, his voice softening, “I care for it deeply. That’s why it hurts so much. There’s such potential in Tevinter - brilliance, beauty, even a touch of nobility, if you know where to look. But we squander it. We cling to delusions instead of facing the truth. We pretend the Qunari can be beaten. We pretend we’re better than everyone else. We even lie to ourselves about our own decay.”

He looked up at her, firelight flickering in his eyes. “Not everyone is like that. I’m not. But we’re the minority.”

“It just seems like… so much of what you say about the Imperium is entirely negative.”

He huffed. “It might sound that way. For all our faults, my people have virtues. We are steeped in history, in tradition. Tevinter is where Thedas truly began, remember. We preserve our past - jealously. You can walk down a street in Minrathous and find buildings older than the Chantry itself. And beneath all the arrogance and ambition, we care. Passionately. We love fiercely. We fight ferociously. We feel everything, and hide none of it.”

He took a sip from his cup, then sighed. “If I truly believed Tevinter was beyond all hope… I wouldn’t miss it so much.”

Lilith watched him for a moment. “Then why stay with the Inquisition? Why not go back?”

Dorian chuckled. “Oh, I’m not exactly welcome home. Not that I mind - I’m quite used to being the scandal of the season. It adds to my mystique.” He leaned back. “Besides, I can do more for Tevinter from here. If the Venatori win, it will set us back a thousand years. I’m sure some magisters would celebrate that… which is why we kill them.”

Her expression turned curious. “You said Alexius was a mentor of yours?”

He nodded slowly, more solemn now. “He was. My sponsor, in fact. He elevated me to the higher tiers of the Circle in Minrathous. In return, my successes were his. And I had many, of course.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “He was pleased. We used to spend hours over brandy, talking about how we’d change the Imperium. We both knew it was corrupt, but we dreamed of reform.”

Lilith tilted her head. “What happened?”

Dorian’s gaze dimmed. “A journey to Hossberg. Darkspawn attack. His wife was killed, his son infected. He wasn’t there, you see - he’d stayed behind. The guilt consumed him. He became obsessed with finding a way to undo it. I tried to help with his research, for a time, but… eventually, we drifted apart.”

“That must have been difficult,” she said gently.

“I was furious,” Dorian admitted. “I told him to snap out of it. That he was wallowing. I thought I had all the answers back then.” His voice turned rueful. “Later, I regretted saying it. But by then we’d both grown too proud to mend things. We didn’t speak again until he appeared with the Venatori. I suppose by then I was too busy drinking.” He flashed a grin. “One must have priorities.”

Lilith studied him. “Was it hard, being away from him?”

He hesitated. “It was hard being without a sponsor. I’ve never been one to… blend in. Having someone who believed in my talent, even conditionally, was a rare thing.”

“And still, you went after him,” she said. “Even knowing what he’d become.”

Dorian laughed dryly. “Yes, I did. What was I thinking? It’s bloody freezing down here.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes on the fire. “I think it’s admirable. What you did - going after him, even after everything. I know what it feels like to believe someone’s past should damn them, and to choose hope anyway. There was a time I thought I’d never deserve anything but the worst of what I’d done. But then… someone- my friends saw something in me I couldn’t. It changes you, having someone believe you’re worth saving.”

She glanced over at him, voice softer. “Not everyone would’ve done what you did. But I think you understand, better than most, how much that kind of faith matters.”

He looked at her a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he nodded once, almost to himself.

The fire popped, scattering sparks into the night. Neither of them spoke for a while. There was little comfort in shared regrets - but there was understanding. And that, sometimes, was enough.

The footsteps were soft enough that she didn’t hear them until they stopped beside her.

“I thought you’d gone to bed,” Lilith said, glancing up.

Solas stood just beyond the fire’s glow, his silhouette outlined in the moonlight. “I was... delayed.”

She raised a brow. “Fade dreams?”

“Temptation,” he said simply, then moved to sit beside her.

Lilith laughed once. “Didn’t think you’d admit it.”

“I was referring to the brandy,” he said smoothly.

“Liar.”

He tilted his head. “I prefer subtle exaggeration .”

She smiled into her cup, then let the quiet settle again. The last coals of the fire cracked gently, the air cooling with the scent of salt and pine.

After a moment, Solas, amused, said, “You truly do not fear the sharp edges of things.”

She arched a brow. “Is that your delicate way of saying I have no tact?”

“I mean it sincerely,” he said. “Very few would dare press me so directly.”

Lilith swirled the wine in her cup, then looked over at him with a smirk. “I like poking things I shouldn’t.”

He gave a soft huff of amusement, gaze flicking toward the firelight. “You enjoy the game.”

“Of course I do. I like watching people squirm. Especially the ones who pretend not to feel anything.”

“Do I seem like I am squirming?”

“No.” She smiled. “That’s what makes it fun. I’m trying to find the line.”

“And when you do?”

“I’ll know what you’re afraid of.”

Solas went still at that - not tense, just quiet. As if she’d stepped too close to a boundary neither of them had agreed upon.

Then, softly, he said, “You speak like someone who’s made a study of masks.”

Her expression shifted. “Maybe.”

“And what have you learned?”

Lilith hesitated, then said, “Sometimes people build them so well, they forget they’re wearing one. Until someone knocks hard enough to hear the hollowness behind it.”

He studied her then, silent and sharp, like he was reading something off her skin.

“I noticed,” he said finally, “You’re shameless with everyone else, but you only flirt with me when you think no one’s looking.”

Lilith blinked.

“I also noticed,” he continued, “you stop just before it becomes real.”

Her smirk cracked - just faintly. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“No,” he said. “I... understand. Control is a comforting illusion.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the soft hiss of fire dying into ash.

Eventually, Lilith said, quieter now, “It’s better than the alternative.”

He didn’t press her. Just said, “For what it’s worth, you were very convincing.”

Lilith huffed a laugh. “You saying I fooled you?”

His lips quirked. “I’m saying I was not immune.”

She looked at him then - really looked - and something unspoken passed between them, like a breath held too long.

Solas rose, brushing off his hands. “Goodnight, da’len.”

She watched him walk away, chest tight and mind spinning. When he was nearly out of earshot, she called after him, “You still didn’t answer the real question.”

He paused.

“Which is?” he asked, not turning.

She leaned back on her hands, gaze sharp and teasing. “When are you going to start flirting back?”

A long pause.

Then - quiet, amused: “Wouldn’t you rather be surprised?”

And then he was gone.

The ballroom was made of shadows and glass.

Lilith stood at its center, unmoving, in a gown she didn’t recognize - crimson so dark it was nearly black, cinched tight at the waist and spilling behind her like fresh blood on marble. Her bare shoulders were cold. The dress clung to her like memory.

Somewhere, strings played a slow, mournful waltz, though no orchestra could be seen. The chandeliers above twisted in lazy spirals, their crystal arms scattering fractured light across the faceless crowd - silhouettes frozen in place, elegant and eyeless. They swayed with the music but never stepped forward. Watching. Waiting.

And at the far end of the room, raised above it all like a crowned fever dream, lounged Astarion.

His throne was carved from onyx and bone, shaped like a cage masquerading as luxury. One leg was slung over the armrest, a goblet of dark, syrupy liquid swirling in his hand. His smile cut through the candlelight, gleaming like a promise she hadn’t agreed to.

“Well,” he said, voice all silk and rot. “Aren’t you lovely?”

Lilith didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her limbs were wax, her throat stuffed with cotton. The gown tightened around her chest like a vice.

He flicked two fingers. The crowd parted like smoke.

“Come now, darling,” he said, gently chiding. “Be gracious. Everyone’s watching.”

Her body obeyed without permission. She stepped forward, each movement loose and marionette-like. The floor beneath her shimmered like obsidian, and with every step, the shadows pressed in. No faces - just eyes , gleaming in the dark like coins dropped into a wishing well. Hungry. Reverent. Patient.

As she approached the throne, the room seemed to contract around her heartbeat.

Astarion leaned forward, one elbow resting on a skull carved into the throne’s arm. “You look tense,” he said, voice honey-sweet. “Whatever’s the matter?”

She tried to answer. Her lips parted, but her voice betrayed her - nothing came out. Not even breath.

He rose from the throne with the grace of a curtain drawing back. Slowly. Inevitable. He crossed the space between them like a predator pretending not to be one, then took her chin in his gloved hand.

His skin was cold through the leather. His eyes burned - bright and red and knowing .

“That won’t do,” he murmured. “Smile for me.”

Her heart thudded violently. She tried. Gods, she tried . But her mouth wouldn’t obey.

His grip on her chin tightened, just a hair.

“You remember how,” he said, and the sweetness left his voice. “The one you used to wear for me. The smile that said, ‘ Yes, I’m yours. I’m dangerous and delicate and everything you need me to be .’ That smile saved your life more times than I can count. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

The crowd leaned closer, silent as graves, and somewhere deep in the dark, applause rustled like dead leaves.

“Be what they want,” Astarion whispered, his lips at her temple. “It’s what you’re good at.”

She forced the corners of her mouth upward. Too wide. Too stiff. A mask, not a smile.

The ballroom erupted - cheers, laughter, adoration, all hollow and echoing. The applause turned shrill, like screams wearing gloves.

Then- silence .

The scene fell away like ash in the wind. Lilith stood in a hall of mirrors, infinite and cold. The air bit at her skin. Black marble stretched beneath her bare feet, each step echoing too long.

She looked around - and saw herself.

Dozens of her. Hundreds. Reflections flickering in and out like ghosts: Lilith cloaked in Bhaal’s robes, drenched in moonlit blood; Lilith grinning from atop a throne of corpses; Lilith curled in silk sheets, face streaked with tears; Lilith laughing as a man bled out beneath her blade; Lilith kissing Astarion with red on her hands. 

She reached toward one mirror - her fingertips touched glass - and her reflection grinned with teeth too sharp.

A voice rose behind her, velvet and venom. “Still playing pretend, are we?”

Astarion stepped through a mirror like it was water, adorned now in his full Ascended regalia - white and gold robes crusted in rubies, his eyes twin garnets set in alabaster. He gleamed like a false idol in a chapel of rot.

He looked like a god carved in her image of fear.

“Did you really think you could outrun it?” he asked, circling her. “The blood. The truth of you? That part of you that craved the gaze? The hunger? The power in being desired?”

Lilith backed away from the glass. It didn’t help.

“I didn’t want you,” she said - but her voice sounded wrong. Young. Not hers.

