Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
The barren dust of Mare Lamentorum stretched wide beneath my boots—pale, silent, and still. But that stillness was a lie. I could feel it in my chest, beneath the breath I didn’t need to take but did anyway. Something had changed.
The Moon had always been cold, its horizon bleak and endless, bathed in distant starlight. But tonight… tonight, the air hummed with wrongness.
A jagged rift had torn open the surface before me, raw and violent. Aether crackled along its edges—unstable, wild, an exposed nerve in the skin of reality. It pulsed like a wound, and I didn’t need Alphinaud’s voice whispering through the Linkpearl to tell me it wasn’t natural.
“Zephyr, the Rift on Mare Lamentorum is expanding faster than we anticipated. The Scions cannot reach it; your unique nature makes you the only one able to investigate directly.”
His voice crackled, distorted by interference from the rift, but I understood the message.
Of course it would be me.
I rolled my left shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of Shadowbringer across my back—the obsidian blade thrumming with Dark, as if it, too, sensed the imbalance. The soul crystal embedded in my armor pulsed in rhythm with my heart, a quiet reminder of who and what I was.
Warrior of Light. A Dark Knight. Azem’s heir.
I pulled the Mantle of Azem closer around my shoulders, and it fluttered like a living thing in the Rift’s energy, humming softly with protective magic. Venat’s final gift—one I clung to now more than ever.
I stepped forward, the dust shifting around my armored feet. The rift was… alive. I could feel it, like a heartbeat thrumming through the surface of the Moon. Echoic ripples brushed against my senses, drawn to my blessing—The Echo. It sharpened everything. The sound of my breath. The tension in the air. The soft murmur of things not meant for this world.
"The Rift isn’t just a tear," I whispered. "It’s a wound. Something is bleeding through."
The shadows that leaked from it weren’t natural. Tendrils of smoky energy slithered outward, not quite touching the ground, but corrupting everything they neared. They shimmered with something I didn’t recognize. Something I instinctively hated.
The Mantle held against the pull, even as my soul reeled.
Then the Rift pulsed again, harder this time. The tremor beneath my feet kicked up a low wave of moon-dust. I narrowed my eyes.
Something was coming.
Shapes began to emerge—misshapen, ethereal things that flickered between solid and unreal. Spirits or phantoms, I thought. Not of Eorzea. Not of the Moon. Their eyes burned with a color I didn’t have a name for.
I drew Shadowbringer with one clean motion, the blade singing as it left my back. The Darkness woven into its edge responded to the Rift, glowing faintly.
I took a breath, stepped into the darkness—and vanished.
Shadowstride carried me behind the nearest creature. I reappeared in silence, and my blade struck true. A burst of shadow cleaved through the wraithlike thing, unraveling it into nothing.
The others surged at me. Too many.
I slammed my blade into the ground and called on the void within.
A barrier of darkness bloomed around me, tendrils of my own making rising to catch their blows, reflecting their magic back in jagged arcs of blacklight. They flinched. I pressed the advantage.
With a snarl, I reached deep into my core, into that bitter pit where fury lived—and raised my hand.
Dozens of shadow-spears erupted from the ground around me, skewering the creatures in place. The screams they made were not like any I’d heard before. Not human. Not voidsent.
The spears stayed, anchored by my will. They weren’t just weapons—they were barriers, cutting the enemy’s advance and disrupting their twisted aether.
Still, they came. More of them. The Rift wanted me gone.
But I stood firm.
The Soul Resonator Pendant at my throat pulsed—a warning. Not from the Rift. From within.
Umbriel, the shadow that came with embracing my power as a Dark Knight, stirred.
I forced him back, gritting my teeth. Not now.
I tightened my grip on Shadowbringer. My pulse pounded in my ears.
The Rift shuddered beneath my feet. It widened with a sickening lurch, as if it were alive, hungry, aware of me.
Aether howled around the jagged tear, wild and raw. It spilled into the moonlight like a wound torn through existence itself. The energy clawed at me, trying to unravel the very threads of who I was.
I staggered a step back, teeth clenched, gripping Shadowbringer so tightly my gauntlet creaked.
Then it struck.
A force unlike anything I’ve ever felt—a tidal pull, sudden and absolute. There was no time to run. No space to fight. The ground fell away beneath me, moon-dust spiraling upward as the Rift swallowed everything in a cyclone of shadow and searing light.
I didn’t scream. There was no air.
Only the tearing of my senses—cold and heat, darkness and blinding brilliance, pain and weightlessness. My body felt like it was being scattered across a thousand realities, my soul unraveling.
Then—
Silence.
When I opened my eyes, the sky was wrong.
It stretched wide overhead, painted in hues of gold and blue I hadn’t seen since Etheirys. But it wasn’t home. The sun here was strange—too warm, too close. The air felt heavy with a kind of magic I didn’t recognize. Not aether. Something older.
I wasn’t on the Moon anymore.
I wasn’t in Etheirys at all.
I staggered upright, my boots crunching against grass instead of dust. Grass. Real, living earth beneath my feet. I looked around—trees in the distance, a pale stone ruin nearby, the wind carrying sounds I couldn’t place. Birds. Creatures. Life.
The Rift had pulled me through a Veil and thrown me here.
My hand flexed around the hilt of Shadowbringer, still warm from battle. The Mantle of Azem settled gently across my shoulders, the enchantment humming softly. It had carried me through the breach. Protected me. Guided me. It whispered now, faint but firm.
I stood alone, in a world not my own.
Chapter 2: A New World
Chapter Text
The air struck me first.
Thicker than Mare Lamentorum’s sterile chill. Heavy with warmth and life. It smelled of pine needles crushed underfoot, rich soil, and something distant—wood smoke, maybe. I inhaled deeply. It tasted wild. Alive. A stark contrast to the still, empty breath of the moon.
I lowered my gaze.
Grass and earth. Not dust and metal plating. My boots had found real ground—soft, damp, and uneven. My footing adjusted instinctively, but there was no familiarity here. Even the weight beneath me felt… foreign. Not unfriendly. Just unknown.
The sun hung low—golden, unrelenting—stretching my shadow long across the terrain. Hills rolled gently toward the horizon, cut by forests and jagged rock. Nothing like Thanalan’s scorched plains, nor the silver expanse of Elpis. I wasn’t in Eorzea anymore. Not even close.
I narrowed my eyes, every fiber of me tightening.
Something was wrong—not immediately threatening, but subtly off. The aether here... I could feel it. A pulse. It wasn’t like home’s clean, structured flow. It felt raw. More primal. But it was aether, still. That meant life. That meant danger.
The Mantle of Azem fluttered slightly around my shoulders, as if responding to the ambient energy. Not hostile, but disturbed. It shimmered against the unseen—warding off whatever ghosts haunted this world’s wind.
Thedas.
That name had formed itself in my mind the moment I arrived. I didn’t know how. A lingering trace from the Rift’s magic, maybe. Or a whisper from the Echo. This land remembered being spoken about. A continent bruised by conflict. Its scars ran deep—I could feel them in the ground, like vibrations in a wound not fully healed.
My soul stirred beneath the armor.
That old ache. That longing for adventure. Umbriel stirred somewhere deep inside, but not yet awakened. Not yet needed.
Not unless I let myself waver.
I reached behind me and touched the hilt at my back. Shadowbringer. Its weight was familiar, grounding. It pulsed faintly—subtle recognition. We were still bound, sword and soul, even here. Still whole, somehow.
A glance down confirmed the rest. My armor battle-worn, ever-defiant. The Soul Crystal at my waist flickered with quiet potential. My rings still hummed with protective enchantments. The pendant across my chest throbbed like a heartbeat—not mine, but a warning. Umbriel was quiet now, but this place was soaked in power. Old power. The Fade, they’d called it, in whispers I couldn’t place. Magic lived in the cracks of the world here.
My linkpearl buzzed—like someone trying to speak through water. A voice. Faint. Distant. Alphinaud? I couldn’t tell. Not yet.
My hand flexed around Shadowbringer’s hilt as something shifted ahead—too small to see, too loud to ignore. Wind rustled the branches, but it wasn’t just wind.
I took a breath.
Every instinct screamed that I was being watched. Tested.
I took my first step forward.
I moved ever forward, cautious and alert, hoping to stumble upon a city or town before something decided I looked like a meal. The forest around me whispered with unseen life—every rustle in the underbrush, every sudden birdcall set my nerves on edge. This land didn’t welcome strangers, and I could feel unseen eyes tracking my every step. Still, I pressed on, driven by the faint hope of civilization.
The dirt road into Lothering was rough beneath my boots, winding between towering oaks and pines whose dark branches swayed softly in the breeze. Smoke curled from chimneys scattered among timber-framed houses, and distant voices carried on the crisp air.
This town felt modest—simple folk going about their daily lives—but beneath the surface, I sensed something uneasy. The Echo tingled faintly, picking up subtle aetheric ripples, echoes of unrest I couldn’t yet fully name.
A weathered sign swung in the wind, creaking softly: Welcome to Lothering, Gate to the West.
I stepped forward, the weight of my weathered armor a constant reminder of battles past, Shadowbringer resting heavy against my back. I was a stranger here, and I knew it.
Near the town well, a group of villagers gathered, their faces worn with worry. A woman caught my gaze and tensed, hand drifting toward the dagger at her belt.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked, voice wary but curious.
“No,” I replied steadily. “I have traveled far. I seek answers.”
Her eyes sharpened with suspicion. “Answers? There’s trouble here—darkspawn in the hills, sickness spreading. The Chantry prays, but fear grips us all.”
Darkspawn. The word was unfamiliar, but I knew that kind of darkness. Maybe ike the Voidsent from my world, I thought.
A man stepped forward, rough-voiced. “You look like a soldier. Maybe you can help. We need someone who knows how to fight.”
“I have fought as a warror for years,” I said quietly. “And I will stand against whatever troubles are here as well.”
Children played nearby, their wooden swords clashing in innocent mock battle. Their laughter was fragile, a fragile light against the shadows gathering over this land. In Eorzea, children grew up hardened by war and calamity. Here, they lived on the edge of a creeping shadow that threatened to snuff out hope.
My eyes caught the crumbling statue in the town square—a robed figure holding a glowing orb. “A church?” I thought to myself, recognizing symbols that likely marked the faith that guided these people. It reminded me of the Light of the Twelve back home—symbols of hope and protection.
That evening, I found myself seated in the common room of a modest inn nestled at the edge of Lothering—stone walls sagging with age, the fire crackling in a hearth too small for the room it was meant to warm. The air smelled of old wood, sweat, and the faint tang of dried herbs. Around me, the townsfolk nursed their worries with tankards of bitter ale and uneasy conversation.
Hunters spoke in hushed tones of twisted beasts sighted in the forests to the south and east—creatures not just dangerous, but wrong. One swore he saw a wolf walking on two legs, its eyes glowing green like witch-fire. Another claimed his arrows passed straight through a creature that left no prints in the snow.
At a corner table, a weary healer—no mage, just a woman with worn hands and sharp eyes—warned of a strange illness spreading through the region. It struck swiftly, she said, taking even strong men to bed with fever and chills within hours. No poultice worked. No tonic soothed. Something unnatural brewed in the land.
Despite the warmth of the hearth, a chill threaded down my spine.
Quietly, I shifted in my chair, letting the din fade into background noise. My hand drifted beneath the plated folds of my armor, brushing the small, smooth shape of the resonator pendant resting against my chest. Y’shtola had pressed it into my hand before the battle with the Endsinger. “For when you find yourself alone and facing the unknown,” she’d said, her voice calm, but her eyes heavy with unspoken concern.
The pendant itself was a marvel of Sharlayan craftsmanship—etched with faint sigils designed to resonate with the aether of the soul rather than the body. In theory, it offered no conventional protection. It didn’t shield me from blades, magic, or curses. And yet… it thrummed softly now, like a heartbeat. A quiet reminder of the self I carried inside.
Y’shtola had described it as a kind of stabilizer, a metaphysical anchor to help prevent the mind from unraveling when caught between divergent realms, where the laws of aether and soul did not always align. Here in Thedas, where the Fade reigned and spirits danced on the edge of waking, the rules were alien. The Fade responded not to will or structured spellcraft like in Eorzea, but to emotion, belief—even madness. A soul too unmoored might be swept away, or worse, changed.
The pendant, for all its humble hum, grounded me.
It reminded me of long nights under the stars in Mor Dhona, arguing with G’raha Tia over forgotten histories. Of Haurchefant’s laugh echoing through Camp Dragonhead. Of what I’d lost—and what I still fought for.
I closed my eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. I was far from the Source, far from my people, from the very cycle of life and death I knew. I wasn’t even sure if Hydaelyn’s light reached this world. But as the pendant pulsed softly against my skin, I knew one truth remained.
I was still Zephyr Arcadin. Still the Warrior who had faced gods, sundered time, and borne the weight of Light and Dark alike.
Whatever this land held—demons, Blights, false Emperors, or the Fade itself—it would not break me.
Not while I remembered who I was.
The next morning, I found myself drawn toward the Chantry at the heart of Lothering. The modest stone building stood humble but resolute, its stained-glass windows catching the pale light and casting colorful patterns on the worn path. The scent of burning incense and candlewax hung faintly in the air, mingling with the earthiness of the town.
Inside, the quiet hum of whispered prayers filled the cool, shadowed space. I lingered near the entrance, absorbing the solemn atmosphere, when I noticed a young woman moving with a careful grace across the chapel.
She was a few years younger than me—around twenty-five, I guessed. Her auburn hair hung down just at her neck, and her eyes held a restless intensity, as if they carried secrets too heavy for this place. The soft rosary beads she fingered told me she was no stranger to faith, yet something in her stance spoke of burdens beyond mere devotion.
When she noticed me watching, her gaze sharpened, cautious but not unkind. She approached, her footsteps light on the stone floor.
“You’re new here,” she said quietly, voice laced with both curiosity and guarded weariness.
“I arrived recently,” I replied. “I seek knowledge of this land—and perhaps to offer what aid I can.”
