Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sereda Aeducan is the second child and only daughter of King Endrin. She grew up in a world rife with political intrigue and has struggled against her brothers and cousins for honor and prestige. Today, a feast celebrates her first military commission, the opening move towards real power in the ever-changing game of politics.

Sereda was clad in her late grandmother’s armor. At her hip rested a finely forged sword, a gift from her father. Her shield, strapped to her back, bore the fading yellow crest of House Aeducan. She looked like a warrior—not quite the image of a noble lady, though she preferred it that way.

A familiar voice called from the doorway. “Greetings, my lady. You are dressed and ready, excellent.”

Sereda turned to find Gorim standing in the doorway, her childhood friend and second-in-command.

“Gorim,” she greeted with a smile in return. “What did I tell you? There's no need for such formalities.”

He chuckled as he stepped further into the room. “What do they say? Old habits die hard. I see you’re wearing your shield.”

“Of course,” she said, adjusting it in place. “I need the court to see me as a warrior.”

“As opposed to the Paragon of Beauty?” he teased.

She rolled her eyes. “You, my friend. Are ridiculous.”

“One can't take this marching about and speech making too seriously,” he sighed. His tone shifted, slightly more serious. “Moving on to the business at hand. The king wants you to make an appearance at the feast, but there's no rush. The noble family heads will spend hours boring your father with petitions and petty grievances.”

“The art of ruling is hardly petty,” Sereda replied, stepping over to her dresser. She opened one of the drawers, retrieving a coin purse—just in case she saw something worth picking up. Maybe even something for Gorim.

“If you say so,” Gorim muttered, watching her with a smirk. “I’d be tired of it... in... oh, I don’t know, a minute.”

“It takes me three,” she quipped, holding up three fingers.

Gorim chuckled, then continued, “as part of the celebrations, trading permits were auctioned off to members of the Merchant caste who wish to sell wares in the Diamond Quarter. Lord Harrowmont has also opened up the Grand Provings to allow young warriors to test their mettle for the upcoming battle. He also hopes a well-placed young nobleman will sweep you off your feet.”

Sereda grimaced at the thought. “Perhaps I’ll win the Proving myself.”

“Win the Proving in your own honor?” he asked, only mildly surprised. “Do you plan on visiting the merchants?” He glanced at the coin purse she tied it to her waist.

“If there’s time. I’ll even get you something.”

“My lady treats me well.”

“Perhaps too well.”

He followed her as she stepped out into the hallway.

“The day is ours till the feast.”

“Are you excited for the upcoming battle tomorrow?” She asked.

Gorim took a quick glance at her before back to the path ahead. “Yes. I yearn to face the darkspawn and prove my worth as your second.” 

She smirked, “we’ll be spectacular.”

“May the Stone accet us, and the ancestors look down with pride.” He replied as they turned the corner.

A young red-haired woman emerged hurriedly from Bhelen’s chambers, calling out his name. She froze upon spotting Sereda, face paling with recognition. With a stammered apology, she quickly ducked back into the room.

“Who was that?” Sereda murmured, brows raised. Before Gorim could answer, she stepped forward and entered Bhelen’s quarters.

The woman stood near the bed, clearly uneasy, wringing her hands as Sereda approached.

“I am sorry, my lady,” she said quickly. “I thought that you were Prince Bhelen coming down the hall, and..." Her voice broke mid-sentence. "I... forgive me.”

“Who are you?” She already had her suspicions. The girl had the look of a noble hunter—a woman who would try and bore her brother's son. The thought of him doing... that made her stomach churn.

Gorim interjected. “It seems she’s one of Prince Bhelen’s... newest um… companions.” He turned his attention to the girl. “Prince Bhelen is attending the feast being held in Lady Aeducan's honor.”

“Of course,” the woman said, her voice almost breathless. “It was presumptuous of me to assume he'd return to... I am sorry. I will show myself out with your leave, my lady.”

Sereda offered a smile. Trying to ease her worry. “You may stay if you wish, but I doubt Bhelen will be returning anytime soon.”

The woman looked relieved and bowed her head. “Thank you, my lady. But I shall take my leave.”

Sereda nodded, watching the woman leave the room. After a moment she left as well, Gorim following close behind.

Before long, Sereda and Gorim stepped out of the palace, emerging onto a platform that overlooked the vast city of Orzammar. Once the beating heart of a sprawling empire, it now stood as one of the last two known cities of their kind.

Sereda paused at the ledge, eyes scanning the familiar terrain. Elevated above it all was the Diamond Quarter gleamed with its intricate stonework and rich metals, home to the Royal Palace, the Shaperate, and the nobility. below it stretched the Commons, bustling with merchants and everyday dwarves living their lives. And unable to be by Sereda was Dust Town, where the casteless eked out their miserable existence.

At the city's heart, suspended above a lake of molten rock, stood the Proving Grounds—where warriors earned glory and proved their honor in combat. Sereda’s heart swelled just looking at it. She had fought there many times, and it remained her favorite place in all of Orzammar. Rivers of lava branched out from the lake, channeled through the city's stonework, providing both warmth and light to its people. No matter how often she stood here, the sight never failed to stir awe in her chest.

Her admiration was soon broken by the sound of raised voices nearby.

"I'm telling you, it’s in the Records! There’s nothing I can do!” cried a scholar, his voice strained with desperation. “Please, Master Vollney, my work is accredited by the Shaper!”

Sereda turned toward the source and immediately recognized the furious man confronting the scholar—Bruntin Vollney, one of her older brother Trian’s friends.

“These books are lies, written by the enemies of House Vollney!” Bruntin barked, eyes alight with fury.

“I write only what I find in the ancient Records!” the scholar pleaded, then spotted Sereda and Gorim approaching. Relief flashed across his face. “Lady Aeducan! You can vouch for my work, can’t you? Your father loved my book, History of Aeducan: Paragon, King, Peacemaker.”

“I enjoyed it as well,” Sereda replied, intrigued by the commotion. “What seems to be the problem?”

“This... worm has written a book that defames my family!” Bruntin snarled, jabbing a finger toward the scholar.

“What does it say?” She asked, raising a brow.

“It doesn't matter; it's all lies!” he snapped, waving a dismissive hand.

“Well, if you won’t tell me, perhaps the scholar will?” Sereda offered, turning to the other man.

The scholar nodded, eager to explain. “My work tells the stories of all those raised to Paragons in the last five hundred years. When the Assembly names a Paragon, that man or woman is then, by definition, everything one can aspire to be in the world. They form their own noble house and are revered as living ancestors. But Paragons all start off as men.”

“Vollney was more than a man!” Bruntin interrupted, his face flushing with outrage.

Still curious, Sereda asked, “what was Aeducan like before he was Paragon?”

The scholar's expression brightened, grateful for her interest. “Aeducan was much loved, but he was still just a man. He was plagued by melancholy, and his fervor for Orzammar’s safety bordered on obsession. When Aeducan was proposed as a Paragon, only one lord in the Assembly objected. The others savagely hacked him to death on the spot. Aeducan’s motion passed without a single dissenting vote.”

“Unlike Vollney! Is that what you mean, old man?” Bruntin growled.

The scholar didn’t back down. “Vollney became a Paragon by the narrowest margin in history—one vote. A vote mired in rumors of intimidation, intrigue, and outright bribery! The record of that vote is kept in the Shaperate and is a matter of fact.”

“Not liking history doesn’t make it any less true,” the scholar added, his voice trembling now despite his defiance.

Bruntin's fury boiled beneath the surface, his fists clenched, but he didn’t strike. 

After a moment of thought, Sereda turned to him. “The scholar is right.”

Bruntin recoiled as if slapped. “You're taking his side? What if he published a book like this about your Paragon Aeducan?”

“The truth matters more than pride,” she replied coolly. Inwardly, she wondered if she would feel the same if it were my family? She wasn’t sure. But she wasn’t about to give Bruntin the satisfaction of hearing that uncertainty aloud.

Bruntin's lip curled. “You wouldn’t say that if it were your house... but I’ll respect your decision for now.” He turned on his heel and stormed off, boots echoing down the stone hallway.

Once he was gone, Gorim spoke with disdain. “That fool doesn’t know how weak his house is or how low he sits in it. Shall I have him killed, my lady?”

“He’s not worth a blade,” Sereda replied.

She had fought darkspawn and even killed in defense, but the idea of striking someone down out of spite or convenience made her stomach twist. Sometimes, she wondered if she was the worst noble ever born. Maybe Trian was right—maybe she didn’t belong among them.

“You've shown House Aeducan a friend to research, history, and the glory of our people,” the scholar said gratefully, bowing.

Sereda smirked. “Just remember this when you write about me.”

The scholar chuckled. “Of course. Heroism and pity for the small men have always been hallmarks of the Aeducans.” With another bow, he turned and departed.

A bitter taste lingered in Sereda’s mouth as she watched the scholar walk away. She shook it off, determined to enjoy what was left of her day—until she spotted two familiar figures further down the road. 

Trian, the eldest and heir to the throne, stood tall in fine ceremonial armor, speaking with that ever-present air of self-importance. Beside him, Bhelen, the youngest and least notable of the three, trailed behind with a tight smile. Sereda instinctively tried to slip past without drawing their attention.

No such luck.

“Atrast vala, big sister,” Bhelen called out smoothly, offering a shallow bow. “How surprising to see you out among the common folk.”

“Especially since duty requires that you should be attending our king father's feast today,” Trian added, his tone thick with disdain. He began to pace as he spoke, eventually stopping beside Bhelen. “Have you so little respect for him to disregard his wishes on a day set aside just for you?”

“Lord Harrowmont told us we wouldn't be needed at the feast for hours at least—” Gorim began, but Trian cut him off sharply.

“Silence! If I want the opinion of my sister’s second, I will ask for it!”

“Don’t speak to Gorim that way!” Sereda snapped, her eyes narrowing. She turned to Bhelen. “Come on, help your favorite sister out here.”

“You’re on your own,” Bhelen said with a smirk. “I’ve been dealing with him all afternoon.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, little brother?” Trian asked lowly.

“N-nothing, Trian! I’ve been having a great time. That speech you gave to the legless boy about standing up and making something of himself was fantastic.”

Trian, oblivious to the sarcasm, lifted his chin proudly. “As heir to the throne, I must impart wisdom and judgment upon those who need it.” He turned his attention back to Sereda. “Now, get to the feast.”

“Yes, yes, I’m going,” Sereda muttered, brushing him off.

“That’s my dutiful little sister,” Trian said smugly as he passed her. He paused for just a breath. “I'll be sure to toast you at the feast. Come, Bhelen!”

Sereda watched them disappear down the path, a frown tugging at her lips. Trian spent so much energy asserting his authority, but never where it mattered. She feared the kind of king he might become.

“Well, that was exciting,” Gorim said dryly. “Nothing like being talked down to by the next king.”

“Perhaps becoming king will calm Trian,” Sereda said, though it sounded more like a hope than a prediction.

“We can only hope.”

They turned their attention to the nearby merchant stalls lining the Diamond Quarter. Bright silk from the surface lands shimmered in lamplight, and finely made weapons and armor were laid out on thick velvet. None could compare to the royal armory she wore, but still, she admired the craftsmanship.

After buying Gorim a snack from a food vendor—something fried and meat-filled—they continued toward the gates leading to the Commons. On the way, they passed a pair of noble hunters preening nearby, whom Sereda talked to them and promised to mention them to her brothers. Just ahead, a weapons merchant stood behind his display, clearly nervous, shifting from foot to foot with the look of someone mustering courage.

Sereda slowed as they approached, waiting patiently for him to speak.

"My lady! You honor me by visiting my booth!" the merchant blurted out, voice high with anxiety. "I have a proposition, but I dared not approach..."

“Yet, you dare now?” Gorim interrupted coolly, arms folded.

“Gorim, try to be more friendly,” Sereda said gently, glancing his way. The merchant seemed to relax a little, though he still stammered.

“Just so... what I mean to say is... um...”

“It’s all right,” Sereda offered him a smile. She wished her people weren’t so nervous around her.

“Sorry. So nervous. I had a dagger made. F-for you. As a gift for your first command.” He looked sheepish. “I, uh, sent a messenger to deliver the dagger to you. But Prince Trian had him thrown out. I don’t know what offense he caused, but I had him beaten severely.”

Sereda's brow furrowed. “Let me see this dagger.”

The merchant eagerly produced the weapon. Both Sereda and Gorim leaned in, taken aback. The blade was silverite, pure and gleaming, laced with lyrium enchantments that shimmered faintly along its edge. 

Sereda reached out and brushed her fingers along the blade. The magic responded with a tingling pulse that ran through her hand. She had little knowledge of magic, but it was fascinating.

“Beautiful craftsmanship,” she said, letting her hand glide over the blade once more. “How does one forge such a blade?”

“You honor me, your highness,” the merchant said with a deep bow. “I wish to offer this dagger to you as a gift for your first command, in hopes that one day, when you rule, you will wear it.”

“Trian is heir,” Gorim reminded. “He will rule when King Endrin returns to the Stone.”

“If the Assembly wills it,” the merchant replied, letting a hint of suggestion color his tone. “Forgive me, your highness, but there are whispers the Assembly may favor the only daughter of King Endrin.”

“Whispers, indeed.” Gorim turned to Sereda. “It’s a princely gift. If Trian reconizes it, though, it may send the wrong message. Or the right one, depending on the view.”

Sereda had heard the rumors. Trian was deeply unpopular, and Bhelen—well, no one really considered Bhelen. She, on the other hand, was competent, respected... visible. But truth be told, she had no desire for the throne.

“I’ll take the dagger,” she said, and the merchant beamed in delight, bowing again and again in thanks and gave it to her.

As they headed toward the gates, another stall caught her eye. A dwarf there sold magical items imported from the surface. When she stepped closer, the merchant’s eyes widened in disbelief—and then promptly rolled back in his head as he fainted on the spot.

There was a long beat of silence.

“Wow,” Gorim said at last, raising a brow. “He’s fainted... you make quite the impression these days.”

Sereda let out a sigh. “I am what the ancestors made me.”

“Aren’t we all?” Gorim grinned.

With that, they left the Diamond Quarter, making their way to the Proving Grounds. Much to her irritation, they were accompanied by a few guards sent by her father. 

The worry he had of her being harassed proved to be uneventful, and the group soon entered the Proving chamber, a place Sereda knew well. At her father’s urging, she had honed her skills here, participating in many tournaments. Her victories had made her quite popular among her people.

A fight had just ended when Sereda and Gorim reached the seat of the Proving Master.

“Ah, my lady!” He greeted enthusiastically, turning around to face her. “Have you come to watch these young warriors do battle in your honor?”

“Actually,” she hesitated, glancing past him toward the arena. “I’ve come to fight."

“Your Highness! This Proving is in your honor—”

Gorim cut him off, his tone decisive. “Then honor her by doing as she says. Lady Aeducan will fight in this Proving."

"I will honor today’s warriors by testing their strength,” Sereda added.

The Proving Master smiled. “Of course. It is well within your right.” He turned to address the crowd, his voice booming across the arena. Sereda watched as the last contestant, who had just lost being dragged off.

“Men and women of Orzammar,” the Proving Master began, “we have a late entry to these Proving's, held on the eve of battle. For the honor of House Aeducan, I present to you...” He stepped aside, allowing Sereda to step forward, “the Lady Aeducan herself!”

Sereda gave the crowd a small bow, and their cheers filled the arena.

Sereda stood across from her first opponent, hand raised high as she waved to the roaring crowd with a confident smile. The weight of her father’s sword in hand and the eyes of Orzammar upon her filled her chest with fire.

“This is a Glory Proving!” the Proving Master boomed. “Under the watchful eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar, for the honor of House Aeducan!”

Before her stood Aller Bemot, the younger son of Lord Bemot, was lean and fast, eager to prove himself. His armor gleamed as though newly forged, though the way he shifted his grip betrayed nerves.

He came at her quick, blade flashing in short, eager strikes. Sereda parryed cleanly and driving him back step by step. She let him test her defenses, then swept his legs from under him with her shield and sent him sprawling. The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers as Aller scrambled upright—only for Sereda to press forward and rest her blade at his throat.

After a ten minute break, Sereda steps back into the arena and froze for half a breath. Adal Helmi strode into the ring. The eldest daughter of Lady Helmi—and Sereda’s former lover.

They had shared two years together, full of secret meetings and whispered promises, before Sereda had broken things off to pursue her military path. Adal had never forgiven her for it.

“I should’ve known you’d come here for glory,” Adal said, sliding her helm on. “It’s all you ever wanted.”

Sereda tightened her grip on her sword. “It’s not personal.”

“It always is.”

The Proving bell rang, and Adal struck first—hard, fierce, and furious. Their blades rang again and again, neither giving ground. Sereda matched her, blow for blow, the sting of old emotion making her strikes sharper. When Adal tried to feint, Sereda read the move, twisting her shield to slam Adal’s dagger aside before driving her shoulder into her chest.

Adal hit the stone floor with a grunt, and Sereda pinned her there, sword edge grazing the base of her throat. Their eyes met—old anger, old affection, and unspoken regret burning in the silence between them.

Adal’s jaw tightened. “Yield.”

Sereda helped her up, murmuring just loud enough to hear, “You fought well.”

Adal said nothing as she turned away, but her silence carried more weight than words.

Next came Ser Blackstone, a grizzled warrior with a battered shield and the kind of eyes that had seen far too many battles. He was no noble son or vengeful ex—he was a seasoned leader of a Deep Roads squad, and the respect in the crowd’s cheers for him was palpable.

The fight was grueling. Blackstone’s blows were heavy, each one testing the strength of her shield arm. His years of experience showed in his patience—he did not waste movement, did not give her openings. Sereda had to work for every strike, sweat beading at her temples as their blades clashed and locked.

At last, she baited him—when he swung, she twisted aside and brought her blade around in a ringing strike against his helm, sending him staggering to one knee. She pressed the tip of her sword to his pauldron before he could recover.

Ser Blackstone looked up at her, breathing hard, then gave her a wry grin. “Yield.”

The crowd thundered with approval. Sereda saluted him as he was led off, pride swelling in her chest.

The final fight began, and Frandlin Ivo entered to a roar from the stands. The second son of Lord Ivo, Frandlin.

Frandlin fought like the Stone itself—unyielding, punishing. His first strike rattled through Sereda’s shield arm hard enough to numb her fingers. She had to give ground, step after step, as he pressed his advantage. His swings were precise, every one calculated to batter her down.

The crowd gasped as Frandlin knocked her sword wide and slammed into her shield, nearly driving her to the floor. For a moment, it seemed she might fall—then she dug her heels into the stone, shoved back with all her strength, and twisted free.

She fought smart, not reckless. Every time he overextended, she struck back—sharp cuts against the seams of his armor, a shield bash to his helm. Slowly, she turned the tide.

The fight raged for long minutes, sweat and steel filling the air. At last, Frandlin raised his sword high for a crushing blow. Sereda darted inside his guard, her blade flashing up to stop just beneath his chin.

The crowd roared so loud the arena shook.

Frandlin froze, then laughed—a booming sound that echoed off the stone. He dropped his sword and raised both hands. “Yield!”

The Proving Master’s voice boomed across the chamber: “For the honor of House Aeducan—Lady Sereda is victorious!”

The cheers thundered, echoing in Sereda’s chest like the Stone itself. She raised her sword high, her smile fierce, as the crowd chanted her name.

"Congratulations!" the Proving Master said, holding out the ceremonial helm. "Frandlin Ivo is as fierce a competitor as I’ve ever seen. You’ve vanquished every warrior of note in today’s Proving. The helm, commissioned by your father, is yours.”

Sereda glanced at the helm, then back at him. "Give it to Frandlin Ivo. He fought bravely."

The Proving Master bowed. “The people will remember your generosity in due time.”

Sereda rejoined Gorim as they exited the arena, guards escorting them through the Proving halls.

“Good showing, my lady,” Gorim remarked. “They’ll be licking their wounds all eve.”

By the time Sereda and Gorim arrived at the throne room, the other guests were already seated, waiting for her formal appearance as commander. Excitement swelled in her chest as they approached the grand archway leading into the hall. She thought of her mother and wished she were there to see this moment—she would have been proud.

As Sereda entered, nobles inclined their heads in acknowledgment or tried to catch her with polite words, though most eyes remained fixed on King Endrin as he presided over grievances. Once he finished, her investiture would begin.

“Look, the Grey Wardens are here!” Gorim said, pointing. Sereda followed his gesture. A small group sat at the table nearest her father.

“The raid tomorrow must be more than a standard mission,” Gorim went on. “The Wardens only go where the darkspawn are the greatest threat.”

They hadn’t gone far before Lord Ronus Dace, lingering near the entrance, intercepted her. Sereda stopped, masking her impatience at the disappointment flashing across the faces of other nobles who hoped to greet her first.

“Many thanks for your willingness to hear me out, my lady,” Lord Dace began at once, bowing slightly. “I wish to speak with you of a matter most urgent.”

Sereda eyed him with mild curiosity but gave a nod. “Of course, Lord Dace.”

“There is a vote coming before the Assembly next week, and a word from you could go a long way toward helping our cause.”

“And what is this cause?”

“The vote concerns the so-called surface caste. Lost to the Stone. Air-touched, and so forth.” He waved his hand as though brushing away a speck of dust. “Centuries ago, narrow-minded men decreed that any dwarf who left to live on the surface forfeited his caste—and his house, if noble. That he was, in essence, no longer a dwarf. I seek only to remedy an injustice, to restore the rights of anyone who can trace his line to a noble house, wherever he may live. Please agree to speak for this noble cause.”

Sereda folded her arms across her chest, looking him over. “Why so interested in this particular cause?”

“Those on the surface are our lifeline. They facilitate trade with the humans. They’re honorable and... um...” His words faltered. With a sigh, he dropped the pretense. “Let’s be honest. I don’t care a whit for those who have wandered from the Stone. My wife, however, is a gem of a different color.”

He cleared his throat before continuing. “She has a cousin—a useless sort, but she is quite fond of him. He joined a speculative venture to the surface, hoping to make his fortune, and went bust. Now he wishes to come home, but he cannot. He has no house and would be casteless. For my wife’s sake, I take up his cause. Will you lend me your voice?”

Sereda gave a reluctant nod. “Very well, Lord Dace. I will think about it.”

“When your father presents you to the noble houses, I will ask for your opinion on the matter. You have merely to say that you feel our surface brothers should be returned to their noble rights,” he instructed. “What could be more simple?”