“You didn’t want me?” he went on, voice mocking. “Please. You wanted what I offered. Power. Pleasure. The freedom to be everything they’re afraid of. You were magnificent, darling - before you got soft.

Her throat clenched. “I was used. I was-”

He laughed out loud, joyful and cruel. “Oh no. Don’t rewrite the story now. You loved being worshipped. You drank it like wine. Don’t act like you didn’t smile when they called you ‘Chosen.’ Don’t act like you didn’t savor the kill.”

He leaned in, face inches from hers. “You bathed in blood and called it baptism.”

She flinched.

"You think he doesn't feel it on you? That wrongness under your skin? That thing that slithers behind your pretty eyes? You think he's so different from me that he won’t recognize what you are?”

One of the mirrors rippled beside them.

Inside, Solas sat at his desk, calm and quiet, quill paused mid-sentence. In the reflection, Lilith stood beside him, speaking softly, fingers brushing his sleeve. Her smile looked warm; tender and affectionate.

But it was wrong. Too polished. Too practiced.

“You’re using my tricks,” Astarion purred. “You think you’re seducing some high-minded apostate with affection?” He clicked his tongue. “No, no, my darling. You’re still seducing with survival. With performance.”

Lilith turned her eyes to another mirror. Solas again - but this time, his gaze pierced through the glass and met hers. His expression was cold. Like he’d seen something he couldn’t unsee.

Something she couldn’t hide.

She stepped back, shaking and silent.

Astarion's hand landed on her shoulder again - this time heavy, possessive.

“Look at yourself,” he murmured. “The spawn of a god of murder, cloaking herself in remorse. You were designed to destroy. Your first kiss was a knife. Your first prayer was a scream. You think that goes away just because you’ve learned to weep?”

“I’m not-” she croaked, but he cut her off with a snarl:

“You’re not what? Not a monster? Not a liar? You bathed in your own family’s blood and told yourself it was fate.”

The mirror nearest to her shattered.

And another.

And another.

In one, she saw herself sobbing in the snow.

In another, dragging a blade across a girl’s stomach.

In another still, Solas turning away from her, face unreadable, body dissolving into mist.

“You’re not made to be loved,” Astarion whispered. “You’re made to end things. People. Peace. Hope.”

The mirrors cracked all at once.

“Even if he kisses you,” Astarion said, too close now. “Even if he holds you. One day, he’ll see it. And he’ll leave. They always do.”

She was left in a storm of falling glass and silence and absence, fragments spinning through a void; shards falling like rain.

She covered her face as the world broke apart.

She woke with a gasp.

Blankets tangled tight. Chest heaving. Her hand flew to her throat - checking for blood, for chains, for proof she was still here. Still whole. Still herself.

The tent was dark. Silent. Her skin clammy with sweat.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not for a long time.

Eventually, Lilith turned her face toward the tent’s ceiling, eyes wide, throat raw, and whispered:

“I’m not him.”

But even in the quiet, it didn’t sound like truth.

The woods were quiet the next morning.

A crisp hush clung to the pine needles, dew clinging to their tips like pearls. Lilith moved through the underbrush with the easy grace of someone trying not to think too hard. She’d told the others she was going to hunt - not for anything in particular. Just to breathe. Just to move. Just to not sit around pretending she didn’t feel the air twisting strangely around her, like the world had already begun to shift beneath her feet.

The rising sun caught in the frost along the edges of her sleeves. A hare darted out from the brush, then paused in the clearing, ears twitching.

Lilith raised her hand, murmured a word under her breath.

A crackle of arcane energy sparked-

-and fizzled into nothing.

She frowned.

“I’d let that one go, if I were you,” said a voice, far too close to her ear.

Lilith spun around, fingers already curling into a spell.

He was leaning against a tree. Red coat immaculate. Boots free of mud despite the forest floor. Smiling like a serpent in silk.

Raphael.

“Miss me?” he asked smoothly, as if they were old friends who’d merely been apart for a season.

Lilith lowered her hand very slowly, magic still prickling at her fingertips. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh, I can see that,” he said, stepping forward, glancing at the rabbit - which had wisely bolted - then back to her. “You wear nerves like perfume, dear girl. Sharp, bitter. Citrusy .”

She turned away, stalking toward the next rise in the forest trail. “Get lost.”

“But I only just got here.” He followed, of course. “And it’s such a pivotal day. I couldn’t not stop by.”

Her boots cracked through the frost-bitten leaves. “Do you actually want something, or are you just here to breathe ominously over my shoulder?”

Raphael gave a theatrical sigh. “You wound me. Always so suspicious. So sharp-tongued. I come bearing only concern.”

She laughed once - short, disbelieving. “That’s new.”

“I’m not above keeping tabs on old friends,” he said, brushing a gloved hand along a branch like he might catch a secret in the needles. “Especially ones with such... interesting destinations.”

She stopped walking.

The woods around them were utterly still.

Lilith turned slowly. Her voice was even. “You know about Redcliffe.”

“I know enough .” He smiled wider. “Something about today fractures the thread. A moment pulled too tight. A door swung open just a crack too far.”

“And you’re here to, what, warn me?” she asked flatly.

“Oh, heavens, no,” he chuckled. “I’m here to watch.”

She stared at him.

“You’ve made such bold choices lately,” he continued, almost fond. “Aligning with the Inquisition. Traipsing about with the apostate. That’s the one I find most charming. He thinks he sees through you.”

Lilith said nothing.

Raphael’s smile thinned. “And yet you’ve never told him what you are. What really drives you. What you’re capable of when it matters.”

She stepped closer, gaze flinty. “You know damn well what I’m capable of.”

“Oh, I do .” His voice dropped an octave, more flame than silk now. “And I wonder - when the future comes clawing toward you, when it stares back wearing the faces of your friends, will you still pretend you’re one of the good ones?”

For a moment, the trees around them seemed to warp - shadows rippling, frost creeping where it didn’t belong.

Lilith’s voice was cold. “You don’t know anything.”

He smiled again, smaller this time. “Then you must be terrified of what it means when I do .”

She felt her stomach twist.

His eyes gleamed. “Be careful, little flame. The future is ravenous. And not everything waiting there will remember who you used to be - or care.”

She stepped back, magic simmering beneath her skin now, ready to strike. “If you touch anyone in Haven-”

He raised his hands. “Please. I’m merely a concerned party. Spectator sport, really.”

A blink.

He was gone.

Only the trees remained. The rabbit was long gone. Her heart hammered.

Lilith exhaled slowly, then turned and began the walk back to Haven. Her steps were faster now. More certain.

She didn’t look back. But the scent of sulfur still clung to the pines.

The wind coming off the lake stirred Lilith’s cloak as the party approached the castle gates. Guards in red-trimmed armor flanked the archway, their masks smooth and impassive. One stepped forward to bar their path - but before he could speak, the castle’s herald descended the steps with a rehearsed self-importance that made Varric mutter something under his breath.

Lilith held his gaze. “Announce us.”

The man gave a tight smile. “The magister’s invitation was extended to the Herald of Andraste. Your… companions will wait here.”

A long pause stretched between them. Lilith didn’t blink.

“Where I go,” she said, voice flat, “they go.”

A flicker of unease passed over the herald’s face. Behind her, Cassandra shifted, gauntlet resting near her sword. The Iron Bull cracked his neck, expression unreadable. The man hesitated - then dipped his head and turned with a clipped, “This way.”

They were led through the grand entryway of Redcliffe Castle, its halls echoing with the click of boots on stone. Venatori watched from every alcove and staircase, their presence oppressive, their eyes hollow behind their masks. The banners had been changed - no longer Fereldan, but crimson, embroidered with unfamiliar sigils.

The throne room was dimly lit, warm with firelight and the faint scent of burnt lyrium. At the far end stood Magister Alexius, robed in gold and black, with a calm smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Beside him sat a young man with hollowed cheeks and a cane resting against his chair - Felix.

“My lord magister,” the herald intoned, “the agents of the Inquisition have arrived.”

Alexius rose smoothly, one hand spread in welcome. “Ah, my friend! It is very good to see you again.”

Lilith said nothing.

He glanced at the others. “And your associates, of course. I trust we can find a… mutually beneficial arrangement. Something equitable for all parties involved.”

A voice cut through from the side of the room - Fiona, proud and defiant even as her eyes betrayed exhaustion. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?”

Alexius didn’t look at her. “Fiona, my dear, you would not have entrusted your followers to me if you did not have faith in my care.”

“If the Grand Enchanter wishes to take part in these talks,” Lilith said calmly, “then she is welcome, as a guest of the Inquisition.”

Fiona’s chin lifted slightly. “Thank you.”

Lilith stepped forward, gaze hard. “Enough pleasantries. Shall we begin?”

Alexius laughed softly, returning to his seat. “It’s refreshing, meeting someone so goal-oriented. So few appreciate the value of time.”

He steepled his fingers, eyeing her. “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach. I have mages. So then… what do you offer in exchange?”

Lilith’s voice turned cold. “Don’t waste my time. You invited me here to kill me.”

That earned her a sharper look from Felix. “They know everything, Father.”

Alexius’s expression barely shifted, but the tone of his voice darkened. “Felix… what have you done?”

Lilith’s gaze flicked to the boy, then back to the magister. “Your son is worried you’re involved in something unforgivable.”

Alexius took a slow step forward, his eyes narrowing. “So speaks the thief. You’ve stolen more than you understand - and now you think you can twist my son’s heart against me?”

He looked at her differently now, less like a political nuisance, more like an aberration.

“You wanted me here,” Lilith pressed. “Why?”

A long silence. Then Alexius tilted his head, lips parting in something that might have been amusement.

“Do you know what you are?” he asked softly.

The room stilled.

He stood again and descended the dais with slow, deliberate steps. “You walk into my stronghold with that stolen mark - a gift you wield like a child swinging a sword - and believe you’re in control?”

His voice turned low, venomous. “You’re not a savior. You’re not a Herald. You’re not even supposed to be . You’re a mistake.”

Lilith didn’t flinch. “If you know so much, enlighten me. Tell me what this mark is for.”

Alexius looked at her with something like pity. “It belongs to your betters. You, of all creatures, could never grasp its true purpose.”

Her jaw tightened. “If I’m a mistake, then what was the Breach supposed to be?”

Alexius’s eyes gleamed. “A moment of triumph. The beginning of a new age. One in which the Elder One rises - and this world remembers who truly commands it.”

Felix’s voice broke through, trembling. “Father… listen to yourself. Do you hear what you’re saying?”

