Chapter Text
The wind was the first thing I felt.
Cool. Damp. Laced with ash and blood.
Then the pain followed—deep, crushing, everywhere at once. My ribs screamed with every shallow breath. My muscles trembled under the weight of my own body, and dried blood caked my skin like second armor.
I opened my eyes.
The sky above was gray now, dull and unmoving. The fires had burned low. The smoke had cleared. And the silence was deafening.
I pushed myself up slowly, every movement like glass grinding in my bones. My hand brushed the torn remains of my mantle, and beneath it, the Dark Knight Soul Crystal pulsed weakly against my chest—as if it, too, was recovering.
I looked around.
Ostagar was a graveyard.
Darkspawn corpses lay in every direction, twisted and crumpled in unnatural ways. Some were split in half. Others had been impaled by jagged pillars of obsidian shadow, the kind I had never conjured before. Limbs were scattered like leaves in the wind. Black blood stained the earth so thickly it clung to the fog.
And not a single one of them moved.
I staggered to my feet, clutching Shadowbringer, now half-buried in the mud, its blade still glowing with the faint pulse of some other power. My soul ached—not just from exhaustion, but from a deep, lingering wrongness.
Like something inside me had stretched, then snapped back without warning.
“What did I do?”
I didn’t remember. The last thing I recalled was falling—screaming into the dark, lungs full of blood, the Blight closing in. Then—nothing. Just silence. No dream. No voice. Just... black.
And yet I stood here now. Alive.
But alone.
My heart sank as the truth set in.
King Cailan was dead.
Duncan was gone.
The Wardens had fallen. Ferelden’s hope died here.
And yet—I remained.
I clenched my fist, grounding myself.
If I survived this... it meant something.
I wasn’t sure if it was mercy, fate, or punishment. But the war wasn’t over. Not yet.
I turned toward the bridge, its splintered remnants rising from the gorge like broken teeth. Loghain’s forces were long gone. No trace of soldiers or allies. Just ghosts.
“Alistair. Aedan.”
Their names came to me like anchors in the storm.
They had gone to the tower, to light the beacon. If anyone survived this nightmare, it would be them.
And if not—then I had no one left.
But I refused to believe that.
They had to be alive. They had to be.
I tightened the straps of my armor, wincing. My mantle was torn, my cloak in shreds. The Baldesion ring still faintly shimmered on my hand, its magic weak, but intact. I reached for the Soul Resonator Pendant—it pulsed erratically, flickering like a warning heart.
Umbriel had been close.
Too close.
But I would think on that later.
Right now, Ferelden burned, and I had to find the others before the Blight rose again.
I turned north, away from the battlefield, and began walking.
Each step was agony.
But I walked anyway.
Because I still had a war to finish.
I left the ruin of Ostagar behind me, but its stench clung to my skin—the iron tang of blood, the acrid sting of fire, the sour rot of death. The land felt cursed now, like something sacred had been broken.
I moved through the edge of the Wilds, each step slower than the last, not from exhaustion, but dread.
The tower had been key to the strategy—light the beacon, signal Loghain’s advance. But no advance had come. Only silence. And betrayal.
If there had been survivors… any survivors… it would be there.
The path was choked with corpses, most of them darkspawn. Their blackened blood had soaked into the soil, leaving it cracked and corrupted, as though the earth itself recoiled.
I passed a fallen tree scorched black, its roots still smoldering. Around it were the signs of a desperate battle—slashes in the bark, torn earth, broken arrows.
They had fought here.
Whoever had held this ground had made the monsters bleed.
The tower loomed in the near distance now, silhouetted against the murky sky. The beacon at its peak was cold, dark—the flame long extinguished.
I approached cautiously, but no movement stirred.
No sound, save for the distant caws of carrion birds waiting for their grim feast.
The ground near the tower entrance was littered with bodies. Dozens of them—hurlocks, genlocks, a few ogres reduced to burned husks. Whoever had defended this place had not gone quietly.
I stepped over a twisted corpse, its jaw broken and hanging loose, eyes glassy in death. One hand still clutched a rusted blade.