Her eyes lingered on mine, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips—but there was something behind it. Shadows pooled beneath her gaze, the kind born of long years and hard decisions.
“I’m Leliana,” she said at last, her voice gentle but steady. She extended a hand, the gesture polite, measured. “Sister of the Chantry.”
I took it, trying to match the gesture with practiced ease, though my fingers were still stiff from the cold—and from everything else. Her grip was firm, a quiet strength behind it.
“Zephyr Arcadin,” I answered, voice low. The name felt like a shield. Familiar. Solid. Even if everything around me was not.
Leliana tilted her head ever so slightly. Not enough to call attention, but enough to tell me she noticed the strangeness I hadn’t quite learned to hide. My armor was unlike anything in the room, or perhaps in this entire land. The blade resting by my side—Shadowbringer—caught the hearthlight and shimmered faintly with aether it shouldn’t possess here.
But she said nothing. Just gestured to a nearby bench, slightly removed from the others.
“You must have questions.”
I hesitated before sitting down. Everything in this world was still too new—too raw. The way people spoke, the feel of the ground beneath my boots, even the air I breathed felt heavier. I was still adjusting, still pretending I belonged.
“I’ve heard things,” I said slowly, keeping my voice measured. “About things called darkspawn. About a sickness. This place feels... off-balance. And you…” I glanced her way, carefully, “you don’t look like someone easily thrown.”
She didn’t respond right away. Her fingers drifted to a rosary at her hip, the movement so practiced it was almost unconscious.
“I’ve seen worse,” she said eventually.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy. We were both holding back—testing the waters.
“I wasn’t always a sister,” she said finally, voice quieter now, like the words themselves needed to be earned. “I came from Orlais. A place where truth wears a mask, and a smile can be a threat.”
I said nothing. I didn’t know enough about Orlais yet to feign understanding, but her tone was enough. I recognized the weight behind it. That kind of experience doesn’t come from simple living.
“I was a bard. We gathered secrets like coins, and spent them just as easily. I’ve killed, misled, and survived things I don’t speak of. Not often.”
Her fingers tightened around the rosary again.
“The Chantry gave me another life. One where I could believe I might be... more than what I was. I’m still trying to believe that.”
There was something in her voice—fragile but steady, like someone speaking across a chasm they couldn’t see the bottom of.
“I know what that’s like,” I said softly. “Trying to live past the person you once were. Or still are.”
Leliana turned slightly, studying me—not suspicious, but discerning. “You speak like a traveler. But not from the south. Not even from the Marches. Your words have a weight to them.”
I hesitated. I was still getting used to this world, its geography, its politics. I didn’t know what a Marcher sounded like.
“I’ve been... far,” I said carefully. “Places where the rules are different. Where what you carry inside matters more than what you show.”
She nodded slowly. She didn’t press. But I could see it in her eyes—she didn’t quite believe me, not fully. But maybe she understood what it was to carry secrets like scars.
We sat there in quiet, the firelight flickering across old wood and worn stone. I let the moment stretch, grateful for silence that didn’t demand more than I could give.
After a time, Leliana spoke again, her voice softer, thoughtful. “Perhaps people like us—those who’ve walked through shadow—are drawn to one another.”
I looked down at the floorboards, then up at her again. “Maybe that’s why I’m here,” I said.
Her eyes held mine, the guarded calm giving way to something else—recognition, maybe. Understanding.
“Then you’re already further along than most,” she said quietly.
And for the first time since I fell into this strange world, the air didn’t feel quite so cold.
The morning after my conversation with Leliana, I wandered through Lothering’s modest market square, taking in the rhythms of this unfamiliar world. The scents of fresh bread mingled with pine and smoke, the chatter of merchants and villagers weaving a tapestry of daily life.
But beneath the surface warmth, I sensed an undercurrent of tension whenever certain topics arose.
Near a small group of townsfolk, I overheard fragments of a heated discussion—words like “mages,” “Circle,” and “danger” tossed around with thinly veiled fear.
A grizzled man spat bitterly, “The Circle’s tight grip keeps them locked away, but who knows what they’re plotting behind those walls. Magic’s a curse, a poison that corrupts the soul.”
Another voice, softer but no less wary, added, “The Templars watch over them—keep them in line. But there’s always those who slip through, cause havoc. It’s why the Chantry warns us to fear magic.”
I paused, absorbing this harsh reality.
In Eorzea, magic users—casters, sorcerers, black mages—were often revered, even feared, but rarely persecuted so brutally. The Scions and the Grand Companies welcomed those who wielded aether, teaching balance and restraint.
Here, magic was shackled by suspicion, fear, and strict control—mages confined to the Circle, their freedoms stripped. A constant struggle beneath the surface.
I clenched my fists beneath my gauntlets. My own magic—a Dark Knight’s shadow magic, the wellspring of my power—was part of me, but here it could make me a target.
Using magic openly would mark me as dangerous, perhaps hunted.
I swallowed the urge to test my powers in public, knowing that in this land, survival might depend on secrecy and restraint.
This world demanded a different kind of battle—not only against monsters without, but against fear and prejudice within.
And I would have to learn to fight both.
Restless. That was the only word for it.
I didn’t belong here—not in this town, not in this world. And while I had no illusions of finding a way back to Eorzea anytime soon, I wouldn’t find the answers I needed in Lothering either.
These people were afraid, isolated, and caught in the storm before the storm. The darkspawn were growing bolder, that much was clear. But something deeper stirred beneath it all—something larger than mere corruption.
I stood in the Chantry courtyard, the morning sun casting pale light over the cobbled path. Leliana stepped out behind me, her footsteps soft, almost hesitant.
“You’re leaving,” she said. Not a question—an understanding.
“I need information,” I replied. “I can’t keep reacting blindly to this world. Its history, its dangers—I need to learn what I’m facing. What we’re all facing.”
Leliana folded her arms, blue eyes sharp beneath the morning light. “Lothering is small. And isolated. But we hear things. Merchants, travelers, pilgrims—they all bring word. Rumors of Grey Warden movements, of unrest in the south. If you go looking for answers… you’ll find more than you bargained for.”
“I usually do,” I murmured.
She frowned, and for a moment I saw the edge of concern behind her composure. “Then you should go to Denerim. It’s the capital of Ferelden—northeast of here, along the Imperial Highway. If knowledge exists in this kingdom, you’ll find it there. The royal palace… even the alienage, if you care to look into the lives of elves.”
Her tone was almost bitter at the end. I didn’t press it.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.
But Leliana stepped forward quickly. “Zephyr… I don’t want you to go.”
The words hung in the air longer than they should have. Her voice was quiet, but weighted.
I met her gaze, unsure how to answer. In Eorzea, I was always leaving—leaving for war, for answers, for the sake of others. I never stayed. Not for long.
She sighed and turned her eyes toward the rising sun. “Denerim is different. There are nobles, Templars, spies. People who don’t like strangers, especially those who don’t follow the Chantry’s rules.”
“Then I’ll be careful,” I said. “You’ve shown me enough already—for that, I owe you.”
Leliana’s fingers tightened briefly around the rosary at her belt. “Then go. Find what you need. But don’t forget that not all darkness comes in the shape of monsters. Sometimes it wears silk and speaks in riddles.”
I gave her a small nod. “Spoken like someone who knows.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I do.”
I left Lothering as the sun rose fully over the trees, a solitary figure on the road to Denerim. The path ahead was uncertain, but my steps were sure.
Chapter 3: Denerim
Chapter Text
They called it the Imperial Highway—though what empire had once laid these stones, I couldn’t say. Time and weather had cracked them, but the bones of the road still held, weaving through Ferelden’s heart like a scar from an older war. One I hadn't fought in, but could feel.
I kept moving. Always moving.
Back home, I'd marched through lands teetering on the edge of oblivion—Dalmasca, Garlemald and Thavnair—each crushed under the weight of the End of Days. But Thedas... this world bled slower. A rot that seeped from underneath.
My armor was muffled beneath travel leathers and the my mantle, enchanted to soften both presence and profile. Shadowbringer, was wrapped in coarse cloth and strapped over my back. It was impossible to hide completely—the sheer size drew stares even in silence—but better suspicion than panic.
The villages along the highway were sparse and nervous. No town criers or formal heralds—just cold glances and the weight of fear in people’s voices. Merchants moved in pairs. Farmers kept blades within reach while tilling their fields.
In one hamlet with no sign, I stopped at a roadside stand and traded a few coins for dried meat and a flask of bitter water. I kept my hood low.
A man at a nearby cart leaned over to a younger woman and said, “There’s talk that the Circle of Magi locked down its towers again. Too many whispers about maleficarum slipping away into the wilds.”
The girl crossed herself and muttered, “Let the Templars catch them. Magic’s a curse. It always was.”
The man nodded grimly. “If they’re not watched, they turn. They always turn. That’s why we’ve got the Chantry.”
I paused only long enough to memorize the words. Circle of Magi. Templars. Maleficarum.
Even without understanding the full meaning, I knew enough. Mages here were hunted. Feared. Shackled.
The Dark Knight Soul Crystal beneath my cloak pulsed faintly—not just with aether, but with something deeper. Older. Dynamis. It thrummed like a second heartbeat, resonating with my will, not the world’s flow. I hadn’t awakened to it during the Final Days like originally thought. No—Dynamis had always been there, buried within me, woven into the fabric of my soul since the beginning.
Back then, I hadn’t understood it. Couldn’t reach it. It had only stirred in moments of desperate emotion—loss, fury, defiance—but now, here in this foreign world far from Etheirys' laws of balance, I could feel it clearly. I could draw from it. Shape it. It didn’t obey the rules of magic or aether. It moved with emotion, will, conviction. And I had no shortage of those.
But that kind of power, unleashed here? They wouldn’t fear me. They’d burn me.
The days passed in fog and drizzle. I shared no campfires. No names. I kept to the edge of the road, avoiding patrols. Once, I passed what looked like a templar caravan escorting robed figures bound in enchanted manacles. None of the mages spoke. Their heads were down, their faces pale.
Fear kept them silent.
It kept me silent too.
By the fifth morning, the hills fell away to stone, and the towers of Denerim emerged from the horizon—like fists raised against the sky.
The capital of Ferelden was no shining beacon. It rose behind stout walls, jagged roofs and chimneys spearing upward like teeth. Smoke and fog clung to its flanks. It was alive, yes—but wary.
I approached the city gates at a measured pace, boots echoing on stone.
Guards stood on either side of the archway, armor crested with faded red and silver. Their hands moved to the hilts of their blades as I neared. One stepped forward.
“Stop there.”
I did.
His eyes scanned my figure—pausing on the massive object strapped to my back. Even wrapped in cloth, Shadowbringer drew suspicion. No common traveler carried a sword that size. He gestured to it.
“What’s that?”
I offered a neutral smile. “Heirloom. Ceremonial.”
“Looks more like a siege weapon.”
“Depends on the siege.”
The other guard didn’t laugh. “No sudden moves. And keep your head down.”
I inclined my head and stepped through.
Not even inside the walls yet, and already they expect me to be dangerous.
I was beginning to understand this world too well.
The Market District bustled, but not with joy. It felt like a city holding its breath. Merchants called out deals. Children darted between alleys. Chantry bells rang in the distance, solemn and rhythmic.
I moved through the flow of people, careful not to brush too close, careful to keep my wrapped blade balanced. The Mantle of Azem whispered around me, dampening my aura as much as it could.
Everywhere I looked, I saw tension—between humans and elves, between templars and civilians, between nobles and beggars. Denerim was not a city at peace. It was a battlefield waiting to remember it had enemies.
I passed a public notice board. One page was newer than the rest:
“Grey Wardens seek information on darkspawn activity near Lake Calenhad. Reward for verified sightings. Report to the Gnawed Noble Tavern.”
Lake Calenhad... wasn’t that the place mentioned back on the road?
I folded the note into my cloak.
If that’s where the mages are kept, it’s the only lead I have.
But approaching them would mean risking everything I’d kept hidden—my aether, my crystal, my soul.
Still, the only way forward... was through.
Navigating Denerim required more than armor and caution—it demanded a kind of performance. Every word, every glance, every step had to be measured.
The people here weren’t like the ones in Lothering. They were sharper. More aware. Everyone watched everyone, and no one walked without purpose.
I was still learning how to blend into this world.
The midday crowd thickened as I crossed into what I assumed was the Noble Quarter, the stone underfoot smoother, the noise quieter, and the guards more heavily armored. Even the smell changed—less sweat, more polish. More perfume.
It was then—distracted by a public speaker ranting about “Orlais meddling in Ferelden’s future”—that I turned too quickly and collided shoulder-first with a man emerging from a narrow passage.
We both staggered.
My hand immediately went to the wrapped hilt of Shadowbringer on my back.
The man’s guard stepped in at once—hand to his sword—but the older noble raised a hand to stop him. “It’s fine, Thomas. No harm done.”
I looked up fully.
The man I had bumped into wore a rich fur-lined cloak over finely embroidered noble garb. His face was dignified, if weary, with graying temples and eyes that had seen too much war and not enough peace. He studied me for only a moment before offering a polite nod.
“I trust you’re alright?” he asked, his Fereldan accent crisp and practiced. “The streets are narrow, and the people restless.”
“I should be asking you that,” I replied carefully. “My mistake.”
He smiled faintly. “A rare admission in this city.” His eyes, keen and assessing, drifted over my travel-worn cloak and lingering a heartbeat longer on the shape of my sword beneath the wrappings.
“You’re not from Denerim,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” I said honestly, “just passing through.”
“Ah.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Well then—welcome. Though these are troubled times for travelers.”
I offered a shallow bow. “I’ve noticed.”
The noble extended a gloved hand. “Arl Eamon Guerrin, of Redcliffe.”
The name meant nothing to me at first—but the surrounding guards straightened subtly, and nearby bystanders gave the man respectful space. Whoever he was, people here knew his name well.
I clasped his hand briefly. “Zephyr Arcadin.”