From behind a stone column came a familiar voice, dry as ever. “He sounds exactly like the villainous cliché everyone always expects us to be.”

Dorian stepped into the room with a theatrical flourish, arms spread.

Alexius turned toward him with a frown. “Dorian. I gave you a chance. You could have been part of this.”

“The Elder One?” Dorian sneered. “You’re following him? You turned down wine and philosophy for a cultist apocalypse?”

Alexius’s voice grew fervent. “He has power you cannot imagine. He will raise the Imperium from its ashes. No more compromise. No more shame. We will rule - from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.”

Fiona shouted, “You cannot force my people into this!”

Dorian took a step forward. “This is exactly what we swore we’d never become. Why are you supporting it?”

From outside, a sudden thud. Then another. A scream.

A guard crumpled at the far door, an Inquisition arrow lodged in his throat.

Felix stumbled forward, eyes wide. “Stop it. Stop this, Father. Give up the Venatori. Let the southern mages help. Let’s go home.”

Alexius’s voice cracked. “No! This is the only way. The Elder One… he can save you!”

Felix’s shoulders sagged. “Save me?”

“I’ve seen the way,” Alexius whispered. “He promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple…”

Felix stepped back as though struck. “I’m going to die. And you need to accept that.”

Alexius raised his hand. “Seize them! The Elder One demands this woman’s life!”

More guards rushed in - but fell quickly to steel and spell. Varric’s arrows sang. Cassandra’s shield crushed a man’s helm. Behind Lilith, the Iron Bull roared and charged..

“You’re out of time, Alexius,” she said coldly. “Your men are dead.”

Alexius shook with fury. “You- you are the mistake! You were never meant to exist!”

From beneath his robes, he drew a pendant - intricate and ancient, crackling with unstable magic.

Dorian lunged. “No - don’t!”

The spell hit like a bell tolling across the Fade. Reality split with a jagged tear above Lilith, pulling at the air, her hair, her breath. A second later, she and Dorian were lifted off their feet and dragged into the rift.

There was no time to scream. No time to fight.

Only light.

And then-

blackness.

Chapter Text

A sudden flash cracked the silence of the dungeon like lightning. Arcane heat rippled outward in a wave, pushing dust and damp through the air. The floor was slick beneath Lilith’s boots, a shallow tide of brackish water lapping over cracked stone. Red lyrium pulsed from the walls like jagged, bleeding wounds.

Two guards stood stunned just long enough to make a mistake.

“Where’d they come from?” one hissed, scrambling for his blade.

“Kill them!” barked the other.

Lilith didn’t give them time to figure it out. She snapped her hand forward, the sigils forming before her fingers had even stilled. Flame coiled in the damp air and burst against the nearest man’s chest, catching his robes and sending him reeling into the lyrium-laced water. Dorian followed, a spike of ice driving clean through the second before he could raise his staff.

The bodies hit the ground with wet thuds. Silence rushed in again.

Dorian exhaled, slow and tense. “Displacement,” he muttered, pushing back a damp lock of hair. “Interesting. Likely not what Alexius intended. The rift must have pulled us to a nearby confluence of arcane energy. Proximity-based, perhaps?”

Lilith scanned the flooded chamber. Red lyrium glimmered beneath the surface, glowing faintly like submerged embers. “The last thing I remember, we were in the throne room,” she said quietly. “This… isn’t the throne room.”

“No, definitely not. Let’s think - if we’re still in Redcliffe Castle, this dungeon shouldn’t look like something dragged from a nightmare. Which means…” His expression shifted. “Ah. Of course. It’s not where we are. It’s when .”

Lilith’s stomach turned. “You’re saying we time-travelled.”

“I’m saying Alexius used the amulet as a focus and flung us through time.” Dorian swept his staff in an arc, illuminating more red lyrium growths where the walls had split and bled. “Though I imagine not intentionally. I countered the spell mid-cast. The result was… unstable. Which explains the whole post-apocalyptic sewer thing.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Oh, it sounds awful ,” he agreed. “Depending on how far we’ve jumped - and whether anyone survived long enough to tell us about it.”

Lilith’s fingers flexed, the weight of flame still crackling along her knuckles. “Did we go forward or back?”

“Well, given the decor, I’m betting forward. People rarely carve apocalypse into stone ahead of time.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “Let’s investigate. Maybe we’ll find a helpful sign that says ‘Welcome to the Future. Sorry, Everything’s Dead.’”

She threw him a look, then turned toward the rusting iron gate at the back of the room. “What was Alexius trying to do?”

“Remove you from the timeline, most likely. A neat way to erase the mistake of your existence from the Elder One’s grand plan. I don’t think he expected you to interrupt mid-spell. That threw off his calculations. He panicked. I intervened. We landed here.” Dorian shrugged. “Perfectly logical. If you enjoy chaos and vomiting from magical vertigo.”

Lilith’s expression darkened. “He mentioned someone - the Elder One. You know who that is?”

Dorian grimaced. “Leader of the Venatori, I suspect. A magister, no doubt. One who fancies himself divine. They always do. ‘Ascend to godhood through poorly understood blood magic!’” He gestured dramatically. “It’s a Fereldan tragedy dressed as a Tevinter opera.”

“I’m not dying in the future,” Lilith muttered, conjuring a ball of fire to light the hallway ahead. “That’s entirely too poetic.”

“Spoken like someone who’s tired of being a metaphor,” Dorian said, falling in step behind her. “Onward, then.”

They slipped through corroded halls, the flickering light of Lilith’s magic casting long shadows on the walls. The dungeon reeked of mildew and something worse - something sweet and sharp and metallic. Red lyrium had overtaken entire sections of the corridor, jutting like crystallized tumors from brick and mortar. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional drip of water or the skitter of rats too stupid to leave.

The murals here were intact, preserved with obsessive care. They depicted scenes Lilith didn’t want to understand. A crowned figure standing above legions of kneeling silhouettes. A woman, always just out of focus. Sometimes radiant, sometimes cruel. Worshipped.

“This part of the castle was sealed off,” Lilith murmured.

“And originally covered in the ugliest carvings I’ve ever seen,” Dorian added. “Some noble’s idea of art, no doubt. Now? Well. This is not much of an improvement.”

They reached a corridor where the walls seemed to breathe with lyrium veins, and fought off another pair of guards in a tight, ugly scuffle. Lilith took a graze to the shoulder, retaliating with a flare of arcane energy that turned the man’s scream into gurgled silence.

When the last body fell, they found the door to the lower cells - and a voice.

“You’re… alive?” rasped someone inside. “How?”

Lilith froze, then ran forward. The cell was dim, but the glow of red lyrium was unmistakable, and it pulsed through the flesh of the woman slumped against the bars.

“Fiona,” Dorian breathed. “Oh… no.”

Lilith crouched down. “Is that really you?”

“What’s left… of me.” Fiona’s voice was brittle, her body ravaged by crystalline corruption. Her arm was half-fused with the stone beside her, and the lines of lyrium spidered across her face like veins of fire.

“I don’t understand. What happened to you?”

“Red lyrium… it’s a disease,” she whispered. “You breathe it, bleed near it, stay too long… eventually, it takes you. And then they mine your corpse… for more.”

Lilith looked ill. She touched the bars but didn’t cross them. “Can you tell us the date?”

“Harvestmere,” Fiona said. “Nine… forty-two Dragon.”

Dorian cursed under his breath. “Then it’s true. We’ve missed an entire year.”

“We have to get out of here,” Lilith said, rising. Her voice was low, sharp. “We have to go back.”

Fiona’s eyes fluttered. “Please… stop this from happening. Alexius… serves a new god. More powerful… than the Maker. He killed the Elder One. No one challenges him… and lives. The Venatori - they serve him now.”

Lilith rolled her eyes. "For fuck’s sake. Another culty god?"

Dorian’s expression soured. "Just once, I’d like to deal with a nice, boring political coup."

“I promise you,” Lilith said to Fiona, “we’ll do everything we can to set this right.”

She turned to Dorian then, eyes flashing. “That magister’s going to regret not killing me when he had the chance.”

“I’m fairly certain he’s regretting everything,” Dorian muttered. “Our only hope is the amulet Alexius used to cast the spell. If it still exists, I might be able to reconstruct the spell and return us to the moment we left.”

“Good,” Fiona rasped.

“I said might ,” Dorian corrected. “It could also liquify us.”

“Then try,” Fiona begged. “Your spymaster… Leliana… she’s here. Find her - quickly .”

Lilith hesitated, just for a second. Then she nodded. “We will.”

They left Fiona behind, the glow of her corrupted form dimming behind them as they climbed the stairs. The air grew heavier the deeper they went.

Dorian looked up at a vein of lyrium pulsing directly from the stone. “If red lyrium is an infection… why is it coming out of the walls ?”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you want to find out?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I suspect we won’t have a choice.”

The stench of red lyrium grew heavier as Lilith and Dorian descended once more into the bowels of Redcliffe’s ruined dungeons. The stone walls wept moisture and madness in equal measure - slick with lichen, pulsing with the faint shimmer of red crystal veins that hissed softly in the silence. It wasn’t just the lyrium itself that made her sick to her stomach - it was the sense that the castle had been hollowed out, its soul mined and replaced with something poisoned and wrong.

Piled haphazardly in an old storeroom they passed by, was a staggering number of bodies - limbs tangled, faces slack with the vague surprise of sudden death. Most were intact - no signs of battle, no defensive wounds - just a grim stillness, as if they’d all simply laid down and never risen. Lilith crouched beside a girl no older than twelve and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. The skin was cold and too pale. 

Dorian stood behind her, unusually quiet, his mouth drawn in a thin, unreadable line. “Maker,” he muttered at last. “They look… small, don’t they?” 

Lilith said nothing. None bore the marks of red lyrium corruption, nor the stink of plague. Just clean, quiet death.

Then came the voice.

“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next. For she who trusts the Maker, fire is her water.”

Lilith stood and turned the corner slowly, already knowing who she would find. Cassandra sat on the floor of her cell, back straight, gaze cast toward nothing. Her armor hung loose on her frame, dulled with grime and age. A broken sword lay across her lap like a relic.

Lilith’s breath caught in her throat. “Cassandra?”

The Seeker blinked as if waking from a dream, lifting her eyes to Lilith’s face.

“You’ve returned to us,” she whispered, reverent, trembling. “Can it be? Andraste has given us another chance? Maker forgive me. I failed you. I failed everyone. The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life.”

“I’m not dead,” Lilith said, stepping closer. “I… it’s complicated. We were thrown through time.”