As Sereda moved deeper into the throne room, the echo of a familiar voice cut through the murmur of conversation and stopped her mid-step.

“You’re a fool,” came the sharp words of Lady Helmi.

Sereda turned, eyebrow arched. Lady Helmi stood a short distance away, her posture poised and her gaze fierce. Once her mother’s closest friend, the older woman had never stopped watching over Sereda after her passing, her protectiveness as unyielding as the Stone.

“Excuse me?” Sereda asked.

“Your mother would melt the Stone if she knew what you just did.”

The accusation straightened Sereda’s spine. She opened her mouth to respond, but Lady Helmi pressed on.

“Lord Dace is playing you false. Go ahead. Be his puppet. Your first command will be marked by every major house turning its back on you.”

Pride prickled hot in Sereda’s chest, but there was weight in Helmi’s tone that she couldn’t dismiss. Her jaw tightened.

“I’m listening.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

Lady Helmi did the same, speaking only for her ears. “Last spring, a guild from the Merchant caste invested heavily in an expedition with a surface guild. Lord Dace backed the venture and put in a significant amount of coin into it.”

Sereda folded her arms, her eyes fixed on Helmi as the older woman’s hands moved as she spoke.

“But the expedition failed,” Helmi continued. “Miserably.”

Sereda’s mind began to turn. “So... Lord Dace is trying to recover his lost investment.”

“Clever child,” Lady Helmi said with a nod of approval. “The surface guild cannot repay the debt. But its leading members? They’re descended from noble houses—House Helmi, House Bemot... Aeducan.”

Sereda’s eyes widened slightly as the realization struck her.

“If the surface dwellers return to their formal houses...” she began.

“Then we would be forced to honor their debts,” Helmi finished grimly. “A great victory for Dace—and a devastating loss for us.”

Anger flared in Sereda’s chest—not just at Dace, but at herself for nearly falling into his trap.

“Thank you for your warning,” she said sincerely.

“You’ll remember this when my house needs help,” Lady Helmi replied, sweeping away without another word.

Sereda returned to where Lord Dace stood, his arms folded tightly across his chest, a scowl carved deep into his features.

“You return. Were my instructions not clear?” His clipped tone carried more annoyance than respect.

“I had a little chat with Lady Helmi,” Sereda said, her voice cold.

A flicker of unease crossed his face. “And what did she say?”

“She said my house would be forced to pay the surface dwellers’ debts.” Sereda kept her gaze locked on him, watching every twitch of his expression.

He faltered just enough to betray himself. “Well... yes. I suppose it could. But it’s the spirit of the law that’s important, right? Our poor, disenfranchised surface brothers—”

“Enough.” The word cut from her lips like drawn steel. “All of this was just to recover your losses.”

At that, his mask dropped. His face hardened. “Well played, Your Highness. Welcome to Assembly politics.”

“Get out of my sight,” Sereda snapped.

“You haven’t made a friend here today,” he warned.

As he disappeared into the throng, Sereda exhaled, the tension buzzing faintly beneath her skin. Her thoughts strayed to what awaited her still—her father’s formal naming of her as commander. Straightening her shoulders, she continued toward the head of the throne room.

Yet her steps faltered when she reached the Grey Wardens. Her father could wait a little longer, she thought. She turned to face the one she assumed was their leader.

“Greetings, Lady Aeducan!” he said, offering a slight bow. “It is an honor to meet you at last.”

“The honor is mine, Warden,” Sereda replied, curiosity sparking in her tone.

“Please, call me Duncan,” he said kindly. “I recently had the opportunity to meet with your father. He speaks highly of you. He says you might just be the greatest warrior in all of House Aeducan.”

“My father does me great honor,” Sereda answered with a faint smile. “But whether I am remains to be seen. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

Duncan chuckled softly. “Your answer speaks of maturity far beyond your years. We need more Grey Wardens like you, and quickly. Even as the darkspawn weaken here in Orzammar, their numbers grow quickly on the surface world.”

“I understand you are here to gather recruits?” Sereda asked, changing the topic. 

“Yes,” Duncan said with a nod. “We had planned to select a recruit during the Proving held in our honor, but unfortunately, the event fell apart. Still, I have no doubt we’ll find someone suitable.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “I would have liked to attend.”

“Thank you, but I am sure our search will continue,” Duncan replied, the corners of his mouth quirking with amusement. “For now, I’ll let you attend to your duties. Best of luck in tomorrow’s battle.”

“And to you,” Sereda returned with a respectful bow before lifting her gaze toward the throne, where King Endrin was concluding a hushed conversation with his advisors.

“My king, please reconsider. The trade contact alone could bring great prosperity to our houses,” Lord Meino pleaded.

“Will we really turn our back on our brothers—and a potential fortune in cheap labor—because of a political technicality?” Lord Bemot added.

“Denial of the traditions of our people does not qualify as a political technicality!” King Endrin thundered.

Kal-Sharok—once the capital of the dwarven empire—had been thought lost to the darkspawn centuries ago. That belief shattered only recently when King Endrin reestablished contact with the city after generations of silence. But the reunion was far from joyous.

The dwarves of Kal-Sharok were bitter. They saw their isolation not as a tragedy, but as betrayal. And they had no interest in bowing to Orzammar’s rule.

“There is more to life than monetary gain, Lords Bemot and Meino,” Endrin declared, his voice hard as stone. “The Assembly of Kal-Sharok will respect the rule of Orzammar—or they will rot and die alone, surrounded by enemies.”

As the debate simmered, the king’s expression brightened when he noticed Sereda approaching.

“But look!” he announced warmly. “We have company to spare us further wrangling.”

Sereda offered a wry grin. “I see the business of ruling is still the same as ever. Careful, father—you’ll give yourself more wrinkles if you keep at it.”

Endrin let out a hearty laugh. “Atrast vala, my sweet daughter. How well you wear your grandmother’s armor. I hear you were named Champion of the Provings—I suppose it was too much to hope that you’d let the excitement pass you by.”

Sereda dipped her head with a smile. “I’m never far from a good fight.”

Endrin’s gaze softened with pride. “Are you ready to be presented to the noble houses?”

“Of course, father.”

“So dutiful...” He rose from his throne and turned to the gathered lords and ladies.

“Lords, ladies. Grant me a moment of your time. We are here today so I may present to you my second-born and only daughter, blessed by the Stone and born of the blood that ran in the veins of Paragon Aeducan. Who here will question her worth? Who seeks to know the prospect better?”

Silence fell over the hall, thick and expectant. No voice rose. No challenge came.

The king gave a satisfied nod. “No? Very well. The ritual is complete. I give you, Orzammar’s next commander!”

A roar of cheers erupted across the chamber, goblets lifted high in toast to Sereda.

Endrin raised his own goblet, his voice carrying over the celebration. “Tomorrow, our newest commander will lead part of a mission to strike a great blow against the darkspawn. Not only does this recover access to some of our most important mines, but it also allows our honored guest Duncan, head of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens, to strike far into the Deep Roads.”

“Thank you, King Endrin,” Duncan said, bowing low. “While the darkspawn seem to withdraw, it is only because they are massing on the surface. This could mean a Blight, and my men and I will discover the truth.”

“We are honored to have you, my friend.” Endrin turned once more to the crowd. “Now—drink, feast, and celebrate! For tomorrow, we fight!”

Music swelled, and the nobles returned to their revelry. But Sereda’s smile did not quite reach her eyes.

Her gaze drifted over the crowd, searching.

“Are you upset that your brothers didn’t attend?” her father asked, his tone gentler now that no one else was listening.

“A little,” she admitted. “I was looking forward to Trian’s toast.”

King Endrin’s brow furrowed with understanding. “He’ll come around. In time.” He glanced toward the doors. “Will you find them for me? I need to speak with Trian about tomorrow’s strategy.”

“Of course, father,” Sereda said, offering a respectful bow before slipping out the room.

Sereda found her brothers in Trian's bedroom, their conversation ending abruptly as she entered. From their expressions, it was clear they had been speaking about something serious.

Trian turned to her with a scowl. “So, you’re a commander now. In name, at least. Shouldn't you be attending our king father?”

“You weren’t at the feast,” Sereda pointed out, disappointment bleeding through her tone.

“The world does not stop to celebrate your meager accomplishments,” he shot back. “Now, what do you want?”

“Father asked for you,” she informed. Deciding it was better not to push.

“Of course he does. We need to discuss strategy before tomorrow's battle.” He turned to Bhelen with a dismissive wave. “Bhelen, stay here and stroke the new commander's conceit if you like but then get to bed.”

He ordered before stepping out of the room.

“I honestly don't know how you put up with him.” Bhelen muttered once Trian was gone.

Sereda sighed. “Smile. Nod. Do my duty.”

“I wish that sense of duty and family loyalty was shared by our elder brother.” Bhelen said, his tone suddenly more somber.

She narrowed her eyes. “You sound serious.”

“Unfortunately, I am.” Bhelen said, his voice dropping low. Sereda leaned in instinctively—and so did Gorim, his posture stiffening beside her.

“Trian has begun to move against you,” Bhelen continued. “I never thought his much-proclaimed honor would allow him to actually act on his jealousy. Big sister, Trian is going to try to kill you.”

Sereda’s heart sank.

“How do you know for sure?” she asked quietly, she wished she couldn't believe it.

“I overheard him giving orders to some of his men, and I was shocked. But then it began to make sense. Trian's decided you're a threat to his taking of the throne. Maybe he's right.”

Sereda’s expression darkened. “I’ve told him over and over—I don’t want the throne.”

“He fears what you are becoming, in the eyes of the people and the Assembly.” Bhelen explained. “Trian's the named prince, but only the Assembly can proclaim a king. It would be unusual for the Assembly to ignore the king's choice, but it does happen.” 

“The founder of House Bemot became a Paragon and king in one move from the Assembly. And he was a commoner." Gorim added. 

“That was an extraordinary case,” Bhelen nodded. “But at least a half-dozen times the Assembly named a lesser family memeber—or even someone from another house—as king. Twice, it was a woman.”

Sereda folded her arms. “So Trian thinks the Assembly would prefer me.”

“Look at it from his perspective. You're more personable than he's ever been.” He points out, “you entered the Provings held in your own honor just for glory and to please the crowds. If you win glory against the darkspawn tomorrow, it will only strengthen the case for you as the next heir. Trian fears father will replace him on the spot. If not, the Assembly will surely turn against him when father dies. You know his pride will never allow him to step aside.”

She eyed him carefully. “What’s your angle in all this, Bhelen?”

He didn’t flinch. “It seems Trian has shown that brothers can't always be trusted. I am next in line. If Trija succeeds in his plot against you, how long do you think I’ll live that?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Sereda turned to Gorim. “What do you think?”

He straightened. “Permission to speak freely?”

“Always. My friend.”

“Trian would make a terrible king,” Gorim said. “But no one wants to say it. He has just enough support in the Assembly to make things messy when your father’s death—but not enough to become king. Killing him now makes your house stronger and saves a great deal of bloodshed later.”

Sereda exhaled slowly, tension in her jaw. “I can’t,” she said. “I won’t kill my own brother.”

Bhelen stepped closer, more gently this time. “Then be careful. Please. I don’t want to lose my dearest sister.”

She gave him a small smile. “You worry too much, little brother.”

“One of us has to,” he said, returning her smile. “I’ll be at father’s side tomorrow as his second. For now, try and get some sleep.”

Gorim walked her back to her quarters. Once inside, he double-checked the locks before leaving.

Sereda sat alone on her bed, the silence heavy. Tomorrow, she would face darkspawn in the Deep Roads—but it was the battle brewing at home that weighed heaviest on her heart

Chapter Text

The morning passed in a blur. Sereda dressed, ate, and waited in her chambers until Gorim came to fetch her. Despite the strain between her and Trian, there had been no attempts on her life—yet. Still, Sereda couldn’t shake the thought that her brother was simply waiting for the right moment, perhaps when she was alone.

In recent months, Trian had kept Bhelen close, and she saw little of either of them. Most evenings, it was only she and her father, seated together at a long, empty dining table. This morning was no different; after a quiet breakfast, her father left for a meeting with the generals, leaving Sereda and Gorim with a few idle hours before their expedition at noon.

They wandered the familiar halls, every inch of the palace already long known to her. Aimless at first, Sereda soon led Gorim into the servants’ wing, where fewer courtiers lingered. Their steps stopped in front of a door that had not opened in years.

“Are you certain about this, Sereda?” Gorim asked, noting her hesitation.

Sereda rested her hand on the worn doorknob, breathing deeply. “I am,” she answered, though her voice wavered. With a slow turn, the door creaked open.

The air was still and cold inside, the room dim with dust and disuse. It was her mother’s room. Not a bedchamber, but a sanctum—her father’s tribute to the woman who had once been the pride of House Aeducan.

Armor gleamed faintly in the shadows, arranged alongside weapons and trophies from countless victories. Swords pulled from darkspawn corpses. Arrows once plucked from her mother’s flesh. Helmets taken from rivals bested in honorable combat.

At the far end, a pedestal held a shrine. Upon it rested her mother’s second-favorite helmet, her sword, and her shield. Her most treasured arms had gone with her into the Deep Roads, never to return.

The silence pressed heavy as Sereda stepped inside. Gorim followed, the door closing softly behind them. She felt him take her hand as they moved toward the shrine, the dim chamber echoing with the ghosts of her mother’s triumphs. For an instant, Sereda thought she saw movement in the shadows—a rat, perhaps—but she dismissed it. All that mattered was the shrine before her.

She knelt, bowing her head. Gorim lingered behind her, silent.

“Please, Gorim,” she murmured, glancing back at him. “Join me?”

Wordlessly, he stepped forward and knelt beside her. Together they pressed their foreheads to the cold stone floor, eyes closed, offering prayers to the Ancestors.

Sereda’s thoughts, however, were not on the Stone. They were on her mother.

Let this expedition be successful. Let Gorim and her bring honor to our houses. Let her prove she is worthy of being commander.

When she lifted her eyes again, they lingered on the helmet, as though her mother’s spirit still watched from within its steel.

Gorim’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. “We need to get going, Sereda,” he said gently.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulder as his hand fell away. Rising to her feet, she cast one final, lingering look at the shrine.

“Goodbye, mother,” she whispered.

Then she turned, following Gorim out. The door behind them and left it as it had been—as though they had never stepped inside.

They left the castle behind, descending through Orzammar’s bustling streets until the great gates of the Deep Roads loomed before them. Their escorts were waiting, and together they made their way down into the underground crossroads where the army had already gathered. As Sereda and Gorim approached, Lord Harrowmont’s voice carried above the noise.

“Trian and his men will clear the path for the Grey Wardens to enter the easternmost caverns; those caverns are infected by the worst of the darkspawn. We can’t risk our own troops there,” Harrowmont explained.

“Understood, Lord Harrowmont,” Duncan affirmed with a solemn nod. “Once the path is clear, we should be able to sense the darkspawn and avoid them.”

King Endrin crossed his arms over his chest, bowing his head. “May the Paragons favor you, and may the Stone accept you if you fall.”

“Come, men, glory awaits!” Trian shouted, rallying his company. As he passed Sereda and Gorim, his gaze lingered on his sister with hostility. He said nothing, but the glare was enough before he marched off with his soldiers and the Grey Wardens at his back.

Harrowmont turned next to Bhelen. “Bhelen, you and your men will second the king, clearing the main road.”

Bhelen frowned. “Don’t you think this looks a little... cowardly? To allow these humans to take our place where the fighting is thickest?”

“Are you questioning the battle plan?” Harrowmont questioned, irritation sharpening his tone.

“Of course not,” Bhelen replied smoothly, his sarcasm thinly veiled. “I’m sure your caution is for the glory of us all...”

“Enough, Bhelen!” King Endrin barked. “Take your men and make ready. Harrowmont and I need to have a word with your sister.”

Bhelen’s eyes flicked back to Sereda. “Good luck, my sister,” he muttered before stalking off to join his men.

When the others had gone, only Sereda, her father, Harrowmont, and Gorim remained at the mouth of the caverns.

“Walk with me,” King Endrin ordered.

Together they crossed to the far side of the highway, their footsteps echoing in the vast stone chamber. The discussion of tactics began almost at once, Harrowmont delivering most of the details.

“Your father has a special mission for you,” Harrowmont began, his words drawing Sereda’s full attention—and Gorim’s as well.

“In the eastern Deep Roads, there is a secret door carved into the stone. The door leads to a thaig abandoned long ago by our ancestors. The darkspawn have made it impossible to reach.”

Endrin continued, “your grandfather believed that the shield of the Paragon Aeducan remains in that thaig, under the stones of its central hall. Reclaim the shield, and glory will be yours.”

“The shield of Aeducan would be quite the find,” Sereda mused.

“We sent two scouts ahead to make sure the tunnels were clear, but be careful,” Harrowmont warned. Sereda couldn’t help but wonder if the scouts had already encountered more than they could handle. “One of the scouts will meet you at the first crossroads. The second will be deeper in. When you reach the door, press your signet ring against it to gain entry.”

“Meet the scouts, find the door, retrieve the shield. Understood,” Sereda confirmed.

“Very good,” Harrowmont said with a small, approving nod. “The crossroads where you meet the first scout will serve as the rendezvous point. There, you can present the shield to the lords and prove the strength of House Aeducan.”

King Endrin’s features softened. He placed a hand over his heart, bowing his head. “May the ancestors watch over you, my child.”

“I’ll make you proud, father,” Sereda promised.

Endrin smiled, pride shining in his eyes. “I know you will.” With that, he turned to follow Harrowmont, leaving Sereda and Gorim alone at the cavern’s edge.

Silence lingered for a beat, the weight of her task pressing down like the stone around them.

“Let’s get moving,” Gorim said, cutting through the quiet.

Sereda stared into the gaping mouth of the lost thaig. The veins of lyrium within the stone were faint and sparse, casting only the weakest glow. She glanced at Gorim, who gave her a nod of reassurance, before stepping forward into the shadows.

It seemed foolish to her that she and Gorim had been sent alone, without even a few soldiers for support. Her instincts proved correct when, barely ten feet inside, a cavern spider dropped from the ceiling in front of them. The creature was alone—likely searching for a place to nest. Nearby, Sereda spotted the lifeless body of a dwarf sprawled across the stone.

A chill ran down her spine. Could that be one of the scouts?

There was no time to dwell on the thought. Sereda drew her sword and charged. The spider reared back, spitting web and snapping its fangs at her. She twisted aside, the attack missing by inches, then struck in return. Her blade carved cleanly through its neck, severing its head with a single, decisive stroke.

“Impressive work, my lady,” Gorim remarked with a smirk.

Still catching her breath, Sereda slid her sword back into its sheath. “Thanks for the help,” she replied dryly.

They pressed on, dispatching a few stray genlocks along the way. Sereda and Gorim fought as one—shields bashing, blades cutting down the darkspawn with practiced ease—as they pushed deeper into the tunnel.

At last, they reached the first rendezvous point, where one of the scouts was supposed to be waiting. The chamber resembled the remains of a foyer—broken slabs of stone and a few crumbling columns scattered across the floor. From behind a shattered wall to the right, a dwarf in chainmail stepped out, sword in hand.

“You made it, commander!” the dwarf called, hurrying toward them. “Did you run afoul with any darksawn?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“For a moment, I thought the darkspawn had gotten you,” he admitted, relief in his voice.

“We didn’t expect any activity in these tunnels at all.” So that explained why she and Gorim had been sent alone. “Once I finished scouting the tunnels, I hid here to avoid the darksawn. Most tunnels are dead ends. The one we want is swarming with those fiends. It’s going to be a fight.”

“Frandlin Ivo,” she recognized, studying him more closely. “Weren’t you at the Proving yesterday?”

“I—yes, I was. Your gift of the helm was most generous. I’ll treasure it always.”

“You fought bravely,” she acknowledged.

“And yet you won,” Frandlin replied with a smile. “May today’s battle bring us even more glory. I’ll take rear-guard. Shall we move?”

“Let’s go find the scout,” Sereda ordered, silently hoping she wouldn’t be bringing back a corpse.

With Frandlin in tow, the group advanced, cutting down the darkspawn they encountered. Not long after leaving the rendezvous point, they found the second scout.

“You’re here!” he exclaimed, genuine surprise written across his face. “How did the three of you get through all those darkspawn?!”

Any other noble might have punished him for such a remark, but Sereda was not like most nobles. “I’m not that easy to kill.”

The scout snorted. “Then I’ll make sure I’m behind you if we’re sworm.”

He pointed to a tunnel leading left. “That’s where we need to go. But there are darkspawn tracks all over it. We’ll need to be careful.”

“We can handle it,” Sereda said with confidence.

The scout nodded firmly, thumping his fist to his chest. “I’ll follow your lead, commander.”

After hours of trudging through dim, twisting tunnels, the passage opened onto a looming stone door carved directly into the rock. Sereda’s relief faltered instantly—the door stood wide open. Darkspawn corpses littered the ground before it, their blood still glistening in the faint lyrium glow.

The scout crouched to inspect the remains.

 “Looks like someone beat us to the door,” Gorim remarked.

“The darkspawn bodies are still fresh,” the scout confirmed. “Whoever opened the door is likely still inside.”

Sereda’s eyes swept over the scene, then flicked to her companions. “They would have needed an Aeducan signet ring to unlock the door,” she said, more to Gorim than anyone.

Frandlin, however, responded. “The ring could have been stolen recently or perhaps even generations ago.”

“Or maybe it’s an ambitious cousin seeking his own glory,” the other scout suggested from behind. Sereda noticed the sharp glare Frandlin shot at him—an unspoken warning to hold his tongue. 

“Be ready to kill anything that moves,” Sereda ordered, drawing her blade.

“You heard her, men!” Gorim barked, raising his shield as they crossed the threshold.

Inside, the glow of lyrium revealed a group of dwarven mercenaries. At their center stood a stocky leader with hard eyes and a sneer curling his mouth. He spread his arms in mock welcome. “So glad you could finally join us. We feared you got eaten by darkspawn.”

Two lieutenants flanked him—one warrior, one rogue—while archers lined the back wall, bows and crossbows leveled at Sereda’s party.

“Turns out the shield isn’t quite as easy to retrieve as I was led to believe,” the leader continued. “But I’d wager you know where it is. So how about you tell me, and I won’t let my boys have a go at you before I kill you.”