“An uncommon name,” Eamon mused, then offered a thin smile. “I won’t pry, but if you’re looking for work or direction, speak to the guards outside the palace district. Or visit the Gnawed Noble Tavern—not exactly the most elegant place in the city, but useful if you want to hear what Ferelden’s truly thinking.”
I nodded. “I appreciate the suggestion.”
Eamon seemed to study me for another moment—longer than I was comfortable with—but said nothing more. Instead, he turned back to his retinue. “Come, Thomas. If the King won’t listen, we’ll find someone who will.”
I stepped aside as he moved on, his cloak brushing past me like a herald’s banner. His voice faded into the crowd.
Arl Eamon. A man of influence. Measured. Watchful.
And clearly walking into something larger than himself.
I resumed my own steps—but slower now, eyes scanning the streets with new focus.
I hadn’t just crossed paths with a nobleman.
I’d stepped into Ferelden’s shadow war without realizing it.
The crowd swallowed Arl Eamon and his escort, but I didn’t let them vanish completely.
I kept moving—parallel, quiet, letting the press of bodies conceal me while my eyes tracked his silhouette beyond the noise. My armor made soft clinks beneath my travel cloak, and the hilt of Shadowbringer, still wrapped in coarse cloth, shifted against my back like a memory I couldn’t put down.
Back in Eorzea, this kind of tailing would’ve earned the suspicion of a Brass Blade patrol. Here, I wasn’t sure what the consequence would be. Still, I needed information.
Arl Eamon walked with the poise of someone used to command, but I could sense tension in the way his guard kept closer than most noble entourages. They passed beneath a stone arch flanked by city banners—the Palace District, judging by the spacing of guards and the absence of commoners. Eamon paused to speak with a knight in crest-polished armor before being let through an iron gate into one of the larger estates.
That was enough for now.
If I followed too far, I risked more than just questions. Nobility always came with a chain of loyalty—and suspicion. Especially in cities on the edge of change.
By the time I returned to the Market District, dusk had begun to color the sky in orange and steel. Lamps were being lit one by one, their flickering glow spilling out of windows and taverns.
One tavern stood out from the others—not because of charm, but because of its name.
The Gnawed Noble.
Its sign hung crooked, carved in a snide grin. Paint peeled from the shutters, and the front steps were warped from foot traffic, ale, and perhaps blood. I knew the type.
It reminded me—unpleasantly—of Limsa Lominsa’s seedier corners.
Inside, the air was heavy with drink, woodsmoke, and sweat. Tables crammed against walls, mercenaries arm-wrestling over debts, off-duty guards mumbling rumors into mugs. No one paid me much mind.
I kept to the edge of the room and took a seat against the wall. I didn’t order a drink. I wasn’t here for comfort. I was here for voices.
And they didn’t disappoint.
“—darkspawn sightings along the southern roads—says a farmer saw one near the edge of the Bannorn…”
“Blight’s just a story to most of ‘em,” said a bald man near the fire. “But the Grey Wardens are recruiting again. That’s no story.”
“They always sniff around when trouble’s coming,” a barmaid added, half-distracted.
One of the mercenaries leaned back and belched. “Pfft. Grey Wardens see danger in every shadow. Don’t mean anything.”
But it did.
*Grey Wardens. Blight. Southern roads.* The words fell into place, but the picture remained half-painted. I needed more.
I was just about to leave when a woman dropped into the seat across from me like a dagger slipping between armor plates—effortless, uninvited, and impossible to ignore.
Her skin was sun-bronzed, her dark brown hair pulled back with beads and wraps that caught the tavern light. She wore leather armor built for movement, not defense—daggers on each hip, and the confidence of someone who didn’t need armor to survive. She sat like she’d done this a hundred times—like the whole tavern was hers and I was the one trespassing.
“You don’t drink,” she said, not bothering to introduce herself first. Her voice was low, smooth, teasing. “You watch. You listen. Too quiet for a mercenary. Too clean for a smuggler. So what are you?”
I didn’t answer. Not yet. My fingers tightened under the table, brushing the edge of my armor.
Her smirk deepened. “Right, strong silent type. Let me guess—tragic past, haunted eyes, sword too big for your ego.”
“I’ve earned it,” I replied evenly.
“Mm. I’ll bet.” She leaned in just slightly, her gaze sharp now, not playful. “I’m Isabela. Pirate. Privateer if I’m feeling fancy. And right now? Curious.”
“About me.”
“Sharp, too.” She sat back again, folding one leg over the other. “You don’t belong here, love. I don’t just mean Denerim. I mean here.” She gestured vaguely around the room. “You’ve got the look of a man who’s been somewhere no one else has.”
She wasn’t wrong. My silence invited more questions, but I didn’t trust this world with the answers—not yet. And not her.
Still, something about the way she watched me told me she already knew I wasn’t from any part of Thedas she knew.
“You carry that sword like it’s part of you,” she went on, eyes flicking to Shadowbringer. “But it’s wrapped up like a secret. And you walk like a knight but don’t carry any crest. No Fereldan I’ve ever met carries themselves like that.”
“I’m not Fereldan.”
“Maker’s breath, I never would’ve guessed,” she said, voice dry as dust. “Don’t worry, I’m not exactly local either. Antiva, Rivain—wherever the wind takes me. But even I can tell when someone’s not just foreign, but wrong for the map.”
I said nothing.
She let the silence hang, then changed the subject like it was all a game. “Word is a few Wardens passed through Lake Calenhad not long ago. Quiet. Too quiet, if you ask the right people. Strange for this time of year.”
I blinked at the name—Calenhad. I’d heard whispers. I didn’t yet know where it was, but the word had weight.
She noticed.
“That ring a bell?” she asked, watching me closely.
“I’ve heard of it,” I said, careful.
“Mmh. Then you’ve heard of the Circle of Magi,” she continued. “Tower on an island, middle of the lake. Where the Chantry keeps all their little spell-flingers locked up until they’re useful or dangerous. Usually both.”
“And they can’t leave?”
She scoffed. “Not without permission from someone who wears too much metal and doesn’t smile enough. The Knight-Commanders keep the place sealed tighter than a Crows’ vault. All for the public’s safety, they say.”
“And the mages’?”
She smiled again, and this time there was something bitter under it. “That depends on whether you ask a Templar, a Tranquil, or someone who actually knows what it means to need magic to survive.”
She stood then, stretching like a cat preparing to vanish. A silver coin dropped onto the table with a flick of her fingers—payment for a drink she never touched.
“If you’re heading to Calenhad, watch your step,” she said casually. “The Templars there don’t like people who ask too many questions. And the Wardens? They don’t share what they find.”
She turned, then looked back over her shoulder, a smile curling at the corner of her lips.
“You’ve got the feel of someone who’s fought wars before. Not the kind that end with trumpets. The kind that never really end at all. Just don’t get caught up in anything you can’t walk away from.”
Then she was gone—melted into the noise of the tavern like smoke on the wind, leaving only that faint scent of spice and saltwater in her wake.
I sat there alone for a long moment.
The Circle. Templars. Grey Wardens.
They were different pieces of the same war—but only some of them knew it was coming.
I looked at the cloth-wrapped greatsword beside me. It hummed faintly—quiet and patient.
I would go to Lake Calenhad.
Not because I wanted to interfere.
Because I needed to understand.
Chapter 4: The Tower on the Lake
Chapter Text
The road to Lake Calenhad wound west from Denerim, growing quieter with every mile.
I left the main trade path after the first day, slipping onto a narrower trail used by farmers and messengers. No carriages. No patrols. Fewer eyes. I preferred it that way.
The land here was wilder than the roads south of Lothering—less plowed, more tangled. Pines and moss-strewn oaks leaned in over the trail like silent watchers. Birds still sang, but there was a hush beneath it all. Something quieter. Tense.
I felt it in the wind before I smelled it: burning wood.
Not a campfire.
I followed it, hand never far from Shadowbringer's hilt.
I found the clearing behind a thicket of dry brush and brambles.
A small farmhouse—half-collapsed—was ablaze.
Orange light flickered in the windows. Smoke billowed up into the overcast sky. A body lay crumpled outside the door—face down, a templar by the looks of his armor. Nearby, a woman knelt, her robes half-burned, her eyes wild with fear and fury. Blood stained one sleeve.
She hadn’t seen me yet.
Magic crackled in the air around her—raw, unstable. Arcane sigils pulsed at her feet, shifting unpredictably. She had no staff. Her power wasn’t shaped. It was spilling out of her in waves.
I knew what that meant.
She was afraid.
I stepped slowly into view.
The woman turned, magic surging around her palms. “Get away from me!”
I didn’t move.
“Easy,” I said, raising one hand. “I’m not a templar.”
She hesitated. “Then what are you?”
I had no answer she’d understand.
She kept her eyes locked on me. I could see the desperation in them. Her breathing was shallow. Her body was shaking—but not from cold.
She was losing control.
I knew the signs.
“I’m just a traveler,” I said. “I saw the smoke.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him!” she blurted. “He came at me—said I was a danger. That I needed to go back. That I didn’t have a choice!”
“You’re an apostate.”
She flinched.
I hadn’t meant to say it so flatly, but it was true.
“I escaped the Circle two weeks ago. I couldn’t—couldn’t breathe in there. They watch everything. The Harrowing, the silence... They say it’s protection, but it’s a prison!”
Her voice cracked.
I didn’t interrupt.
A spark of her magic surged again—lightning dancing across her fingertips. Her instincts were screaming for defense.
So were mine.
But I didn’t raise my blade. I lowered my voice instead.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You say that now,” she whispered. “They all do. Then they put the collars on. Or the brand. Or they drain you dry.”
Her fear was a tide I couldn’t stop.
So I let her see it—just for a moment.
A flicker of the Dark Knight's aura beneath my cloak. Not to threaten. To relate. To show her that magic could be both wound and weapon.
Her eyes widened.
“That’s… that’s not a Circle spell.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
She stared at me like I was impossible. And maybe I was.
“You’re not from here,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
A silence stretched between us, broken only by the pop of burning wood.
Then she staggered.
The energy in her body pulsed wrong—offbeat, like a crystal about to crack.
She fell to her knees. “It’s too much—I tried to hold it in, I tried—”
I moved before I could second-guess.
I knelt and reached forward, placing one hand gently over her shoulder.
And then I reached inside—not with magic, but with something deeper.
Dynamis. The soul’s voice.
It wasn’t like casting a spell. It wasn’t healing. It was resonance.
For a moment, I let her pain echo into mine—and let the storm settle into my presence.
Her magic dimmed.
She gasped—eyes wide.
And then, like a dying flame, her aura calmed.
She didn’t pass out, but she slumped forward, her head resting against my arm.
“…you’re not with the Wardens, are you?” she whispered.
“No.”
“…will they kill me if they find me?”
I didn’t lie.
“They might.”
I helped her away from the farmhouse before the roof caved in. Gave her some of the dry rations from my pack. Wrapped her injured arm. She didn’t ask my name, and I didn’t offer it.
Before dawn, she stood on her own again.
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“South,” she said. “To the Korcari Wilds. I heard stories. Old magic. Witches. They might teach me… or at least let me live.”
She turned, stopped, and looked back.
“Thank you, stranger. Whatever you are.”
She vanished into the forest.
I stood alone again, ash on my gloves, the first gray light of morning rising behind the trees.
This world was broken. Not in the way Etheirys had been—no grand cosmic unraveling. But in its fear, in its silence, in the way it crushed what it didn’t understand.
Ferelden feared mages.
And that meant they would fear me.
I turned west again.
Toward the lake.
The cold pressed in from all sides beneath the towering pines that bordered Lake Calenhad. I crouched, shrouded in shadow, watching the tall stone tower rise from the fog like a sentinel of forgotten ages. The Circle stood alone here, far from city streets and politics, a place thick with magic and secrets.
The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft ripple of water and the rustling of leaves.
Hours passed with nothing but distant calls of night birds and the occasional flicker of torchlight from the tower’s windows.
Then, from the heavy wooden doors, a lone figure emerged.
He moved with the quiet certainty of one who belonged—clad in dark red robes trimmed with black, the marks of a mage of high rank.
I didn’t know who he was. His face was unfamiliar. But the power radiating from him was undeniable.
His presence shifted the air—calming, probing—until his gaze settled beyond the waterline, toward the forest’s edge where I crouched.
He sensed me.
Before I could flee, the figure stepped from the shadows onto the mossy earth, voice low and measured.
“You’re not like the others.”
I rose slowly, hands empty to show no threat.
He regarded me with eyes sharp and cautious.
“I’ve felt something… different,” he said, “not quite mage, not quite mundane.”
I said nothing.
“Why do you hide?”
“Because I must.”
He studied me, searching for answers I didn’t offer.
“I am the First Enchanter,” he finally said, “one who walks free from the Circle’s walls when duty calls.”
His tone was neither warm nor cold, but it held weight.
“You carry power that does not follow the laws we understand. This place is no refuge for secrets such as yours.”
I met his gaze, keeping my voice steady.
“I seek only rest. No more.”
He regarded me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
“The Templars would demand your surrender if they knew. Their vigilance is unforgiving.”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the tower, where I imagined armored figures standing watch, ever ready.
“But I will keep your presence hidden—for now.”
He paused.
“You may stay in the Circle for a day. I will observe and learn what I can. Perhaps there is more to your presence than I yet understand.”
We walked into the ancient stone walls together. Inside, the air smelled of incense and magic, dense and humming with unspoken tension.
Mages passed silently, their eyes wary but not unkind. This was their world—a cage and a sanctuary intertwined.
Irving led me to a small chamber, modest but infused with warmth and enchantments to ease weariness.
“Rest here,” he said. “But trust is fragile. The Templars see everything.”
I nodded, understanding the unspoken warning.
Hours stretched as Irving observed from a distance, asking careful questions about the nature of magic, about what I knew and what I concealed.
I answered sparingly, guarded.
At dawn, Irving approached again.
“You wield something ancient, something beyond the teachings of the Circle.”
His tone was thoughtful, almost reluctant.
“I will learn what I can. But be warned—this world is less forgiving than it seems.”
I was left alone once more.