“I was there,” Cassandra said. “The magister obliterated you with a gesture.”

Lilith knelt outside the bars. “We’re going to kill Alexius. Come with us.”

But Cassandra only stared at her, hollow-eyed. “What use is there in fighting him now? He’s not the one who should be feared.”

Dorian frowned, then spoke gently. “Alexius sent us forward in time. If we find him, we might be able to return to the moment we left.”

Cassandra’s mouth parted. “Go back in time…? Then… none of this need ever happen?”

“Exactly,” Lilith said. “We can stop it all.”

The Seeker looked down at her sword. “After you died… the Elder One rose. Empress Celene was murdered. Then came the demons - an army of them. Nothing could stop it. Until the Crimson Lord arrived, and wiped out everything. He defeated the Elder One. Now the world worships him.”

Lilith recoiled slightly. The name sent a chill down her spine, unfamiliar yet... wrong.

Her hands clenched. “We’ll kill them both. I promise you.”

Cassandra nodded once, slowly. “Maker guide us all.”

Lilith had expected to see ruin in this timeline, but nothing could have prepared her for Cassandra - sunken-eyed and kneeling in a cell, whispering the Chant like a final prayer. The Seeker had always been ironclad, a woman built of conviction and sharp edges, too stubborn to break. 

And yet here she was, bowed. Lilith gripped the bars, trying to ignore the sour stench of red lyrium thick in the air, and felt something splinter inside her. Cassandra’s words about failure, about death, stabbed deeper than they should have. I failed you . The guilt rang louder than it ought to. Maybe because Cassandra had always believed in her. Maybe because she wasn’t sure she’d earned that belief.

They moved on.

Down the next corridor, Lilith heard a familiar baritone voice - half-sung, half-muttered.

“Three hundred bottles of beer on the wall, three hundred bottles of beer…”

Iron Bull was pacing in his cell like a caged bear. One eye flicked toward her when she approached, and he stopped short.

“You’re not dead?” he said, squinting. “You’re supposed to be dead. There was a burn mark and everything.”

Dorian sighed. “Alexius didn’t kill us. He tossed us forward in time.”

Bull scratched at the edge of his eyepatch. “Well, it’s my present. And in my past, I definitely saw you die.”

“I’m no more dead than you,” Lilith said, trying for levity, but it came out thin and strained.

“‘Dead’ and ‘not dead’ are apparently up for debate,” Bull muttered. “That’s wonderful.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “This conversation has taken a turn for the moronic.”

“Just come with us,” Lilith said. “We’re going after Alexius. And this Crimson Lord .”

Bull gave a short, grim laugh. “Kill the magister and the new god-king? Sounds like a damn fine idea. Let’s go.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when it all fell apart,” she added softly.

He looked at her, then grunted. “Demon army. Whole sky ripped open. Then he came. He turned it all into something worse. Shit, you were lucky you died early.”

Her heart twisted.

The moment Bull had turned, grinning through cracked lips and a filmy eye, Lilith nearly recoiled. He was still himself - quipping, irreverent - but something in his voice was off. Thinner. Warped by pain and madness. 

She remembered him laughing at campfires, loud enough to rattle stones, steady and unflinching even in blood-soaked battlefields. Now his jokes felt like armor barely holding. Lilith hadn’t realized how comforting his presence had become until it was warped by this place. 

And Maker, he thought she was lucky for dying early. That cut worse than his bravado let on. She clenched her jaw, promising herself - and him - that they’d undo this. They had to.

They continued on, the air thickening with the sour tang of blood and red lyrium as they descended further into the darkness.

A low, tuneless hum echoed from the next cell. When Lilith reached it, her throat closed.

“Varric?” she asked.

The dwarf blinked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Andraste’s sacred knickers. You’re alive?”

“We didn’t die,” Dorian said. “Alexius sent us into the future.”

Varric stared, then gave a half-hearted smirk. “Everything that happens to you is weird.”

Lilith gave him a weak smile. “You’re not wrong.”

“I never am. And when I am, I lie about it. So what brings you back? Just here to trade quips with a dying dwarf?”

“You look awful,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Bite your tongue. I look damn good for a dead man.”

Dorian stepped forward. “The red lyrium-”

“Yeah, yeah. The non-dying version’s even worse. Feels like fire in your bones. Just saying.”

“We’re going to stop all of this,” Lilith said. “Come with us.”

Varric’s cell was the worst. Not because of how he looked - though the red lyrium in his veins made her stomach churn - but because he smiled. Because he was still trying to be funny. His flippancy was a threadbare disguise, and Lilith saw straight through it. She’d leaned on his dry wit more than once, a quiet tether back to something resembling normalcy. 

Now he was locked in a cage, humming to himself like a man already half-gone. The thought of him suffering like this for a year… It made her vision blur with fury .

“You want to take on both Alexius and the Crimson Lord?” Varric scoffed, but there was something like hope behind it. “You’re completely insane.”

“And yet here we are,” Dorian said. “Come or don’t, Varric. But I’m not letting this world stand.”

“I’m in,” Varric said. “Let’s go kill ourselves a magister - and see if gods bleed.”

Lilith gave him a nod. “We’ll make sure none of this ever happens.”

As they pressed onward, the corridors narrowed. Red lyrium pulsed like veins in the walls. The air buzzed with energy - alive, sick, hungry.

A voice called softly from the final cell. “Is someone there?”

Solas.

When she heard his voice - rasped, but still unmistakably his - Lilith moved faster than she meant to. She hadn’t let herself hope. Not really. And seeing him - slumped against cold stone, red lyrium blooming across his skin like some obscene corruption - nearly shattered her composure. 

His breath rattled. “You’re alive?” he asked, eyes widening. “We saw you die.”

Dorian stepped beside her. “The spell displaced us in time. We just arrived.”

“Can you reverse it? Have you found Alexius’ amulet?” Solas asked. “You could return and obviate the events of the last year. It may not be too late…”

Lilith gripped the bars. “You look - Solas, you look terrible. Can I - can I help you?”

“I am dying,” he said simply. “But no matter. If this can be prevented… If this world can be undone…”

Dorian glanced between them. “We think we can. But, yes, we need Alexius’s amulet. We think it’s in the throne room.”

Solas seemed to contemplate something for a moment, then sat up straighter. “Then you must find it. If there is hope… my life is yours. This world is an abomination. It must never come to pass.”

He tried to speak evenly, still logical, still reaching for purpose beyond himself. But Lilith saw the tremor in his hands, the too-shallow rise of his chest. Solas, who had once conjured the Fade itself with a wave of his hand, now looked barely able to sit upright. Her heart ached at the sight. She wasn’t sure what hurt more - that he was dying, or that he hadn’t stopped trying to save everyone else.

Lilith didn’t realize she was trembling until Dorian touched her elbow. She nodded once and whispered, “We’ll fix this.”

Solas met her gaze. “You would think understanding time would stop me from making such terrible mistakes,” he said softly. “But you’d be wrong.”

Lilith gave him a sympathetic look, and for a moment, the weight of a thousand regrets passed between them.

She lifted the heavy latch and pushed the cell door open with a screech of iron and old rust. Solas made no move to leave. Instead, he turned back toward the narrow cot and knelt briefly, his hand disappearing beneath the thin, worn blanket. 

“One moment,” he said. His voice was even, unreadable. When he rose again, his hand was closed around something small and cloth-wrapped - something he tucked quickly into the folds of his belt before facing her once more. 

“All right,” he said, and stepped forward into the hall without another word.

They continued forward, their ragged, battered party now limping toward an uncertain future - or past. And as the door slammed open ahead of them, Lilith’s heart beat with one final, furious promise:

She would not let this world stand. Not for Fiona. Not for Cassandra. Not for Bull, or Varric, or Solas.

Not for the people she had failed once already. This time, she would burn the world to keep them alive.

They moved quickly, boots striking against stone, grabbing weapons they found as they walked. The air was thick with smoke and the sour tang of red lyrium, the party pressing on in grim silence.

“We’ll have to go up,” Solas said, gesturing toward the stairwell. “I have heard the guards say Alexius has barricaded himself in the throne room under the watch of the Crimson Lord.”

That settled it. Weapons drawn, the group ascended the winding stairwell - and ran directly into a Venatori patrol.

“Find them!” one of the guards shouted. “They must be here somewhere!”

The fight was short but brutal. Magic and steel met flesh in a blur of motion. Lilith burned a man alive with a flick of her wrist; Bull drove his axe through another’s shield. Dorian and Solas cast in perfect tandem, elemental fury crashing down in waves. When it was over, the stench of blood and burning lyrium filled the air.

Varric was the first to break the silence. “Well, it’s nice to do something constructive for a change.”

Iron Bull snorted, wiping his blade on his thigh. “Nice to be doing anything at all. I’m enjoying it while it lasts.”

Cassandra adjusted her grip on her sword, nodding once. “Just like old times.”

They climbed higher, into what must have once been the barracks - but no soldiers remained. The room was a tomb now, silent and pulsing with red lyrium that curled across the walls like veins. Crystals glowed faintly, casting everything in a sickly red light.

“Take a look around,” Varric said, sweeping his crossbow from side to side. “See if there’s anything we can use.”

Lilith stepped forward, boots crunching over broken stone and abandoned armor. And then-

A flash.

Blinding, white-hot light erupted in the center of the room. The Inquisition reeled, weapons drawn, magic flaring to life. Solas shielded his eyes. Cassandra barked a warning. Even Dorian cursed aloud.

When the light cleared, someone stood at its center.

A man. Tall, robed in indigo, the edges of his cloak still smoldering with arcane residue. His expression was frantic - hopeful.

“Lilith?”

Lilith stared, stunned. “Gale?”

The name left her lips before she could stop it. Her heart leapt, then stuttered in confusion. It was him - worn, dusted in chalk and starlight, but real. Real in a way she hadn’t let herself want for months. And then she moved, crossing the space between them in two strides and throwing her arms around him.

He caught her like he’d been waiting for it. Held her like something lost and precious. “ Lilith ,” he breathed, voice rough. “I felt you - across planes, across time. What in the Nine Hells have you done?”

She froze, suddenly aware of the eyes on her. Solas. Cassandra. Bull. Varric. All of them watching with varying degrees of confusion and suspicion. Dorian raised a brow.

Lilith pulled back and forced herself to speak calmly. “Later, please.”

She turned to the group, barely managing to smooth her expression. “This is Gale. An old friend.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. “Another mage?”