The stone steps to the tower were slick with blood.
Inside was no better.
Scorch marks blackened the stone walls. I could smell dried sweat, burnt flesh, old fear. I climbed the tower slowly, hand on the hilt of Shadowbringer, though nothing stirred.
And at the top, beneath the cold shadow of the extinguished beacon, I found it.
Lying beside the remains of a shattered railing was a battered kite shield, its blue surface scratched, dented, and flecked with dirt and gore. But I knew the sigil carved into its face.
A pair of Laurels. House Cousland.
Aedan’s shield.
I knelt beside it, my gauntlet tracing the rim.
Blood coated one edge—deep, red, and still tacky.
Human blood.
It wasn't darkspawn ichor. It hadn’t rotted or curdled. It was fresh.
My gut twisted.
I looked around. There were no bodies. No signs of Aedan or Alistair—just silence. Like they’d been swallowed whole.
I rose slowly, shield in hand.
The shield was too light in my grasp. It didn’t belong to me, but I would carry it all the same.
They weren’t here.
But they had been.
They’d made a stand.
And if they still lived, I’d find them.
If they had fallen… I would ensure the world knew how they fought.
The Korcari Wilds loomed behind the tower, vast and black and unknowable.
Whatever path lay ahead, I would walk it.
Alone, if I must.
The Korcari Wilds stretched on like a dream that refused to end—a place untouched by time, snarled by roots and memory. I moved through the undergrowth in silence, branches clawing at my cloak, wet earth sucking at my boots. The deeper I wandered, the more the air thickened—laden with decay, life, and magic.
This was no ordinary forest. It hummed with something old.
Even the wind here sounded wrong.
No birdsong. No wildlife.
Just that low, oppressive stillness.
I’d long since lost the trail. If Aedan and Alistair had come this way, their tracks had been swallowed whole by the swampy ground and creeping fog.
Still I pressed on.
The shield bearing the crest of Highever was strapped to my back, silent testimony to their presence. I had no proof they lived—only that their bodies hadn’t been left behind. And so long as that was true, I couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t.
Somewhere in this wild, rotting place, they might still be breathing.
It was after dusk when the fog began to thin and I spotted smoke curling into the sky.
Faint. Barely visible.
I froze.
Fire meant shelter—or danger.
I moved slowly toward the source, stepping over a half-sunken skeleton wrapped in roots. It was ancient. Human. Long dead.
Whatever lived here didn’t care for visitors.
I pushed through the last of the thorns, boots sinking into the damp moss of the Wilds, when I saw her.
She stood before a crooked cottage built into the twisted roots of an ancient tree—half-dwelling, half-shrine—its roof draped in moss and bone, smoke curling from the crooked chimney like a serpent.
The woman at its threshold was bent with age, but that was a trick of the eye. Her body moved with ease, wrapped in thick leathers and layered fabrics that fluttered in the wind like the wings of a great bird. Her long silver-white hair was drawn back in a heavy braid, streaked with dusk, not time. Her face bore the lines of centuries, not years—not worn, but carved, as if by purpose.
And her eyes… gods, her eyes.
Amber like a dying sun, bright and cold, sharp enough to slice through pretenses. She looked at me like one might examine a blade—testing the weight, the balance, the danger of it.
“Hmm,” she murmured, voice rasping like dry leaves across stone. “That’s not a face I know.”
I stopped just short of her, scanning the clearing around us. The trees were unnaturally still. The wind had stopped. Even the birds held their breath.
“I’m looking for two men,” I said, keeping my tone level. “Young. Both wounded. Grey Wardens.”
Her gaze didn’t waver.
Instead, she took a step closer, and I felt something stir beneath my skin—a faint tremor, as if the soul within me recognized something older, deeper, dangerous. She smelled of smoke and earth and wild magic—raw and untempered.
She circled me slowly, her eyes raking over every inch of me—not with desire or judgment, but recognition, like one might study a long-lost constellation now hanging in a foreign sky.
“There is something… strange about you,” she said at last. “You carry darkness like an old friend, and yet… your soul does not belong to this land.”