The silence felt heavier now, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
The chamber Irving had offered was small and plain—stone walls, a narrow cot, and a single window looking out toward the mist-covered lake. It was hardly comfortable, but better than the cold forest.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers brushing the cloth that wrapped Shadowbringer. The greatsword leaned against the wall, taller than me even when resting, its presence impossible to ignore.
No matter how tightly I wrapped it, no one could mistake the weight, the power that hummed beneath the bindings.
I kept it close, a silent companion in this strange place.
Outside the door, footsteps echoed softly—quick glances and whispered voices.
I knew they were watching.
The mages moved through the halls with a strange mix of curiosity and caution, their eyes flicking toward the door as if expecting something.
The Templars patrolled relentlessly—clad in gleaming armor, faces stern and unreadable behind visors. They weren’t warriors of some distant land but guardians, hunters of magic’s dangers. Yet, they too looked at me with unease, lingering longer on the greatsword than on me.
A tall templar captain passed by my door twice, pausing each time. His gaze rested briefly on the wrapped hilt before continuing on.
Sleep was elusive.
Each time I closed my eyes, the weight of their stares pressed against my mind.
The greatsword that lay next to me was more than a weapon—it was a part of me, a tether to a world lost, a promise of strength in the face of the unknown.
When I finally lay down, clutching the sword’s wrapped hilt like a lifeline, the faintest echo of magic pulsed through my fingertips.
Outside, the Circle’s ancient stones whispered with secrets, and the night stretched long.
But for now, I had the weight of Shadowbringer and the cold comfort of silence.
I had spent the night inside the Circle tower, the heavy presence of Shadowbringer close beside me. The silence of the ancient stones pressed down on me, but outside, the uneasy calm was about to break.
At dawn, the distant thunder of hooves stirred the heavy air, echoing sharply against stone walls. Figures approached, armor clinking softly, voices carried on the chill morning breeze.
A group of men and women, their armor worn but well-kept, dismounted in the Circle’s courtyard. Their movements were measured, purposeful. I did not know who they were—this world was still a mystery to me—but there was a sharpness in the way they carried themselves that spoke of danger and authority.
I felt the tension ripple through the air before I saw it in the faces around me.
Mages and templars moved quickly, whispering among themselves, glancing nervously toward the gate.
The tension was palpable.
I kept to the shadows, hands never far from the hilt of my sword, though it remained still, wrapped in cloth. Even so, I could feel the eyes—furtive, wary—tracking its massive shape.
This weapon marked me as something different. Something dangerous.
Irving—the man who had sheltered me here—appeared at my side. His face was calm, but the weight in his eyes betrayed concern.
“They’re here,” he said softly. “The Grey Wardens. They come when the darkness grows.”
I did not ask what darkness. I did not know this world well enough for questions. Instead, I tightened my grip on Shadowbringer, the rough cloth cool beneath my fingers.
“They seek recruits,” Irving added. “Those willing to fight what haunts the wilds.”
The hallways filled with low murmurs, the mingled voices of fear and obligation. The Circle’s mages exchanged worried looks, the templars adjusted their armor, posture stiffening.
I watched as armored figures moved through the courtyard—tall, strong, and disciplined. They carried no weapons I recognized, but their bearing spoke of battle-hardened skill.
Later, in the Circle’s great hall, the tension thickened.
The room was ancient and vast, lit by torches that flickered against stone walls lined with tapestries depicting long-forgotten wars and faith.
A man stepped forward—a leader by his bearing. His voice was low but firm as he addressed the assembly.
“The Blight spreads,” he said. “Darkspawn rise in the wilds. We come seeking those who will stand against the coming storm.”
The mages shifted uneasily, some bristling.
One woman rose, her voice sharp and fearful.
“We are not soldiers.”
Another voice, colder, countered.
“Yet the threat does not wait for our consent.”
I listened carefully, feeling the unfamiliar weight of a world on edge. Every word carried a meaning I could not fully grasp—but the fear was universal.
I remained quiet, watching the faces around me.
The greatsword drew attention without effort. Whispers curled through the crowd like smoke.
“That weapon... it’s no ordinary blade.”
“Who carries such a thing here?”
No one dared question me openly, but the watchful eyes never left.
When the meeting adjourned, I retreated quietly to my chamber.
The corridors still buzzed with tension, the templars patrolling with sharp eyes.
Sleep came fitfully, the sword’s weight a constant presence.
The dawn light was pale and cold as I stepped through the ancient stone gates of the Circle, leaving behind the uneasy sanctuary that had held me just long enough to rest. My breath hung in the air as mist clung to the surrounding trees, the world still waking beneath a leaden sky.
I tightened the cloak around my shoulders, carefully adjusting the wrappings on Shadowbringer. Even here, away from prying eyes, I felt the weight of it—not just in my hands, but in the air itself. The sword drew attention, even when hidden. A silent warning to those who might mistake me for a simple traveler.
The Circle was a cage cloaked in tradition and fear, its walls thick with magic and mistrust. The mages and templars within lived in a delicate balance, but that balance was brittle, shattered easily by rumor and suspicion. I had no place in their world, yet I had nowhere else to go.
Outside, the land stretched wild and untamed. The woods near Lake Calenhad whispered secrets older than any city. I listened, letting the chill wind sharpen my senses as I moved carefully down the trail.
I did not know what awaited me beyond the Circle—only that the shadow of something terrible was growing. The word “Blight” had been spoken with grim weight, a darkness spreading unseen beneath the soil. A threat the people here feared more than any other.
For now, I was a stranger among strangers. A warrior of light, wielding a sword that belonged to another world, walking roads I could barely understand. My magic lay hidden—darkness held in uneasy truce beneath my skin, a secret I could never risk revealing.
Ahead, the path led back toward Denerim, the capital of Ferelden. The heart of power. The place where I might find more answers—or enemies.
Chapter 5: The Coming Blight
Chapter Text
The year that followed was a slow unraveling of certainty.
When I first arrived in Denerim, the world had felt foreign—its laws, its people, even its magic. Now, it felt no less alien, but I’d learned to navigate its currents. I kept my head down, my ears open. I asked questions with silence, and listened when the answers came dressed in rumor and wine.
Information was currency in this world, and I became a quiet collector.
I learned the name Teryn Loghain Mac Tir—once a war hero, now a man many feared more than respected. Whispers in the taverns painted him as both savior and over zealous protector of Ferelden. The king, Cailan Theirin, was young and eager, hungry for glory. And the Wardens, shadowed figures from Ferelden’s past, were stirring again. That alone set nerves on edge.
The Chantry ruled hearts and minds with doctrine and fear. The Templars, their steel-clad hounds, enforced it with veiled eyes and blunt force. I watched their patrols through the city’s markets, saw how mages flinched at their passing. Freedom was measured differently here. Magic, especially.
I studied the Fade from what little I could piece together—dream-realm, spirit-realm, prison, sanctuary. The mages were said to be bound to it, to risk becoming abominations if they strayed. Back home, the soul and the self were woven with aether. Here, they frayed under scrutiny.
Still, I adapted.
I found work when I needed coin—guarding caravans, clearing out roadside bandits, fixing the occasional templar’s “rogue apostate” problem without asking too many questions. They didn’t ask where I came from. They only cared that I could fight—and I could fight.
At night, I’d sit in the back corners of taverns, reading borrowed maps of Thedas, tracing borders I didn’t yet understand. My aether compass was long since useless, and the Linkpearls only buzzed with broken echoes—voices of the Scions fractured by distance, time, or worse.
The Mantle of Azem still shimmered when I passed into places where the Fade ran thin. My Echo stirred in those moments, unsteady. I saw fragments of dreams not my own. Regret. Anger. Hunger. Umbriel’s voice, when it came, was quiet now—watching, patient. This world was raw with unbalanced emotion, and Dynamis bled through the cracks. It fed my soul crystal in ways I hadn’t expected, and I felt the slow evolution of something… dangerous.
And all the while, the land sickened.
News traveled like wildfire—villages swallowed by silence, travelers found torn to pieces, whole forests blackened and empty. The word darkspawn grew heavier with each telling. Farmers sharpened their pitchforks like weapons. Nobles reinforced their walls and prayed to the Maker. The Blight, once a distant nightmare out of history books and half-remembered horror stories, now crept closer with each passing month.
A storm was coming. I could feel it—not in the wind or the ground, but in the weight behind every whisper.
And I’d seen enough storms to know when the sky was lying.
Ferelden was a land steeped in fear—fear of the darkspawn, of magic, and of the unknown. I learned quickly to mask the power thrumming beneath my skin. To keep my true nature hidden even as I sensed the pulse of the Fade bleeding into reality around me.
The Circle had offered only fragile refuge, and the Wardens’ arrival had only stoked tensions. Now, the lines between friend and foe blurred beneath the ever-growing shadow.
Denerim was a web of politics, of whispered alliances and secret betrayals. Here, I would have to walk carefully, learning the ways of this world—its dangers, its customs—while guarding my own.
The coming Blight was not just a plague of flesh and blood; it was a corruption of the soul, a test of faith and will.
And I would need all my strength to face it.
The city of Denerim sprawled beneath a heavy sky, its streets alive with the mingled scents of smoke, fresh bread, and the ever-present dust of travel. A year had passed since I first arrived in this world, since I last crossed paths with Arl Eamon of Redcliffe in this same city. The memory lingered faintly, a single thread of familiarity in a land otherwise strange and uncertain.
Now, the weight of recent news pressed heavily on the city’s breath.
Whispers clung to the taverns and marketplaces, carried in cautious murmurs beneath the everyday noise. They spoke of Highever—once a proud seat of power, home to the noble Cousland family, one of the oldest and most respected in all Ferelden.
The rumors told of slaughter.
Teryn Bryce Cousland, the lord of Highever, a man known for his steadfastness and honor, was dead. Along with him, his wife, their children, and even a grandson—all wiped out in a sudden, brutal attack.
Details were scarce and shrouded in fear.
No one knew who struck or why, and the shadows of suspicion stretched wide.
I lingered near a fountain in the city’s square, overhearing an elderly man speaking in hushed tones to a small gathering.
“They say the entire family was lost that night. Lord Bryce, his wife, the children… even the boy, the grandson Oren. None survived.”
His voice trembled with the weight of the news.
“Some claim it was darkspawn, others whisper darker things—men betraying men.”
I nodded silently, understanding too well the bitter sting of betrayal—even if the full truth lay hidden.
The city’s noble families were wrapped in intrigue and mistrust, and the political game was far from kind.
Later, in a quiet corner of a dim tavern, I heard more whispered speculation.
The barkeep, a woman hardened by years of hardship, leaned close to a cloaked stranger.
“The Couslands’ fall was swift and absolute. No one saw it coming.”
The stranger’s eyes gleamed in the firelight.
“Darkspawn activity grows. The Blight spreads. The land is turning against us.”
The word “Blight” struck a chord deep inside me—a creeping corruption that threatened to consume everything.
That night, standing on the walls overlooking Denerim, I watched the city’s flickering lights struggle against the darkness.
A year of hiding, watching, learning.
A warrior out of time, armed with a sword born of another world.
The coming storm would not care who I was or where I came from.
It would take all who stood in its path.
And I would have to decide where I belonged.
The murmurs began quietly—whispers in the taverns of Denerim, travelers’ tales on dusty roads. A great battle was brewing in the south, far beyond the city walls, in the wild and tangled Korcari Wilds.
Soldiers of Ferelden and Grey Wardens alike were gathering there, preparing to meet the rising tide of the Blight head-on.
The Blight. The word resonated through my mind like a tolling bell—a spreading darkness consuming everything, a corruption not just of flesh but of spirit and soil.
I’d watched Ferelden’s fear grow over the past year, but now the threat was undeniable.
I stood in the shadowed streets, eyes scanning the crowds as merchants hurried to finish their business, soldiers marched through town, their armor clinking with purpose.
Whispers of King Cailan Theirin’s name passed my ears—Ferelden’s young monarch, determined to lead his kingdom through the storm.
I heard of Loghain Mac Tir, the legendary commander of the king’s armies, known as the Hero of River Dane, whose tactical brilliance and fierce loyalty had earned him both respect and wary eyes.
And above all, the name Duncan—the Warden-Commander of Ferelden—came up often, tied to the Grey Wardens’ desperate struggle against the darkspawn.
My fingers brushed the hilt of Shadowbringer beneath my cloak. I had hidden my magic, but my blade—more than a weapon—marked me as different.
If I was to survive in this land, to shape its fate as I had once shaped my own world’s, I could not stand on the sidelines.
I would go to Korcari Wilds.
I would fight.
The journey was long and harsh, the road winding through dense forests and rolling hills. The air grew heavy with the scent of earth and decay, a reminder of the Blight’s slow poison seeping through the land.
At inns along the way, I heard stories of soldiers training relentlessly, Grey Wardens arriving in small groups, faces hardened by battles fought in shadows.
Each step pulled me closer to the heart of Ferelden’s mounting storm.
I kept my distance, careful not to reveal too much about myself or the strange power simmering beneath my skin. The world here was unforgiving to those who drew attention.
But I was ready.
The edge of the Korcari Wilds loomed before me, thick woods tangled with underbrush and ancient trees, shadows shifting with unseen movement.
Campfires dotted the clearing, surrounded by soldiers sharpening weapons and sharing quiet moments before the coming battle.
Among them moved men and women cloaked in dark, worn leather—the Grey Wardens.
It was there, on the edge of the encampment overlooking Ostagar, that I saw him.
A tall man with dark skin and hair like black stone, streaked lightly with age. His eyes—amber and unblinking—carried the weight of someone who had seen too many battles end in silence. He moved with calm certainty, every step measured, every gesture sparing. Not the stiff bearing of a noble or the swagger of a soldier, but the presence of someone used to command. Someone used to loss.
Beside him walked a younger man—blond-haired, around his early twenties, eyes brown and thoughtful beneath a furrowed brow. He wore armor that didn’t quite sit right, like he was still growing into it, but there was strength in his stride and purpose behind the tension in his shoulders. He scanned the camp constantly, his gaze always moving—curious, but wary. The kind of wariness that comes from caring too much.