“He’s here to help,” Lilith said quickly.

Dorian gave Gale an appraising look, then shrugged. “I like his entrance. Flashy.”

“Not the weirdest thing that’s happened today,” Varric muttered.

The moment passed - barely. The others went back to checking the room for supplies, but Lilith caught Gale by the wrist and pulled him aside, behind a crumbling stone pillar slick with red lyrium.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, eyes wide. “How did you find me?”

Gale’s eyes softened. “I take it your companions don’t know of your travels to get here?”

Lilith shook her head. “No, not yet. I’ll tell them - later. Just… how ?”

He studied her, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. “After you disappeared, I felt it - your magic signature. You didn’t die - you were removed . It was like a string was pulled from the Weave itself. I spent weeks looking for that thread.”

She swallowed hard, guilt prickling beneath her skin.

“I kept watch,” Gale continued. “I watched the currents, the wildest storms of magic. And then today, something changed. There was a surge of unstable time magic around your signature.” He leaned in, voice low. “Your magic hums with chaos, Lilith. Even from afar, it’s unmistakable. But that spell? That ripple ? I finally had something to follow.”

Lilith didn’t speak at first. Something twisted in her chest - grief, maybe. Or gratitude she couldn’t name. She exhaled slowly.

“We have a lot to catch up on,” she said at last. “For now… please help us.”

Gale nodded. “Right. What-” He paused, eyes narrowing as they dropped to her hand. “Lilith, what in the hells is that?”

She glanced down, flexing her fingers. Vivid green light pulsed faintly beneath her skin, tracing jagged veins up her wrist like cracks in glass. At the center of her palm, the Anchor flared - a sickly, shifting glyph, branded into flesh like it had been carved there by something divine and indifferent. “It’s a long story,” she said. “It’s embedded with magic. Some of it mine. Some of it… not.”

Gale stepped closer and took her hand. His fingers closed gently around hers, and he hissed through his teeth. “Gods,” he murmured. “It’s thrumming with power. What did you do?”

“I’m apparently the 'Herald’ now,” she said flatly. “Of a god from this world.”

Gale looked up at her sharply, the weight of it dawning behind his eyes. “Lilith… gods. I’m so sorry.”

She gave a tired, sardonic smile. “Trouble and I are in a committed relationship. You know that.”

Gale smiled, and nodded. “Right. What are we doing here, by the way?”

Lilith laughed weakly. “Dorian", she turned and pointed out Dorian, "and I were sent forward in time by an evil wizard. Culty stuff. You know how it is.”

“Ah, standard day for you then,” Gale said dryly. “Alright, lead the way.”

And with that, the strange reunion folded itself into the chaos of their mission, as if it had always belonged there - another ripple in a day defined by breaking time.

The stench hit them first.

Blood - thick, clotted, metallic. It clung to the walls and the stone floor like a second skin. The corridor twisted downward into the fortress’s bowels, and the further they descended, the more grotesque the scenery became. Torture devices lined the walls like a collector’s macabre trophies, twisted metal stained with old agony. Corpses hung limp in iron restraints, mouths open in silent screams.

Lilith moved with purpose, jaw set tight, though the sight turned her stomach. She tried not to look too closely at the bodies. Some still bled.

They passed a crumbling archway, the shadows lengthening ahead. Just beyond, a thick wooden door stood half-ajar. Voices drifted through the crack - low, sharp, the cadence unmistakably Venatori. Lilith raised a hand, and the party stilled.

“…tell me how the Herald knew of the sacrifice at the temple.”

The voice was smooth, cruel in its patience. Silence followed, and then-

“Never,” Leliana spat.

A sickening thud. A scream. Lilith’s blood turned to ice.

“There is no use to this defiance, little bird,” the Venatori murmured. “There’s no one left for you to protect.”

“You’re wasting your breath.”

Another impact. Another cry, hoarse and defiant.

“Talk! He demands answers!”

A low, furious laugh. “He’ll get used to disappointment.”

Lilith didn’t wait. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, staff already in hand.

The room was a chamber of horrors - dimly lit by red lyrium veins pulsing along the ceiling like diseased veins. Instruments of pain littered a long table. Chains rattled above. And at the center of it all, Leliana.

She hung suspended from the ceiling by her wrists, her skin pale and bloodied, lips cracked, but eyes burning with undiminished fire. A cloaked torturer loomed over her, turning to select another blade from the cluttered table, oblivious to the intruders behind him.

He moved to her with ritualistic slowness, holding a curved knife. With one hand he seized her hair, baring her throat.

“You will break.”

“I will die first,” Leliana growled.

The Venatori froze, turning towards the door, only noticing the shift in the air too late.

From above, Leliana’s legs lashed out with lethal precision. She wrapped them around his neck and twisted. There was a wet crack as the torturer’s body went limp. He slumped to the floor, knife clattering beside him.

Lilith hurried forward, rifling through the man’s robes until her fingers closed around a brass key. She reached up, unlocking the restraints. Leliana dropped heavily into her arms.

“You’re alive,” Leliana breathed, voice raw.

Lilith caught her weight. “We never died. Alexius miscalculated.”

“Then it will be his last mistake.”

Leliana pulled away, swaying but steady. Her expression hardened. “That was impressive,” Lilith said, honestly.

“Anger,” Leliana rasped, “is stronger than any pain.”

Her gaze swept over them. “Do you have weapons?”

Lilith nodded, gesturing to the others.

Without another word, Leliana strode past them toward a battered chest at the far end of the room. She threw it open and pulled out a worn bow and a quiver of arrows with practiced ease.

“You… aren’t curious how we got here?” Dorian asked, incredulous.

“No.”

Dorian blinked. “Alexius sent us into the future,” he explained. “This-” He gestured around the chamber, the lyrium, the corpses, the ruin. “It was never meant to be.”

Lilith stepped beside Leliana, her voice quiet. “I’m so sorry for everything you suffered.”

“We have to reverse the spell,” Dorian pressed. “If we can get to our present, we can prevent this future from ever happening.”

Leliana turned toward them. The fire in her eyes had not dimmed, but her face looked carved from stone.

“And mages wonder why people fear them,” she said coldly. “No one should have this power.”

“It’s dangerous, yes, but unpredictable. Before the Breach-” Dorian began, but she cut him off.

“Enough.” Her voice cracked like a whip.

“This is all pretend to you. Some terrifying dream you hope to banish. But I lived it. The world burned . I watched friends die, cities fall. We suffered .”

She looked between them, and for a heartbeat, Lilith saw the ghost of the Nightingale she had once heard of in whispered tales - beautiful, terrible, unyielding.

“It was real.”

The silence afterward was oppressive. Even the lyrium seemed to dim for a moment.

Lilith didn’t try to speak again. Not yet. She simply nodded, a quiet agreement to the weight of it, the truth that could not be undone with words.

Leliana turned, bow in hand, arrows strapped to her back. She moved with purpose, the way someone moved when they’d already buried their fear. The party followed her into the gloom.

The group moved swiftly through half-collapsed halls, past gutted windows and scorched tapestries that still bore the crest of a world that no longer existed. Leliana walked beside Cassandra, her steps uneven but determined. Her lips were drawn tight, stained with dried blood, her cloak soaked from shoulder to hem.

Lilith couldn’t look at her too long. The last time she’d seen Leliana was at the Chantry in Haven, laughing over a bottle of Orlesian wine before they left for Redcliffe. Now she moved like a revenant. A blade of purpose.

At her side, Gale was mid-sentence.

“-if the enchantment is still active, we can’t just brute-force it open,” he was saying. “We’ll need to apply equal pressure across the arcane fracture or risk rupturing the entire matrix.”

“So we stabilize it,” Dorian replied. “We draw a containment ward, isolate the fracture points, and re-bind them with a controlled surge. Basic magical triage.”

“Controlled,” Gale repeated, skeptical. “How charmingly optimistic.”

Solas, who had thus far kept to the rear, cut in coolly. “And what precisely do you know of containment wards, Gale?”

“I’ve done more than my share of magical salvage,” Gale replied, without looking back. “Relics. Cursed items. A nearly sentient box, once. I’m familiar with unstable enchantments.”

“And yet you appear from nothing,” Solas said, voice light but edged. “With no context. No history.”

Lilith slid between them before Gale could bite back. “Play nice,” she murmured to Solas, just loud enough for him to hear.

He glanced at her sidelong. “You seem very trusting of him.”

She didn’t answer at first. Just walked a little faster. But after a moment, she said quietly, “I’ve known Gale a long time. Longer than I’ve known anyone here.”

Solas’s steps didn’t falter, but his expression darkened - curiosity wrestling with something that looked dangerously close to envy.

“From before the Inquisition?” he asked.

Lilith hesitated. “Something like that.”

He looked at her then - really looked. “And what brought him here now?”

“I don’t know,” she lied.

Up ahead, the group slowed at Cassandra’s signal. The corridor narrowed into a vaulted antechamber, its walls crumbling with red lyrium veins that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat under skin.

“So what’s the plan?” Lilith asked, her voice rougher than intended.

“If the amulet’s tied to temporal displacement, we’ll need two casters minimum,” Gale said. “Any fewer and the energy won’t stabilize. The weave - er, the pattern of the magic - it won’t hold. Not here.”

“We work in unison,” Dorian added. “Solas, you can-?”

“I can,” Solas replied, already moving to trace a preliminary sigil in the air. “But it must be soon. This place is... unraveling.”

Lilith watched them talk, felt the conversation sliding just beyond her comprehension. Time magic. Power flows. Magical structure. She understood the theory, but it wasn’t the same as being part of the casting. She’d never been good at collaboration. She worked alone. She schemed alone. She survived alone.

But this wasn’t about her. This was about getting them home .

Solas glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll need someone to anchor us while the spell forms.”

Lilith blinked. “What, like... magically?”

“No,” he said. “Physically. You’ll hold the amulet, remain at the center, and ensure we don’t lose the focus while casting. The connection must remain stable.”

“Great,” she said. “So if something goes wrong, I’m the first to explode.”

“You always did have a gift for dramatics,” Solas said quietly.

Her eyes flicked to his. “You used to like that about me.”

Solas didn’t answer. But something unreadable passed behind his eyes.

Cassandra turned to face them. Her voice was low, grim. “We need to hurry. Alexius and the Crimson Lord should be inside. We’ve seen what he’s capable of - his power is... considerable. Beyond anything we’ve faced before.”