Gorim started forward, but Sereda stopped him with a raised hand. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

The leader smirked, pacing lazily across the chamber. “I’m your better, that’s who. As for how I got in, well, you can ask the Stone after I butcher you.” He stopped, eyes locking onto hers. “Now, where’s the shield?”

“Tell me how you got in, and I’ll tell you where the shield is,” Sereda countered.

“Bit for bit, eh?” He chuckled. “Both of us banking on killing the other and losing nothing by the telling? Fine. One of Prince Trian’s men gave me this ring. It opened the door just fine. Now, once again—where’s the sodding shield?!”

The words hit Sereda like a blow. Bhelen had been right all along. Trian did want her dead. She had hoped, even prayed, her younger brother had misunderstood. But no—Trian’s treachery was real. He wanted her gone.

If she couldn’t kill him, she could at least kill his dogs.

She raised her sword, voice cold. “I’ll whisper it to your corpse.”

The mercenary leader snarled, daggers flashing into his hands. “Just kill them, boys! We’ll find the shield ourselves!”

Battle erupted instantly. Sereda lunged straight for the leader as arrows hissed through the air. Gorim locked shields with the enemy warrior, steel clashing, while Frandlin stepped protectively before the scout, who returned fire against the enemy archers.

The mercenary slashed wildly at Sereda, angling for a decapitation. She bent backward, the blade missing by inches, then surged forward. Her shield slammed into his chest, staggering him. Before he could recover, her sword punched deep into his gut. She gripped his shoulder, staring into his eyes as she tore the blade free, then shoved him to the ground with the rest of Trian’s discarded pawns.

“Some fight,” the scout muttered with disappointment.

Gorim moved toward Sereda, but stopped short as he saw her lean down, whispering into the corpse’s ear: “It’s under the floor of the main room.”

She rifled the body, pulling free a ring. Holding it in her palm, she recognized the crest. It was Trian’s signet ring. The mercenary had told the truth.

Gorim stared at it in disbelief. “Is that really Trian’s signet ring?”

“Yes...” Sereda confirmed, clenching the ring so tightly she wished it would shatter.

“Bhelen was right... let’s be cautious. Ancestors only know what else Trian has planned.”

Gorim nodded grimly. “Agreed. But we should still try to find the shield.”

Sereda straightened, her resolve hardening. “Let’s go, men!” she commanded, leading them deeper into the thaig.

The chamber that awaited was bathed only in faint lyrium veins. At its heart rested a sarcophagus, elevated beneath the looming statue of Paragon Aeducan himself. His stone likeness stood sentinel over the tomb, where his body had lain undisturbed for centuries. Sereda halted, overcome by the weight of the moment. Someone was finally here again to lay eyes on this place.

“This is it. But how do we get the shield?” Gorim asked, scanning the chamber.

“I’ll figure it out,” Sereda replied, stepping onto the platform tiles.

She approached the sarcophagus, testing the lid—it refused to budge. Crouching low, she found a small hole on its side. She glanced down at her signet ring, then pressed it into the slot. The fit was perfect. With a turn, the stone ground open, revealing the shield within. Sereda lifted it, its weight solid and ancient on her arm.

“That’s it! We’ve got the shield!” Gorim exclaimed, unable to hide his enthusiasm.

Sereda carried it back to the others.

“Doesn’t look like much,” the scout said, unimpressed.

“The skill of our crafters has come a long way since then,” Frandlin murmured, awe softening his voice as he traced its details.

“The strength of Aeducan is in this shield,” Sereda asserted.

“I can feel it! It’s inspirational!” Gorim added enthusiastically.

“If you say so,” the scout shrugged. “It’s still just a shield...”

“We should get going.” Sereda’s tone cut short any further remarks. Time was slipping away, and her thoughts burned with the need to confront Trian.

“To the crossroads,” the scout muttered as he fell into step behind her.

Outside the cavern, they were immediately set upon by a pack of genlocks and a blighted wolf. Sereda barreled into the wolf with shield raised while Gorim cut toward the furthest genlocks to draw them off. Frandlin darted to cover the scout, who already had an arrow loosed at their attackers.

The wolf fell beneath Sereda’s blade, and she spun to aid Gorim, who was locked with two genlocks. She drove her shield into the one on his left, knocking it off balance, then swept her sword clean through its neck. Its body crumpled as the head rolled, hitting the ground almost in tandem with the rest of it.

“Show off,” Gorim muttered, glaring at the headless corpse while still finishing off his own opponent.

The march back to the rendezvous point proved quiet—no darkspawn, no mercenaries, no threats at all. But as they approached the bend where they were meant to meet, Gorim abruptly halted.

He caught Sereda’s hand and leaned in.

“What is it, Gorim?” she asked, catching the tension in his grip.

“If Trian is scheming against us, this would be the perfect spot for an ambush. We have the shield, and we’re all alone out here,” he cautioned.

“Keep your eyes open then,” she instructed.

Gorim inclined his head, face set in grim resolve. “Understood, my lady.”

As they rounded the corner, Sereda’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight she thought she might be sick. Then her heart plummeted. Bodies littered the ground—her brother’s men... and Trian himself.

“Trian!” The cry tore from her throat before she even realized she’d spoken. She sprinted toward him blindly, heedless of danger. Gorim lunged to catch her, but she wrenched free of his grasp and dropped hard to her knees beside her brother’s body.

“Trian...” she whispered, her voice breaking as she lifted his head with trembling hands. His eyes were wide and glassy, rolled back unnaturally, and yet his skin was still warm beneath her touch. He hadn’t been gone long. No more than an hour.

Her breath came in ragged sobs, until the echo of footsteps around her pulled her back. And then—clear as if he stood at her side—she heard his voice in her mind: “Hurry, father! Before it’s too... late...”

The illusion shattered her. Sereda’s head snapped up, realization crashing over her like stone. No. No, it hadn’t been Trian. He hadn’t betrayed her. He hadn’t sent mercenaries to murder her. Trian was dead. Murdered.

By Bhelen.

Her chest burned with fury. Her vision blurred with tears. “You!” she screamed, half-choking on the word. She lurched forward, ready to tear her brother’s killer apart, but this time Gorim caught her and held her fast. She fought him, nails digging into his armor, but he didn’t let go.

Her father stepped into view. His face was stricken, eyes glassy, hands shaking. He shoved Bhelen aside as though he were nothing, stumbling forward until he stood beside Sereda and gazed down at Trian’s broken form. The great King Endrin—her father, her pillar—fell to his knees, and for the first time in her life, Sereda saw him weep.

“My daughter...” His voice cracked, splintered. “P-please tell me this isn’t what it looks like!”

“It’s not!” Sereda’s voice cracked like glass. Her tears fell freely now, hot against her cheeks. “Father, please! We just got here a moment ago—I swear it! Ancestors, I swear it!” Her eyes flicked to Bhelen, who leaned against a pillar with a smile that made her blood run cold. A smug, satisfied grin carved deep into his face.

“Just long enough to slay Trian,” he sneered, every word dripping poison.

“My lady is innocent!” Gorim roared, his voice sharper than Sereda had ever heard, his glare aimed at Bhelen like a blade.

“Ser Gorim, your loyalty makes you a worthless witness,” Lord Harrowmont declared. “It falls to others to tell the story.” His eyes shifted. “You! Scout—tell us what happened here.”

The scout’s voice shook, but his words cut like daggers. “Trian and his men were here early. It seems they fought darkspawn. Lady Aeducan came up to them all friendly, but when we got close, she and Gorim began butchering before we could stop them.” He avoided her gaze, as though her eyes might sear the lie out of him.

“That’s a lie!” Sereda’s voice rose in anguish, fury boiling through her grief.

Harrowmont’s gaze swept to Frandlin. “Then we will uncover the truth... Frandlin Ivo. You are a good and noble man. Does the scout speak the truth?”

Frandlin’s eyes darted between Harrowmont, the scout, and finally Bhelen. But not once—not once—did he look at her. His shoulders sagged with cowardice. “He... he does, my lord. It was... terrible! Prince Trian had no chance. Afterward, my lady took his signet ring.”

Sereda’s vision swam. The betrayal burned worse than any blade.

“You treacherous bastard!” Gorim’s snarl rattled the air, his hand twitching toward his sword.

“Silence, Gorim!” Endrin’s voice thundered, raw and commanding. The sound froze them both. His tears had dried, but the despair etched into his features made him look suddenly so old, so broken. He turned hollow eyes on Sereda. “Do you have anything to say in your defense, my daughter?”

“Father, I’m innocent!” she cried, voice cracking under the weight of desperation. “Please, you have to believe me!” Her throat ached, her chest heaved, but she would beg if she had to, crawl if it meant he would see the truth.

“I want to believe you...” His voice faltered, crushed by grief. “I really do...”

The words shattered her. Her breath hitched, and she nearly broke against Gorim.

Soldiers advanced, heavy steps ringing in her ears. Another seized Gorim, restraining him as he growled and struggled.

“Bind her,” Harrowmont ordered coldly. “She will face judgment from the Assembly.”

Sereda’s wrists were seized and bound. As they pulled her away, she threw one last, desperate look at Bhelen. He stood watching her with that same vile smirk, victory dripping from his every movement.

Her gaze snapped to Frandlin. For a fleeting instant, she saw regret flicker across his face, but it was too late. His betrayal was already spoken, already sealed.

Her chest heaved with sobs she refused to let loose as she turned her eyes forward. Her heart felt heavier than stone, and with every step, she prayed to the Ancestors to see her through this. To grant her the strength to survive.

The iron door clanged open, and Sereda was shoved inside with a vicious shove that sent her stumbling forward. She barely caught herself on the cold, stone floor before the bars slammed shut behind her. Her armor and finery were long gone, replaced with little more than coarse, filthy rags that clung awkwardly to her form, scratching against her skin.

The guard sneered through the bars, his eyes narrowing in cruel delight. “Get used to it, ‘princess’. You’ll find no throne down here.”

Sereda surged to the bars, fingers clutching them so tightly her knuckles turned white. She shook the gate with all the strength left in her, rattling the iron in desperation. Her knees hit the ground as she cried out, voice breaking with grief and fury.

“I didn’t do it! I didn’t!” she screamed, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked cheeks. “Please, you have to believe me!”

Her words echoed uselessly through the stone corridor. The guard only laughed, a cold, hollow sound, and turned his back on her. His boots thudded against the floor as he walked away, leaving her cries unanswered.

The silence that followed was deafening. Sereda’s strength drained from her arms, and she let go of the bars, collapsing into a trembling heap on the hard floor. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing until her body shook, until her tears soaked the ragged cloth clinging to her.

Alone in the dark, the weight of betrayal pressed down on her, crushing what little hope she still clung to.

Two days bled into one another, marked only by the arrival of meals slipped unceremoniously through the bars. Sereda sat in oppressive silence and darkness, left alone with the memory of Trian’s lifeless body—his sightless eyes still haunting her every time she closed her own. No summons from the Assembly came. If not for the food, she would have believed herself forgotten, abandoned to rot in the shadows.

She sat on the cold stone floor, tracing idle patterns in the dirt with her fingers. Her armor and weapons had been stripped away, leaving her in a faded pink dress, torn and tattered—mocking remnants of a life of nobility, a life she had once thought unshakable. The warrior princess of House Aeducan was gone, and in her place sat a prisoner, fragile and alone.

“You have five minutes. Orders are all. You understand?” The harsh voice of her guard shattered the stillness.

Sereda’s head snapped up just as a warmer, familiar tone followed.

“Of course. Leave us alone, will you?”

Her breath caught. She scrambled to her feet, brushing dirt from her dress, and rushed to the bars.

“My lady...” Gorim’s face came into view, his hand reaching to clutch one of the bars, his expression etched with worry and relief.

“Gorim,” she breathed, her voice breaking on the name. For the first time in two days, she felt the weight on her chest lift, if only slightly.

“I would have come sooner, but they wouldn’t allow it. How are you holding up?”

“Trian is dead. How do you think I am?” The bitterness spilled out before she could stop it. Her voice cracked, and she stammered an apology. “I-I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright,” Gorim soothed, slipping his hand through the bars to rest on hers.

“How are you, Gorim?” she asked, quieter now, though her eyes searched his face for comfort.

“I could be better,” he admitted, his brow furrowing. “But I have bad news. The Assembly isn’t going to call for you.”

“Why not?” The words left her lips with dread, her grip tightening around his hand.

“Bhelen has taken Trian’s place in the Assembly. He introduced a motion to condemn you immediately, and it passed easily.” Gorim sighed, his frustration plain. “He must have been making deals and alliances for months, if not years!”

“You have to respect Bhelen’s ability to play the game.”

“He’s more clever than either of us thought. Some of the lords, especially Lord Harrowmont, are suspicious of Bhelen’s instant rise to power. They are rallying, but slowly. The Assembly has already sentenced both of us.”

“What will happen to you?” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

“My knighthood will be stripped, my name torn from family records... but I will be allowed to attempt some sort of life on the surface.” His hand squeezed hers more firmly before he continued, his voice heavy. “Lord Harrowmont moved for a similar exile for you, but Bhelen’s supporters overruled him. You are to be sealed in the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn until you are overwhelmed and killed.”

The words struck like a hammer blow. Sereda’s chest tightened, but she forced herself to ask the question that clawed at her heart. “What does my father say about this?”

“Lord Harrowmont said your father fell ill. He couldn’t bear to lose two of his children at once.” Gorim’s voice softened. “Lord Harrowmont gave me access to see you so I could tell you this: Duncan and the Grey Wardens are still in the Deep Roads, in the tunnels that you are to be left in. If you survive long enough to find the Grey Wardens, you may be able to escape with Duncan.”

Her head lifted sharply. “Would the Grey Wardens take an exile, a ‘murderer’?”

“The Grey Wardens don’t care about a person’s past. They recruit for daring, intelligence, and material power,” Gorim said firmly. “If you can find them, I’m sure they’ll help you escape.”

“How do I find the Grey Wardens?”

“They’re down there somewhere. It’s just a matter of surviving long enough to locate them.”

“That’s helpful,” she muttered, though a fragile thread of hope flickered in her chest despite the despair.

“I begged to go with you and fight by your side, but Bhelen’s supporters wouldn’t hear of it.”

“I’m glad you’re not coming with me.”

He blinked at her, caught off guard. “My lady?”

“Live for me, Gorim. If I don’t find the Wardens, just... remember me,” she pleaded, her voice breaking under the weight of her fear.

“I swear it. I heard of a city called Denerim. Find me there. Our time is almost up.” He pressed her hand tightly in his, reluctant to let go. “May the Paragons guide your sword, and may the Stone hold you up and accept you if you fall.”

“The same to you, my friend.”

“I will always be your man, my Lady Aeducan.” His voice cracked slightly, but then he forced himself to release her hand. She reached after him, but he was gone, his footsteps fading into silence.

Sereda stood there long after, staring at the bars, her hand still tingling from his touch. Then, with her hope flickering between fragile strength and despair, she lowered herself back onto the cold stone floor—alone once more in the darkness.

An hour crawled by before the iron scrape of a key rattled her cell door. Sereda rose stiffly as her guard entered, his grip rough on her arm as he dragged her out into the hall. The hallway stretched before her, dimly lit with flickering torches, each step echoing hollowly against the stone. The air grew colder the further they walked, every sound magnified by the silence pressing down around them.

At the far end loomed the great stone doors—the threshold to the Deep Roads. The sight of them tightened her chest, but Gorim’s words burned in her memory: Find the Grey Wardens. She clung to those words like a lifeline.

“The prisoner has arrived,” the guard announced as they approached.

Lord Harrowmont turned toward her. Sereda almost didn’t recognize him—his broad shoulders seemed to sag beneath a weight invisible yet immense. His silence lingered, heavy and reluctant, as though words had turned to stone in his throat. This was the man who had stood at her side for as long as she could remember, who had helped guide her father in raising her. Now he looked at her as if this moment alone would shatter him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the cracks in his composure. “Having been found guilty of fratricide by the Assembly of Orzammar, you are hereby sentenced to exile and death. Your name is, from this point forward, stripped from the Records. You are no longer a person nor a memorPy.”

The words struck like knives. Stripped from the Records—stripped of her existence. As though every deed, every breath, could be so easily erased. No longer a person. Did they think memories could be silenced with law? That her father, her people, would forget? She swallowed hard, clinging bitterly to the thought that Bhelen, at least, would remember her—and perhaps, one day, regret.

“You are to be cast into the Deep Roads with only sword and shield, there to redeem your life by fighting the enemies of Orzammar until your death.”

“Bhelen will destroy you,” Sereda snapped before she could stop herself, her voice sharp and venomous. “As he did me.”

“I understand your anger. You should have been allowed to defend yourself. Had I the power to stop this, I would have.” His tone softened with sincerity, and to her own surprise, she believed him.

His voice lowered, almost breaking. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do this.”

She lifted her chin, locking her gaze with his. Her voice was unwavering. “I didn’t kill Trian.”

“I believe you,” he answered without hesitation.

Fury flickered in his expression then, not aimed at her but at the shadow her brother had cast over them all. “That means Bhelen planned this from the start! Believe me, I will spend the rest of my days making sure Bhelen does not profit from his death. Your father asked me to give you these. This sword and shield are of fine dwarven make.” He stepped forward, presenting her with the weapons. “Strike a blow at our enemies.”

The weight of steel filled her hands, grounding her. She gripped them tightly, as though they tethered her to who she once was. “Tell my father I’m innocent.”

“I will,” Harrowmont swore, voice heavy with conviction.

The great doors to the Deep Roads groaned open, their echoes reverberating like a funeral dirge. Darkness yawned beyond the threshold, swallowing the torchlight. Sereda drew a long, steadying breath, steeling herself against the fear clawing at her insides.

With one final look back, she stepped forward. The doors slammed shut behind her with a resounding bang, sealing her fate. Alone, Sereda tightened her grip on her sword and shield and forced her feet to move. Into the dark. Into exile. Into whatever awaited.

The caverns stretched endlessly around her, suffocating in their sameness. Grey stone, endless webs, the faint reek of rot—it all blurred together. Each step felt like dragging her body through molasses, her legs trembling beneath the weight of her own weight. More than once she pressed herself against the wall, forehead against the cold rock, just to stay upright long enough to move again.

Two days of fighting and stumbling forward, with only scattered breaths of rest. She no longer remembered what it felt like to be full, or clean, or even steady on her feet. The spiders had drained her in every sense—blood, strength, hope. Now her stomach was hollow, her throat raw, and every shadow felt like another set of fangs waiting to tear her apart.

The tunnels mocked her with their signs of danger—fresh tracks in the dust, webs spun thick across her path. No matter how many of these horrors her people cut down, the Deep Roads always spawned more. It was endless. 

When a spider launched itself at her, she barely registered the blur of legs and fangs before it was on her. Its weight nearly knocked her flat. She braced, groaning under the effort it took to raise her shield. One desperate slam crushed its fangs against steel, half its head splitting open as black ichor sprayed across her face. She staggered back, wiping her cheek with a shaking hand, her breath ragged.

Not too far ahead she saw the body of a dwarf, collapsed in the dust, no more than a husk. Scout? Another exile? It didn’t matter. Dead was dead. Her lip curled as she stripped him of his armor, nausea clawing at her throat as she pulled stiff gloves over her hands and laced boots still caked with dried blood. The steel chestpiece was solid, better than rags at least, though the weight pressed down on her already aching shoulders. Wearing another dwarf’s death on her skin should have been unbearable. Instead, she felt only shameful relief.

That relief died quickly when, once she began walking again, a trap snapped beneath her feet. The wire sang, and shadows moved. An archer, a rogue, and a shield-bearer genlocks swarmed like wolves, and she knew—if she’d been rested, they’d have been nothing. Now, she was clumsy, too slow, her body betraying her.

The first warrior came headlong; she cut him down almost by reflex, her blade cleaving through its neck. But the rogue was faster, sharper—its blade bit into her side, forcing a gasp through her clenched teeth. Armor saved her from the worst of it, but the impact left her vision flashing white. She staggered back, fumbling, her sword torn from her grip.

“Not like this,” she rasped, the words spilling out more prayer than protest.

The rogue pressed, its blades flashing. Rage flared, hot enough to burn through her weakness. She slammed her shield into its face again and again, screaming with each blow until her arms gave way and the thing twitched lifeless beneath her. Her shield split, cracks spreading across the wood. Panting, shaking, she yanked a dagger from the corpse’s belt and hurled it toward the archer. The last genlock collapsed with a hiss.

She bent to reclaim her sword, her other hand clutching her bleeding side. Pain screamed with every motion. Her knees threatened to buckle. “I can’t die like this,” she whispered, a plea to no one, maybe to herself, maybe to the Stone itself.

Time unraveled after that. She walked. Or stumbled. Or crawled. She wasn’t sure anymore. The paths grew familiar—she recognized the passageways Trian had once led her through. Trian. Her brother. His face rose in her mind, his sneer, his harsh words, the way she had envied his certainty even as it suffocated her. He was gone now. Dead. And the Assembly thought she had done it.

Her throat tightened, grief and fury strangling her in equal measure. If he had the chance, would he have struck her down? She wanted to say no. She wasn’t sure she could.

And then Bhelen. The thought of him was worse, sharper than any blade. Younger, cleverer than any gave him credit for, and now he sat in Trian’s place, weaving lies with the same calm smile he’d always worn. Brother, she thought bitterly. He carved her death with words alone. And still she can’t hate him as much as she should.

Her father. She saw him, pale and broken in his throne, too weak to save her, too stricken to fight. The knowledge twisted inside her—he would think her guilty until the Stone took him. That was her greatest wound.

And Gorim. Loyal, foolish Gorim, still believing in her when she barely could. He had told her to live. Told her to find him on the surface. She almost laughed, but it came out as a sob. 

The memories pushed her forward, stumbling into a half-run. Maybe it was panic. Maybe it was determination. The walls scraped her arms as she bounced against them, sharp stone cutting new wounds over old. Her side bled freely, warmth soaking into her stolen armor. She didn’t know if something chased her, only that she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t collapse here, not when the Grey Wardens might be close.

Not when she had to prove—if only to herself—that she was still alive.

After dragging herself through yet another winding corridor, Sereda’s legs finally gave out beneath her. She stumbled forward, hands scraping stone, vision swimming. Just as she thought she would collapse for the last time, light spilled ahead—warm, steady torchlight, brighter than anything she’d seen since her exile began.

She blinked, hardly trusting her eyes. Figures moved in the glow. It wasn't darkspawn. It was a campfire. Voices. People.

Grey Wardens.