A third figure lingered a few steps behind them. Dark brown short hair, travel-worn armor that bore no sigil I recognized, and a longsword at his back that looked far too clean to have been idle. His eyes—icy blue, nearly the same shade as my own—watched everything, quiet and calculating. He didn’t speak, didn’t move much, but something about him stood out. He had the look of someone who had lost everything and kept walking anyway.
The three of them spoke briefly with a Kingsguard at the camp’s edge.
Something was happening here. I could feel it beneath my skin—the stirring of old magic, and the shadow of something darker on the horizon.
The man with the amber eyes looked up, scanning the camp.
His gaze passed over me—and lingered.
Not in challenge. Not in suspicion.
Recognition.
I straightened instinctively. For a moment, it felt as if the air between us shifted. Heavy. Measured.
Then he turned back to his companions, and the moment passed.
But I knew that look.
I’d worn it before—on battlefields far from this world, searching for kindred spirits who might survive the storm ahead.
Whoever they were, they weren’t just travelers.
And whatever was coming… they knew it had already begun.
The camp buzzed with tension and resolve.
The man with the amber eyes approached.
His steps were quiet for someone so heavily armored, and when he stopped in front of me, I felt the air shift again—like the stillness before a blade is drawn. Up close, he was taller than I expected, his expression unreadable beneath the weight he carried in his posture. He studied me—like a soldier gauging another on the battlefield, not for threat, but for worth.
“You’re not from here,” he said at last. His voice was deep, steady. Not unkind, but sharpened with experience. “You carry yourself like a warrior, but not like one of Ferelden’s.”
I met his gaze, holding it. “I’m not,” I admitted. “My name is Zephyr Arcadin. I came from… far away. Too far to matter now.”
He didn’t flinch at the ambiguity. Instead, he nodded, as if he already knew I wouldn’t answer plainly.
“I’m Duncan,” he said, offering his name with the same directness. “Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. And right now, we could use every blade willing to stand against the Blight. Whatever else you are… you seem like the kind of man who doesn’t run.”
“I don’t,” I said. “If there’s a fight worth having, I’ll stand for it.”
He gave a short nod of approval. “Good. You’ll need that conviction soon.”
As we spoke, I caught movement in the corner of my eye—an older woman in elegant robes weaving calmly between soldiers and mages, checking on the wounded with the gentleness of a practiced hand. Her white hair was tied back, and her presence felt… grounded. Solid. Like stone beneath a storm.
“That’s Wynne,” Duncan said, following my gaze. “Senior enchanter from the Circle of Magi. One of the few who volunteered to come south. The Templars don’t trust her, but she’s proven herself more times than I can count.”
I watched her a moment longer, noting the way others deferred to her—not out of fear, but respect. There was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself, a stillness I recognized from healers on battlefields.
A swell of cheers rose in the distance, drawing our attention to a cluster of soldiers near the edge of the camp. A man in polished golden armor stood among them, smiling, his every gesture theatrical and warm. His blond hair caught the afternoon sun like a banner, and his voice rang clear as he rallied his troops with practiced flair.
“King Cailan,” Duncan murmured, his tone carefully neutral. “He’s young, idealistic. Wants to make his mark on history—sees this Blight as a chance to become another Maric or Calenhad. A noble heart… though sometimes I worry it beats too loudly.”
Cailan certainly looked like the stories wanted him to be. Regal. Charismatic. But I’d seen enough war to know that a bright smile didn’t hold a shield.
“And him,” Duncan said more quietly, nodding toward another figure standing just beyond the king’s entourage, speaking with a handful of veteran officers.
The man had the presence of a fortress—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and lined with years of battle. His expression was stern, eyes constantly moving, measuring everything around him like a man who trusted no one, not even the wind.
“Loghain Mac Tir,” Duncan said. “Hero of River Dane and the rebellion. The king’s father-in-law. And the one actually holding the army together. Cailan may command with speeches, but Loghain leads with results. He’s ruthless—but Ferelden wouldn’t be free without him.”
The way Duncan spoke made it clear: Loghain was respected, but not trusted by all.
I took it all in silently—names, faces, roles. This wasn’t just a camp. It was a storm gathering at the edge of a burning world. And I’d walked right into its heart.
Duncan looked at me once more. “I don’t know what your past holds, Zephyr Arcadin. But if you mean to stand with us… you’ll need to prove yourself."
I nodded once.
The camp was alive with a restless energy as I followed Duncan through the muddy paths toward the fortress looming ahead—Ostagar. Its stone walls rose jagged against the sky, a grim bastion against the creeping Blight.
Duncan walked with the steady confidence of a man accustomed to command, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He glanced at me once or twice but said little, as if weighing my worth silently.
“The fort’s name is Ostagar,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “One of the few strongholds between the Korcari Wilds and the southern heartlands. We hold this ground to protect Ferelden’s future.”
Inside the fortress, the murmur of soldiers mingled with the clash of steel and the scent of smoke. Duncan led me through winding corridors until we reached a hall where banners fluttered:the Theirin coat of arms consists of two mabari rampant around the shield, the symbol of Ferelden, and the blazing sun of the Chantry.
There, standing tall and regal, was King Cailan Theirin. His youthful face was marked by determination and a flicker of hope that burned brightly despite the dark times.
Behind him stood a figure of contrasting presence—Loghain Mac Tir. The man’s eyes were cold, calculating, and carried the weight of countless battles. He exuded an aura of caution bordering on suspicion.
Duncan gestured toward me.
“Your Majesty, I bring you a man who wishes to offer his aid against the Blight.”
The King’s gaze fell on me, sharp and curious. He didn’t speak immediately, but his eyes flickered to the greatsword concealed beneath my cloak. Though he could not see the full blade, the outline alone made him lean forward with interest.
“I am Zephyr Arcadin,” I said, voice steady despite the pounding in my chest. “I seek to fight alongside Ferelden’s defenders.”
Cailan’s expression brightened.
“A warrior’s spirit,” he said approvingly. “We need strength—especially now.”
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as if trying to see beyond the cloth wrapping.
“This sword of yours… it speaks of power, and not the kind easily wielded by common men.”
I said nothing, letting the mystery stand. Some things were better left unspoken.
Loghain’s eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade.
“Power alone is no guarantee of loyalty—or of victory. We cannot afford to trust easily, not in these times.”
The tension thickened. Cailan met Loghain’s gaze evenly.
“Yet we cannot turn away those willing to stand with us. Especially those who carry such weapons.”
Loghain’s jaw tightened.
“The Blight brings more than monsters. It brings treachery.”
I stood quietly, feeling the weight of their scrutiny. Here, in this fortress on the edge of darkness, trust was a fragile thing, earned only through blood and steel.
Duncan stepped forward.
“Let him prove himself. The battle ahead will decide what kind of ally he truly is.”
The King nodded, a spark of determination lighting his features.
“Very well. Zephyr Arcadin, you will fight with us. Prepare yourself. The coming days will test all of Ferelden.”
I bowed slightly, the greatsword heavy but steady at my back.
Duncan led me away from the bustle of the main encampment, past the rows of tents and flickering torches, toward a quieter clearing where the sound of clashing steel rang out steady and sharp.
Two younger men sparred in the fading light, their blades moving fast, their footwork deliberate but imperfect. One fought with brute strength, pressing forward with heavy swings and grit. The other moved like a shadow—more disciplined, quicker on his feet, every step calculated.
Duncan stopped beside me, arms crossed as he watched them.
“That one,” he said, nodding toward the blond youth, “is Alistair. One of our newer recruits. Half-trained Templar before I pulled him into the Wardens.”
Alistair’s blade caught his opponent’s and twisted hard, forcing a stumble. His face was taut with focus, jaw clenched—not anger, but effort. He was broad-shouldered, well-built, maybe a few years younger than me. But there was still something raw in him, something unsettled. Like a blade not yet fully tempered.
“Strong,” I murmured.
“Stronger than he knows,” Duncan replied, his voice low, thoughtful. “He hides it behind sarcasm and grumbling, but he’s got heart. And heart matters more than blood or title.”
My gaze shifted to the second man—the one recovering his footing with a quiet roll of his shoulder. He was leaner, darker-haired, and silent. His strikes were tighter, more refined. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
Duncan’s tone shifted subtly as he gestured toward him. “And that is Aedan Cousland.”
The name stopped me cold.
Cousland.
The air seemed heavier for a moment.
I looked again—really looked. The same name I’d heard whispered in Denerim’s darker corners. A noble line gutted in a single night. The Teryn of Highever and his wife, murdered. Their children—their whole family—slaughtered in their sleep. That was the story. A betrayal from within. Nothing left behind but ashes and scandal.
But here, standing in front of me, was someone who bore that name. No sigils. No entourage. Just steel and silence and a survivor’s gaze.
I said nothing, but my thoughts spiraled. If he was truly a Cousland… what had he lost? What had he endured to come this far?
Duncan watched me quietly, as if he saw the recognition in my expression.
“He’s earned his place here,” he said after a pause. “More than most.”
The sparring ended with a final clang of steel. Alistair stumbled back, winded, and Aedan gave a slight nod—acknowledgment, not victory. No words passed between them. Just the quiet camaraderie of two men forged in the same fire.
I kept my expression neutral, but inside, questions flickered like coals.
Who had saved him? Why was his name still spoken in dread and disbelief across Ferelden if he stood here, breathing and armed?
And more than that… what kind of man rises from the ruin of a noble house only to walk into a war no one wants to fight?
I didn’t have answers.
But I understood the silence in his eyes all too well.
Duncan turned to me, a faint smile softening the ever-present sternness in his expression.
“If you’re willing, Zephyr,” he said, tone calm but purposeful, “I’d propose a sparring match. You and these two. It’s not just about testing strength—it's a chance to see how you work together, how you move. And perhaps,” he added, glancing sidelong at the others, “teach these men a thing or two.”
I looked from him to the two recruits—Alistair still catching his breath, Aedan adjusting his stance without a word—and felt the weight of the request settle over me. Not the fight itself. That, I could handle. But what it meant to step into a circle here, in this world not my own.
My hand drifted to the hilt slung over my shoulder, fingers brushing the coarse wrapping of Shadowbringer. The sword pulsed faintly beneath my touch—not with magic, but memory. It was more than steel. More than a weapon. It was a legacy, a burden, a truth.
To draw it here, among strangers, in a sparring match?
No.
With slow, deliberate movement, I reached over my shoulder and drew the obsidian blade free, the metal singing softly in the air. Eyes followed it—Alistair’s brow lifted slightly, Aedan’s gaze sharpened in subtle recognition. I turned it over in my hands, then stepped toward the edge of the training ring and leaned it gently against the wooden railing.
“This,” I said quietly, my voice low but steady, “is not the time for such a weapon.”
Duncan gave a single approving nod, saying nothing. He moved to a nearby rack and selected a practice blade—a plain straight sword, well-used but clean, the leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from countless hands. He offered it to me hilt-first.
I took it without hesitation. Lighter than what I was used to. More balanced. Less familiar, but still enough.
I gave it a single test swing, feeling the way it moved through the air. It lacked the weight and resonance of Shadowbringer, but it would serve. I wasn’t here to dominate—I was here to understand.
Across from me, Alistair rolled out his shoulders and gave a faint grin. “Well, this should be interesting.”
Aedan said nothing. He merely raised his sword and waited.
I stepped into the circle, the dirt beneath my boots soft but firm, the fading light casting long shadows across the ground. The blade rested easily in my hand, but my focus sharpened like a whetstone over steel.
Not just to prove myself.
But to see what they were made of.
The training grounds quieted around us, the usual chatter and clang of steel fading into the background as a handful of soldiers paused to watch. Duncan stood nearby, arms crossed, observant but silent.
The three of us stepped into the open ring—rough earth beneath our boots, the distant sounds of the Ostagar camps fading behind the tension that now drew taut between us like a bowstring.
Alistair was the first to move, predictably. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, sword held in a solid guard, eyes scanning between me and Aedan. There was eagerness in him—not recklessness, but a youthful drive to prove. His form was Templar-trained: a sturdy stance, angled blocks, broad sweeps meant to disarm or knock back rather than maim.
Aedan, by contrast, held back. His grip was lighter, more fluid. He didn’t telegraph his intentions—his feet shifted with quiet grace, shoulders relaxed, sword poised not for power but precision. He watched everything—me especially—with calculating coolness. A man who had survived betrayal and ruin, and turned it into discipline.
And I? I simply waited.
We circled slowly, the dirt beneath us kicking up with each pivot. My borrowed straight sword felt light in my hand compared to Shadowbringer, and yet it moved well. Clean. Sharp. It would do.
Then Alistair struck first.
A bold diagonal slash—too wide, too heavy. Easy to read. I stepped aside, catching his blade with mine and sliding it harmlessly away in a shower of sparks. He stumbled slightly from the overcommitment, but recovered fast.
“Not bad,” I murmured. “But don’t lead with your shoulder.”
He blinked, surprised I’d spoken at all.
Aedan took that moment to move. His strike was faster—low, aiming for my leg. I parried it sharply, the blow sending a jolt up my arm. Stronger than I’d expected. He followed with a rising slash toward my side. I twisted my body just enough to avoid it, using the back of my armguard to redirect the blade.
This wasn’t a duel—it was a dance.
And deep within me, the magic stirred.
That quiet, thrumming pull—Dynamis, the will-fueled force that slept beneath my skin. It hummed through my limbs, coaxed by adrenaline, shadow and light whispering together at the edges of control. It ached to be released, to answer. But I held it back. This was not that kind of fight.
I tightened my grip, grounding myself in the moment.
Alistair came again, more cautious now, trying to flank me as Aedan pressed forward. They were coordinating without speaking—sloppy, but improving. Their blades came at different heights—Aedan high, Alistair low. I pivoted, letting both strikes glance past me, then twisted sharply and delivered a controlled push-kick to Alistair’s midsection. He staggered backward, winded but grinning.
“You fight like a ghost,” he huffed.
I gave a faint shrug.