I said nothing. There was no lie to give her. Not one she wouldn’t see through in a heartbeat.
Her lips curved into a knowing smile, sharp and sly.
“Good,” she said. “Secrets mean you’re still dangerous.”
She stepped aside, gesturing to the crooked door behind her.
“They’re inside. Resting.”
I blinked. “You found them?”
Her smile only deepened—not cruel, but amused, like the forest itself whispering a joke only she understood.
“No,” she said. “They found me. Or rather… the Wilds gave them up before the Blight could.”
I looked past her toward the flickering shadows within.
For a moment, I hesitated.
There was something about her that felt vast and unknowable, like standing at the edge of the Void.
But her eyes never lied.
And inside, my allies were waiting.
She turned without another word and slipped into the cottage, shadows swallowing her like water around a stone.
I followed.
The warmth of the fire welcomed me inside, but it brought no comfort.
The hut smelled of strange herbs, old wood, and smoke—not unpleasant, just... ancient. Bone charms clinked softly from the rafters. A cauldron simmered over the hearth, steam rising in lazy spirals. The place was alive in a way that reminded me of the deeper parts of the Twelveswood—old magic, quiet and watching.
The woman moved past me without a word, her long braid trailing like a tether behind her. She knelt at the fire and stirred the bubbling stew with a carved wooden spoon, her motions casual, almost careless.
“Rest assured,” she said, not even glancing back, “they’ll wake when they’re ready. The young are resilient—if annoyingly so.”
There was a dry humor in her voice, sharp as broken glass wrapped in silk.
I stepped further inside, casting a glance toward the low bedrolls in the back. Aedan and Alistair were there—breathing, still. Alive. Relief stirred in my chest like a fire being coaxed back to life.
Still, I kept my hand near my sword.
She didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps she did and simply didn’t care.
“And your name,” I asked, keeping my voice even, “if I may?”
At that, she turned her head just slightly, enough for the firelight to catch the gold in her eyes. They weren’t old eyes, not truly. Not tired or faded. They gleamed like a serpent’s—watchful, ancient, knowing.
“Names,” she said, “are weighty things.”
She dipped the spoon once more into the pot, tasted it, then smirked as if amused by some private joke.
“Power, if given too freely, tends to wander.”
She looked toward the door for a moment, her gaze distant, as though seeing something far beyond this hut—beyond this world.
“But,” she added, flicking her eyes back to me, “if you must know… some call me—Flemeth.”
The name landed like a stone in a still pool.
I’d heard it before.
Whispers in dark taverns. Murmurs passed between superstitious soldiers. Even a drunken templar in Denerim had once muttered it like a curse, then made the sign of Andraste across his chest.
Flemeth.
The Witch of the Wilds.
Legends wrapped around her like fog—layered, contradictory, dangerous.
Some said she was immortal. That she drank the blood of dragons. That she had made pacts with demons, only to consume them afterward. That she could become a beast at will. That she had daughters scattered across Thedas, each one a spell woven into flesh.
That she was not one woman at all—but many, living through centuries in a cycle of possession and rebirth.
I looked at her again, watching the way the fire played along the angles of her face.
I’d fought gods. Faced Ascians. Crossed time and space. But even I could feel it—
She was not mortal in the way others were.
And she knew it.
“I’ve heard… stories,” I said carefully.
Her smile widened. “Oh, I *do* hope they were flattering.”
“I didn’t say they were good stories.”
She laughed softly—low and amused, like a wolf howling through a smile.
“Good,” she said. “Those are the ones worth listening to.”
Then she returned to her stew, as if we were just two travelers sharing a meal on a quiet evening, and not standing on the edge of history.
A new voice cut through the quiet tension like a blade through silk.
“Mother,” it said from the shadows of the hut, dry and sharp, “must you always play games with those who stumble to our door?”
I turned.
A younger woman stepped into view, gliding out of the corner with the ease of someone used to being unnoticed until it suited her.
Pale skin, framed by thick black hair cascading around her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of polished gold—not warm, not soft, but alert and dissecting, like they could strip your soul bare if you gave her reason.