Her chest heaved, her body trembling as she staggered into the open. The sudden change in light made her eyes water, and she swayed violently on her feet.

“Holy Maker! It’s a dwarf!” one of the men exclaimed, half-rising from the ground.

“My Lady Aeducan!” Duncan gasped, immediately on his feet, crossing the space in seconds. His hand caught her arm as she collapsed sideways, dragging her back upright. His expression shifted from shock to deep concern as he steadied her, holding most of her weight against his side. “Where are your troops?”

“I am no longer Lady Aeducan,” she wheezed. The words slipped out with a laugh, ragged and broken, quickly cut short by a sharp wince as her wounds flared with pain.

“Ah,” Duncan murmured, understanding softening his face. He braced her with both arms, keeping her upright as her knees threatened to buckle. “You have been forced to walk the Deep Roads, then.”

“You mean you were exiled?” another Warden asked from the fire. “What happened?”

“I don’t think matters of dwarven honor concern you,” Duncan interjected gently, pulling her closer to the warmth of the fire. “You needn’t answer, friend.”

“N-no, it’s alright...” Sereda’s head lolled against Duncan’s abdomen, her voice thin and weak. “I was betrayed by my brother.”

“Lord Trian?” Duncan guessed. She understood why; anyone would assume it was him.

“No. Bhelen. Trian is dead.”

Duncan’s grip on her tightened, steady and grounding. His gaze softened with pity, and when he spoke his voice was low. “I see... the brutal intrigue of the dwarven court, then.” He paused, his jaw tight as if weighing his next words. “Your father intimated as such. Still, there is no reason for you to walk the Deep Roads and die for something you did not do. You have already proved yourself both resourceful and skilled, and I would expect nothing less from an Aeducan.”

Her body sagged heavily against him, every ounce of strength finally abandoning her now that she was safe.

“I have been searching for those with the level of such ability,” Duncan continued, his voice steady above the sound of her uneven breaths. “Your exploits in the Deep Roads set you apart. As leader of the Grey Wardens, I would like to formally welcome you to join our order.”

He hesitated, his eyes flicking over her battered form, her bleeding side. “Regardless of what you say, you are welcome to stay at camp tonight to rest. Tomorrow, we leave.”

“If it means escaping the Deep Roads,” she whispered, relief flooding her as her head drooped against his chest, “I’m yours.”

“Then welcome,” Duncan replied, his voice warm. “To the Grey Wardens.”

Chapter Text

The heavy stone doors groaned open, dust falling in rivulets as ancient hinges gave way. For the first time in her life, Sereda felt the air shift—not the stale, dry breath of the Deep Roads, but something fresher, cleaner, carrying scents she could not name.

Light spilled in through the widening crack, a strange golden warmth that stung her eyes. She squinted hard, instinctively raising a hand as the Wardens stepped forward, their silhouettes framed by brilliance.

And then—she saw it.

The sun.

It hung above the horizon, blazing and alive, so much larger and brighter than she had ever imagined. Beyond it stretched a sky painted in hues of fire and rose, and below, rolling stretches of grass, trees, and fields. Living things she had only ever heard about in hushed, half-believing stories.

Her boots froze to the stone. Her heart hammered.

This was it. The threshold.

Once she stepped beyond, she could never return. She would no longer be Sereda of Orzammar, daughter of Endrin, bound to stone. She would be a surface dwarf. Her people whispered that the ground up here couldn’t hold you, that dwarves floated away, lost to the sky’s emptiness.

Her breath came quick and shallow. Her palms dampened against the stone of the doorway.

“Sereda,” Duncan’s tone was gentle. He stood just outside, haloed by sunlight, watching her patiently. “It’s only another road.”

She shook her head, voice cracking. “If I step out, I can’t go back. I can never...” The words died in her throat.

Duncan reached out a hand. “The stone will always be a part of you. Nothing can take that away. But the surface can give you a new life worth livint.”

Her gaze darted again to the grass, the impossible vastness of the sky. Fear gnawed at her, but beneath it, something else stirred—wonder, fragile but insistent.

Slowly, hesitantly, she placed her hand in his. His grip anchored her and with a shaky step, she crossed the threshold.

The sun kissed her face, and for the first time, Sereda breathed the world above.

“Ostagar lies at the edge of the Korcari Wilds,” Duncan explained as they approached the fortress. “The Tevinter Imperium built it long ago to hold back the Wilders from the northern lowlands. It is fitting we make our stand here—even if the foe is different this time.” His tone carried a weight that matched the grim movements of soldiers around them. Among the endless sea of the kings army. The Grey Wardens were few in number. 

As Duncan spoke, a figure strode toward them, clad in shiny gold-plated armor that gleamed in the morning light. Flanked by two guards, he carried himself with a boyish ease that seemed almost out of place in such a camp. His face broke into a broad smile.

“Ho there, Duncan!” he called.

Duncan clasped his hand firmly. “King Cailan, I did not expect a—”

“A royal welcome?” Cailan finished with a laugh. “I was beginning to worry you’d miss all the fun!”

“Not if I could help it, your majesty.”

“Then I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side after all! Glorious!” Cailan’s gaze shifted past him, landing on Sereda. His eyes lit with curiosity. “The other Grey Wardens told me you found a promising recruit. I take it this is she?”

Duncan stepped aside. “Allow me to present, your majesty—Sereda.”

Cailan’s smile warmed. “No need to be so formal, Duncan. We’ll be shedding blood together soon enough. The Grey Wardens need every strong arm they can find, and I, for one, am glad to see one of the honourd stout folk among their number.”

Sereda dipped her head politely. “You must not have met many of the Noble caste.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that. You’ll have to tell me sometime.” His expression shifted slightly, thoughtful. “Wait... I reconize you. I visited Orzammar with my father years ago. There was a Grand Proving. Could it be...?”

“We sat together during the matches.” Sereda said with a faint smile. “I am Sereda Aeducan.” Sixteen years ago, she thought. She had been only nine—she, her brothers, and Cailan had barely paid attention to the fighters, choosing instead to play, pretending they were part of the contests themselves.

“I knew it!” Cailan exclaimed, delighted. “I always wanted to return, but my father grew busy. Tell me—how does King Endrin fare these days?”

Her smile faltered. She hesitated. “He was... well, when I last saw him.”

Cailan held her gaze a moment, then nodded, letting the subject drop. “We’ll have time to share tales later, I hope. For now, let me welcome you to Ostagar. I’ve no doubt the Grey Wardens will be stronger with you amongst their ranks.”

“I’ll do my best to live up to that,” Sereda replied with a smirk.

“I’m sure you will.” He inclined his head with a warm grin. “Now, I must return before Loghain sends a search party for me. Farewell, Grey Wardens.” With a flourish, he departed, his guards following close behind.

As soon as the king was out of earshot, Sereda exhaled sharply. “He doesn’t seem to take the darkspawn very seriously.”

“You’re not wrong,” Duncan admitted, motioning for her to follow. “But what the king says is true. We have won several battles against the darkspawn.”

“Yet you don’t sound reassured,” she observed.

Duncan’s sigh was heavy. “Because those victories are fleeting. The darkspawn multiply with each passing day, and I fear it’s only a matter of time before they overwhelm us. I am certain an Archdemon leads this Blight—but I cannot expect the king to act on my suspicions alone.”

Sereda frowned. “And how can you be so sure?”

Something unreadable flickered in Duncan’s eyes. “That is knowledge reserved for the Grey Wardens. Once you’ve undergone the Joining, you will understand.”

“The Joining?” she echoed, brow raised.

“It is a rite of passage,” he said solemnly. “Every recruit must face it to become a Grey Warden. It is... dangerous. But I cannot say more until the time comes.”

“And when will that be?” she pressed.

“There is another Grey Warden here in camp by the name of Alistair.” He changed the topic, “when you are ready, find him, then meet me by the pyre. Until then, explore as you wish, but I ask that you remain in camp.”

With a polite bow, Duncan excused himself, descending the stone stairs into the bustle of Ostagar.

Sereda lingered at the top, her eyes drawn to the sight below. The camp spread out across the ancient ruins, soldiers hurrying among tents, smiths hammering steel, and banners snapping in the wind. Beyond, the Wilds stretched out, an endless sea of green beneath the sun.

Sereda wandered deeper into the human encampment, surprised by just how sprawling it was. Rows of tents stretched farther than she could count, with fires burning steadily between them. The air was thick with noise soldiers sharpening blades as they swapped stories, elven servants rushing past with crates of supplies, officers barking out orders.

Despite the openness of the surface, she felt a tightness in her chest, an unease she hadn’t expected. A part of her almost longed for the familiar, oppressive weight of stone overhead. At least there, she had belonged. Here, she realized, she hadn’t seen another dwarf since leaving Orzammar. The thought made her feel more alone than she cared to admit.

Her steps slowed when she caught sight of a circle of robed figures, their hands weaving strange patterns in the air. Magic crackled around them, she realized. Sereda drew closer, but her path was blocked by two templars, their armored stances rigid as they muttered about the mages being “in the Fade.” She asked what that meant, and a kind looking woman stepped forward.

The mage introduced herself as Wynne. She explained how the Fade was a realm of dreams and spirits, and how mages drew power from it. Wynne spoke, too, of an old tale of the Tevinter magisters who had corrupted the Golden City and brought the darkspawn upon the world. Sereda found the story baffling, but Wynne’s calm manner made it easier to grasp. Still, her unease deepened when she noticed another group nearby: men and women with eerily placid faces, and the sun imprinted on their foreheads. Wynne’s voice dropped as she explained they were Tranquil—mages stripped of their gift, and with it, their emotions. Sereda shivered, staring at them as though they were husks rather than people. She couldn’t fathom how anyone could justify such a fate.

She moved on, trying to shake the image, and found herself with a group of Chasind. Explaning to her their traditions, claiming their ancestors had once learned berserker rage from dwarves. A short while later, an elven servant shyly offered her gossip about the generals.

But what truly caught her attention were the Mabari war hounds. She paused, captivated, as the great beasts padded between soldiers, their sheer size and disciplined presence unlike anything she had seen underground. One, however, lay sickly in the kennels. Concerned, Sereda crouched beside it as the kennel master explained that the hound had been poisoned. A flower from the Wilds might be its only salvation. She offered to bring it back if she came across it. 

Eventually, she crossed paths with Daveth, wiry and quick-tongued, he wasted no time regaling her with how Duncan had saved him from hanging after a failed pickpocketing in Denerim. “Conscription’s not so bad compared to a noose,” he said with a grin. She also met Ser Jory, a knight who carried himself with dignity, though the worry in his eyes betrayed him. He spoke softly of his wife in Redcliffe, heavy with child, and how much it pained him to leave her. Sereda found herself empathizing with them both—despite their differences, they shared the same uncertainty gnawing as her own stomach. What exactly was the Joining?

Climbing to the upper terrace, she came upon a scene that stopped her in her tracks. Two men were in the midst of a heated exchange. One, a mage in flowing robes, gestured with his hands in frustration, while the other—a younger man in armor—stood with arms crossed, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation. There was something almost boyish about the armored one, his grin tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the argument. This must be Alistair.

“What is it now?” the mage snapped. His tone was sharp with irritation, his face already flushed from anger. “Haven’t the Grey Wardens asked enough of the Circle?”

“I’m just here to deliver a message from the Revered Mother, ser mage,” Alistair replied, his grin infuriatingly casual. “She desires your presence.”

The mage’s eyes narrowed, his voice rising. “What her Reverence desires is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens, by the king’s order, I might add!”

Alistair tilted his head, grin widening as if he were deliberately poking the bear. “Should I have asked her to write a note?”

The mage’s face turned red as he drew himself up. “Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

“Yes, I was harassing you—by delivering a message,” Alistair countered, tone so light it was almost mocking.

The mage scoffed, thrusting his chin into the air. “Your glibness does you no credit.”

“Here I thought we were getting along so well!” Alistair threw his hands up in mock despair. “I was even going to name one of my children after you... the grumpy one.”

The mage’s composure shattered. “Enough!” he barked, his voice echoing through the camp. “I will speak to the woman if I must. Get out of my way, fool!” With a dramatic whirl of his robes, he stormed off, muttering curses under his breath.

Alistair watched him go, arms crossed and grin firmly in place. “You know,” he said, turning to Sereda as if nothing had happened, “one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

Sereda arched a brow but couldn’t hide her smirk. “Nothing like impending doom to make fast friends.”

“It’s like a party! We could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She chuckled, shaking her head.

Alistair’s laugh was warm, but when he glanced at her again, his expression grew a touch more appraising. “I don’t think we’ve met. You wouldn’t happen to be another mage, would you?”

“How could a dwarf be a mage?”

“You never know,” he teased, offering his hand. “Mages sneak up on you like that. I’m Alistair—the junior Grey Warden, though you probably already knew that. I’ll be accompanying you as you prepare for the Joining.”

“Sereda,” she said, gripping his hand firmly.

“Right! I thought Duncan mentioned you. There haven’t been any dwarven Grey Wardens in some time.” His eyes flicked over her curiosity. “You must know a lot about darkspawn.”

“I’ve fought my fair share,” she admitted, her voice tight with the weight of memory. “They’re all over the Deep Roads.”

“I never saw one before this began.” His smile softened, and his tone grew quiet. “Hard to believe most folks here think the darkspawn disappeared after the last Blight, while your people still suffer every day.”

Sereda blinked, surprised by the sudden sympathy. She nodded once, appreciating the understanding. “So,” she asked after a pause, “what was that argument about?”

Alistair scratched the back of his neck, his grin returning as if to brush off the moment of seriousness. “Oh, the Revered Mother wanted to speak with that mage. Awkward, considering I used to be a Templar.”

Sereda stopped in her tracks. “Templars are mage hunters!”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he replied with a wry smile, holding up his hands. “But that’s not all we do, you know. I didn’t finish my training—Duncan recruited me before I could take my vows. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about becoming lyrium-dependent, and Duncan thought I could be more useful here. The Grand Cleric wasn’t happy about it, but I’ve been grateful to Duncan ever since.”

“That explains the mage’s warm reception,” she teased with a smirk.

Alistair laughed, brushing it off. “Yeah, I have that effect on people. Anyway, whenever you’re ready, let’s head to Duncan. I imagine he’s eager to get things started. If you have any questions, ask. But other than that—lead on.”

They walked together, Sereda peppering him with questions about Templars and his time with the Wardens. Alistair answered readily, though whenever the subject turned too close to himself, he slipped back into humor. It was clear how much he admired Duncan, but the way he sidestepped any mention of the Joining gave her pause.

Before long, the two reached Duncan. He stood at the center of camp by a pyre with Daveth and Jory already gathered beside him. His eyes flicked from Sereda to Alistair, and he raised a brow. “You found Alistair, did you? I’ll assume you are ready to begin preparations.” He shot the man a look. “Assuming, of course, that you’re quite finished riling the mages, Alistair?”

“What can I say?” Alistair spread his hands innocently. “The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.”

“She forced you to sass the mage, did she?” Duncan’s dry tone cut through the joke. “We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don’t need to give anyone more ammunition against us.”

“You’re right, Duncan.” Alistair shifted uncomfortably, gaze dropping. “I apologize.”

Satisfied, Duncan turned his attention to the recruits. “Now then. Since you are all here, we can begin. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.”

“And what of the second task?” Sereda asked, stepping forward.

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

“What kind of scrolls are these?” Sereda asked, curious.

“Old treaties, if you’re curious,” Duncan replied. “Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. Once, they were considered mere formalities. Now, with so many having forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be wise to remind them.”

“How will we find them?”

“They will be in an overgrown ruin, inside a sealed chest that should still be intact. Alistair will guide you to the area you need to search.”

Sereda nodded. “Find the archives and three vials of blood. Understood.”

Duncan’s gaze lingered on Alistair. “Watch over your charges. Return quickly and safely.”

“We will,” Alistair promised.

“Then may the Maker watch over your path,” Duncan wished them luck. “I will see you when you return.”

An half-hour into their trek through the damp wilderness, the group stumbled upon a wounded soldier crawling weakly through the underbrush. His armor was torn, his body marred with deep gashes along his torso and legs. The wounds weren’t immediately fatal, but the man’s trembling, bloody limbs told a grim story.

Alistair knelt beside him without hesitation, he and Sereda bound his injuries as best they could. The soldier’s voice was little more than a rasp when he finally spoke, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he stared up at the canopy above.

“They came out of nowhere,” he croaked. “Darkspawn. My squad didn’t stand a chance. They’re just ahead... swarming.”

The words tightened the air between them. They would find the blood they needed for the ritual. But it would be dangerous. They helped the man to his feet, and he ran in direction of camp.

Jory’s unease only deepened as they moved on. His gauntleted hand never strayed far from the hilt of his greatsword, his gaze darting nervously at every sound, even the mere whisper of wind through the leaves.

“An entire patrol of seasoned soldiers, killed by darkspawn,” he muttered, his grip tightening until his knuckles whitened. “We’ll be next.”

“Keep calm, Ser Jory,” Alistair said, his tone steady. “We’ll be fine if we stay vigilant.”

Jory shook his head, eyes scanning the trees. “Those soldiers were careful too, and it didn’t save them. How many can we possibly face? A dozen? Two dozen? There’s an entire army out here.”

Sereda bit back her frustration. His fear was grating, but she could hardly fault him—few who saw darkspawn for the first time emerged unshaken. “This is part of our test, Jory. We’ve got to see it through.”

“I’m not running,” he said quickly, defensively, his fingers clenching tighter around the hilt of his blade. “I just don’t want to die.”

Alistair, trying to ease the tension, added lightly, “a little fear is healthy. Keeps us on our toes. And trust me, you’re not alone—I wasn’t exactly lining up to fight darkspawn myself.”

“They don’t get any prettier the more you fight them,” Sereda quipped, flashing a wry grin.

Alistair chuckled, the sound easing the edge of the moment.

Jory’s lips twitched into something between a grimace and a smile. “That is... comforting?”

Alistair straightened, scanning the tree line. “Know this, all Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here. Let’s keep going. The quicker we get those treaties, the quicker we can go.”

The group pressed forward. The forest grew thicker as they walked, the towering trees swallowing what little light filtered through the canopy. The air was heavy, the undergrowth dense.

The attack came without warning. Darkspawn burst from the shadows in a rush of guttural snarls.

“Form up!” Alistair ordered.

Sereda met the charge head-on, her blade flashing as she split the first hurlock across the chest. Alistair braced himself beside Jory, directing him with commands as they forced back the brunt of the assault. Daveth flitted around the edges, his arrows whistling past into the creatures that slipped through.

Sereda moved with the ferocity of one born to fight, her strikes precise and unrelenting. She had grown up battling to prove herself—here, that experience served her well. As her sword cut through another foe, her eye caught on a cluster of petals in the brush. The flower—the one the kennel master had described.

In a brief lull, she stooped to pluck it, tucking it safely away before turning back just in time to drive her blade through a snarling darkspawn that lunged at her.

Their path wound deeper into the Korcari Wilds, where the air grew damp and heavy with the scent of moss and stagnant water. Vines hung low from twisted trees, and the buzzing of unseen insects accompanied their every step. Before long, the trail carried them to the edge of a broad, murky lake. Its waters lapped quietly against the shore, bordered by the broken bones of ancient ruins—crumbled stone arches and toppled pillars, half-swallowed by creeping roots.

Crossing a narrow wooden bridge, Alistair suddenly stiffened. His hand shot up in warning. “Darkspawn!”

Sereda ran ahead, shield raised, she charged across the boards, her boots thudding against the weathered planks toward the emissary. Better to cut it down first before it had the chance to summon its magic.

The darkspawn raised its staff, but Sereda was faster. She slammed into it with her shield, throwing its spell wide, then drove her blade straight through its stomach. The emissary let out a gurgling hiss as it collapsed, staff clattering to the ground.

Behind her, the rest of the group came under sudden attack. A pack of genlocks burst from the shadows of the ruins, daggers gleaming. Alistair and Jory were forced into a defensive stand on the bridge, blades flashing as they held the narrow span against the charge. Daveth loosed arrows from the rear, his shots clean and precise, dropping one darkspawn after another.

Sereda wrenched her sword free from the emissary’s body and sprinted back across the bridge. She joined the fray, her weapon cleaving through a hurlock as Alistair’s shield knocked another into the lake below. With a final cry, Jory brought his greatsword down on the last darkspawn, splitting it in two.

Silence followed, broken only by the quiet ripple of the water below.

Alistair lowered his weapon and scanned the area. “I think we’re in the clear—for now.”

Daveth wrinkled his nose, one hand pressed against his stomach. “I think I’m glad I skipped lunch. These things stink.”

“You seemed to handle it well enough,” Jory muttered, though his voice lacked the panic it carried earlier.

Kneeling beside one of the corpses, Sereda uncorked an empty vial and carefully filled it with the darkspawn’s blood. “This should be enough for the Joining. How much farther to the tower?”

“A few leagues west,” Alistair replied, crouching to cap another vial.

With their first task complete, they walked until they reached the edge of the ruins. Jory dug into his pack and produced a small bundle of health poultices, pressing one into each of their hands. “We should use these before we go any further,” he advised, his tone heavy with fatigue.

They drank in silence, the taste bitter before handing the empty bottles to back to Jory and pressing on.

The ruin loomed like a skeleton of stone, its walls half-collapsed and crawling with moss. Sereda crouched by the remains of a splintered chest, sifting through damp wood and rusted hinges. Empty.

“Well, well,” a woman’s voice rang out, dripping with condescension. “What have we here?”

The recruits spun toward the sound. Atop a crumbling ramp stood a woman clad in patched furs and leathers, her stance poised, her gaze cold and appraising.

She descended with effortless grace. “Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey.” She halted at the bottom, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as she studied them each in turn. “What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

“We are neither,” Sereda answered firmly, rising to meet her gaze. “The Grey Wardens once owned this tower.”

“‘Tis a tower no longer,” the woman gestured around. “The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse.”

She stepped closer, glancing between the four. “I have watched your progress for some time,” she continued. “Where do they go, I wonder? Why are they here? And now, you disturb ashes untouched for so long. Why is that?” 

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair muttered under his breath. His hand twitched toward his sword. “She looks Chasind. That means others might be nearby—”

“Oh!” the woman cut him off with mock surprise. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

Alistair glared. “Yes. Swooping. Is. Bad.”

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is!” Daveth blurted, stumbling back half a step. His voice wavered with panic. “She’ll turn us into toads!”