Aedan didn’t wait. He advanced, faster now, testing me with a flurry of strikes that came with a rhythm—left shoulder, right hip, neck. He was looking for patterns, and he’d find none. I parried each strike, barely moving my feet, letting his blade clash against mine in sparks and force. I stepped in close, too close for his sword, and locked his guard with mine.
Our eyes met—his ice blue, so close to my own.
“You fight to control,” he said quietly. “Not to win.”
I broke the lock with a swift shove and stepped back, giving him space.
We reset.
Then, almost simultaneously, both men came at me.
Alistair roared, feinting high, while Aedan circled around, blades flashing in the late light. I spun my blade low to deflect Alistair’s swing, ducked Aedan’s stab, and rolled forward between them, kicking up dirt as I came to my feet behind them.
I was breathing harder now—not from strain, but from the need to hold back. Every strike I landed was measured. Every movement restrained. If I moved the way I was trained, if I let the magic bleed into my blade even slightly, this would be over in seconds. But that wasn’t the point.
This was learning—for them, and for me.
Alistair swung again, and this time I let him connect. The flat of his blade struck my vambrace with a heavy clang. He looked surprised.
“You let me hit you?”
“You earned it,” I said simply.
He blinked. “Thanks, I think?”
Aedan didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the moment, striking at my exposed side—but I turned and caught his blade with a sharp upward block, locking us again.
“You’re reading me too much,” I told him.
He didn’t respond, but this time, his eyes narrowed slightly with amusement. Noted.
The next exchange was fast, almost brutal. Our blades met again and again, the ring of steel cutting through the air as the watching soldiers murmured among themselves. I flowed between them, redirecting Alistair’s momentum into Aedan’s path, sweeping their legs when they stepped too close, giving just enough pressure to keep them on edge.
But never too much.
Then finally, as the sun dipped just enough to cast long shadows over the training ground, I stepped back.
Breath steady. Sword still.
Alistair dropped to one knee, sweat dripping from his brow. Aedan stood straight but breathing heavily, his blade lowered, his gaze thoughtful.
“That…” Alistair said between gasps, “was humbling.”
“You’re strong,” I replied, wiping my brow with my forearm. “You just haven’t figured out how to use it yet.”
Aedan sheathed his blade slowly. “And you fight like a man who’s seen too much… but still chooses restraint. That’s rare.”
I didn’t answer.
From the edge of the ring, Duncan clapped once—slow, approving.
“Well,” he said, stepping forward. “That’ll do.”
As the match drew to a close, Duncan nodded approvingly.
“You’ve done well, both of you. And you, Zephyr… your restraint speaks volumes.”
I inclined my head in acknowledgment.
Though my magic had threatened to surface, I had kept it hidden. For now.
After sparring match Duncan asked me to follow him.
The great hall of Ostagar was thick with the scent of burning torches and polished wood, the walls echoing with hushed voices and the clink of armor. Long tables bore maps, parchments, and cups half-filled with wine and water, testament to the long hours spent in planning and counsel.
I stood quietly near the back, hands folded behind my cloak, my gaze steady as the key figures gathered at the head of the hall.
King Cailan Theirin sat on a carved wooden throne, youthful but resolute, eyes burning with the fierce hope of a ruler who believed in the future even as darkness pressed closer. Beside him, a man of imposing stature and cold precision—Loghain Mac Tir, commander of Ferelden’s armies, the Hero of River Dane, watched everyone with a calculating gaze.
Duncan, the Warden-Commander, stood nearby, his presence commanding but measured. And now, here I was—Zephyr Arcadin—still new, still an unknown, a warrior from another world stepping into a war not my own.
Cailan spoke first, his voice clear and strong.
“The Blight spreads faster than we imagined. The darkspawn grow bolder, their numbers swelling. Our scouts have confirmed their advance through the Korcari Wilds. We must hold this line.”
He pointed at the sprawling map laid across the table, fingers tracing the dense forests southward.
“We stand between them and the heart of Ferelden. Ostagar is the last barrier.”
Loghain’s voice cut in, sharp and measured.
“The enemy is cunning, and our forces are stretched thin. We must be prepared for betrayal as well as battle. There are those in Ferelden who would see us fall from within.”
His eyes flicked toward me briefly, assessing.
“We cannot afford to trust blindly, especially with those we do not know.”
I felt the weight of his words but remained silent, knowing that trust was a currency hard-earned here.
Duncan stepped forward, his tone steady.
“Zephyr Arcadin has proven himself in training. His skill with the sword is unmatched, and his knowledge of warfare... unusual for someone new to our land.”
He glanced at me.
“His aid could tip the scales in our favor.”
Cailan’s expression brightened, hope rekindled.
“Then we shall welcome him to our ranks.”
He turned to the others.
“Wynne has returned from the Circle. Her wisdom will guide us in matters of magic, which we will need against these creatures.”
Loghain’s lips tightened.
“Magic is a double-edged sword. We must control it carefully.”
The discussion continued—strategy, supplies, troop morale. The weight of impending war hung heavy.
As they debated, I studied each man and woman present—their strengths, their fears.
A year ago, I was a stranger here. Now, I stood among those who would shape this world’s fate.
The council chamber had mostly emptied, the scent of parchment, sweat, and burning oil lingering in the air like the aftermath of a storm. Only a handful remained—Duncan, King Cailan, Loghain, a few senior captains… and me.
Maps lay scattered across the war table, red and black markers showing where the darkspawn forces had clustered near Ostagar’s outskirts. Their movement was no longer guesswork—it was a wave, surging upward from the Korcari Wilds.
The room buzzed with unease, but a fire burned in my chest. Not fear.
Purpose.
I stepped forward, the sound of my armored boots drawing more attention than I intended. Duncan glanced up, his expression tired, but attentive. Loghain’s eyes narrowed the moment I moved.
“I want to be placed deep in the fight,” I said, voice even but firm. “Where the enemy is thickest.”
The room fell still. Cailan paused mid-thought, and Duncan's brow furrowed.
“That’s a dangerous request,” he said carefully. “The taint in the darkspawn’s presence isn’t just physical. It seeps into a man’s mind, his spirit. Reckless bravery only feeds the enemy.”
“It’s not recklessness,” I replied, locking eyes with him. “It’s where I belong.”
I let the silence stretch, the tension rise like a held breath. Then I added, quieter, but with more heat:
“I’ve fought monsters, things that didn’t bleed right or die easy. I’ve stood where the ground burned beneath my feet and held the line when no one else could. The chaos of the front is where I find clarity. I don’t run from it—I need it.”
Duncan studied me, the edge of concern softening into contemplation.
But Loghain stepped forward, cutting between us like a blade.
“And yet we know nothing about you,” he said coldly. “You carry a blade like no other, wear armor that shines with foreign enchantments, and no one can name your homeland.”
His sharp gaze bored into me, hard as steel.
“I won’t risk the vanguard on a warrior whose loyalty is unproven. We already stand on the edge of disaster—I’ll not tip us over with superstition and shadow.”
I met his stare without blinking.
“I didn’t come this far to betray anyone. I came to fight.”
“Words are cheap in wartime,” Loghain replied darkly. “Especially from strangers.”
King Cailan rose before Duncan could speak, brushing aside his fur-lined cloak with dramatic flair.
“We don’t have the luxury to doubt every hand offered to us,” he said, voice bold and sure. “The Blight grows stronger every day. If Zephyr Arcadin wishes to stand where it’s bloodiest, I won’t deny him that right.”
He turned to face Duncan directly, then glanced at Loghain with a measure of challenge in his expression.
“We need more than swords—we need conviction. And I’ve seen enough to believe Zephyr has it.”
Duncan hesitated. For all his caution, I could see the gears turning behind his amber eyes. He knew men. He knew war. And he was weighing the risks against the shape of the battle ahead.
At last, he gave a slow nod.
“Very well,” he said, not without reservation. “Zephyr Arcadin will join the vanguard.”
Loghain said nothing, but his silence was colder than words.
I simply inclined my head, hiding the flicker of anticipation that stirred deep within me. This was no mere position—it was a promise.
A place at the heart of the storm.
Where blades screamed and monsters roared and purpose drowned out doubt.
Where I fought best.
Chapter 6: The Battle of Ostagar
Chapter Text
The sky over Ostagar was ablaze with orange fire as dawn broke, bleeding light over a battlefield already stained with too much blood. The chill of morning clung to steel and skin, but it couldn’t smother the heat rising from thousands of armored bodies packed shoulder to shoulder—each man and woman gripping their weapon like a lifeline, eyes fixed on the tree line to the south.
They all knew what was coming.
So did I.
I stood near the center of the forward line, where the ground bore the scars of endless footfall and siege—mud churned to mire, dried blood crusted into the earth. The king’s banners flapped behind me, but I needed no symbols to ground me.
I needed only the weight at my back.
Shadowbringer.
I drew it slowly, reverently. The obsidian blade groaned as it left its sheath, runes flickering with Light and Darkness both, as if sensing the slaughter to come. The soldiers nearest to me—Ferelden footmen, mostly—glanced sideways, instinctively stepping back. One muttered a prayer under his breath. Another crossed himself.
Let them.
The blade was massive, jagged and cruel in design—but in my hands, it moved like breath.
The Echo stirred faintly, letting me feel what others felt. Fear. Resolve. Dread so thick it clung to skin like sweat. I inhaled deeply.
This was clarity.
I was home.
A distant horn sounded, and the forest ahead seemed to breathe. Then came the howls—deep and guttural, like stone being ground beneath iron—and the trees split open with motion.
Darkspawn.
They surged from the treeline in droves—Genlocks leading the charge, hunched and broad with their thick shields and blunt axes. Behind them came the shrieking Hurlocks, leaner and more savage, howling as they charged with serrated blades. Further back, ogres bellowed, massive and bestial, their clubs fashioned from torn siege weapons and tree trunks. Arrows began to darken the sky.
“Hold!” shouted a nearby sergeant.
But I didn’t wait for the order.
With a calm breath, I stepped forward—and then I ran.
The impact came fast.
The first Genlock didn’t even see it. Shadowbringer cleaved through him in a single, brutal arc, splitting his shield and chestplate as if he were made of wet paper. I turned the swing mid-motion, using the sword’s momentum to batter a second one to the ground. I crushed his skull with the heel of my boot before the next came.
They swarmed me—three, then five, then more. I met them all.
Shadowbringer blurred in my grip, a black storm veined with pale aetherlight. I twisted, carving a wide arc that split through bone and armor alike. Dark blood sprayed in great fans across the battlefield. My arms moved on instinct—block, slash, riposte, crush. A Hurlock lunged with a heavy mace—I sidestepped and drove the pommel of my sword into its jaw, caving it inward before spinning into a brutal two-handed slash that bisected the next one clean at the waist.
I roared as I fought, not in pain or anger—but joy.
This was battle.
Raw. Honest. Unforgiving.
I lost myself in it.
A shriek to my left—an Emissary. One of their foul mages, its misshapen hand glowing with crackling green light. The spell flew wide as I surged forward, ignoring the heat across my shoulder. I closed the gap in a blink, Shadowbringer flashing upward in a rising arc that tore through the Emissary’s staff, arm, and chest in a single blow. It fell with a gurgle, green ichor spilling like bile into the mud.
But still they came.
The darkspawn were endless.
At some point I stopped counting kills.
I tore through their lines like a living catastrophe—my greatsword howling, my voice rising with it. I crushed skulls under my gauntlets, cracked bones with my knees, hurled bodies aside like ragdolls when they dared to grab hold of me. I felt the ground tremble and turned just in time to see the ogre charging.
It was monstrous—nearly twice my height, eyes wild with bloodlust. It roared, swinging a tree-sized club straight at me.
I planted my feet and caught the blow on Shadowbringer’s flat side, my legs skidding several feet back in the mud. The impact rocked through me—but I grinned.
“Good,” I muttered. “Let’s dance.”
I lunged under its next swing, carving a long gash across its thigh. It howled and staggered—I followed with a brutal overhead strike, splitting its forearm as it tried to block. Then I leapt, bringing the sword down with all my weight, driving the blade straight into its skull.
It collapsed like a mountain falling.
I landed hard on my feet beside it, breath heavy, blood running down my arms—not mine.
Around me, the Ferelden line was wavering. Screams rang out. Cries for healers. Orders shouted to fall back. I saw a Warden fall under a swarm of shrieks.
But I didn’t falter.
I became the storm.
I pushed forward, every step another strike, every breath another body falling. My armor—once dark—was slick with gore. The Soul Resonator Pendant at my neck flared, warning me of how close I stood to losing myself to Umbriel’s surges. But I didn’t care.
The longer I fought, the more alive I felt.
The light of Azem, buried deep in my soul, pulsed in rhythm with Shadowbringer’s darkness, a strange harmony that made me more. Not just a man with a sword.
Something else.
The Blight was a tide.
But I was a wall.
And for now, that was enough.
But even walls fall, in time.
Darkness pressed in like a living thing as Aedan Cousland and Alistair pressed forward through the wilds, blades drawn, breath ragged. The Korcari Wilds, thick with swamp mist and the stench of death, stretched out behind them like the gullet of some ancient beast. Their armor was slick with darkspawn blood, every joint aching, every step heavier than the last.
The battlefield behind them roared with chaos. Ostagar was in flames—screams rising over the clash of steel, the thunder of war drums, and the monstrous howls of the Blight.
Their mission was clear: reach the Tower of Ishal and light the beacon. A single fire, and everything could change. The hope was that it would signal Teyrn Loghain to bring the rest of Ferelden’s forces crashing down into the darkspawn horde like a hammer.
That hope clung to them like a dying breath.
“Keep moving!” Alistair barked, shoving past a tangle of underbrush as the stone silhouette of the tower loomed ahead, tall and jagged like a broken sword thrust into the earth.
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Aedan replied, tone grim, his blade dripping with blood. “We’re almost there.”
But the darkspawn weren’t finished with them.
The trees erupted with motion—howls, clattering armor, a foul stench. Genlocks burst from the underbrush, axes swinging. Behind them came Hurlocks, taller and more brutal, their blades jagged with rot, howling as they surged forward.