She looked to be around my age—perhaps a few years younger—but carried herself like someone who had seen far more. Her leather garments were functional, close-fitting, designed for movement in the Wilds. Around her neck hung a cluster of amulets—protection charms, most likely. Or curses, depending on who you asked.
She moved like a cat—relaxed, yes, but coiled with potential. Every step was deliberate. Calculated.
Her gaze landed on me with open skepticism.
“I suppose,” she said, tone laced with mild contempt, “you’re here for the two half-dead puppies we dragged in.”
“They’re friends,” I said simply, unflinching.
“Then they’ll live,” she replied without pause. “We’ve tended their wounds. You can thank her for that.”
She nodded toward Flemeth, who had returned to her stew with a pleased, almost grandmotherly hum.
I glanced between the two women. Mother and daughter. Though only one of them seemed to have any use for pleasantries.
My fingers brushed the cloth-wrapped hilt of Shadowbringer across my back, more from habit than threat.
“You’ve no need to fear,” Flemeth said, voice light and faintly amused. “If I wanted you dead, you’d have never found the hut.”
“I didn’t mean to find it,” I said, carefully.
Her smile widened. “Exactly.”
I chose to sleep outside that night.
The hut may have been warm, but I preferred the open sky. Besides… I didn’t trust them. Not yet.
But they’d saved Aedan and Alistair. That counted for something.
I lay back on the moss-covered ground, the trees towering above me like silent sentinels. The sky overhead was thick with clouds, moonlight struggling to shine through.
The stars here were wrong.
I stared at them anyway.
No constellations I knew. No familiar glimmer of the night sky of Etheirys. No comforting gleam of Hydaelyn’s aether.
Just cold, distant lights in a world that wasn’t mine.
The wind rustled the leaves gently. A wolf howled far off. The Wilds were alive, breathing, waiting.
And I was still here.
Trapped.
And yet... they were alive.
Aedan. Alistair.
That was enough—for now.
“You do not sleep.”
The voice came from behind, low and even, with a hint of irritation that I hadn't yet earned.
I didn’t flinch.
Morrigan stepped out of the dark like she belonged to it. She carried herself differently out here—more at ease beneath the trees than in the confines of her mother’s hut. She stood a few feet from me, arms crossed, watching.
“I do,” I said. “Just not easily.”
She tilted her head.
“Because you do not trust us, or because you expect your enemies to arrive under cover of night?”
I shrugged. “Both.”
She smirked, clearly amused. “Paranoia suits you. Though I daresay, if Mother had any intention of eating you in your sleep, you’d already be digesting.”
“I’m still not convinced she hasn’t.”
That earned a soft laugh. “She has that effect, yes. But if it eases your mind, she has little interest in corpses. Only in what can still be... shaped.”
Her gaze lingered on me—searching, but not invasive.
“You’re not from the Imperium. Nor Orlais. Your mannerisms are wrong. Your sword even more so.”
I didn’t answer.
She crouched beside the fire pit, plucking a twig from the ground and drawing idle shapes in the ash.
“You aren’t the first stranger to wander into the Wilds, you know,” she said softly. “But most are torn apart by beasts, or swallowed by the fog. You, however…”
She looked at me.
“You do not belong. And yet the forest let you pass.”
I met her gaze evenly. “What do you think that means?”
She grinned—a flash of teeth, cunning and sharp.
“I think it means you are either a fool, or something far more dangerous.”
She stood again, brushing off her hands.
“Either way, the Blight stirs. War is coming. And if you are truly a friend to the Grey Wardens… then perhaps you’ll find some use after all.”
She turned, walking back toward the hut.
But before she vanished into the shadows, she paused.
“You should sleep,” she said over her shoulder. “You’ll need your strength. The world doesn’t get kinder from here.”
Then she was gone.
I looked back up at the stars. Still foreign. Still wrong.
But not so distant now.
I kept to the edge of the clearing, wrapped in stillness, away from the firelight of the witch’s crooked hut. The Korcari Wilds whispered around me, the trees groaning faintly in the breeze. Night had truly settled now, silver moonlight filtering through the fog like faint hope.