“The Witch of the Wilds?” The woman’s lips curled into an amused smirk. “Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?” Her gaze shifted to Sereda, lingering. “You there, dwarf. You’ve nothing to fear from any witch. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized.”

Sereda weighed her options, then inclined her head. “I am Sereda,” she added cautiously, “a pleasure.”

The woman’s brow arched, surprise flickering briefly across her face before giving way to something like approval. “Now... that is a proper, civil greeting. Even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan.”

Her eyes flicked toward the shattered chest. “Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest? Something that is here no longer?”

“Here no longer?” Alistair echoed uneasily. His tone hardened. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of... sneaky... witch thief!”

“How very eloquent.” Morrigan rolled her eyes. “How does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily, it seems,” Alistair shot back. “Those documents are Grey Warden property. I suggest you return them.”

“I will not,” Morrigan crossed her arms. “For ‘twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here if you wish. I am not threatened.”

“Then who took them?” Sereda pressed.

“‘Twas my mother.”

“Your... mother?”

“Yes, my mother,” Morrigan repeated, her tone thick with mockery. “What? Did you think I spawned from a log?”

“A thieving, weird-talking log, maybe,” Alistair muttered through clenched teeth.

Sereda cut in before the argument spiraled further. “Can you take us to her? Please?”

Morrigan’s lips curved into a faint smile. “That is a sensible request. I like you.”

Alistair grumbled, barely audible. “Careful with that. First, it’s ‘I like you,’ then zap! Frog time.”

“She’ll put us in the pot, she will!” Daveth warned, wild-eyed. “Just you watch.”

“If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’d be a nice change,” Jory muttered.

Alistair leaned toward Sereda, his voice low and urgent. “We should get those treaties. But I don’t trust this. Her timing is too convenient.”

“I don’t like it either,” Sereda admitted softly, though her eyes never left Morrigan. “But she’s our best bet right now.”

Morrigan chuckled, the sound smooth and unsettling, as she moved past them. “Follow me, then. If it pleases you.”

Uncertain glances passed among the group before they trailed after her into the dense forest. The Wilds swallowed them quickly, silence pressing down save for the distant cries of unseen creatures and the crunch of damp leaves beneath their boots. Alistair kept his hand hovering near his sword. Jory and Daveth followed stiffly, their unease plain on their faces.

After some time, Sereda broke the silence. “So... your mother lives out here?”

“Yes,” Morrigan answered without turning back. “Mother and I have lived here for years, undisturbed. Until now.”

“What does your mother... do?” Sereda asked cautiously.

Morrigan paused, as though weighing how much truth to give. “Mother is wise. She knows much of the world—though the world has long forgotten her. You will see soon enough.”

Alistair edged closer to Sereda, lowering his voice. “I don’t like this. Something about her doesn’t sit right with me.”

“You think?” Sereda replied dryly. “But if her mother has the treaties, we don’t have a choice.”

As they pressed onward, the Wilds grew harsher with every step. Ancient trees loomed overhead, their branches clawing at the sky, while roots writhed across the ground like serpents, threatening to trip the unwary. The air was thick with damp earth and rot, and the silence carried a weight that set nerves on edge.

At last, they stumbled into a clearing. In its center stood a crooked hut, twisted and strange, as though it had sprouted from the ground rather than been built by hands. A pungent blend of herbs and smoke hung heavy in the air.

Morrigan stopped before the warped doorway and turned to the others. “Wait here,” she said curtly, then disappeared inside.

Moments later, she returned—and with her came a hunched old woman in a tattered dress, stepping out from the shadows as if she had always been there. Her sharp eyes glittered with mischief, her lips curling in amusement.

“So,” the woman began, “these are the intruders who have wandered into my Wilds. Just as I expected.”

Alistair folded his arms, unimpressed. “Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?”

The woman’s smile widened slyly. “You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one’s arms tight or open one’s arms wide, either way, one’s a fool!”

Daveth shifted uneasily, muttering under his breath, “She’s a witch. I tell you! We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

Jory elbowed him. “Quiet, Daveth! If she is a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

The old woman’s laughter bubbled up, soft and mocking. “There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant in the grander scheme, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will.” Her gaze slid past the others, fixing on Sereda with curiosity. “And what of you? Does your dwarven mind give you a different viewpoint? What do you believe?”

Sereda hesitated, then answered carefully. “I... don’t know what to believe.”

“Ah,” she murmured, her smile deepening. “A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies.” She chuckled faintly, then mused, “Be always aware... or is it oblivious? I can never remember. So much about you is uncertain, and yet I believe. Do I? Why, it seems I do!”

Alistair raised a skeptical brow. “So, this is the dreaded Witch of the Wilds?” He smirked.

“Witch of the Wilds?” The old woman’s laughter rang out. “Oh, Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she’d never admit it. Oh, how she dances under the moon!”

Morrigan groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “They didn’t come for your wild tales, mother.”

“And yet,” Sereda interjected diplomatically, “we’re grateful to have found you. Morrigan said you have the Grey Warden treaties..”

“True, you came for them, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago.” The old woman shuffled back inside, returning with a bundle wrapped in worn cloth. She pressed it into Sereda’s hands. “I have protected them.”

“Thank you,” Sereda said, accepting the package with care.

“Such manners! Always in the last place you look. Like stockings!” The woman’s laugh bubbled up again. “Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for.”

“You...” Alistair eyed the bundle warily. “You protected them?”

“And why not?” she said sharply. “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize.”

Sereda frowned. “What do you mean?”

Her reply came in riddles. “Perhaps the threat is greater, or they see far less than they claim. Or perhaps the Blight is nothing at all!” She threw her head back and laughed, the sound wild and unhinged, then dropped into a soft chuckle. “Oh, but what do I know? You have what you came for.”

“Time for you to go then,” Morrigan interjected, eager to end the encounter.

“Do not be so rude, girl!” the old woman scolded. “These are your guests.”

Morrigan sighed, exasperated. “Fine. Follow me.” She turned at once, striding toward the forest without another glance.

The group fell in behind her, though the woman’s laughter echoed faintly after them, clinging to the air like smoke, refusing to fade.

Alistair cast a wary glance at Morrigan. “I still don’t trust any of this.”

“Neither do I,” Sereda admitted, clutching the treaties tight to her chest. “But we’ve got what we came for. Let’s get back to Duncan.”

Morrigan led the way. With every step away from the hut, the oppressive tension in the air seemed to ease, though the cryptic words of the witch hung heavy in Sereda’s thoughts. There had been an unsettling gravity to the old woman’s riddles, and Sereda couldn’t help but wonder how much truth was hidden within them.

Alistair walked beside her, shaking his head. “So, that was the legendary Witch of the Wilds, huh? Honestly, I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that she’s real, or that she’s... weirdly funny.”

Sereda raised an eyebrow at him, though the corner of her lips twitched in amusement. “Funny?”

“In a creepy, unsettling kind of way,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely. “I mean, who expects a witch to crack jokes? Even if they do send shivers down your spine.”

Jory glanced nervously over his shoulder as if expecting the forest to come alive. “Her laugh is going to haunt me for weeks,” he muttered.

Daveth trudged along in silence, his wary eyes scanning the surrounding trees. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the shadows and reappear far, far away from the Wilds.

The path gradually became less oppressive, the trees thinning as they neared the swamp’s edge.

Breaking the silence, Sereda addressed Morrigan. “Your mother knew we were coming. How?”

Morrigan glanced back at her. “My mother knows many things. The Wilds speak to her, as do the winds and the creatures within them. There is little that happens here without her knowledge.”

“That’s... unsettling,” Sereda admitted. Unease lingered beneath her words.

Morrigan smirked faintly. “And yet it is the truth.”

After what felt like hours, they emerged from the dense woods onto a familiar path leading back to the Grey Warden encampment. Morrigan stopped at the tree line, her arms crossed as she regarded them.

“This is where we part ways,” she said simply. “Return to your Wardens and prepare for what comes. If the Blight is truly as mother warns, you will need every ounce of strength you possess.”

Sereda nodded, meeting Morrigan’s gaze. “Thank you... for your help.”

Morrigan tilted her head slightly, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Perhaps we will meet again. Fate has a sense of humor.”

Before Sereda could respond, Morrigan turned and melted into the shadows of the forest, her form vanishing as if the Wilds themselves had reclaimed her.

“Well, that was... an experience,” Alistair muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s get back to Duncan. I’ve had enough of witches and woods for one day.”

With the treaties secured and the encampment ahead, the group pressed on. But as they walked, the Witch of the Wilds’ words echoed in Sereda’s mind. They had what they needed, yet an unshakable sense of foreboding remained, as though they had only scratched the surface of something far greater—and far more dangerous—than they could yet comprehend.

They returned to Ostagar by nightfall, the camp cloaked in firelight and the heavy weight of anticipation. The battle drew ever nearer, its shadow pressing down on every soldier who moved about the encampment.

After delivering the flower to the kennel master, Sereda led the others to Duncan, who stood by the pyre.

“So you return,” Duncan greeted. “Have you been successful?”

“We have.” Sereda handed him both the vials of blood and the Grey Warden archives.

Duncan inspected them carefully, nodding once in approval. “Good. I have had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you’ve retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.”

Sereda hesitated, then spoke. “Maybe we should tell you about Morrigan and her mother.”

Alistair stepped in to explain. “There was a woman at the tower, and her mother had the scrolls. They were both very... odd.”

“Were they Wilder folk?” Duncan asked.

Alistair shook his head. “I don’t think so. They might be apostates.”

“I know you were once a templar, Alistair,” Duncan replied. “But Chantry business is not ours. We have the scrolls; let us focus on the Joining.”

“Now will you tell us what the ritual is about?” Sereda pressed, unwilling to let it drop now that it had been brought up.

Duncan looked down at her, his tone grave. “I will not lie: we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay a price now rather than later.”

“I have no problems facing what’s to come.” Sereda squared her shoulders. Sooner or later, she would die—better to make herself useful before then.

“If only such secrecy was unnecessary and all understood the necessity of such sacrifice. Sadly, that will never end.”

“Let’s go then,” Daveth chimed in, unable to hide his eagerness. “I’m anxious to see this Joining now.”

“Then let us begin.” Duncan turned to Alistair. “Alistair, take them to the old temple.”

Alistair led them to a secluded part of Ostagar, far removed from the clamor of soldiers preparing for battle. The ruined temple that loomed before them was quiet, its crumbling stones steeped in age. Here, the Joining would take place—though none of them truly understood what awaited.

Sereda leaned against a cold pillar, arms crossed, watching Jory pace restlessly across the cracked floor.

“The more I hear about this Joining,” Jory muttered, his voice taut with nerves, “the less I like it.”

Daveth groaned, exasperated. “Are you blubbering again?”

Jory snapped him a glare. “Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?”

“Maybe it’s tradition,” Daveth shrugged. “Or maybe they just like to annoy you.”

“My wife’s in Redcliffe!” Jory’s tone faltered, softening as he stared at the ground. “She’s expecting our child. If they’d just given me some warning...”

Daveth cut in sharply. “And would you have come if they had? Maybe that’s exactly why they don’t. The Grey Wardens do what needs to be done. If we’re not willing to make sacrifices, who will?”

Jory stiffened. “Sacrifices? You’re talking about our lives!”

Daveth’s expression hardened. “I’d give a lot more than that to stop the darkspawn.”

The argument died as Duncan entered. He moved to the table where Alistair waited, his expression grim.

“At last, we come to the Joining,” Duncan began, his voice steady, measured. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the brink of annihilation. It was then the first Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

Jory blanched. “We’re going to drink the blood of those... creatures?!”

“Not much of a surprise,” Sereda muttered, though her stomach twisted uneasily.

“As the first Wardens did, so shall we,” Duncan continued. “This is the source of our power—and the reason for our victory.”

Alistair stepped forward, solemn. “Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense the darkspawn... and stand against the Archdemon.”

Duncan nodded once. “Now, let us begin. We speak only a few words before the Joining, words passed down since the first.”

Alistair lowered his gaze, reciting softly:

“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.”

Duncan raised the goblet filled with dark, swirling liquid. “Step forward, Daveth.”

The rogue hesitated, then forced himself to take the cup. Almost instantly his body convulsed after he took a sip, his scream echoing in the hollow temple before he collapsed, lifeless, to the stone floor.

Jory staggered back, horror etched on his face. Sereda’s stomach churned.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan said quietly, his voice heavy but unwavering.

Jory’s voice broke as Duncan turned toward him with the goblet. “No. I—I won’t. I have a family. A child! I didn’t sign up for this!”

“There is no turning back,” Duncan said firmly.

Jory drew his sword, desperation flashing in his eyes. “Stay back! I won’t let you—”

Duncan moved in a swift blur. His dagger struck true, piercing Jory’s chest. The knight collapsed, his sword clattering from his grasp as the light faded from his eyes.

Sereda froze, breath caught, staring at the man’s still form.

Duncan turned to her, the goblet steady in his hand. “But the Joining is not yet complete.”

Her thoughts raced. To refuse meant death, one way or another. Swallowing her fear, she stepped forward, taking the goblet with trembling hands.

The blood burned like fire as it slid down her throat. Pain wracked her body and she fell to her knees, clutching her head as darkness swallowed her.

Nightmares engulfed her. A colossal beast loomed—burning eyes, deafening roar, a dragon? She saw endless battlefields, the ground choked with corpses, the stench of despair heavy in the air.

When her eyes opened again, she was sprawled on the temple floor, drenched in sweat and trembling. Duncan stood above her, watchful, while Alistair knelt at her side, offering his hand.

“You’re alive,” he said softly, relief clear in his voice.

Sereda gripped his hand, forcing herself unsteadily to her feet.

“It is finished,” Duncan declared. “Welcome to the Grey Wardens.”

Alistair frowned. “Two more deaths. In my Joining, only one of us died but it was... horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it.”

“How do you feel?” Duncan asked.

Sereda’s eyes drifted to the empty space where Daveth and Jory had been. Their bodies were gone. “I can’t believe you killed Jory...”

Duncan’s voice was firm, though not unkind. “Jory was warned. As were you all. When he went for his blade, however, I had no choice. It brought me no pleasure to end his life. The Blight demands a sacrifice from us all. Thankfully, you stand here as proof they are not all made in vain.”

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair asked quietly. “I had terrible dreams my first Joining.”

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn,” Duncan explained. “As we all do. That, and many other things, can be explained in the months to come.”

“Before I forget, there is one last part of your Joining.” Alistair held out a small pendant. “We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us... of those who did not make it.”

She accepted it silently, brushing her fingers across the cold metal.

“Take some time,” Duncan said, his voice softening. “When you are ready, I’d like you to join me in a meeting with the king.”

“Why me?” Sereda asked, still shaken.

“He wishes to hear your thoughts, as you were once a commander—and have had experience with the darkspawn before. More than most. And with Arl Eamon not arriving in time, we need all the help we can get.”

Sereda nodded, her resolve hardening. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Duncan inclined his head. “The meeting is to the west, down the stairs. Attend as soon as you are able.”

When he left, Sereda lingered in silence. She clutched the pendant tightly, the weight of it heavy as stone. The Joining had claimed two lives, and changed hers forever. There was no turning back now.

Sereda stood beneath the vast expanse of the night sky, the cool air brushing against her face as she stared up at the stars. For a moment, they seemed infinite and untouchable, a stark contrast to the weight pressing heavily on her chest. The events of the day lingered in her mind like a cruel echo: Daveth’s death, Jory’s murder, the agonizing pain of the Joining. All of it had happened so quickly, leaving her reeling in its aftermath. And now, she was a Grey Warden.

Her fingers traced the small pendant Alistair had given her, the cool metal grounding her in the present. It felt heavier than it looked, carrying with it the memory of Daveth and Jory, and the countless others who had walked this path before her. Her thoughts drifted to her brother, to all she had lost, and a quiet vow formed within her heart: Their sacrifices will not be in vain. Whatever horrors the Blight brought, whatever battles lay ahead, she would face them with all the strength she could muster.

The image of the monstrous dragon from her vision surfaced again, its roar reverberating through her memory. The vividness of the dreams unsettled her—they were too real, too raw to dismiss as mere hallucinations. There was something deeper to them, something she couldn’t quite grasp.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she turned her gaze toward the meeting point Duncan had mentioned. He had chosen her to accompany him, to stand by his side before the king. The thought made her pause. Back in Orzammar, she had been a commander, a leader of warriors. But this was different. This was a battle against the Blight itself, and the stakes were far greater than any she had faced before.

As she descended the stone steps, she spotted Alistair leaning against a crumbling pillar ahead. His usual easy smirk was absent, replaced by a somberness that mirrored her own.

“Alistair,” she called, her voice calm despite the exhaustion tugging at her.

He straightened, his smirk returning. “Sereda. How are you holding up?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “I’ll live.”

“Good answer,” he said with a quiet chuckle, though it lacked his usual energy. His gaze flickered to the pendant in her hand. “It’s a lot, isn’t it? What we went through, what’s coming. But... you’ll manage. I can tell.”

She didn’t reply immediately, the weight of his words settling over her. Finally, she asked, “are you coming to the meeting?”

“Duncan’s already with the king,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’ll stay here for now. You should go—he’ll be expecting you.”

Sereda nodded. “I’ll see you later, then.”

As she walked away, she glanced back at him, a flicker of unease tightening her chest. Alistair’s calm demeanor felt like a mask; one she wasn’t sure how to break through. But there was no time to dwell on it now.

Chapter Text

The moon hung high above Ostagar, casting silver light across the encampment. Its glow drowned out most of the stars, leaving only faint pinpricks scattered across the sky. The night air bit at Sereda’s skin as she moved quietly among the tents, her thoughts circling the same paths they always did. She didn’t regret becoming a Grey Warden. What she regretted were the choices and betrayals that had forced her here—the shadows of Orzammar followed her still.

Ahead, torchlight flared over a table littered with maps and markers. Duncan stood with King Cailan and Loghain Mac Tir, their voices sharp against the otherwise hushed night.

“Loghain, my decision is final!” the king declared as Sereda approached, his golden armor gleaming even in moonlight. His smile carried the same reckless confidence she had come to expect. Loghain, by contrast, wore a scowl carved from stone.

“I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault.”

“You risk too much, Cailan!” Loghain snapped, his voice like a whip. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.”

Sereda slowed, her brow furrowing. She found herself unwillingly agreeing with him—though she doubted the king would ever bend to caution. Her gaze lingered on Cailan’s bright, easy expression, and without meaning to, she thought of Trian. Would her brother still be alive if he hadn’t gone on that expedition? Or had his fate been sealed regardless?

“If that’s the case,” Cailan retorted, his tone sharpening, “perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all.”

Loghain’s face darkened, his words coming low. “I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!”

“It is not a foolish notion,” Cailan shot back. “Our quarrels with Orlais are in the past! And you will remember who is king.”

The scowl on Loghain’s face twisted into something bitter. “How fortunate that Maric is not here to see his son ready to hand Ferelden back to those who enslaved us for a century!” He turned aside, rubbing at his temple as though the king’s very presence tested his restraint.

Cailan sighed, exasperated, then looked to Duncan. “Then our current forces will have to suffice. Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

“They... are, your majesty,” Duncan answered calmly, though Sereda caught the faint strain beneath his measured tone.

The king’s expression brightened when his eyes landed on her. “Ah, Sereda! It’s good to see you again. I understand congratulations are in order?”

“Thank you, your majesty,” she replied, bowing her head.

“Every Grey Warden is needed now more than ever,” Cailan said warmly. His words only deepened the frown on Loghain’s face. “You should be honored to join their ranks.”

“Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan,” Loghain muttered. “We must attend to reality.”

Cailan waved a hand dismissively, groaning. “Fine! Speak your strategies then. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines then...”

Loghain gestured to the maps. “You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover.”

“To flank the darkspawn. I remember.” Cailan leaned over the maps, tracing the layout with his fingers. “This is the Tower of Ishal ruins, yes? Who shall light this beacon?”

“I have a few men stationed there,” Loghain replied. “It’s not a dangerous task, but it is vital.”

“Then we should send our best,” Cailan declared. “Alistair and Sereda to make sure it’s done.”

Sereda straightened, her jaw tight. “I’ll do my best, your majesty.”

“You rely on these Grey Wardens too much. Is that truly wise?” Loghain’s caution cut through the air.

“Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain,” Cailan snapped. “Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they’re from.”

Duncan quickly interjected. “Your majesty, you should consider the possibility of an Archdemon appearing.”

“There have been no signs of any dragon in the Wilds,” Loghain dismissed flatly, as though swatting away a fly.

“Isn’t that what your men are here for?” Cailan asked, his easy smile unbroken.

“I... yes, your majesty,” Duncan conceded, though hesitation flickered across his face.

Before the exchange could sour further, a mage on the sidelines spoke up. “Your majesty, the tower and beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of Magi—”

“We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage! Save them for the darkspawn!” snapped a woman in Chantry robes, her voice like ice.

“Enough,” Loghain growled, his patience stretched thin. “This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon.”

“Thank you, Loghain!” Cailan’s voice carried that same infuriating brightness. “I can’t wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!”

“Yes, Cailan.” Loghain turned from the group, his words quiet but heavy. “A glorious moment for us all.”

Something in his tone sent a shiver crawling down Sereda’s spine.

Sereda and Duncan approached the flickering pyre where Alistair waited. Ostagar, once alive with the thrum of soldiers’ voices and the restless pacing of mabari hounds, now lay unsettlingly still. The main force had already marched to the front, leaving behind only the hollow echo of emptiness and the heavy weight of anticipation.

“You know the plan,” Duncan said, his voice steady but brooking no argument. His gaze lingered on Sereda as he continued, “you and Alistair will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit.”

Alistair’s face fell, his protest immediate. “What? I won’t be in the battle?”

“This is by the king’s personal request, Alistair,” Duncan explained. “If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.”

Alistair muttered under his breath, irritation coloring his words. “So, he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?”

Sereda folded her arms, fixing Duncan with a hard look. “The last time I got sidelined like this, I ended up exiled.”

Duncan’s expression softened, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Ah, but we are far from the politics of Orzammar here. And you have no brothers to interfere this time. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn. Exciting or no.”

Alistair threw in, his grin returning in lopsided fashion. “I get it. I get it. Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress to dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

Sereda’s lips twitched into a smirk. “I’d pay good coin to see that.”

Alistair leaned toward her, his eyes glinting with mischief. “For you, maybe. But it has to be a pretty dress.”