The two Wardens met them head-on.
Aedan ducked low, parrying a blow meant to sever his skull, then riposted with a vicious upward slash that opened the creature’s belly in a spray of black blood. Alistair slammed his shield into another, knocking it back with a wet crunch before driving his longsword through its chest with a roar.
They fought like men possessed—not for glory, but survival.
A Hurlock Alpha charged from the trees, bellowing as it raised a heavy maul. Alistair moved to intercept, shield raised, but the force of the blow knocked him clean off his feet. Aedan darted in, striking the Alpha’s side with all his strength—his blade bit deep, but not deep enough. The Alpha roared and backhanded him into a tree, the breath crushed from his lungs.
But he rose. They both did.
Bruised, bloodied, they kept fighting.
And then, suddenly, the trees cleared—and the Tower of Ishal stood before them.
Its ancient stones were cracked and moss-covered, but it still stood tall and defiant against the ruin around it. The doors had been forced open, blood smeared along the entry stones. The garrison stationed there had been overwhelmed—corpses littered the threshold—but the beacon platform above might still be intact.
“No time,” Alistair said between gasps, pushing Aedan forward. “We light it, or they die for nothing.”
They plunged into the tower.
Inside, it was worse.
The stairwells were narrow, winding, and choked with bodies—both human and darkspawn. Fires flickered in the sconces, casting jagged shadows along the stone. The air was thick with blood and rot. And the enemy was everywhere.
The pair cut their way through room after room. Archers fired from alcoves, Emissaries flung acidic fire from balconies. Aedan hurled a broken shield at one, knocking it into the stairwell below. Alistair stormed through a locked door with his shoulder and met three more Genlocks in close quarters.
Swords flashed. Blood sprayed the walls. The groan of the tower’s ancient frame echoed with each death.
Aedan fought on instinct—parry, twist, strike. A neck opened like parchment beneath his blade. A mage’s head cracked against the wall with a boot to the jaw. He screamed once in rage and kept climbing.
And then—at last—the beacon room.
The top of the tower opened to the cold morning sky. Wind howled through the broken battlements. The brazier stood in the center, piled with kindling, untouched.
Alistair stumbled to it, tearing a torch from the wall sconce.
“Hurry,” Aedan muttered, watching the stairs.
Alistair didn’t hesitate. He lit the flame, and the beacon roared to life—a brilliant pillar of orange fire, its light piercing the gloom like a clarion call.
Far below, the battlefield writhed. The king’s banners held fast, still resisting the Blight. The darkspawn forces were immense—but they were holding. For now.
And beyond that, across the bridge—
They saw them.
Loghain’s forces.
Thousands of men in formation. Horses restless. Banners fluttering.
Watching.
Waiting.
“Any moment now…” Alistair breathed.
But no horn sounded.
No charge came.
Instead, the lines began to… withdraw.
Aedan took a step forward, eyes narrowing. “No…”
The troops were turning around.
Not regrouping.
Retreating.
“Is he—he’s leaving?” Alistair said, voice breaking into disbelief. “He saw the signal. We lit the damn fire!”
Aedan said nothing, his grip tightening around his sword. His face was pale. Empty.
They stood in silence for three seconds.
Then the tower shook.
Darkspawn surged up the stairs.
The last defense had collapsed. They’d been found.
Dozens poured into the room—blades, claws, shrieks—a tidal wave of rot and fury.
Aedan and Alistair turned, shoulder to shoulder, blades flashing, teeth clenched.
They fought like men with nothing left to lose.
Blood sprayed. Screams echoed. The fire still burned behind them—their final act of defiance.
But there were too many.
A moment of pain. Of darkness.
Then nothing.
And far below, Loghain rode north.
As the battle dragged on, I felt the rhythm of war shift—subtle at first. The synchronized clash of metal faltered. The shield wall to my left began to break down, not from the enemy’s pressure, but from hesitation. Confusion rippled through the ranks like a shiver in the spine.
Then came the movement.
I caught it out of the corner of my eye—soldiers in the far lines pulling back, not retreating under duress, but withdrawing in formation. Banners were being lowered. Cavalry lines broke away, galloping toward the bridge rather than toward the fight.
A terrible cold settled into my gut.
I turned in time to see him—Loghain Mac Tir, his imposing form unmistakable even from a distance, seated atop his warhorse, golden armor glinting in the dawn light. He sat still for a moment, watching the field through narrowed eyes. Then, with one gesture—just a single sweep of his arm—he ordered the full retreat.
My breath caught in my throat.
It wasn’t a reposition. It wasn’t a tactical maneuver.
It was abandonment.
Loghain was pulling the might of Ferelden's second army out of the battle, leaving the king and the Grey Wardens—his allies—to be swallowed by the Blight.
The betrayal hit like a sword to the chest.
I heard it echoed around me—soldiers shouting, disbelief in their voices. A nearby captain screamed, “They’re leaving! By the Maker, they’re leaving us!”
A sergeant to my right dropped his blade in stunned silence. Another man fell to his knees, eyes wide with horror. I watched as the King’s guard desperately tried to regroup, but without reinforcement, their lines began to collapse under the unrelenting tide of darkspawn.
I turned my eyes back to the chaos before me—Hurlocks and Genlocks surging like blackened surf, the battlefield drowning in bodies and blood. I saw King Cailan through the smoke, his armor shone even in ruin, smeared with gore and dented from relentless blows. His longsword flashed in wide arcs as he fought back to back with his knights—valiant, foolish, desperate. His voice rang out over the clash:
“Hold the line! For Ferelden!”, rallying the men even as they died around him.
And beside him—Duncan.
Wounded but unyielding, his dark eyes scanning the field for weakness. His twin blades carved deadly arcs, every movement practiced and precise. Around him, a handful of surviving Wardens fought like demons, refusing to fall despite the weight pressing in from all sides.
They didn’t know.
Or maybe they did, and chose to stand anyway.
I gritted my teeth and held the line.
Every instinct in my body told me to go to the king, to throw myself into the heart of the battle and carve a path to him. But it was too late. The darkspawn had sensed it too—the weakening lines, the leadership unraveling. They surged forward with renewed hunger, shrieking in triumph. I was soon surrounded again, swinging Shadowbringer in wide arcs, cleaving flesh and bone, blood rising like rain.
The battlefield was a maelstrom—chaos given form, a storm of screaming steel and endless death. Smoke twisted through the dawn light, thick and choking. Blood soaked the soil, pooling beneath the fallen. Screams echoed across the field—some human, some not. The stench of burning flesh mingled with mud and ash, and the sky itself seemed to darken beneath the shadow of the Blight.
I fought like a soul unchained.
Shadowbringer cleaved through the darkspawn ranks with raw fury, cutting down Genlocks like wheat, tearing through Hurlocks in gory arcs. The greatsword howled with power, drawn from the aether still clinging to this world, but burning now with something more volatile—Dynamis, raw and primal, flaring in time with my heart’s fury. Each swing left streaks of shadow and searing light in its wake, as if night and dawn warred with every stroke of my blade.
But my goal lay beyond the slaughter.
King Cailan. Duncan. The last stand.
I saw them ahead, their banners tattered, their knights dwindling. Cailan stood tall despite the odds, golden armor battered and slick with blood, shouting orders to men already dead. Duncan fought beside him, grim and relentless, his twin blades flashing like firelight in the murk. Around them, what remained of the Grey Wardens gave their lives to hold the line.
But they were not alone.
The ground shuddered beneath heavy footfalls.
Ogres.
Three of them pushed forward—towering brutes, thick with muscle and bone, their twisted hides glistening with gore. Their howls rose above the din, deep and guttural. One grabbed a Templar and ripped him in half mid-charge, tossing the pieces aside like spoiled meat. Another smashed through a line of pikemen, hurling bodies through the air with wild sweeps of its club.
I surged forward, carving my way through lesser foes—Hurlocks, shrieks, a Blight wolf leapt over a mound of bodies—I grabbed it mid-air and slammed it to the ground, crushing its spine before hurling the corpse into another darkspawn.
The first ogre turned toward me, its sunken red eyes narrowing. It lumbered forward, swinging a tree-trunk of a weapon. I ducked low, rolled under the strike, and brought Shadowbringer up in a wide arc. Sparks and blood flew as I bit deep into its thigh.
The creature roared and kicked me back, sending me skidding across the muck. Pain screamed through my ribs, but I was already moving—springing back up, shoulder-checking a Genlock aside before launching myself at the ogre again.
I leapt, driving Shadowbringer into its shoulder with all my weight. The weapon sank deep. The ogre howled and thrashed, finally collapsing onto its knees with a crash that sent a wave of dust rolling across the battlefield.
But I didn’t have time to finish it.
Because I saw him.
Cailan.
Pinned in the crushing grip of another ogre. Its grotesque hand had wrapped around the king’s chest like a vice, lifting him off the ground as he struggled, kicking and clawing. His sword had fallen. His gauntlets struck the ogre’s arm to no effect.
His scream was raw and real—not of fear, but pain.
The ogre tightened its grip.
Cailan’s armor groaned and buckled, golden plate giving way to brute force. His mouth opened, trying to shout a final order, but no sound came.
I ran.
Pushing my body past its limits, I vaulted a broken cart, slashed through a darkspawn that tried to stop me, and sprinted toward him, roaring with every step.
But I wasn’t fast enough.
Duncan was.
He came from the side, a silver streak in the fog. With no fear, no hesitation, he launched himself at the ogre, driving one of his swords upward into its throat, right under the jaw. The beast let out a choking gargle and stumbled back, loosening its grip as it toppled like a falling tower.
Cailan’s body crumpled from its hand, hitting the ground hard, unmoving.
I was nearly to them when the third ogre surged forward—but it wasn’t alone.
A massive Hurlock Warmaster followed in its shadow, towering even over the others of its kind, black armor etched with spikes, its axe nearly the size of a man.
Duncan turned just in time to meet its charge.
They clashed in a storm of steel—Duncan fast, striking with clean, masterful cuts. The Warmaster fought like a beast, hammering down blows that cracked the very earth.
I reached them at last, but too late.
A feint from the Hurlock. Duncan dodged—almost.
The axe came down, biting deep into his shoulder and through his chest.
He staggered.
Another blow. The blade caught him across the waist, spinning him to the ground.
I screamed his name, voice raw—but he was already falling.
He hit the ground with a gasp, eyes wide and unfocused, blood pooling beneath him faster than even magic could mend.
I swung at the Warmaster, catching it off guard. My strike shattered its helm, and the second buried Shadowbringer into its collarbone. It roared, tried to retaliate, but I crushed it with a final, brutal swing that split its skull clean.
Then silence.
All around me, death.
Duncan was dead.
King Cailan—limp and broken, unmoving in the dirt.
Their final stand… crushed.
My chest heaved, every breath a struggle. Not from exhaustion, but the weight of it. Of failure. Of betrayal. The knowledge that all of this could have been stopped, if not for Loghain.
The Blight was not the only monster on this field.
And still the darkspawn came.
More and more, endless. I turned, lifting Shadowbringer once more.
My arms trembled. My vision blurred.
But I would keep fighting.
Because someone had to remember.
Someone had to survive.
The roar of the darkspawn became the sky itself—screeching, bellowing, rising like a tidal wave of rot and blood. But I did not retreat. I did not falter.
I embraced it.
Shadowbringer pulsed at my back, trembling like a beast desperate to be freed. The greatsword burned against my armor, scorching with purpose. I reached for it—not with fear, but with fury. My hand clenched the hilt, and the moment it left my back, the air around me cracked.
The aether screamed.
The earth shuddered.
And I—I became the storm.
Shadowbringer came alive, the obsidian blade blazing with a crimson edge, veins of darklight running like molten rivers through the metal. With one swing, I ripped through a charging Hurlock—bisecting it from collarbone to hip, the creature’s blood evaporating mid-air from the sheer heat of the strike.
Another leap—I brought the sword down like a hammer, crushing a Genlock into the earth, splintering the bones beneath us. Shadow tendrils exploded outward from the impact, slashing through five more like they were made of parchment.
My soul cried out—and the Scarlet Delirium answered.
The aura ignited around me like wildfire: a burning shell of blood-red energy laced with writhing black. Every pulse of my heartbeat sent flares of darkness outward—my pain, my rage, my memories made manifest. The shadow beneath my boots peeled away, expanding across the blood-soaked field like a living web.
It moved with me—striking before I could. Coiling, lashing, piercing.
Shrieks dove at me from the left. I didn’t turn. My shadow rose like a spike and impaled them mid-air, their bodies twitching as the tendrils snapped their necks one by one.
A pack of Blight wolves charged in unison. I extended my free hand, and Impalement answered—seven spectral spears of voidlight erupted from the earth in a jagged ring, catching the beasts mid-sprint and pinning them in place. The last tried to leap over the trap—Shadowbringer took its head clean off.
More.
Dozens more.
The darkspawn surged from every direction, snarling, slashing, driven to madness by my defiance. I screamed back, not words—but a howl, primal and pure.
They broke upon me like waves on a cliff.
I spun, whirled, struck—each swing a stormfront, each movement a judgment. Blood sprayed the air like black rain. I could no longer feel the ground beneath me, only the raw, rising power of Dynamis flooding my veins, feeding off the anguish, the betrayal, the memory of Duncan’s broken body and Cailan’s crushed form.
And I let it in.
The Dynamis, always a part of me, buried deep beneath my soul’s careful control, finally surged forward in full. Not as chaotic instability—but as focus. As fuel.
The light and dark within me—Etheirys’ legacy and Thedas’s cruelty—merged.
Time fractured.
I moved between heartbeats—Shadowbringer severing space itself, dark sigils burning in the air where I struck. My armor, soul-bound and reforged by pain, glowed faintly now—etched in symbols from Azem's memories, orange threads lacing through the onyx plate like constellations in the void.
They could not touch me.
Not yet.
Not until the Tide of the Blight shifted again.
An Ogre crashed into my flank, swinging a massive slab of stone like a club. It caught my side and flung me ten yalms through the air—I landed hard, rolled through blood and shattered bone, and came up coughing crimson.