Inside, the two young Wardens rested—alive, barely. I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring for them, or for Ferelden, but for the first time since Ostagar… I didn’t feel alone.
The door creaked.
I turned.
Flemeth stepped into the clearing, silent despite the brittle bones hanging from the doorframe. She moved with the ease of a woman unconcerned by time.
She said nothing at first, only sat across from me on a moss-covered stump.
Her eyes were clear in the moonlight. Sharp. Unyielding.
“The Wilds are quiet,” she said finally.
“Too quiet,” I muttered. “Like the land’s waiting to breathe again.”
“Oh, it breathes,” she replied. “Just not for us.”
Silence fell again between us.
I didn’t trust her. But I wasn’t afraid of her, either. That part of me—the fear of old power—had burned out long ago.
Still, she was... different. She watched people the way one might study an open wound. With morbid curiosity and clinical interest.
“You’re not surprised I’m still alive,” I said.
She smiled, folding her hands across her lap. “No. Death doesn’t cling to you as it does others. And your soul… refuses it.”
I looked at her sideways. “You see souls?”
“I feel them. Taste them, if I’m inclined.” She leaned forward slightly.
I stiffened, but said nothing.
She chuckled.
A long pause.
Then she said softly, “Your soul is old. Older than even I, perhaps. And I have lived… many lives.”
Her words stirred something cold in my chest.
She stared up at the moon. “This world, Thedas… it is not young. It has seen ages rise and fall, gods bound and broken, false divinity and true horror. But you… you carry something older. More whole. A fragment of a truth this world has never known.”
I looked at the sky with her, silent.
So she felt it. The core. The orange ember. The seat of Azem. The soul I had been born with, shattered across time and remade in battle.
“I don’t know what you think I am,” I said finally. “But I’m not a god.”
“No,” she said, turning her eyes to me again. “You are something far worse.”
My hand twitched toward Shadowbringer, still wrapped on my back.
She noticed, and smiled.
“Don’t bristle. I mean only that gods fade. Fade into myth, into stone, into dogma. But a soul like yours? It persists. It moves. It learns.”
I turned back toward the hut.
“And what are you?”
“Curious,” she said. “And cursed to remember more than most should. The old magics still speak to me, even when I wish they wouldn’t.”
She reached down and picked up a small stone from the earth, rolling it between her fingers.
“Most mortals are bound by the shape of their lives. You are bound by the echo of many. I imagine that makes choices… complicated.”
More than she knew.
Finally, I asked, “Why help the Wardens?”
She studied the stone a moment longer. “Because the Blight is more dangerous than even the fools in Denerim realize. The Darkspawn are the symptom, not the disease.”
She looked at me. “And because something is coming. Something that calls to power. Yours included.”
I frowned. “You think I was brought here on purpose?”
She tossed the stone into the firelight, where it landed with a soft thud.
“I think nothing is truly random in a world built on stories.”
A wolf howled in the distance.
I rose, the weight of her words still lingering.
“You talk a lot for someone who claims not to care,” I said.
She gave a raspy laugh. “And you say little for someone who’s been reborn with fire in his veins.”
She stood, brushing off her skirts.
“One day, Zephyr Arcadin, we will speak again. Perhaps when the world is burning. That seems to be when you shine brightest.”
She turned to leave, then paused at the door.
“Oh, and if your soul is older than Thedas itself…” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “…try not to let it fall apart. This world is fragile. It won’t survive the storm inside you.”
Then she was gone, back into the crooked bones and soft firelight of her hut.
I sat alone, hand resting on the cloth-wrapped hilt of Shadowbringer.
The moon was bright overhead, but its light felt distant.
Everything inside me stirred.
She knew.
Not everything—but enough to see the shape of what I was.
And still, she hadn’t flinched.
I stood once more at the edge of the Wilds.
The air was thick with old magic, that strange scent of rot and life interwoven. This place had never welcomed me—and I hadn’t expected it to. Not after Ostagar. Not after watching a king fall and a hero die while the sky burned red with fire and blood.
The shield of Highever, still bearing the scratches and bloodstains of the Korcari Wilds, hung from my hand.