“If that’s the kind of power we’re dealing with,” Dorian muttered, glancing down again, “we need to be very sure this spell works.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened. “We’ve heard… stories. From survivors. They say his power comes from blood - but it is not blood magic. It’s something else entirely. Something we don’t understand.”

Lilith’s breath caught.

The word blood rang too sharp in her ears. She felt her spine lock, her fingers curl slightly. Her stomach gave a slow, sick turn.

She glanced sideways, and sure enough, Gale was already looking at her. The faintest crease formed between his brows. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

They were both thinking the same thing.

The Crimson Lord. A throne built on death. Blood.

Is Astarion here?

Lilith’s pulse quickened, her vision tunneling. The hallway felt narrower than it had a moment ago. She could feel something just beyond her senses - something old, and hungry, and horribly familiar.

Before she could push - before she could ask for just one minute to breathe - the heavy iron doors ahead groaned open.

“Wait,” she said. “Don’t-”

But it was too late.

A draft of warm, blood-sweet air rolled out into the hall. And they stepped into the throne room.

The chamber had changed. No longer a place of politics or rebellion - it was a temple, a cathedral of rot. The walls wept blood. Red lyrium had overtaken the stone, growing in grotesque formations like veins, ribs, bones. It pulsed faintly, as if breathing. As if watching .

Her heart dropped. She felt him before she saw him. 

At the far end, seated on a grotesque throne of blackened steel and fused crystal, was Astarion.

Not the man she remembered.

He lounged like a god drunk on his own mythology. His silver hair fell in loose, untamed waves around his face, now pale to the point of iridescence. His red eyes burned like twin stars. He wore a cloak embroidered with constellations, stained through with old blood. And beneath his skin - woven into his veins- gleamed red lyrium, a web of crimson light crawling over him like a parasite he had welcomed. His bare feet rested in a circle of runes drawn in blood, thick with glyphs Lilith could taste on her tongue.

He smiled when he saw her.

The room froze.

“Darling,” he said, like a lover reunited after lifetimes. "Even here, in this wretched world," he said, rising with regal grace, voice as smooth and cold as winter’s kiss. "You came back to me. You always do."

Lilith stopped breathing. Her pulse roared in her ears. This wasn’t a dream. This was what the future had carved in her absence.

The silence behind her thickened. She could feel the companions shifting - Varric’s sharp inhale, Cassandra’s sword whispering free of its scabbard, the way Solas stiffened beside her like someone watching history rot in front of their eyes.

“You know him,” Cassandra said sharply, stepping forward. Her sword point hovered an inch above the stone floor. “Lilith. You know him.”

Lilith’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

Astarion descended the altar’s steps with slow, reverent steps, never taking his eyes off her. “You look the same, Lilith. A miracle, really. Time has not touched you - but oh, how it’s changed me.”

“I can see that,” she said quietly, her voice trembling despite herself.

"How many nights I dreamed of this," he purred, descending the stairs of his malformed dais. "A hundred altars raised. A thousand hands broken. All for you."

He didn’t walk straight toward them. He curved around - never breaching the space where the companions stood at Lilith’s back. His eyes flicked over them with idle disdain, his boots gliding across the lyrium-laced floor like he was untouchable. He was careful - deliberate - to stay out of reach of Cassandra’s blade or Bull’s axe. But he moved close enough to her, always to her.

“Ah,” Astarion drawled, eyes catching on Gale. “You brought the wizard. The dog at your heels. Still loyal, is he? I’m surprised he was able to find his way here.”

Gale bristled. “ Careful,” he snapped, voice tight with heat.

But Astarion didn’t even blink. His smile only widened.

“It’s a shame she didn’t love you back, Gale. She loved me ,” he told them all. “More than anything. Enough to kill for me. Enough to die for me. And you all thought she was yours? Your Herald ?” He shook his head in mock pity. “She’s always been mine. My beloved. My wife . My promised queen .”

Gale recoiled. “Wait - what?” His eyes snapped to Lilith. “Lilith, you married him?”

She flinched as though struck. “It wasn’t - it wasn’t like that, Gale.”

“Oh, but it was,” Astarion said, eyes glittering. “Shall I tell them about our wedding night, dearest ? Or perhaps about the ascension ritual? Seven thousand souls, sacrificed at your side. We bathed in their blood and walked into the stars.”

Solas stilled beside her, his expression unreadable. Cassandra looked ill. Leliana swore under her breath.

Lilith’s stomach turned. “Stop it.”

“No, no,” Astarion said, almost cheerfully. “They should know. They’ve followed you, bled for you. Shouldn’t they know what their darling Herald used to be?”

“What is he talking about?” Bull asked, voice tight.

The others were frozen in place. Varric blinked hard, like trying to reset the scene. Dorian looked between Lilith and Astarion, as if unsure whether to be furious or afraid. Solas had gone deathly quiet.

“I didn’t know what I was choosing,” she said sharply. Then, quieter: “Not really.”

Astarion stepped within arm’s length now. His voice lowered.

“It took so long, you know. So many months preparing. But I always knew you’d come. I saw it in the stars. I felt it in the blood. You were made to return to me.”

Her stomach twisted. “Astarion… what are you doing? What is this?”

“This?” He gestured to the grotesque throne, the crystal-bloated corpses fused to the walls. “This is destiny. This is what you promised me. Godhood. Power. Freedom. You helped me take the stars once - do you remember? Do you remember the screams?”

Lilith shook her head. “That was different. That wasn’t-”

“I did it all for us ,” he said, suddenly soft, something cracked in his voice. “And you left. Without a word. Without a trace. Do you know what that did to me?”

Astarion turned to her again, slowly circling - just her. As if the rest of the room didn’t exist. As if she were the only real thing.

“They call me the Crimson Lord,” Astarion whispered, his breath ghosting close enough for her to feel. “Slayer of the Elder One. Bringer of salvation.”

His words hung between them like a curse, slow and reverent, as if spoken in prayer.

“But it was always your name I wore beneath my tongue.”

His voice cracked on the last word - so shattered - that for a heartbeat, something almost human flickered behind his gaze. Pain, maybe. Longing.

But then the mask returned, sudden and sharp, cruelty flashing like a blade drawn in moonlight.

“It was easy, you know,” he said, smile widening with something wolfish. “Corypheus - the Elder One - made an excellent ally, for a time. Oh, he helped me find you. His red lyrium, his darkspawn corruption, even that absurd orb… but most importantly, he had Alexius. Clever, desperate Alexius. He explained the mechanics of time like he was handing me a key.”

He stepped back, arms folded behind him with the ease of a man presenting a prize.

“I knew then - I didn’t need to chase you. I simply had to wait.”

He raised one pale hand, fingers curling in a slow command.

The shadows behind the dais peeled apart. Alexius emerged first. Or, what remained of him.

His once-regal robes hung like grave wrappings over a frame too thin, too broken. Red lyrium jutted from his jaw and knuckles like fangs, pulsing faintly in time with the hum of warped magic around them. His eyes were sunken pits, barely aware, lips twitching with phantom mutterings. And beside him-

“Felix,” Dorian breathed. His voice broke on the name.

The boy - no, the husk - walked like a marionette. His gait was uneven, stiff. His mouth hung half-open, and his once-warm eyes were dull and pale, like moons eclipsed in blood.

“No,” Dorian whispered louder now. “No, no, no-”

His hand twitched toward his staff, but Lilith caught his gaze and gave the faintest nod. Not yet.

“Time,” Astarion said dreamily, tilting his head like a curious child. “It bends, if you force it hard enough.”

Something shifted in the air, something foul and burning beneath the sweetness of his voice.

“But I forgive you, my dear,” he said, gaze softening as it returned to her. “Because you’ve come home.”

He took one step closer. Then another. “I remade this world for us. This throne, this kingdom-”

He swept his arms wide to the ruined grandeur of the chamber: the twisted spires of red lyrium, the altar of bone and gold, the mangled banners still bearing the Inquisition’s crest - defiled, re-stitched into a crude approximation of a sun bleeding black.

“It waits for you.”

Lilith’s pulse roared in her ears. She turned her head just enough to meet Dorian’s eyes again and flicked her gaze toward the amulet hanging at Astarion’s belt. Dorian looked troubled meeting her gaze, but nodded in return.

She looked back at Astarion. Her voice was low. Accusing. “You tortured them, Astarion.”

“I preserved them,” he corrected gently. “To keep them alive. For you.” He stepped forward again. His hand rose.

She flinched - instinctive, sharp.

“Don’t be afraid,” he cooed. “You always feared what you were. But now… there is no shame. You are divine. We both are.”

He reached toward her cheek, fingers outstretched like a prayer. The air between them seemed to ripple. Reality grew thin.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you came back for me.”

The silence that followed stretched, impossibly taut.

Lilith’s heart pounded. Everyone was watching. Her companions. Her enemies. The man - no, god - she had once loved. Astarion’s power thickened the air like incense, cloying and hot. She could feel him at the edges of her mind, probing. She knew what he could do. What he had done. He could compel her again, break her like a bone.

And yet - she needed the amulet.

So she stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Her shoulders squared, her expression unreadable. “Of course I did,” she said softly.

Astarion stilled. His eyes lit - slowly, terrifyingly - with something feral. Like a star being born behind his irises.

“I missed you,” she continued. “All this time. I was lost without you.”

Behind her, Bull muttered, “What the fuck is she doing?”

Gale raised a hand to silence him, eyes locked on Lilith.

She moved closer, her body loose, her face tender - but her gaze cold as polished steel.

“I thought I could run,” she said. “But I always knew… we were meant to rule.”

The distance between them vanished. Astarion reached out, cupped her cheek with blood-stained fingers. He searched her face with something close to awe.

From the edge of the room, Solas took a sharp breath.

His expression didn’t move - his hands curled into fists. He watched without blinking, as if trying to memorize every detail. Or brace for the blow.

“You’re still mine,” Astarion said.

“Yes,” she breathed.

She let herself fall into him, arms curling around his waist in a gesture that felt like surrender. But her fingers moved with purpose, quick and surgical. Trained by years of theft and war. She pressed her body against his - kept his focus on her breath, her warmth, her words - and with practiced ease, plucked the amulet from the loop on his belt.

Her fingers closed around it like a secret. And then she withdrew, one step back. Two. Her eyes never left his.

“Show them,” she said. Her voice was light. Dangerous. “Show them who we are.”

He turned to address the room, smug and triumphant.

And she turned faster. She spun, cloak flaring, and crossed the floor in three strides. Her hand brushed Dorian’s. The amulet passed between them.

“Go,” she mouthed.