Duncan cleared his throat, cutting through their banter. “The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king’s camp. The same road we used when we arrived. You’ll need to cross the bridge, pass through the gate, and climb to the top. From there, you’ll overlook the entire valley.”

“When do we light the beacon?” Sereda asked.

“We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for. The battle is about to begin. Once I leave, move quickly—you’ll have less than an hour. Stay with Teyrn Loghain’s men and guard the beacon. No matter what happens, you are not to leave your post. If you’re needed elsewhere, we will send word.”

The weight of his words pressed down on them. A silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the pyre. At last, Alistair spoke, his voice subdued. “Duncan, may the Maker watch over you.”

Duncan inclined his head solemnly. “And may He watch over us all.” His gaze shifted to Sereda, his tone softening. “And may your ancestors guide you.”

Sereda gave him a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

Duncan nodded, but instead of leaving immediately, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a bundle of leather-bound parchments. The Grey Warden treaties. He pressed them firmly into Sereda’s hands.

“Take these,” he said quietly. “The treaties bind Ferelden’s allies to aid us in the fight against the Blight. If... if something should happen to me, or to the king, you and Alistair may be the Wardens’ only hope. Keep them safe.”

The sudden weight in her hands felt heavier than steel. Sereda met Duncan’s eyes, understanding the unspoken truth behind his words.

“I’ll guard them with my life,” she promised.

“I know you will,” Duncan said with a faint smile, one touched with weariness. With a final nod, he turned and strode off toward the front lines, his figure soon swallowed by the shadows of the fortress.

Sereda and Alistair stood in silence, the pyre’s flames snapping and spitting in the wind. At last, Alistair sighed, hefting his shield. “Well. Guess we’d better get moving. Wouldn’t want to let the king down—and Maker forbid I need to dance in that dress.”

Sereda shook her head with a quiet laugh, falling into step beside him. The cold air stung her cheeks as they walked, the emptiness of Ostagar pressing in around them.

The storm raged like an omen, a tempest mirroring the chaos about to be unleashed. Sheets of rain hammered the battlefield, turning dirt to mud and cloaking the field in a relentless curtain of water. The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the guttural chorus of the darkspawn horde—a hideous symphony of growls and snarls. Thunder rolled above, the sky cracking open with violent streaks of lightning that lit the horizon, revealing the vast black cloud of corruption spilling ever closer.

Before the gates of Ostagar, the king’s army stood in grim array. A sea of steel and shields braced against the storm. Soldiers tightened slick grips on their weapons, steam of breath clouding the air, fear and determination battling across their faces. At their center, the Revered Mother lifted her voice in prayer, words steady despite the storm. Murmurs of the Maker’s name rippled through the ranks, a fragile chain of faith as the darkspawn drew near.

At the vanguard strode King Cailan and Duncan, their boots sinking into sodden ground. Duncan’s expression was a mask of discipline, but his words betrayed a tremor. “The plan will work, your majesty,” he said—more a plea than certainty.

“It must,” Cailan replied. His golden armor blazed defiantly against the storm’s gloom, his smile a brittle mask of confidence. “The Blight ends here.” He halted at the front lines, eyes fixed on the oncoming tide. Lightning struck, illuminating the roiling mass of twisted forms.

The darkspawn advanced in perfect, horrifying unity, a single living storm of blades and claws. At their center loomed a general clad in grotesque golden armor, a giant silhouette wreathed in rain and lightning. Its pale eyes glowed like twin fires in the night, and it raised its massive greatsword high, unleashing a roar that shook the marrow of every man and beast on the field.

At that signal, the horde charged.

“Archers!” Cailan’s command cut like a blade through the storm. Bowstrings thrummed, and a rain of arrows answered, hissing down into the onrushing sea. Some found their marks, dropping darkspawn into the muck. Others clattered uselessly off armor, the tide unbroken.

The mabari were loosed. Warhounds thundered across the mire, colliding with the front ranks in a frenzy of snapping jaws and flashing teeth. For every darkspawn torn down in a spray of blood, two more struck the hounds aside with brutal strength.

“Hold steady!” Duncan’s shout rang above the chaos, pulling wavering soldiers back from the brink. One youth faltered, panic in his eyes, until a comrade’s firm grip steadied him. Blades lifted higher, knuckles bone-white around hilts.

“Charge!” Cailan roared, his greatsword flashing free in the lightning’s blaze.

Steel sang as thousands answered, the front lines surging forward into the storm.

Duncan followed, daggers gleaming in his hands, his form a shadow flickering in and out of lightning’s glare.

The armies collided like thunder. The battlefield erupted in a cacophony of screams, steel, and snarls. Mud churned beneath trampling feet, blood already spilling into the rain as man and monster clashed in a maelstrom.

Blood sprayed across Sereda’s face as she tore her blade free from a genlock’s throat. She shoved its corpse aside, blinking through the crimson that streaked her vision.

“How big is this cursed tower?!” she snarled.

“F-Four floors!” Alistair grunted, splitting a hurlock’s head from its shoulders. He flashed a grim smile between ragged breaths. “Good news—we’re halfway there!”

Sereda groaned but charged forward again, her sword cutting into the next wave. They’d only been fighting an hour, though it felt like days. The Tower of Ishal was crawling with darkspawn—every step earned through blood. The air was thick with rot, steel, and stone-dust, thunder of battle rumbling from above and below.

“They shouldn’t even be here,” she muttered, driving her blade through a hurlock’s chest.

But fate had placed them here, not in the grand charge outside. Whoever was watching—they were testing her patience.

When the last foe dropped, Sereda stood panting amidst the carnage, blood dripping from her armor. Alistair cleaned his blade with a quick swipe and met her gaze.

“We need that beacon lit. If Loghain’s forces don’t see it—”

“—then all of this was for nothing,” Sereda cut in, motioning toward the stairs. “I know.”

They pressed upward, floor after floor. On the third level, another ambush waited—hurlocks and genlocks packed into a wide chamber lined with cages. Mabari snarled from behind iron bars, teeth snapping in fury.

At the far end stood a genlock alpha, hefting its weapon.

“That one’s mine,” Sereda growled, sprinting before Alistair could protest.

“Sereda—wait—oh, blast it.” He groaned and charged after her, shield raised.

The room erupted in chaos. Sereda cut down one foe, her eyes catching a lever on the wall. She dodged a blade, slammed her hand onto it—and the cages burst open with a screech of metal. The mabari exploded into the fray, ripping darkspawn apart with savage joy.

Even with their aid, the press was fierce. Alistair was driven back, three darkspawn hemming him in. A sword glanced off his shield and staggered him.

“Alistair!” Sereda abandoned the alpha, hacking her way to his side. Her blade split one foe open, and together they finished the rest.

“You still breathing?” she asked, offering her hand.

“More or less,” he huffed, gripping it tight. “Remind me to thank you after this.”

She smirked faintly, then pushed forward again.

By the time they burst onto the tower’s top floor, they were battered and weary. What awaited stopped them cold.

Loghain’s soldiers lay broken in heaps, the floor slick with blood. Looming among the bodies stood an ogre, its grotesque frame outlined by the beacon fire it had yet to snuff out.

“Maker’s breath...” Alistair whispered, tightening his grip.

The ogre roared and charged.

Alistair braced his shield and caught the blow, the impact shoving him backward across the stone. The opening was enough—Sereda darted to its side and slashed deep into its leg. The beast bellowed, lashing out. Its massive hand caught her full-on, hurling her across the chamber.

“Sereda!” Alistair shouted. She waved him off, dragging herself upright.

The ogre lunged for her—but Alistair seized the moment, scrambling up its back. His blade plunged into its shoulder once, twice, again. The monster thrashed, but he held on grimly, stabbing until its strength faltered. With a final roar, the ogre toppled, crashing lifeless to the ground.

Alistair staggered to Sereda and hauled her up.

“You hurt?”

She grimaced but shook her head. “Had worse. You?”

“Still in one piece.” He managed a grin.

Together they staggered to the beacon. Alistair struck flint to steel, and fire roared skyward into the night, casting light over the battlefield below.

The beacon atop the Tower of Ishal flared against the storm-dark sky, its flames clawing upward. From his vantage, Loghain watched the fire burn, a lone spark against the sea of chaos below. The cries of dying men and the guttural roars of darkspawn mingled into a relentless din.

“Sound the retreat,” he ordered, voice clipped and cold as iron.

At his side, a young soldier stiffened. Barely grown into her armor, she stared at him, pale beneath her helm. “My lord... but the king—”

Loghain’s gaze cut to her like a blade. He seized her wrist and drew her close enough that his words were for her ears alone. “Do as I command.” His tone carried no room for hesitation.

The girl faltered, trembling. His grip tightened, then released, leaving the weight of his will pressing down harder than steel. Swallowing, she gave a jerky nod, turned, and raised her hand.

“Fall back!” she shouted, her voice shaking, but clear enough to carry. “Retreat! Withdraw!”

The order rippled outward, disbelief flashing across faces before discipline took hold. Shields shifted, blades lowered, and ranks began to pull away from the field in a tide of reluctant obedience. 

Loghain did not move. He stood rooted, a solitary figure as his army streamed past. The beacon’s blaze licked at Loghain’s vision. Hope to others, but to him, an illusion. Already extinguished.

He remained a moment longer, as though weighing what was already decided. Then he turned. Without so much as a backward glance, he walked away—from the king, from the Wardens, the soldiers, from the beacon fire that still burned against the night.

The thunder of retreating boots swallowed the field. Above it all, the Tower’s beacon burned, a flame made meaningless by betrayal.

The battlefield was bedlam. Steel shrieked against steel, arrows screamed through the storm, and magic split the air—fire searing, lightning cracking, healing light weaving frantically among the wounded. Blood soaked the mud, pooling beneath the clash of men and monsters alike, the ground itself drowning in death.

Duncan moved like a shadow in the storm, his daggers flashing with lethal precision. A genlock lunged; one clean motion, and its head toppled from its shoulders, dark blood spraying across his armor. Beside him, King Cailan fought like a figure out of legend—golden armor gleaming even through the muck, his greatsword cleaving through the horde with a hero’s fury. One darkspawn fell, then another, Cailan’s boot kicking the corpses aside as though nothing could touch him.

Then came a roar. Deep, guttural, and inhuman—it froze Duncan’s blood.

He turned, but it was too late. An ogre barreled through the melee, its massive bulk smashing into him like a siege ram. Duncan was hurled through the air, the impact rattling his bones as he struck the sodden ground. Gasping, stunned, he forced his head up in time to see the monster lunge for the king.

Cailan spun, eyes wide, but the ogre’s clawed hand engulfed him before he could lift his blade. His sword slipped from his grip, clattering into the mud, useless. He kicked, he struggled, his golden armor groaning under the ogre’s crushing hold. Its blazing red eyes locked on him with a sick awareness—as if it knew the prize it had seized.

The king’s cry was cut short by a sickening crunch. Bones shattered like dry twigs in the beast’s fist. With a triumphant bellow, the ogre flung his broken body to the ground, discarded like refuse at Duncan’s feet.

“No...” Duncan rasped, his voice breaking, his heart hollowing. The King of Ferelden lay lifeless, blood soaking into the ground. 

Rage ignited, sharp and consuming. Staggering upright, Duncan bared his teeth in defiance, blades gripped white-knuckled. With a roar of his own, he charged. He leapt onto the ogre’s chest, plunging a dagger deep into the slab of muscle. Black blood spurted hot, coating his hands. The beast roared and thrashed, but Duncan clung like a shadow made flesh, driving his second dagger again, again, again into its heaving chest—striking for the dark heart buried within.

The ogre’s screams turned ragged, its strength faltering as blood poured in torrents. At last it gave a final shudder, collapsing to the ground with a quake that shook the field. Duncan tumbled free, landing hard in the mud, his breath ripped from him. Pain blossomed sharp in his ribs, wet warmth spreading beneath his hand when he pressed his side. His blood. Too much of it.

Still, he dragged himself forward, crawling to Cailan’s body. He turned the king over, trembling, praying—only to find the light gone from his eyes. Ferelden’s bright young king was no more.

The battle raged on around him. Soldiers faltered, Grey Wardens fell, the tide of darkspawn endless, smothering. And yet, above it all, the Tower of Ishal burned—its beacon a defiant flame against storm and shadow.

Duncan’s lips parted in a weak, bloodied smile. They had made it. 

His vision blurred. The mud beneath him grew cold. A hurlock stalked nearer, blade raised, its gaze fixed on him like carrion claiming its due.

Summoning the last of his strength, Duncan pushed himself upright, chest heaving, and lifted his gaze one final time to the beacon blazing in the storm.

Ferelden’s fate is theirs now.

He exhaled his final breath as the dark closed in.

Chapter Text

Sereda awoke on a rough-hewn bed draped with furs, the scent of herbs and smoke hanging heavy in the air. Her body ached as though she had been trampled by a bronto, each breath a reminder of the battle she was certain had ended her life. She was clad only in her smallclothes, her armor and weapons nowhere in sight. For a moment, she lay still, disoriented, her head pounding fiercely until her senses caught up with her: she was alive. Somehow.

“Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased,” came a smooth voice from the shadows.

Sereda turned her head, squinting into the dim glow of a firepit that cast flickering light across the hut. A woman stepped into view, tall and poised, her sharp features half-shrouded in shadow.

“Wait... I know you,” Sereda muttered, her brow furrowing as her sluggish mind tried to place her. “You’re the girl from the Wilds.”

“I am Morrigan,” the woman reintroduces herself. “Lest you have forgotten. And we are in the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds. You are welcome, by the way. How does your memory fare? Do you remember mother’s rescue?”

The words tugged loose fragments of memory—blood, steel, the ogre’s roar, the chaos of the tower... and then blackness. Sereda’s chest tightened. “What happened?” she asked hoarsely. “To the army... the king?”

Morrigan’s expression darkened. “The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won the battle. Those he abandoned were massacred.” She paused, her voice softening, though not kindly. “Your friend... he is not taking it well.”

Sereda’s heart lurched. “Alistair?”

Morrigan gave a small, dismissive nod. “The suspicious dim-witted one who was with you before, yes. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”

Relief and guilt mingled in Sereda’s chest. Alistair had survived, but the rest... she forced a breath and shifted, pain lancing through her body. “I was certain I wouldn’t make it,” she muttered. “How did she...?”

“The darkspawn did nothing mother could not heal,” Morrigan replied, folding her arms. “Though I lent some aid, it is her work that saved you.”

“And what about Alistair?”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “He is... as you are. I suppose it would be unkind to say he is being childish?”

Sereda’s eyes went wide. “Those were his friends!”

“And you think they would encourage his blubbering?” Morrigan countered. “If so, they are not the sort of Grey Wardens the legends note.”

Sereda, unwilling to argue further, seized on another question. “Why did your mother save us?”

“I do not know,” Morrigan shrugged. “She rarely tells me her plans.”

Sereda looked at her, gratitude flickering in her expression despite her exhaustion. “Thank you.”

Morrigan blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sincerity. “I... you are welcome,” she replied stiffly. “Though mother did most of the work. I am no healer.”

“Can I ask some questions?”

“I do not mind.”

Sereda paused, choosing her words. “Are we safe here?”

“We are safe, for the moment,” Morrigan answered. “Mother’s magic keeps the darkspawn away. Once you leave, it is uncertain what will happen. The horde has moved on, so you might avoid it.”

“Why did your mother save us?”

“I wonder that myself,” Morrigan said coldly. “But she tells me nothing. Perhaps you were the only ones she could reach. I would have rescued your king. A king would be worth a much higher ransom than you.”

Sereda glanced down, her voice low. “I happen to be of royal blood.”

“Yet now you are a surface dwarf,” Morrigan pointed out. “My king’s ransom might be a long time coming.”

“How did she manage to rescue us, exactly?” Sereda’s brows drew together. “We were surrounded by darkspawn, and four floors up in a tower.”

“She turned into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from atop the tower. One in each talon.” Morrigan noted the disbelief that crossed Sereda’s face. “If you do not believe the tale, then I suggest you ask mother yourself. She may even tell you.”

“Are there any survivors?”

“Only stragglers that are long gone,” Morrigan said flatly. “You would not want to see what is happening in the valley now.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Are you sure you want me to describe it?”

Sereda swallowed dryly, her stomach twisting. She needed to know. “Yes.”

“I had a good view of the battlefield,” Morrigan began, her tone detached. “’Tis a grisly scene. There are bodies everywhere, and darkspawn swarm them, feeding... I think.” She paused briefly before continuing. “They also look for survivors. And drag them back down beneath the ground. I cannot say why.”

Sereda’s brows furrowed. “Why would Teyrn Loghain abandon the king?” she asked aloud, though suspicion already gnawed at her. Power—always power.

“I do not know who this Loghain even is. Perhaps ask mother about it.”

Sereda sighed, realizing her questions were spiraling into too many unknowns. Slowly, carefully, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her muscles screamed in protest, every motion stiff and unsteady. “I think I’ve asked enough questions now.”

“I agree,” Morrigan said, stepping aside. “’Tis time you speak with mother, then be on your way.”

After dressing, Sereda stepped out of the hut into the damp, mist-laden air of the Wilds. The thick scent of wet land and moss filled her lungs, heavy and unfamiliar compared to the dry, stone-tinged air of Orzammar. Beyond the clearing, Alistair stood by the water’s edge, staring into the rippling surface of a murky pond. His broad shoulders were slumped, weighed down by grief.

At the sound of her footsteps, he turned. His eyes widened, disbelief and relief warring across his face.

 “You? You’re alive! I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

Sereda offered him a faint, weary smile. Her body still ached with every step, but she forced steadiness into her voice. “I’m fine, Alistair. I appreciate your concern.”

. Alistair crossed the distance between them in a few quick, almost frantic strides. His hands gripped her shoulders firmly, grounding himself in the reality of her presence, before brushing gently against her face, as though reassuring himself she wasn’t some cruel trick. “This... this doesn’t seem real,” he murmured. His voice dropped low, thick with emotion. “If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d both be dead on top of that tower.”

“Do not speak of me as though I am not present, lad,” came a sharp, annoyed voice from the shadows.

Both Wardens turned as Morrigan’s mother emerged from the treeline.

Alistair flushed, immediately looking sheepish. “I didn’t mean... but... what should we call you? You never told us your name.”

The woman’s mouth curved into a smirk, a predator amused by prey. “Names are pretty but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose that will do.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening. “The Flemeth from the legends? Then Daveth was right—you’re the Witch of the Wilds! Aren’t you?”

“And what does that mean?” Flemeth asked coolly. “I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?”

Sereda stepped in before Alistair could dig himself deeper. “Who cares what she is? We need to do something now.”

Flemeth chuckled, the sound low and throaty. “Hah! If you know what’s good for you.”

But Alistair’s brief relief crumbled into anguish. His voice broke as he said, “We need to bring Loghain to judgement! Why would he do this?”

Sereda flinched, her stomach twisting at the raw ache in his tone. She couldn’t give him comfort; she didn’t feel herself. Flemeth, however, answered in her place.

“Now that is a good question,” she mused, her voice like velvet over steel. “Men’s hearts hide shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat.”

Alistair’s face hardened, bitterness cutting through his grief. “The Archdemon.”

Sereda frowned. “What is an Archdemon, exactly?”

“It is said that, long ago, the Maker sent the Old Gods of the ancient Tevinter Imperium to slumber in prisons deep beneath the surface,” Flemeth explained before Alistair could. “An Archdemon is an Old God awakened and tainted by the darkspawn. Believe that or not, history says it is a fearsome and immortal thing. And only fools ignore history.”

Sereda swallowed. “We need to contact the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

“Cailan already summoned them,” Alistair said grimly. “They’ll come if they can. But I expect Loghain has already taken steps to stop them. We must assume they won’t arrive in time.”

“What could the teyrn hope to gain by betraying the king?” she pressed.

“The throne?” Alistair suspected bitterly. “He’s the queen’s father. Still, I can’t see how he’ll get away with murder.”

“You speak as if he would be the first to gain the throne that way. Grow up, boy!” Flemeth snapped.

“If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he would never stand for it!” Alistair shouted back. “The Landsmeet would never stand for it! There will be civil war!”

Sereda tilted her head. “Who’s Arl Eamon?”

“I suppose...” Alistair glanced at her, forcing himself to calm. “Arl Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar, he still has his men. And he was Cailan’s uncle. I know him. He’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet. Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him to help!”

“Keep in mind Loghain was also an honorable man,” Sereda said quietly.

“The arl would never do what Teyrn Loghain did!” Alistair insisted. “I still... don’t know if Arl Eamon’s help would be enough. He can’t defeat the darkspawn horde by himself.”

“Surely there are other allies we could call on,” Sereda offered.

“Of course, the treaties!” Alistair exclaimed suddenly, hope breaking through his despair. “Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They’re obligated to help us during the Blight!”

Flemeth gave a dry, wry smile. “I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this... Arl Eamon, and who knows what else... this sounds like an army to me.”

“So can we do this?” Alistair asked, turning to Sereda, his expression pleading. “Go to Redcliffe and other places and build an army?”

Sereda drew in a slow breath, her chest tight with the enormity of it. It seemed impossible, but someone had to try. “We’ll do what we can.”

“So you are set, then?” Flemeth asked. “Ready to be Grey Wardens?”

“Yes,” Sereda said firmly. “Thank you for everything, Flemeth.”

“No, no,” Flemeth waved her hands. “Thank you. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. Now... before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”

Morrigan’s voice cut across them as she stepped from the hut. “The stew is bubbling, mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?”

“The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl,” Flemeth said, her tone brooking no argument. “And you will be joining them.”

“Such a shame—” Morrigan’s eyes widened, her voice cracking. “What?!”

“You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears!”

Sereda held up a hand gently. “Thank you, but if Morrigan does not wish to come with us—”

Flemeth cut across her. “Her magic will be useful. Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde.”

“Have I no say in this?!” Morrigan snapped.

“You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years,” Flemeth said. “Here’s your chance.” She turned to the Wardens. “As for you, consider this repayment for your lives.”

Sereda exchanged a look with Alistair. Neither of them had the power to refuse. “We’ll take her with us.”

“Not to... look a gift horse in the mouth,” Alistair muttered, “but won’t this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she’s an apostate.”

“If you do not want help from us illegal mages, young man,” Flemeth snapped, “I should have left you on that tower.”

“Mother,” Morrigan protested, her voice cracking under anger and uncertainty, “this is not how I wanted this. I am not ready.”

“You must be ready,” Flemeth replied sharply. “Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail. And all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

Morrigan’s protests faltered. Her mouth closed, her golden eyes stormy. “I... understand,” she said at last, her voice quiet but brittle.