I traced the engraving on the rim—a pair of laurels.
Aedan Cousland’s family crest.
The shield was more than a weapon’s mate. It was an anchor—proof that he’d survived. Proof that he might yet rise.
But I couldn’t wait.
Not with the taste of betrayal still burning behind my teeth. Not with Loghain Mac Tir’s name being whispered in every soldier’s dying breath.
I needed answers.
I needed to see what was left of Ferelden’s crown with my own eyes.
Morrigan met me outside the hut, arms folded as though she’d been expecting me.
She eyed the shield, then my face.
“You’re leaving.”
“Your mother saved them,” I said, gesturing back toward the door. “They’ll wake. When they do, I need you to give this to Aedan.”
I held the shield out.
Morrigan didn’t take it immediately. She looked at it as though it might bite her.
“Do you believe he’ll want to remember the night his entire army was slaughtered?” she asked coolly.
I stared her down. “I believe he’ll want to remember who he is. And that someone is waiting for him to stand up again.”
Her gaze flicked up to meet mine—no smirk, no sharpness this time. Just thought. Cautious respect, maybe.
She took the shield, tucking it under one arm with surprising care.
“I’ll tell him you came through here.”
“Tell him more than that,” I said. “Tell him… if he and Alistair plan to face the Blight—if they want to do something about all this—then they can find me in Denerim.”
“And if they do not?” she asked.
“Then they’ll die. Like the rest.”
I turned to leave but found Flemeth standing at the path’s edge.
She had no staff, no walking stick, no visible weapon. But she still blocked the way like a mountain.
“You leave quickly,” she said, watching me with quiet mirth. “Most men would take longer to recover from witnessing the end of a kingdom.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“No,” she said, “you’ve been worse. That’s why you’re still alive.”
The wind pulled at her silver hair as she stepped aside, letting me pass.
“But do remember this, Zephyr Arcadin of the shattered stars—Thedas is not ready for what walks in your shadow.”
I didn’t answer.
But I saw her smile as I left.
The journey back north was grueling.
The Wilds gave way to broken earth, then marsh, then rolling stone hills that sloped toward the Imperial Highway like the bent spine of a forgotten titan. I moved under cover when I could, avoiding roads, slipping through abandoned paths.
I’d learned enough in my year here to know how Ferelden viewed things they didn’t understand.
And I was very much one of them.
The people feared magic. And even without my blade revealed—even without Shadowbringer unwrapped or Dynamis stirring in my blood—there was something in me that drew attention.
I could feel it.
As though the land knew I didn’t belong.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Denerim, the wind carried rumors like poison on the breeze.
“The Grey Wardens turned traitor.”
“King Cailan’s body was found beneath the broken tower.”
“Loghain returned alone. And now he’s regent.”
That word made my teeth grind.
Regent.
I remembered the last thing I saw before I was overrun by darkspawn at Ostagar—Loghain’s army pulling away, their banners fading like cowards retreating from justice.
It hadn’t been strategy.
It had been treachery.
And now, the traitor sat on the throne’s edge, ruling by proxy through his daughter, Queen Anora.
The gates of Denerim hadn’t changed since I last saw them.
But the guards had.
Their armor was dented. Hastily patched. Their eyes suspicious.
They stopped me when I reached the gate, eyeing the wrapped length of Shadowbringer on my back.
“Just passing through.”
“Name?”
“Zephyr. From the south.”
“You’re lucky. Lot of deserters from Ostagar are being arrested. The regent’s not in a forgiving mood.”
Regent.
The word again. Like rot in the lungs.
“Noted,” I said.
They let me through.
I didn’t look back.
Denerim had grown restless.
Markets buzzed, but not with trade—rumors, fear, conscription orders. The taverns were full of bitterness and spilt ale. Soldiers wandered, unsure of who they truly served. Even the Chantry bell felt like it rang hollow.
But I moved quietly through it all. Listening. Watching. Waiting.
And wondering when the two Wardens would find me again.
Because the storm hadn’t passed.
The Blight had only just begun.
And I was not done fighting.