He stared at her, frozen.

“Now,” she hissed.

But Astarion noticed something in the shift. His gaze snapped to Lilith, his smile faltering. “What did you do?” he snarled.

Lilith turned, her eyes gleaming.

“What I always do,” she said coldly. “I lied.”

Her hand shot forward, arcane energy erupting from her palm in a violent blast of violet flame. It streaked toward Astarion’s chest, but he was faster.

With a flick of his wrist, a crimson ward shimmered into being. The spell shattered against it, splintering into sparks that hissed across the marble floor.

He laughed. Not cruelly. Playfully.

“Oh, my darling. Still so dramatic.” He tilted his head. “Is that how you looked when Kaelen died? You never did tell me all the details.”

Her breath hitched, just for a moment.

His voice dropped, honeyed and vile. “You spoke of him like he was your salvation. Your anchor.” He leaned in, fangs gleaming. “Do you think he’d still want you now ?”

The rage hit her suddenly, like a storm.

Behind her, the Fade shuddered - Solas already moving, quiet as a blade drawn in snow.

The Inquisition - what was left of them - moved as one. Cassandra stepped in front of Varric, shield raised; Bull let out a battle cry and charged forward. Varric loosened a bolt toward Astarion’s heart.

But blood - thick, hot, and explosive - erupted around the vampire lord. It didn’t drip. It detonated, like shrapnel.

The force of it flung them all back.

Astarion moved faster than lightning. One moment, he stood relaxed and gleaming. The next, his blade arced through the air toward Dorian’s throat.

Cassandra intercepted, deflecting the strike with a yell. Solas raised a shaky hand, summoning a barrier that cracked with the strain. Magic shrieked as it held.

Lilith stepped in, her own spell answering his with a blaze of violet fire. It struck his blade mid-swing. The steel hissed against the heat.

Their faces were inches apart.

“You’ve grown stronger,” Astarion purred, smiling through his fangs. “Perfect.”

She didn’t flinch. “You’re insane .”

“I’m divine.” His voice fractured into laughter. “And you’re mine.”

She pushed him back. A shield of shimmering light rose around him, his magic pulsing in tune with the red lyrium embedded beneath his skin. Lilith’s eyes narrowed. He was warded now - too well for ranged attacks to work.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Up close, then.”

They clashed, her dagger meeting his blade in sparks and snarls. Fire and shadow tore through the throne room, painting the lyrium-streaked walls in flashes of burning light. Ice shattered across the floor as his sword grazed her arm, drawing blood. Necrotic mist curled around their feet like smoke rising from the Fade.

He was faster. Stronger. Drunk on divine blood and power. But she met him blow for blow, spell for spell, her magic snapping through the air in arcs of blistering heat and howling wind.

Still - it wasn’t enough.

Astarion feinted, twisted low, and surged forward. She parried with a shout, striking a force blade toward his ribs - he caught her wrist mid-swing, fingers like iron.

In a blink, he was behind her.

Her body wrenched sideways, dagger clattering from her grip, and slammed back against him, her back to his chest. His arm locked tight across her throat, the other gripping her chin with predatory ease. Her toes barely touched the floor.

The room froze.

Lilith choked against his hold, trying to summon flame - but she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Astarion turned his head just enough to see the others over her shoulder, his lips brushing her ear.

“So protective,” he purred. “Let’s test that, shall we?”

“Let her go!” Bull roared, taking a step forward. Cassandra raised her shield, blade poised to strike. Varric muttered, “Oh shit, oh shit,” and raised his crossbow, knuckles white.

Solas didn’t speak. But the magic around him began to shimmer, gathering at his fingertips like a storm held in check by sheer will.

Only Gale remained still - his jaw clenched, his eyes on Lilith, watching her hands. Waiting for the shift. Waiting for her move.

Astarion's eyes flared, impossibly red.

“Kill them,” he said.

The words thrummed through the room like a divine command. Lilith’s body went slack, her head lolling back against his shoulder, mouth parting in a silent gasp. For a heartbeat, she was motionless.

Then she stiffened, and her eyes opened, glowing and crimson.

She dropped from his grip like a marionette whose strings had been cut - and landed in a crouch, smooth and silent.

Astarion stepped back, smug, sauntering toward his desecrated throne like an artist admiring his masterpiece.

“Let’s see how much they really mean to you,” he said, reclining lazily. 

He snapped his fingers. The chamber shook as more cultists poured in - some cloaked, others half-consumed by lyrium, all howling praise to the Crimson Lord.

But they weren’t the real danger. 

Lilith was.

She rose. Her expression was blank. Her fingers crackled with energy. Flames pooled at her palms, magic coiling like serpents seeking targets.

“Lilith, no!” Gale shouted. “She’s not herself - she’s under his control!”

“Maker’s mercy,” Cassandra whispered.

“She’s going to fucking kill us,” Varric said grimly, crossbow already raised.

Lilith raised one hand. Bolts of fire roared across the room - one seared past Dorian’s cheek, another struck Bull in the side, forcing him to his knees with a grunt. The third exploded near Cassandra, sending her tumbling behind a pillar.

“Lilith, stop!” Solas called - but she was already moving.

She didn’t just fight. She hunted.

She blinked across the battlefield in short-range teleports, appearing behind Gale and striking him with a sharp burst of force that sent him reeling. She hurled a sphere of darkness at Solas, forcing him to shield. Then she lunged toward Dorian, blade conjured from light and heat. He barely parried in time.

“She’s not holding back!” he shouted, panting. “She’s going to kill someone!”

Bull charged her, axe raised - she dodged fluidly, spun low, and struck the backs of his knees with a pulse of kinetic magic. He fell hard, swearing.

“Dammit-” Varric fired, but the bolt ricocheted off a shield spell.

They couldn’t reach her. Not like this.

“Hold her!” Gale barked, throwing his hands out. A shimmer of light burst from his hands - Hold Person . It struck her mid-lunge. Her limbs froze in place, suspended in a perfect moment of deadly grace. Her face twisted in frustration, mouth opening as if to scream.

Solas stepped forward, pushing through the whirling chaos, towards her. “Lilith. Lilith.” 

Her head jerked slightly - just enough to track him with her eyes.

Still glowing. Still not hers.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “It’s not real.”

He reached out and touched her cheek. His hand shook. And then - he called to the Fade, muttering under his breath.

Something shimmered. A sliver of spirit emerged: luminous, humming, its form wreathed in light. 

Wisdom. It drifted forward and pressed between Lilith’s brow.

A breathless moment passed. Then another. 

Her body jerked. The glow flickered as Gale released his spell and her muscles tensed, her expression flickering between rage and confusion.

Then, a gasp. She staggered backward, nearly falling, hand to her head. Her knees buckled.

“…Solas?”

He caught her.

“Welcome back,” he whispered.

Around them, the battle still raged. Cultists screamed while spells collided and blood splashed across the stones. And the amulet - the key to their escape - still pulsed, untouched, somewhere in Dorian’s hand.

But for one brief moment, they had her. Lilith had returned.

And she looked furious.

She turned to Gale, her voice like a snapped blade. “Find Dorian. You need to get us out of here - back to the present.”

Leliana’s voice cut through the chaos. “There’s a side chamber - this way! You’ll be able to cast your spell there!”

Gale grabbed Lilith’s arm. “We’re not leaving you.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder, gaze steady despite the storm inside her. “I’ll be right there. I promise.”

He hesitated - only a moment - then nodded and ran with Leliana and Dorian, disappearing into the shadowed archway of a side hall.

Lilith turned toward the throne. Toward the man she had once chosen. Once loved .

But there was no love in her now. Only fire.

“You’re not a god,” she snarled, every word laced with venom. “You’re a parasite with delusions of grandeur.”

Astarion only smiled - wide, gleaming. “You always were such a tease,” he purred. “Come now, my dear. You made me this.”

She didn’t dignify him with a reply. Instead, she lunged.

A blast of green fire screamed from her palm, crackling with entropy and fury. Astarion blurred - vanishing in a puff of shadow - and reappeared behind her, sword raised in a streak of silver.

She ducked, spun, and retaliated.

Her next spell hit like a battering ram - pure force that split the dais in half. The entire platform buckled with a crack like breaking bones, and webbed fractures spidered outward through the lyrium-infested floor. The throne teetered on its base.

The walls trembled. And around her, chaos exploded.

Venatori poured from the side halls - robes slick with ritual blood, mouths chanting syllables not meant for mortal throats. Demons clawed their way through the Fade - rage and despair given flesh, summoned by magic too old and foul to name.

Cassandra met the first wave with a cry, shield raised. Her blade flashed in an arc of righteous silver, cutting down the lead cultist in a single, brutal swing.

“They just keep coming!” she shouted.

“I noticed!” Varric fired bolt after bolt from his crossbow, targeting the Venatori mages trying to shield the demons. “If you’ve got a miracle, now would be a great time!”

A hulking rage demon lunged - plated in molten bone, frothing from its fanged maw.

Bull intercepted it with a bellow, slamming his axe into its chest. “You wanna dance, ugly? Let’s fucking dance!”

Solas moved like a ghost through the fire and madness. Calm. Surgical. His eyes glowed faintly as he unbound demons with cracks of magic and hurled Venatori backwards with invisible waves of force. He spared only a glance for Lilith-

Just enough to see her and Astarion circling each other like twin storms.

“Still clinging to defiance?” Astarion said as he parried a bolt of chain lightning. “It’s almost sweet.”

Lilith’s reply was a blast of necrotic flame. It caught his shoulder, burning away part of his cloak and revealing a lattice of red lyrium pulsing beneath his skin like a second circulatory system.

“I will never be yours again,” she spat. “You’re not who you were.”

“I am more than I was. Because of you.”

He lunged - faster than a thought - and she barely raised a barrier in time. It shattered on impact, the shockwave hurling her across the room. She slammed into a fractured pillar and crumpled, coughing, blood on her lip.

“Lilith!” Cassandra shouted, slashing down another cultist. “We’re almost through - whatever you’re doing, do it now!”

Lilith staggered to her feet. Smoke in her lungs. Blood in her mouth. Power screaming in her bones.

She looked up. Above her, the lyrium-choked ceiling of Redcliffe’s great hall loomed. A lattice of stone, crystal, and decay - massive, ancient, and sick with corruption.

She reached deeper. - deeper than she ever had. Beyond pain. Beyond rage . Beyond the mortal part of her that trembled.

And she let go.