“And you, Wardens,” Flemeth said, her gaze like steel. “I give you that which I value above all in this world. I give her to you because you must succeed.”

Sereda nodded solemnly. “She won’t come to harm with us.”

Morrigan sighed heavily. “Allow me to gather my things then, if you please.” And she disappeared back into the hut

Minutes later, she emerged again, less than thrilled but prepared nonetheless. Her pack slung over one shoulder, she inclined her head stiffly. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. ’Tis not far, and you will find much you need there. Or, if you prefer, I can simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours.”

“I’d rather you speak, Morrigan,” Sereda said, offering a small smile.

Flemeth laughed, the sound booming. “You’ll regret saying that!”

“Dear, sweet mother,” Morrigan said dryly, her sarcasm sharp enough to cut. “You are so kind to cast me out like this. How fondly shall I remember this moment.”

“Well,” Flemeth replied, unbothered, “I always said if you want something done, do it yourself. Or hear about it a decade or two.”

Alistair leaned toward Sereda, muttering, “I just... do you really want to take her because her mother says so?”

“We need all the help we can get,” Sereda replied quietly.

“I guess you’re right,” he sighed. “The Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they could find them.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes at him. “I am so pleased to have your approval.”

Morrigan turned to her mother, her face impassive though her eyes betrayed the faintest flicker of vulnerability. “Farewell, mother. Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned-down hut.”

“Bah! ’Tis far more likely you’ll return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight,” Flemeth said.

Morrigan hesitated, her expression softening. “I... all I meant was—”

“Yes, I know,” Flemeth cut her off gently this time. “Do try to have fun, dear.”

Morrigan scoffed, turning away sharply. “I shall miss the stew most of all.” She strode down the path, leading the Wardens into the Wilds.

Behind them, Flemeth stood in the clearing until they were swallowed by the trees.

After four long, grueling days of trekking through the Wilds, they finally stumbled to the forest’s edge. The oppressive tangle of trees thinned, sunlight streaming down onto a beaten dirt road. The heavy canopy above no longer smothered them, and the air felt cleaner, lighter, even if the exhaustion in their bodies hadn’t lifted.

Sereda slowed, taking a deep breath as if she could finally fill her lungs properly again. Her armor was slick with sweat, and her shoulders ached from carrying her shield through miles of marsh and tangled undergrowth. The constant hum of insects faded into background noise, but the unease remained. She still felt eyes on her—something slinking just out of sight.

That feeling only sharpened when Alistair froze mid-step. “Darkspawn,” he hissed, his voice low, urgent. His hand shot to the hilt of his sword, his whole body going tense.

Sereda immediately scanned the treeline, muscles tight, her heart hammering in her chest. A guttural growl rolled through the air, deep and hungry. She braced to draw steel—

And then the underbrush exploded.

A blur of fur burst from the trees, skidding to a halt in front of Sereda. A mabari war hound—broad-shouldered, powerful, his dark eyes sharp—barked once, sharply, then turned his head toward the treeline, his whole frame rigid and alert. For a single heartbeat, his gaze flicked back to her, as if measuring something, before snapping forward again.

The threat revealed itself seconds later. The stench of darkspawn hit them before the creatures did, foul and metallic, carried on the wind. With a feral snarl, the beasts surged out from the trees, weapons raised.

The mabari lunged before Sereda could. His charge was a blur of teeth and fury, ramming straight into the lead darkspawn and dragging it down in a spray of dirt and snapping jaws.

Sereda recovered quickly, raising her shield and rushing forward. Alistair was right beside her, sword flashing as he caught the first blow. Morrigan thrusted her staff into the ground, and jagged shards of ice erupted outward, spearing one of the creatures clean through the chest.

Sereda caught a heavy swing with her shield, the impact rattling her bones to the shoulder. She grunted, forcing the creature back, but before it could press forward again, the mabari was there, his jaws clamping down on its arm with brutal force. The darkspawn howled, blood spraying as the hound wrenched and tore.

Alistair seized the opening and swung hard, his blade biting deep into another’s neck. The last foe collapsed in a gurgle of blood.

Breathing hard, Sereda lowered her shield. The mabari padded toward her, his massive frame heaving, his coat matted with blood but his posture proud. He planted himself in front of her, staring up with bright, expectant eyes, his whole rear end wiggling in excitement.

Sereda’s lips twitched into a smile. She reached down, scratching his ears. “What a fierce little beast you are,” she murmured softly. The hound leaned into her touch, tail too short to wag properly but his whole hindquarters shaking with delight.

“Seems like he’s already decided you’re in charge,” Alistair said between breaths, crouching to ruffle the hound’s fur. His grin widened as he looked at Sereda. “I think he was out looking for you. He’s... chosen you. Mabari are like that. They call it imprinting.”

Morrigan made a sharp, disdainful sound. “Does that mean we’re going to have this mangy beast following us about now? Wonderful.”

“He’s not mangy!” Alistair protested, voice rising into a coo.

Sereda chuckled, resting her hand on the hound’s broad head. “If he’s sticking with us, he needs a name.”

The dog perked up at that, ears pricking, gaze darting between her and Alistair with bright anticipation.

“What about...” Sereda tilted her head, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Barkspawn?”

Alistair blinked at her. For one long, stunned second, silence held—then he burst into uncontrollable laughter, so sudden and loud that a bird shot out of the nearby branches in alarm. “Barkspawn! That’s perfect!” he wheezed, doubling over and clutching his side. “Maker, that’s brilliant!”

Morrigan groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Barkspawn?” she echoed with dripping disdain. “Truly? This is the name you’ve chosen?”

“It suits him,” Sereda replied evenly, grin unwavering.

“It’s clever!” Alistair added, still chuckling. “The best name for a darkspawn-slaying mabari I’ve ever heard.”

“By all means,” Morrigan muttered darkly, crossing her arms, “let us waste precious time naming dogs. Perhaps next, we’ll compose an ode to the Maker’s cleverness while we’re at it.”

Sereda smirked, patting Barkspawn’s head. “Oh, lighten up, Morrigan. Not everything has to be so serious.”

The mabari barked once, whole body wriggling with pride as though to second her words. Morrigan sighed, sweeping past them with a roll of her eyes.

Sereda crouched, meeting the mabari’s gaze directly. His eyes were warm, intelligent, and unshakably loyal already. “Welcome to the team, Barkspawn,” she said softly.

The hound barked again, bouncing on his paws, his joy so infectious that Alistair chuckled and scratched his ears. “I think we’ve got ourselves a keeper.”

The stone bridge leading into Lothering was quiet, save for the rustle of the wind and the dull creak of wood from carts abandoned on the roadside. Sereda’s boots echoed faintly on the worn stone as she led the group forward, Barkspawn trotting close at her side. The mabari’s ears pricked suddenly, and a low growl began to rumble in his throat.

A man stepped into their path, swaggering into the center of the bridge with his hands spread wide, as if welcoming them. Behind him, several others lounged against the low stone walls.

“Wake up, gentlemen!” he called, clapping his hands together sharply. The others groaned, but obeyed, rising sluggishly and moving to flank Sereda’s group.

“More travelers to attend to!” the leader announced with a smirk. His eyes slid over them, landing on Sereda with curiosity. “Led by a dwarf, oddly enough.” He chuckled, as though the thought alone amused him.

Sereda’s eyes narrowed. Her jaw tensed, the irritation. Barkspawn pressed lower to the ground, muscles coiling, a menacing growl vibrating in his chest.

One of the bandits, a tall, broad man with a vacant expression, shifted uneasily. His grip on his mace was loose, uncertain. “Err... they don’t look much like them others, you know. Uh... Maybe we should let these ones pass.”

“Nonsense!” the leader waved him off without sparing him a glance. He turned his attention back to Sereda and her companions, grin stretching wider. “Greetings, travelers!”

“Highwaymen,” Alistair muttered, hand brushing the pommel of his sword, his voice low. “Taking advantage of people fleeing the darkspawn. I suppose.”

“They are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan said coldly, shifting her staff in her hands. The air around her seemed to sharpen with her irritation. “I say we teach them a lesson.”

Ignoring them, the leader spread his arms in mock joviality. “Now, is that any way to greet someone? Tsk, tsk, tsk. A simple ten silvers, and you’re free to move on.”

Sereda’s gaze flicked toward the nervous bandit, then back to the leader. Her voice dropped to a low, even register. “You should listen to your friend. We’re not refugees.”

Barkspawn’s growl deepened, ears pinned flat.

The nervous one winced, looking between the mabari and Sereda. “What did I tell you? No wagons and that dog looks real angry.”

The leader sighed as though he were the one inconvenienced. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he snapped, “The toll applies to everyone, Hanric! That’s why it’s a toll and not, say, a ‘refugee tax’.”

“Oh! Right,” Hanric muttered, nodding slowly as if enlightenment had just struck him. “Even if you’re no refugees, you still gotta pay.”

Sereda stepped forward, the rasp of steel punctuating her words as she drew her blade. “We’re not paying. Forget it.”

For the first time, the leader’s grin faltered. His hand went to his weapon, though he tried to keep his tone smooth. “Well, I can’t say I’m pleased to hear that. We have rules, you know?”

“Right,” Hanric added, hefting his mace with none of his leader’s conviction. “We’ll ransack your corpse. Rules’re rules.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Sereda said, her voice edged with steel.

The skirmish was swift and merciless. Morrigan’s magic split the air with streaks of lightning and bursts of flame, sending bandits screaming as they fell. Alistair fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Sereda, blades flashing, his shield battering their foes aside. Barkspawn launched himself at one man’s throat, tearing him down with bone-crunching force.

The leader fell beneath Sereda’s sword in a single, decisive blow. Hanric, pale-faced and screaming, dropped his mace and fled down the riverbank with Barkspawn snapping at his heels. Within minutes, the surviving bandits were scattering into the trees, throwing down weapons in a desperate bid to live.

The leader, battered and bleeding, raised his hands trembling. “All right! We surrender! We–we—we’re just trying to get by before the darkspawn get us all!”

Sereda leveled her blade at his throat. Her eyes were hard, unyielding. “I want some questions answered.”

“What could I tell you? We aren’t even from these parts!” he stammered.

“What’s going on in Lothering?”

“It’s packed full,” he said quickly, desperate. “The bann took his men north with Teyrn Loghain, so there’s no one looking out for it except a few Templars at the Chantry. I was just trying to feed my famil—” His eyes darted, searching for sympathy. “You know?”

“Have you heard about any survivors from the battle?”

“A couple,” he shrugged weakly. “Maybe. A group of wounded Ash Warriors came by earlier... got right out of their way.”

“And what else have you heard?”

He swallowed, then nodded frantically. “Everyone’s saying how the Grey Wardens betrayed the king during the darkspawn fight. Got him and themselves killed. Teyrn Loghain pulled out just in time. First thing he’s doing as regent is putting a bounty on Grey Wardens.”

Sereda and Alistair exchanged a grim look, the truth of it sinking in between them. Her grip on her sword tightened before she lowered it. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

The bandit needed no further encouragement. “Yes, ma’am! Bless you!” he squeaked, stumbling to his feet. “The darkspawn can have this place!” 

Beyond the ramp, the little village of Lothering spread before them, its cluster of homes nestled among golden fields. From a distance, it seemed untouched, almost peaceful—but Sereda could already sense the tension in the air. Refugees milled in the distance, and the smell of smoke carried faintly on the wind.

Alistair forced brightness into his voice, spreading his arms in mock showmanship. “Well, here it is! Lothering! Pretty as a painting!”

“Ah, so you have finally rejoined us, have you?” Morrigan replied sharply, her tone dripping disdain. “Falling on your blade in grief seemed too much trouble, I take it?”

Alistair’s shoulders stiffened. He turned to her, his usual humor gone, replaced with anger. “Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost someone important to you? What would you do if your mother died?”

Morrigan’s lips curved into a cold smile. “Before or after I stopped laughing?”

Sereda frowned at the exchange, discomfort tightening her chest. She considered stepping in, but bit her tongue.

“Right,” Alistair muttered, clipped. “Creepy. Very creepy. Forget I asked.” He turned toward Sereda, eager to escape the venom in Morrigan’s words.

“You have been very quiet, Alistair,” Sereda noted.

“Yes, I know,” he admitted, sighing. “I was just... thinking.”

“No wonder it took so long then,” Morrigan quipped dryly.

Alistair shot her a glare. “Oh, I get it. This is the part where we’re shocked to discover how you’ve never had a friend your entire life.”

Barkspawn tilted his head curiously at the rising tension, and Sereda exhaled slowly. This was going to be a long journey.

“I can be friendly when I desire to,” Morrigan retorted. “Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“Anyway,” Alistair said, clearly trying to redirect. He turned back to Sereda, more serious now. “I thought we should talk about where we intend to go first.”

Sereda inhaled deeply, already feeling the weight of command pressing down. “We should use the treaties first, I assume?”

“There are three main groups that we have treaties for: the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar, and the Circle of Magi,” Alistair explained. “I also think Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first.”

“Where do we find Arl Eamon?” She asked.

“He’ll be at Castle Redcliffe in the far western part of Ferelden next to the mountain passes. The Circle of Magi isn’t that far from Redcliffe. Their tower’s on Lake Calenhad. We’ll need to look for the First Enchanter—whoever that is. It’s about a day’s walk from Redcliffe.”

“And the Dalish?”

“If we head eastward toward the Brecilian Forest, we should hear word of one of the clans that wanders that area. Hopefully they’ll still be there.”

“Where would Loghain be?” Sereda asked, next. They would have to avoid him at all costs.

“If he isn’t out on the field with his army, he’s probably at the palace in Denerim. We can go to Denerim, but somehow, I suspect they’re not going to let us walk around. Only a suspicion, of course,” he added dryly.

“I’ve been exiled from Orzammar,” Sereda said after a pause. “I can’t go back.”

“You’re going to have to,” Alistair replied flatly. “I certainly wouldn’t want to go alone.”

“Why? Would it frighten you?” Morrigan teased. “Are you afraid of dark and sunken places, hmm?”

He shot her a glare. “I mean, we won’t have a choice. You’ll be there under Grey Warden business, and the dwarves will just have to see reason.”

Sereda snorted under her breath. That was unlikely.

“They certainly are renowned for an abundance of reason, ’tis true,” Morrigan added with biting sarcasm.

“How do we get from Orzammar here, exactly?” Sereda asked.

Alistair blinked. “You don’t know where Orzammar is?”

“She doesn’t know how to find it on the surface, fool!” Morrigan snapped. “She has never been here before.”

“Oh. Uh—right,” Alistair fumbled. “Well, if you follow the West Road around Lake Calenhad into the mountains and through Gherlen’s Pass... from there, I expect you’d know the way.”

“Is there really no way to contact the Grey Wardens?” Sereda asked.

Alistair shook his head. “Short of leaving Ferelden to seek them out, the only place to send word is Weisshaupt Fortress, and that’s thousands of miles away.”

Sereda turned to Morrigan. “What do you think?”

“Go after your enemy directly,” Morrigan said without hesitation. “Find this man, Loghain, and kill him. The rest of this business with the treaties can be done in safety.”

“Yes, he certainly wouldn’t see that coming!” Alistair shot back. “And it’s not like he has the advantage of an army and experience and—”

Morrigan cut him off. “I was asked for my opinion and I gave it. If your wish is to come up with reasons why something cannot be done, we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us.”

Sereda exhaled sharply. “Let’s head into the village. We’ll continue this later.”

“Let’s go,” Alistair said quickly.

With that, Sereda started down the steps, Barkspawn padding at her heels. Morrigan and Alistair followed behind, their bickering trailing after her. Ahead, the uneasy village of Lothering awaited.

Lothering was nothing like the “pretty painting” Alistair had tried to make it sound. The streets were choked with people, the air heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies, smoke from cooking fires, and the faint rot of sickness. Refugees clustered wherever there was space—against walls, beneath awnings, around wagon wheels long since broken. Mothers clutched thin, dirt-streaked children to their skirts. Old men stared vacantly at nothing, lips moving in whispered prayers.

Merchants had set up crude stalls along the roads, their tables covered with pitiful scraps of food and bundles of worn cloth. Their voices cut harshly over the din as they haggled, squeezing every copper from the desperate.

A lone templar intercepted the group as they passed, his white-and-red armor dulled with grime. His voice was stern but weary, as though recited a dozen times already: the village was to be abandoned. The bann had ridden north to Denerim with his soldiers, leaving only the templars to keep order. It was clear even to Sereda that the man didn’t believe his own warning would do much good.

They pressed onward through the crowded lanes until a raised voice caught Sereda’s attention. A merchant, red-faced and spitting with rage, stood nose-to-nose with a Chantry Sister, their argument drawing a small, uneasy crowd. The Sister pleaded with him to lower his prices for starving families; he barked back about needing to feed his own kin.

Sereda stepped between them before it could boil over. Her mere presence—the steel at her hip, the cast of her expression—forced a hush. With careful words and an iron stare, she coaxed the man down from his fury, negotiating until he grudgingly lowered his prices. With the group’s dwindling coin, Sereda bought poultices, dried rations, and bandages. The weight of it sat heavy in her stomach; they couldn’t afford to keep spending like this. They would need work, and soon.

Alistair spent some time setting crude traps for a grateful farmer whose chickens kept vanishing. Morrigan reluctantly parted with poultices for a fever-stricken villager. And though these small acts mattered to the people, Sereda couldn’t shake the feeling they were trying to dam a flood without any wood.

In the midst of it, Alistair and Morrigan bickered endlessly—sharp words and barbed tones. Somehow, it almost lent a sense of normalcy amid the ruin.

“So, let’s talk about your mother for a moment,” Alistair began suddenly, clearly desperate for distraction.

Morrigan’s eyebrow arched. “I’d rather talk about your mother.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Alistair retorted. “And besides, isn’t your mother a scary witch who lives in a swamp? Much more interesting.”

“To you, perhaps,” Morrigan drawled. “You would find the moss growing on a stone interesting.”

“You know what’s more interesting? Apostates. Mages outside the Tower. That’s illegal, you know?”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed, though her tone was silky with mockery. “I hope the letters in the book you read were large enough for you to manage. Reading must be such a trial.”

Sensing the edge of defeat, Alistair shrugged and let the matter drop. “Or we could not talk about your mother. Works for me.”

They approached the tavern, its timber walls straining under the press of bodies crowding the entrance. Even from outside, Sereda could hear the din of raised voices, drunken laughter, and the occasional crash of a mug. Just as they were about to enter, a man stepped into their path.

He was tall, with tousled black hair, and a shadow of stubble along his jaw. A faded red smear, like paint or old blood, cut across the bridge of his nose. 

“I wouldn’t go in there,” he warned, voice low but steady. Behind him, a sack dangled loosely from one hand.

Sereda crossed her arms, her stance firm. “Why is the tavern full?”

“Same reason the streets are,” he explained. “Folk running from the darkspawn. The keeper’s letting them sleep on the floor, but there isn't enough space. And those soldiers in there?” He nodded toward the building, his jaw tightening. “Trouble. Been drinking all night. They nearly killed a man earlier just for looking at them wrong.”

Sereda’s eyes narrowed, her tone sharp. “And who are you?”

The man’s grimness broke with a lopsided smile. “Garrett Hawke,” he said easily, extending a hand. Sereda clasped it firmly, noting the calluses along his palm. “I was about to head in myself—supposed to pick up some wine for dinner. But with those soldiers...” He let the sentence trail off with a half-hearted shrug.

“Tell me more about these soldiers,” Sereda pressed.

“They’re not here to help anyone,” Garrett replied. “Came looking for someone, didn’t find them, and now they’re just filling their bellies with ale. Looking for a fight, if you ask me.”

Sereda nodded once, decision made. “I’ll deal with them.”

Garrett blinked, caught off guard. “You will? Well, thank you! What’s your name?”

“Sereda,” she said simply.

His crooked smile returned. “Thanks, Sereda.”

As they moved toward the tavern doors, Morrigan’s disdainful voice cut through the crowd’s murmurs. “Should we really be wasting our time with such trivial matters?”

Sereda turned her head just enough to pin Morrigan with a pointed look. “I said I’d deal with them. Not you.”

Morrigan scoffed but followed Sereda inside. The tavern was a tinderbox waiting for a spark. Stale ale and sweat hung thick in the air, the scent of spilled drink mingling with the iron tang of blood from earlier brawls. Refugees crowded the corners, pressed against the walls and clutching cups, too afraid to leave but too desperate to stay outside. At the center, a group of armored soldiers sprawled across overturned benches and broken tables, their laughter loud and ugly.

The moment Sereda stepped through the doorway, their eyes locked on her and her companions.

“Well! Look what we have here, men! I think we’ve been blessed,” one soldier slurred, stumbling to his feet. His bloodshot eyes swept over the group, lingering on Sereda’s armor and weapon. Suspicion flashed through the haze of drink.

“Uh-oh. Loghain’s men,” Alistair muttered under his breath, hand twitching toward his sword. “This can’t be good.”

“Didn’t we spend all morning asking about a dwarf with this very description?” another soldier asked as he pushed himself upright, knocking aside a chair. “And everyone said they hadn’t seen her?” He spat on the floor. “It seems we were lied to.”

Before Sereda could answer, a tall red-haired woman in Chantry robes stepped between the soldiers and the Wardens. Her calm voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Gentlemen, surely there’s no need for violence. These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge.”

The captain sneered, pushing past her with contempt. “They’re more than that. Now stay out of my way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.”

Sereda’s hand drifted to her sword, her voice cold and deliberate. “It looks like he wants a fight. I’m happy to oblige.”

The captain’s lips curled into a cruel smirk as he hefted his mace. “Take the Wardens! Kill the sister and anyone else in our way!”

The soldiers surged forward with drunken roars, steel flashing in the torchlight.

Sereda drew her sword in a single fluid motion, intercepting the first soldier who charged her. Their weapons clashed with a shriek of steel, sparks flying. With a swift twist, she shoved him off balance and slammed the hilt of her sword against his helm, sending him sprawling across the table.

Alistair met another soldier head-on, his shield raised. The blow of a mace rattled through his arm, but he pushed back with strength, locking blades before driving his knee into the man’s stomach. The soldier wheezed, crumpling.

Barkspawn barreled into a third soldier before he could flank them, his teeth sinking into the man’s arm. The soldier screamed, flailing as the mabari dragged him to the ground with a vicious growl.