Ribs—shattered. Right arm—numb. My cloak, torn and smoking.
But I stood.
My pendant—the Soul Resonator—flashed violently at my neck, warning of Umbriel awakening. I ignored it. There was no room left for restraint. I was not here to survive.
I was here to burn away the dark—or die trying.
The ogre thundered forward again.
I screamed.
And unleashed Disesteem.
A hundred dark fragments exploded outward from my body—each a piece of pure shadow. They dove upon the battlefield like hunting beasts, tearing into darkspawn with furious precision. My shadow thickened, rose like a tidal wave, and devoured the ogre in a clawed maw of living nightmare, dragging it down, screaming, into the abyssal dark beneath my feet.
But the battle did not pause for awe.
They kept coming.
More. Always more.
I bled. My shoulder seized. My vision blurred. But I did not stop.
I cleaved.
I shattered.
And then the sky cracked.
The Blight screamed back.
I dropped to a knee, gasping. My vision swimming, lungs ablaze.
Around me, silence began to fall—not of peace, but of saturation. The kind of quiet that follows when the world realizes even the most defiant must break.
The last thing I saw before my knees hit the ground was the endless black tide still coming, endless, eternal.
Even the Warrior of Light had limits.
Even I… could fall.
Chapter 7: The Grey Wardens
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.
Chapter 8: Out of the Wilds
Chapter Text
From the journal of Aedan Cousland
Year 9:30 Dragon – Just days after Ostagar
I was alive.
Barely.
“Ugh… where—?”
My throat felt dry, my chest bruised with every breath. I pushed myself upright—too fast. The world tilted, swam. My vision shimmered like heat on steel, but I forced it down, anchoring myself with a grunt.
A shadow moved by the hearth. A woman—young, clad in layered leather and deep purples—stood watching me. Her long black hair was tied loosely behind her, and her face was sharp, all angles and cool disdain. Eyes like polished amber met mine when I stirred.
“Ah. The sleeping Warden wakes.”
Her voice was lilting, bemused. Familiar.
I blinked hard and tried to piece the fragments together. The last thing I remembered was the roar of the ogre… the beacon… the flames. Then—Alistair. Duncan.
My stomach clenched.
“Where is—Alistair—? Duncan—?”
The woman crossed her arms, head tilting in a way that reminded me faintly of a hawk sizing up prey.
“The one with the ill-timed jokes is outside. Brooding, I imagine. The other…” Her eyes sharpened, voice flattening. “The older one who fought like a demon and slew the ogre… He is dead.”
The words struck like a mace to the chest.
I stared at her, cold dread blooming in my gut.
“Duncan’s… dead?”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t gloat. She simply nodded, solemn in her own distant way. There was no pleasure in the admission. Just truth.
“And… the King?”
Another voice answered before she could.
“Also dead.”
I turned sharply. An older woman had entered the hut—tall and robed in layers of crow-feathered cloth and what looked like bone. Her hair was white as snow, but her eyes… gods, those eyes. They gleamed with a wild, ageless light, far too alive for someone who looked carved from the pages of a myth.
“I found what was left of your battlefield,” she said, her voice like a wind through dry trees. “Charred earth. Ruined men. Bodies stacked like timber. You and your friend were the only ones left breathing.”
I felt my hands tremble. Duncan… Cailan… All of them. Gone. And for what?
“I—who are you?”
The older woman tilted her head, lips curling ever so slightly in amusement.
“I am Flemeth, known to some as the Witch of the Wilds.” Her tone danced with irony and weight, as if daring me to question it. “And this is my daughter, Morrigan.”
The name landed with sudden clarity. I looked again at the younger woman, this time truly seeing her.
“You were there,” I said slowly. “A few days before Ostagar. We were sent into the Wilds—Alistair, Daveth, Ser Jory, and me. We met someone… You.”
Morrigan nodded, uncrossing her arms at last.
“Yes. You trespassed on our woods, took what you came for, and left.” She smirked faintly. “You were lucky my mother took a liking to your cause.”
“And the treaties…” I murmured. “You let us take the Warden treaties.”
Flemeth chuckled softly, brushing a strand of white hair over her shoulder. “Let is such a curious word. But yes. I saw the shape of things to come. This Blight will not end by the hand of cowards.”
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to make sense of it all. It felt like a lifetime ago. We had all been so certain, so bold. And now… ashes. Duncan gone. Cailan betrayed. Only Alistair and I left to carry a torch that had burned everything around it.
I looked around, a heaviness sinking into my chest.
There was still someone missing.
Morrigan stepped toward the door, then paused.
“Oh. Before I forget.” She reached behind the frame and pulled something free—a battered, blood-stained shield. She held it out to me. “He said this was yours.”
I took it slowly, breath catching.
My shield. From Highever. Still dented from the battle at Ostagar. Still streaked with ogre blood.
I stared at it, stunned. My mouth moved before the thought fully formed.
“He…?”
“The tall one,” Morrigan clarified. “Black armor. Big sword. Zephyr, was it?”
My breath caught.
“He’s alive?” I asked hoarsely.
Morrigan shrugged lightly. “Alive enough to leave. He went north. Said he was heading for Denerim. Asked me to tell you, if you woke.” Her gaze held mine. “He said… if you’re still planning to fight the Blight, you’ll find him there.”
I sat heavily, hands wrapped tight around the leather strap of the shield. Zephyr had survived. Somehow, impossibly, he had made it out.
And he was waiting.
“…Then we’ll find him,” I murmured.
Flemeth smiled, thin and knowing.
“Yes,” she said, voice drifting like smoke, “you will."
I stood a little while later, legs still unsteady but strength returning with each breath. Alistair was outside, she’d said. I had to tell him. About Duncan. About the King.
And about Zephyr.
The heavy wooden door creaked as I pushed it open, letting in the scent of wet earth and dense trees. The Wilds. Still thick with mist and the buzz of unseen life.
Alistair was sitting on a log near the edge of the clearing, armor stripped down to just his gambeson, his sword stabbed into the earth beside him. He didn’t look up when I approached.
“I take it you spoke to our hosts?” he said quietly.
“I did.”
The silence stretched, taut and heavy.
“Duncan,” he said at last, barely audible. “He’s really gone, isn’t he?”
I sat down across from him, the shield resting on my knees.
“He is.”
Alistair closed his eyes. “I keep thinking maybe I missed something. Maybe there was a chance we could’ve—” He shook his head. “But there wasn’t. Was there?”
“No.”
He took a long breath, jaw clenched.
“And Cailan. Teyrn Loghain left him there. Pulled back his entire force and left us to die.”
“Cowardice,” I said bitterly. “Treachery.”
“Yeah,” Alistair muttered. “That too.”
I hesitated, then held out the shield. “This… was found at the beacon tower.”
Alistair glanced at it, recognition flashing across his face.
“Wait, that’s yours. From Highever.”
I nodded. “Morrigan said someone retrieved it from the tower.”
“Who?”
I met his gaze.
“Zephyr.”
Alistair’s head snapped up. “Zephyr? He’s alive?”
“She said he made it out. Said he left for Denerim, told her to give me this. He’s waiting for us.”
A complicated mix of emotions passed through Alistair’s face—disbelief, relief, something close to guilt.
“I thought he was dead,” he said after a moment. “I saw him fighting. Thought he was buried under the rest. How in the Maker’s name did he survive?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But he did.”
Alistair let out a breath. “That stubborn bastard. Of course he did.”
We sat there a moment, the knowledge sinking in like light piercing through smoke. It didn’t undo the grief, but it gave us something—someone—to hold on to.
Eventually, we returned to the hut to discuss what came next.
Inside, Flemeth was tending to a small cauldron over the fire, stirring lazily with a bone-handled ladle. Morrigan leaned near the wall, watching us both with narrowed eyes.
“You’ll be leaving soon, I assume?” she asked.
“We can’t stay here forever,” Alistair said. “We have to gather what remains of the Wardens, seek out help… warn the Bannorn, the Arl…”
Morrigan didn’t reply right away. Instead, she turned her sharp gaze toward me.
“This Zephyr you mentioned,” she said slowly. “You said he survived the battle.”
I nodded. “That’s what you told me.”
“I told you he walked out of the Wilds, yes,” she corrected. “But I did not say I understood how.”
Alistair raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Morrigan’s arms folded again. “He was not wounded. Not like the rest of you. Burnt and bloodied, yes—but his strength never left him. Not once. He carried your shield as though it weighed nothing.”
I frowned. “He’s strong.”
“I have met strong men,” she replied coolly. “And I have met things that wear the skin of men. He stood in a place where a dozen others had died screaming, and he did not fall.”
She stepped closer, voice quiet but insistent.
“There is something… not of this world about him.”
Alistair snorted. “You’re one to talk.”
“I am exactly what I claim to be,” Morrigan snapped, then glanced to Flemeth. “He, on the other hand, is something else. His armor reeked not just of ash, but of something older. And his sword…”
She trailed off, eyes narrowing in thought.
“What about his sword?” I asked.
Morrigan hesitated, then looked toward her mother.
Flemeth spoke without turning.
“It is not a blade forged in this land,” she said, voice like crackling fire. “Its essence hums with war and sorrow from another realm entirely.”
I stood, heart pounding.
“You’re saying… he’s not from Thedas?”
Flemeth smiled faintly, still not looking at us.
“I am saying, child, that your friend walks paths no mortal has charted. And if he is truly yours… you would do well to follow him.”
The morning mist still hung thick outside, clinging to the leaves and curling under the eaves of the hut like a ghost reluctant to depart.
Inside, Flemeth stirred the contents of her cauldron with the patience of one who had seen centuries pass. The scent of herbs and ash hung heavy in the air.
Alistair sat by the hearth, strapping the last of his armor back on. I adjusted the weight of my shield, newly returned, still bearing the scars of Ostagar. Morrigan watched us with thinly veiled disdain from her usual perch near the doorway, arms crossed, foot tapping.
“We’re ready,” I said at last. “Thank you for helping us, Flemeth. For saving us.”
Flemeth’s eyes sparkled as she finally turned from the cauldron. “Yes, yes. You’re welcome. But before you leave, there is something else we must address.”
Alistair looked up warily. “More surprises?”
“Of a sort.”
Flemeth gestured lazily with one long-fingered hand.
“You will need help if you are to reach Denerim alive, much less fight this Blight. The Wilds are the least of your worries now—there are darker things in motion. Shadows moving behind the curtain of this world.”
She tilted her head toward Morrigan.
“My daughter shall accompany you.”
There was a pause.
Then:
“Absolutely not,” Morrigan snapped. “Mother, no.”
Flemeth didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”
“I am not some stray hound to be leashed to their side!”
“You are more than a hound,” Flemeth replied mildly. “And that is precisely why you must go.”
Alistair blinked. “Wait. She’s coming with us?”
“I would rather walk into the Deep Roads barefoot than suffer her company,” Morrigan growled.
“Charming,” Alistair muttered.
I raised a hand. “Why send her with us? We can manage—”
“No, you cannot,” Flemeth interrupted, voice calm and absolute. “The two of you are Wardens, yes, but young, untested. What little training you received died with your mentor. You do not yet know the shape of what hunts you.”
She stepped closer, her towering form suddenly imposing despite her age.
“Morrigan has walked these lands longer than either of you. She knows the paths that the dead and forgotten take. She can wield magic that the Chantry dares not name. And she can fight.”
Morrigan narrowed her eyes. “You do not care about their Blight, Mother. What are you not saying?”
Flemeth’s smile thinned to something unreadable. “There are threads tangled around this one,” she said softly, looking not at me, nor Alistair—but past us. “The one who bears the sword not born of this world.”
We both froze.
“…Zephyr?” I asked, cautiously.
Flemeth said nothing. Her gaze was far away, almost… reverent.
Morrigan turned toward her sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“I have seen many things in my time,” Flemeth said at last. “But he—he is a thread that does not belong in this tapestry. And yet, here he is, tugging at it all the same.”
She returned her eyes to Morrigan.
“Should the time come when his soul is tested—and it will—you will be there.”
Morrigan’s face twisted in frustration. “Tested how? What does that even mean?”
“You will know,” Flemeth replied simply.
“No, I won’t!” Morrigan snapped. “You’re doing it again—talking in riddles and half-meanings. If this is about your visions or your little glimpses through the Veil, you could at least—”
“Morrigan.” Her voice turned sharp. “You will go. That is final.”
Silence followed. Thick. Uncomfortable.
At last, Morrigan exhaled through her nose and turned to us.
“Well then,” she muttered, “let us be off before I grow old and turn into a crone like her.”
Flemeth smiled, clearly unbothered. “Too late for that.”
Alistair made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a cough.
I stepped forward.
“…Thank you,” I said quietly. “I don’t know what your game is. But if she can help, we’ll need all the help we can get.”
“Oh, I am quite certain you do not know my game,” Flemeth said, turning back to her cauldron. “But you will play it all the same.”
Flemeth gave us one final glance. “Go. But remember—this world has teeth. You will not face only the Darkspawn before this is done. Nobles. Templars. False kings and fallen heroes. Beware them all.”
As we stepped out of the hut and back into the Wilds, I glanced at Morrigan walking ahead of us, her staff slung over her back, muttering under her breath.
Alistair leaned closer and whispered, “You think she actually wants to help us?”
I looked once more at the door behind us. Flemeth stood in the shadows, watching.
“…No,” I said. “But I think she wants us to help her.”
And maybe, just maybe… to help Zephyr.
Though what kind of help someone like him needed, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Thus our journey began.
Two untested Wardens.
A witch we didn’t trust.
A kingdom fallen into chaos.
And a dark tide rising from the south.
But we weren’t done yet.
We were going to Denerim.
To find Zephyr.
To rally what allies we could.
And to face the Blight… before it consumed all of Ferelden.
anastasialunatic1 on Chapter 4 Wed 16 Jul 2025 07:23PM UTC
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AyaKho on Chapter 7 Thu 17 Jul 2025 05:15AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 17 Jul 2025 05:18AM UTC
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