A single wordless scream left her throat as she raised both hands and hurled her magic skyward. A beam of pure force - searing and wild - punched into the ceiling like a god’s fist.

Cracks erupted like thunder. Lightning-shaped fissures tore through stone and lyrium alike. The very air warped from the pressure of it.

The entire throne room groaned.

And then-

BOOM.

The roof of Redcliffe Castle collapsed.

A roar of stone and dust crashed downward, as slabs of masonry the size of wagons plummeted into the dais. Spires of red lyrium shattered like glass. The air choked with red-tinged debris and magic, burning hot and thick as blood.

Astarion’s form vanished beneath the rubble.

The echoes went on and on and on.

And then-

Silence.

Lilith turned, smoke curling off her skin, eyes burning with fury. “That should hold him off for a few minutes.”

Varric coughed violently, patting dust from his jacket. “A few ?! You know how long it took to rebuild this place last time?”

Lilith didn’t answer. She was already sprinting, boots pounding across the fractured floor as the others regrouped behind her.

“Come on!” she called. “We have to get to the ritual chamber. We finish this. Now.”

Solas fell in beside her, blood streaked down one temple. “He’ll dig himself out.”

“I know,” she said grimly.

Cassandra, Bull, and Varric fought a path forward - cutting down the last of the cultists with brutal, desperate efficiency. More were coming, but they wouldn’t make it in time.

The party rushed forward together - limping, bloodied, breathing hard - but alive.

Behind them, somewhere beneath the rubble, something stirred.

But Lilith didn’t look back.

Inside the ritual chamber, the air pulsed with unstable magic. The amulet hovered above the altar, spinning faster and faster, bands of green and violet energy twisting between them like threads in a loom about to snap.

Gale and Dorian stood on either side, sweat slicking their brows, hands flying as they adjusted the crystal focus, muttered incantations, and stabilized the amulet’s rotation with layered spells.

“The resonance is off!” Dorian barked. “We’re going to destabilize the entire chamber if we don’t-”

“I know!” Gale snapped. “Hold it at the axis - don’t let it slip or we’ll be scattered across the void like confetti!”

“I’d rather die than become magical confetti, thank you!”

“You just might if you don’t - ah, there!”

A pulse of raw energy surged from the altar, throwing off sparks and rattling the stones beneath their feet.

At the edge of the room, the others had fallen into a breathless, waiting silence.

Until Varric broke it. “Someone want to tell me what the fuck that was back there?” he said, voice low and razor-sharp. He turned to Lilith, “He called you his wife .”

Lilith’s jaw tensed.

“She didn’t deny it,” Cassandra said. “He spoke of her like - like she was part of it. Seven thousand souls.”

“She’s not denying that either,” Bull growled. “Tell me I’m wrong, Boss. Tell me he’s lying.”

Lilith’s gaze flicked to the door. She didn’t speak.

“Seven. Thousand. People,” Leliana said, each word cutting like a knife. “And he said you chose it ?”

“I didn’t know what he would become,” Lilith said finally, her voice cold and bitter. “Not until it was already done.”

“But you still stood by him,” Cassandra said. “You married him.”

Lilith’s composure cracked, frustration flaring beneath her shame. “I escaped him,” she snapped, voice sharper than she meant. “I ran across the planes to forget what I was.”

“And what were you?” Bull asked. “His bride ? His executioner ?”

Lilith’s hands curled into fists. Her voice came low and taut, barely holding. “I was a monster. But not his - not anymore.”

A beat of silence.

Bull shook his head. “We’ve bled beside you. Trusted you.”

She looked around the room, her eyes pleading. “You trusted what I am now. That hasn’t changed.”

The silence bristled with doubt.

Then-

The door exploded inward, a tidal wave of pressure slamming into the room, shattering shelves, sending stones flying. Fire bloomed from nowhere. Red light poured in like a tide.

Astarion stormed in like a god unchained.

Blood streaked his chest, his cloak half-torn, lyrium glowing like veins of molten rage beneath his skin. His face was twisted - not with pain, but joy . Rapture. His grin carved across his face like a wound.

He screamed - raw, feral. “LILITH -!”

Lilith was already moving. “DOWN !” she shouted, throwing up a barrier of force halfway between the altar and the door. Gale and Dorian ducked instinctively behind it, hands still on the amulet.

Astarion didn’t lunge. Instead, he lifted his arms, and magic erupted from him in every direction. A shockwave of shadow and blood energy rolled across the chamber like a tidal blast.

Lilith’s barrier held, just barely. The force slammed against it like a wrecking ball, sparks hissing across its surface. Gale stumbled. Dorian swore.

But beyond their shield-

Solas raised a ward of his own a second too late. The edge of the blast caught him and hurled him across the floor. He collapsed in a heap, unmoving, blood pooling beneath him.

The others weren’t so lucky.

Cassandra was thrown back with a crack - her body slamming into a pillar and crumpling at its base. Varric’s scream was cut off mid-breath as he collided with the wall, neck twisting wrong. Bull flew sideways, crashing through a bookshelf that collapsed atop him. Leliana tried to leap aside - but the wave struck her mid-run. Her blades clattered to the ground before her body hit it.

Lilith stared through the shimmering wall of her ward, her ears ringing. They were gone. All of them.

“No,” she whispered. It came out broken.

Her knees nearly buckled, grief surging through her like poison. Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred. These were her people - hers - and now they were wreckage scattered across the room like forgotten relics.

Because of him.

Because of her.

Astarion stepped through the smoke, chest heaving. Eyes locked on her. “Do you see?” he breathed. “Do you see what we could be?”

The amulet shrieked behind her, light fracturing in violent, impossible color.

Then-

A sound like the world splitting apart.

The portal snapped open in a thundercrack of green light, a window to the present ripping itself into the chamber with a roar. Wind from another time howled through the room, stirring ash and blood like leaves in a storm.

Lilith turned, heart pounding.

The escape was open.

But Astarion was already moving.

She saw the blur - crimson and lyrium, fangs and fury - cutting across the chamber with impossible speed. Faster than lightning. Straight toward Gale and Dorian.

He was going to reach them.

If he followed them through the portal - if he returned to the present - there would be no sanctuary. No time left to fight back. No second chance. She had dropped the roof of an impenetrable fortress on him, and he got back up . If he reached their time, the Inquisition wouldn’t stand a chance. The world might not, either.

Lilith’s stomach dropped. She wouldn’t make it to the exit before him. 

And the portal - gods, it would take a moment to close. Just enough time for him to slip in behind them. Not unless someone stopped him.

Her hand snapped forward. A fireball screamed from her palm, slamming into Astarion’s chest with the force of a cannon blast. Heat scorched the air. His cloak ignited, red lyrium cracking and glowing like embers - but he only slowed slightly.

“Gale !” she shouted, voice raw. “ Dorian - GO!”

They hesitated. Dorian turned to her, horror etched into every line of his face.

She met Gale’s eyes across the chaos. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

Lilith thrust both hands forward and let loose a concussive wave of force, her magic screaming as it crashed into their backs. The spell hit them like a hammer, hurling them off their feet - backwards - into the portal.

“Lilith!” Gale shouted as their figures vanished in a blaze of light.

Then the portal convulsed, light folding in on itself, and with a thunderclap like the sky cracking open-

-it collapsed . 

Gone.

Silence dropped like a blade.

Lilith stood alone in the wreckage of the chamber. Her hands still outstretched, breath ragged, skin singed from casting. Astarion was already recovering - grinning through blood-stained teeth as the embers of her fire curled around his shoulders.

She was alone, but she’d done it. They were safe. Gale and Dorian made it back. 

She let out a shaky breath, something like a laugh tearing free of her throat.

Then she looked at the shattered remnants of the portal. The crackling red lyrium veins snaking along the walls. The blood-soaked stones beneath her feet.

Astarion rose slowly, the grin never leaving his face.

She turned to him fully, fire gathering in her palms, her spine straightening.

“I should’ve burned you to ash the first time.” Lilith muttered, eyes glowing now - not with compulsion, but with rage.

“You wanted me to stay? Fine. Come see what that costs you.”

Chapter Text

The silence afterward was suffocating.

Lilith turned.

Astarion was still standing - burned, bloodied, grinning like the devil had kissed him. Smoke curled from his coat where her fire had caught it. The veins in his throat glowed red like fault lines, the lyrium in his blood pulsing visibly now, rhythmic and obscene. His eyes glittered like coins tossed into a cursed well.

And he was laughing.

“Ah, my love,” he said, voice raw and delighted. “You don’t know how good I am to you. Even now. Even after everything.”

Her heart was still hammering from the spell, her breath tearing ragged from her lungs.

She drew her dagger anyway. “I hate you.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You’re rot in silk.”

His grin stretched wider, impossibly wide. “Oh, but you don’t hate me, darling. You hate yourself. That’s why it still hurts. That’s why you’re still mine.”

Her grip tightened.

“You think you’re free,” he said, taking a slow step forward, boots crunching over broken stone. “But you left your soul behind in that ritual chamber. Don’t you remember? You begged me to ascend.”

Lilith’s throat closed, just for a breath. “That wasn’t love,” she said. “That was madness.”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Is there a difference?”

“You loved what we were,” he continued, voice low and coaxing. “What I gave you. Power. Purpose. You stood beside a god as his equal.”

“I stood beside a monster.”

He chuckled, soft and cruel. “You’re so dramatic when you’re ashamed.”

“I escaped you.”

“No,” he said, gaze sharpening. “You abandoned me.”

Another step. His expression softened, almost mournful. “I waited for you, you know. I thought maybe - maybe you’d come back.”

Lilith stayed still. But something inside her twisted.

“I was going to turn you,” he said. “Did you know that?”

She didn’t answer.

“On our wedding night.” His voice was almost tender now. “I even found a priest. Some shriveled wretch from the Underdark. It was going to be poetic. Ascending together - forever .”

Lilith flinched.

“But you ran.” The softness drained from his face. “You ran, and I burned for you. I bled cities dry to bring you back.”

From the edge of her awareness, she felt a flicker-like wind brushing cold fingers against her mind. Solas. Somewhere nearby. Watching. Listening.

“Did you really think I’d let you go?” Astarion hissed. “After all we were? After you gave me your blood, your body, your blessing? You said there was no you without me.”

Her voice trembled. “I lied.”

“No, darling,” he said, stepping close enough she could smell the iron on his breath. “You lied to yourself.”

That was the last thing he said before she lunged.

Their blades met with a shriek of steel and magic. Light and shadow exploded between them - burning runes and crashing flame, smoke spiraling through the air.