At the back, Morrigan raised her staff, arcane energy crackling to life. A burst of frost shot across the floor, freezing the boots of two charging men in place. Before they could wrench free, a lance of fire erupted, knocking them into the wall in a blast of flame and smoke.

The captain swung his mace in a wide arc at Sereda, the heavy weapon humming through the air. She ducked beneath the swing, feeling the rush of wind above her head, then countered with a brutal strike that knocked his weapon aside. He staggered, but before she could finish him, another soldier lunged in. Alistair intercepted, his shield slamming into the man’s chest with a crash.

Around them, the tavern erupted in chaos. Refugees screamed and scrambled for the door, mugs and plates clattering to the ground. One soldier tried to rally his men, but Barkspawn lunged at his throat, snapping him back into silence.

The captain fought with desperate strength, swinging wildly, but his men were falling fast. Morrigan sent another wave of fire across the room, scattering chairs and sending the last of the soldiers crashing to the floor. Sereda pressed forward, her sword whistling as it carved the captain’s shield in two.

He gasped for breath, staggering backward. Around him, his soldiers lay groaning in defeat—disarmed, bloodied, or pinned by Barkspawn’s growls. Morrigan’s staff still crackled with residual energy, the air stinking of ozone and burnt wood.

Sereda and Alistair loomed over the captain, weapons raised. His mace slipped from his trembling hand as he raised both arms in surrender.

“All right! You’ve won—we surrender!” he gasped.

“Good,” the Chantry sister said firmly, stepping forward. “They’ve learned their lesson. And we can all stop fighting now.”

The captain glared up at Sereda, blood running from a split brow. “The Grey Wardens didn’t betray the king,” Alistair told him. “Loghain did!”

“I was there!” the captain shouted back, spittle flying. “The teyrn pulled us out of a trap!”

“The teyrn left the king to die!” he countered, his voice rising.

“The Wardens left the king to his death!” he insisted hoarsely. “The teyrn could do nothing!”

“Let them go,” Sereda cut in, her tone cold as steel. The weight of command left no room for argument. “But take a message to Loghain.”

The captain swallowed, his chest heaving. “Wha-what do you want me to tell him?”

Sereda smirked, lowering her sword but keeping her eyes fixed on his. “Tell him he’ll have to do better than this.”

The captain didn’t need to be told twice. “I’ll tell him—right away. Now, thank you!” He scrambled to his feet, tripping over splintered wood as he waved frantically for his men to follow. They fled, slipping on spilled ale and overturned stools as they bolted out.

Barkspawn gave a final triumphant bark, wagging his butt as if proud of his work.

“Well,” Alistair said, clapping Sereda on the shoulder with a crooked grin, “that’s one way to liven up a tavern.”

The sister turned toward them, her eyes bright with gratitude. “I apologize for interfering,” she said softly. “But I couldn’t just sit by and not help.”

“It’s all right,” Sereda assured her. “I appreciate what you were trying to do.”

“Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay-sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering. “Or... I was.”

“I am Sereda,” she replied, inclining her head. “A pleasure.”

“Those men said you’re Grey Wardens. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes?” Leliana’s tone grew urgent. “That is what the Grey Wardens do? I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

Sereda blinked, caught off guard by the suddenness of the offer. “Uh... why?”

Leliana clasped her hands, her voice full of conviction. “Because the Maker told me to.”

There was a long beat of silence. Sereda took a step back. “Right... this is the part where I back away.”

“I know it sounds strange, but it’s true!” Leliana exclaimed, stepping closer. “I had a dream—a vision. Look at the people here.” She swept her hand toward the frightened refugees. “They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos... will spread. The Maker doesn’t want this. What you do, what you are meant to do, is the Maker’s work. Let me help.”

“I will not turn away when help is offered,” Sereda decided after a pause. Allies were scarce, and they would need all they could find.

Leliana’s face lit with relief. “Thank you! I appreciate being given this chance. I won’t let you down.”

Alistair muttered, glancing at Morrigan with heavy sarcasm. “Great. Just what we needed—more crazy.”

Morrigan smirked, folding her arms. “I wonder if there’s a discount on lunatics today.”

As the group stepped back out, Alistair groaned under his breath. “A dwarf, a templar, a witch, a mabari, and a sister walk into a bar...”

Morrigan snorted, her smile wicked. “And the bar survives by some miracle.”

The group returned to the crooked merchant’s stall, a sour-faced man who never stopped rubbing his hands together as though each coin burned his palms. With the last of their pooled silver, they secured a decent set of chainmail for Leliana and exchanged her dagger for a bow. She tested the string, the gesture quiet but confident, and gave a small nod. Properly outfitted, she seemed far less the wandering lay-sister and far more a companion ready for battle.

None of them wanted to return to the tavern after the fight, nor did the thought of sleeping on ale-soaked floors with desperate refugees sound remotely appealing. They decided instead to make camp beyond the village. The dirt road was crowded at first, but as they passed the edge of Lothering, the bustle thinned into uneasy silence.

That was when Sereda slowed, her gaze catching on something unusual by the roadside.

A massive figure sat caged in iron bars, his broad shoulders hunched but still imposing even in confinement. He muttered under his breath in a tongue Sereda didn’t recognize.

Curiosity tugged at her feet. She drifted closer.

The others didn’t notice until Barkspawn barked sharply and darted back toward her, tail stiff.

“Wait—Barkspawn!” Alistair called, jogging after the mabari. Leliana and Morrigan exchanged glances before reluctantly following him. By the time they caught up, Sereda was already standing before the cage, speaking to the imprisoned giant as though he were any other traveler.

“You’re a prisoner? Who put you here?” she asked, tilting her head to meet his eye through the bars.

The man’s gaze flicked down to her. His voice was low and heavy, laced with annoyance. “I’m in a cage, am I not? I’ve been placed here by the Chantry.”

“The Revered Mother said he slaughtered an entire family... even the children,” Leliana said softly, hesitation in her voice as she kept her distance.

“She speaks the truth,” the Qunari confirmed without remorse. “I am Sten of the Beresaad, vanguard of the Qunari peoples.”

“I’m Sereda,” she replied evenly. “Pleased to meet you.”

Alistair’s mouth fell open. Casual introductions—with a murderer?

“You mock me,” Sten said, narrowing his eyes. “Or perhaps you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. It matters not; I will die soon.”

Morrigan’s eyes gleamed with curiosity as she circled closer. “This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as prey for the darkspawn. If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest you release him for mercy’s sake alone.”

“Mercy?” Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect that from you.”

Morrigan smirked, lips curling. “I’d also suggest Alistair take his place in the cage.”

“Ah, there it is,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

“I suggest you leave me to my fate,” Sten rumbled, voice final, but Sereda’s curiosity was not so easily quenched.

“How did you end up in the cage?”

“I killed a family,” he said simply.

“Why?”

“That is my burden to bear.”

“You could atone by helping me fight the Blight,” Sereda offered.

Alistair groaned under his breath. “Is that really a good idea?”

“We need all the help we can get,” she countered. “The Grey Wardens take in people regardless of their pasts, don’t they?”

“Well, he’s not becoming a Grey Warden,” Alistair argued.

“So? We’re still Grey Wardens. Shouldn’t we follow their example?”

He exhaled heavily, already regretting his agreement. “Your call.”

At last, Sten shifted, meeting Sereda’s eyes with something sharper than indifference. “The Blight? Are you a Grey Warden, then?”

“Yes.”

“My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens’ strength and skill,” he said. “Though I suppose not every legend is true.”

Sereda flinched faintly at the jab but pressed on. “Would the Revered Mother release you?”

“Perhaps. If you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here.”

“Then I’ll talk to her,” Sereda said firmly.

Leaving Sten behind in his cage for the moment, the group headed into the Chantry. The cool stone walls and the faint scent of incense were a stark contrast to the noise and desperation of the streets outside. Worshippers knelt in silent prayer, but the hushed reverence couldn’t completely smother the tension that seemed to hang over Lothering like a fog.

A soldier in battered armor stood near the entryway. Catching sight of Alistair, he froze. His eyes widened in disbelief before he hurried forward.

“Alistair? By the Maker, how are you? I... I was certain you were dead.”

“Donnal?” Alistair said, his tone clipped. Then, gaze turning cold, he added bitterly, “Not yet. No thanks to Loghain.”

Donnal's face fell. “If Arl Eamon were well, he’d set Loghain straight soon enough.”

Alistair blinked. “Eamon is unwell?”

“Have you not heard?” Donnal asked, surprised. “The arlessa has sent us on a mission to locate Andraste’s ashes. They are said to cure any illness. But I swear we are chasing a fable. With every day, my hope dims.”

Sereda stepped forward, folding her arms. “We were hoping to meet the arl, in fact.”

“May I ask why?” Donnal’s tone carried a note of suspicion.

“We need help against Teyrn Loghain.”

Donnal gave a weary shrug. “The arl is a popular man, it’s true. Teyrn Loghain, however, is a hero throughout Ferelden. Whatever the teyrn has done—or not done—the Arl remains ill, or worse. That is my primary concern.”

Sereda frowned. “Is there any point in going to Redcliffe then?”

He hesitated. “He may be dead already. Or perhaps his luck has changed in the weeks I have been gone.”

“We should see what’s happening in Redcliffe ourselves,” Alistair urged. “I believe that now more than ever.”

“If nothing else,” Donnal conceded, “I am certain you would be welcomed in Castle Redcliffe. The arlessa is there, and she could tell you more than I could.”

They thanked him for the information and pressed deeper into the Chantry, where the Revered Mother was in her room.

After making a modest donation of ten silvers, Sereda broached the subject of the Qunari prisoner.

“Why would he interest you?” the Revered Mother asked warily, her expression carefully composed.

“Is there any way I can convince you to release him?” Sereda pressed.

“Then his next victims might count you and me as their murderers,” the Revered Mother replied grimly.

At that, Leliana stepped forward. Her voice was soft but steady, persuasive in its sincerity. She spoke of second chances, of using strength for a greater purpose, and of the Maker’s will in guiding even unlikely allies. The Revered Mother’s lips thinned, her eyes troubled, but at last she yielded, handing over the key with visible reluctance.

“Do as you must,” she warned. “But you court great danger.”

Back at the roadside, Sereda unlocked the cage. The iron creaked as the door swung open, and Sten stepped out, towering above her. He rolled his shoulders, stretching limbs stiffened from confinement, and looked down at her with solemn eyes.

“It is done,” he said gravely. “I will follow you into battle. In doing so, I shall find atonement.”

Sereda allowed herself a small smile. “Welcome aboard, Sten.”

“May we proceed?” he asked, his tone clipped. “I am eager to be elsewhere.”

Before leaving Lothering, they purchased steel armor fit for his massive frame and secured him a proper greatsword. The added weight of another warrior in their company was a comfort, though the atmosphere in the group remained uneasy.

With a few hours of daylight still remaining, they split into two parties to complete tasks posted on the Chanter’s Board. Sereda, Alistair, and Barkspawn formed one group, while Sten, Leliana, and Morrigan took another. By sundown, they regrouped near the bridge at the village’s edge.

That was when a cry for help split the air.

A small caravan lay ambushed by darkspawn. Without hesitation, the Wardens and their allies rushed into the fray, blades and spells cutting through the creatures. Barkspawn bowled one over, tearing at its throat, while Sten cleaved another cleanly in two. By the time the dust settled, the last of the darkspawn lay dead at their feet.

A dwarven merchant scrambled from behind his overturned cart, dragging a young man with him. “The name’s Bodahn Feddric, merchant and entrepreneur,” he said with a bow. “This here is my son, Sandal. Say hello, my boy.”

“Hello,” Sandal said cheerfully, as though the corpses around him were nothing unusual.

“The road’s been mighty dangerous these days,” Bodahn went on, wringing his hands. “Mind if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we’re going the same way?”

“It’s complicated,” Sereda replied honestly. “But you’re welcome to join us.”

“Complicated?” Bodahn chuckled, though unease lingered in his eyes. “Somehow, I imagine that’s the half of it. Thank you for the offer, but there may be more excitement on your path than is good for me and my boy. Allow me to bid you farewell and good fortune. Now, then—” he glanced at Sandal “—let’s get this mess cleaned up, shall we?”

“Enchantment!” Sandal chimed happily.

With no further reason to linger in Lothering, the group finally turned their backs on the village. The setting sun painted the sky in streaks of crimson.

Chapter Text

Alistair was on first watch that night, the steady glow of the central fire throwing shifting light over his armor. Sereda had retired early, exhaustion dragging her down after a long day of marching, fighting, and tending to camp. Sleep had claimed her quickly—but it was not the peaceful kind.

She dreamt of a bridge in the Deep Roads, endless and crumbling, suspended over a chasm thick with darkness. From that abyss rose a horde of darkspawn, countless as ants, their eyes gleaming with malice. And above them, wings unfurling like shadow made flesh, was the dragon—the same dragon she had glimpsed during her Joining. Its scales shimmered with fire and shadow, its eyes fixing on her with terrible weight.

The Archdemon.

It opened its maw, and the sound that escaped was no roar, but a command. It reverberated inside her skull, a language she could not understand yet still felt in her bones. The darkspawn shrieked in unison as though answering its call.

Sereda jolted upright, heart hammering against her ribs. Sweat dampened her skin and tangled her hair against her temples. Her breaths came fast, sharp, like she had just fought her way out of battle. She pressed her palms into the dirt as though to anchor herself in the waking world.

It was just a dream.

Her eyes swept the camp, needing proof of her safety. Leliana was kneeling beside her own tent, humming a hymn. Sten sat with Barkspawn at his side, dragging a whetstone along his massive blade in slow strokes. Morrigan, apart from them all, fed her solitary fire with twigs, her profile stark against the dancing light. 

Just a dream.

“Bad dreams, huh?”

The voice startled her. She turned toward the campfire to find Alistair seated there, leaning slightly forward with his elbows braced on his knees. Firelight caught the worry in his expression, softened only by the familiar thread of wryness he carried in his tone. She wondered how long he had been watching her toss in her sleep.

“Must’ve been something I ate,” she muttered, trying to downplay the fear still churning in her chest.

“Drank, more like,” he countered lightly, though his humor gentled when her brow furrowed. “As in the tainted blood. Remember? You see, part of being Grey Wardens is being able to hear the darkspawn. That’s what your dream was. Hearing them. The Archdemon, it... “talks” to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That’s why we know this is really a Blight.”

Her stomach clenched. The memory of that dragon’s eyes seemed to follow her still. “The Archdemon... is it the dragon?” 

“I don’t know if it’s really a dragon,” Alistair admitted, scratching at his jaw. “But it sure looks like one. But yes, that’s the Archdemon.” He paused, watching her closely, as though bracing for her reaction. “It takes time, but eventually, you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Wardens say they can understand the Archdemon a bit. I sure can’t. Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing about, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me too.”

Her racing heart slowed at his candor. “Thank you, Alistair,” Sereda said with a small smile.

He smiled back, easing into his usual levity. “That’s what I’m here for! To deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners.”

She chuckled softly, brushing the sweat from her brow as she rose and crossed the clearing. The fire’s warmth met her halfway, welcoming after the clammy cold of nightmare. She sank down beside him, the quiet crackle of the flames filling the silence between them.

“Do you want to talk about Duncan?” she asked gently, her voice breaking through the hush without pretense.

Alistair’s smile faltered, just a fraction. “You don’t have to do that. I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t mourn his loss,” she pointed out softly. “He saved me even when he didn’t have to.”

Something shifted in his face—less sorrow than guilt. “I... should have handled it better. Duncan warned me that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and... everything else. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” she soothed, her tone steady where his faltered.

“I’d... like to have a proper funeral for him,” Alistair said after a long pause. “Maybe once this is all done—if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.”

“He had you,” Sereda pointed out.

He blinked, then gave a small, fragile smile, as though her words eased a weight he’d been carrying alone. “I suppose he did. It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him in the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.”

“No, I understand completely.” She thought of Trian then, of what would have happened had she been there.

“Of course I’d be dead then, wouldn’t I? It’s not like that would make him any happier,” Alistair said bitterly. His gaze turned distant, drawn past the fire. “I think he came from Highever. Or so he said. I’ll go up out there sometime, see about putting up something in his honor. I don’t know.” He hesitated, then glanced sidelong at her. “Dwarves don’t practice cremation, do they? How do your people honor your dead?”

“We entomb our dead within the stone beneath our thaigs,” she explained, her voice steady with the memory of solemn halls.

“I... heard about that,” he replied, brow furrowing as though searching for the details. “Now that I think about it. Their spirits return to the rock, strengthening the foundation of the thaig? It sounds so strange.”

She snorted softly, though was surprised at how much he knew. “No stranger than burning your honored dead to ashes.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He gave her a small smile that didn’t quite mask the ache in his eyes. “Thank you, really. I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little.”

“Maybe I’ll go to Highever with you. When this is over,” she offered.

“I’d like that,” Alistair said, his voice hushed now, almost reverent. “So would he, I think.”

The fire snapped softly, its warmth sinking into her bones. For a moment, they both sat without words, watching sparks curl upward into the night. Then Alistair straightened slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“We should probably think about tomorrow,” he said. “I was thinking we head to Redcliffe. The arl’s sick. Badly, from what I heard. And if there’s anyone who might rally Ferelden’s banners, it’s him. We’ll need every sword we can get.”

Sereda considered, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Redcliffe makes sense. But...” Her eyes flicked toward the darkness, thoughtful. “The Circle tower is aonly a day’s walk from the village, wasn’t it? If we go there first, we’d have at least one treaty fulfilled by the time we speak to the arl. It might make him more likely to take us seriously.”

Alistair tilted his head, chewing on that. “Hm. I hadn’t thought of it that way. A little proof to wave in people’s faces—‘see, we’re not just a couple of lunatics babbling about Blights’.” His mouth curved into a small grin. “Alright, I’ll admit, you’re onto something there.”

“So the tower first?” she asked, watching him carefully.

“The tower first,” he agreed with a nod. “Not my favorite idea, mind you—but... you’re right. And if it helps, then it’s worth it.”

Sereda lingered a little longer at his side, the fire crackling warmly as silence stretched, comfortable this time. She studied the way the flames caught in his hair, the subtle lines of worry still etched on his face despite his best efforts to hide them.

Eventually, she pushed herself to her feet, brushing the dirt from her hands. “Get some rest when you can,” she told him gently.

“Bossy already,” Alistair muttered, though his smile showed he didn’t mind.

Shaking her head with faint amusement, Sereda left him by the fire and crossed the camp toward Leliana. 

She sat cross-legged near her tent, her attention fixed entirely on her bow and arrows. Each shaft was inspected with meticulous care; she smoothed the fletching, straightened any that bent even slightly, and set them aside in a neat row. Sereda lingered a moment, watching with quiet fascination. She had never had the patience for bows—precision and distance didn’t suit her temperament. A sword in her hand, or the solid weight of her shield crashing against an enemy, had always felt simpler. 

Leliana looked up, sensing the dwarf’s gaze, and her lips curved into a warm, welcoming smile. “Good evening, Sereda.”

“Want to talk?” Sereda asked, stepping closer. When Leliana patted the ground beside her, she sat down, folding her legs beneath her.

“Of course!” She said brightly. “What’s on your mind?”

Sereda leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “That vision of yours...”

Leliana let out a soft sigh, her smile dimming into something more thoughtful. “I knew this would come up sooner or later. I don’t know how to explain, but I had a dream. In it, there was an impenetrable darkness—it was so dense, so real. And there was a noise, a terrible, ungodly noise.” Her voice faltered, and her eyes clouded with the memory. “I stood on a peak and watched as the darkness consumed everything... and when the storm swallowed the last of the sun’s light, I... I fell. And the darkness drew me in.”

“You dreamt of the Blight?” Sereda asked, brows knitting.

Leliana gave a faint nod. “I suppose I did. That’s what the darkness was, no?”

Sereda’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “That explains why you practically forced us to let you join.”

She chuckled softly, though her gaze remained distant. She didn’t deny it. “When I woke, I went to the Chantry gardens as I always do. But that day, the rosebush in the corner had flowered. Everyone knew that bush was dead. It was gray and twisted, and gnarled. The ugliest thing you ever saw—but there it was. A single beautiful rose. It was as though the Maker had stretched out His hand to say, ‘Even in the midst of this darkness, there is hope and beauty. Have faith’.”

“And that was the moment you decided to help?” Sereda asked.

Leliana’s expression grew serene. “In my dream, I fell—or maybe I jumped... I’d do anything to stop the Blight. I know that we can do it. There are so many good things in the Maker’s world. How can I sit by while the Blight devours everything?”

Sereda nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in. “I guess I couldn’t sit by either.”

Leliana’s smile bloomed again, warm and bright in the firelight. “That is why you are a Grey Warden. The Maker chose you to end the Blight. And He guided me to you, so I could help.”

Sereda rose to her feet after a moment, offering a quiet, “Goodnight.” Leliana dipped her head in farewell, already turning her attention back to her bow.

As Sereda moved away, her gaze swept the camp. Barkspawn was dozing near the fire, while Sten had left the hound’s side to stand apart, his tall frame cutting a rigid silhouette against the shifting glow of flames. His posture was as disciplined and unyielding as stone. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided to approach him.

“Sten,” Sereda greeted, keeping her tone polite. “We’re working together. I think I should get to know you.”

The qunari turned his head slowly, the firelight catching on the sharp angles of his face. His eyes settled on her, as if weighing her worth for even daring to speak. His arms were crossed over his chest, massive shoulders casting long shadows across the ground.

“There are darkspawn to fight,” he said bluntly, voice like gravel. “Is this delay needful?”

“It’s late,” Sereda pointed out, undeterred. “We’ll be heading to the mages tomorrow to gather allies. Then we’ll head to Redcliffe. They’ll help us stop the Blight.”

Sten’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer before shifting to the fire. His jaw flexed as if chewing over her words. “And once you have this army,” he said at last, “you’ll face the Archdemon?”

“That’s the plan.” Sereda shrugged, though the weight of it pressed at her chest. “Though I doubt it’ll be simple.”

“Parshaara,” he muttered, almost spitting the word. His tone was heavy with disapproval. “We waste time with trivialities.”

Sereda squared her shoulders, unwilling to be cowed. “Are you alright? You were in that cage for weeks.”

His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. Her softness seemed to catch him off guard, if only for a breath. “You are concerned? No need. I am fit enough to fight.”

She hesitated before pressing on. “I’ve never met a qunari before. Can you tell me more about your people?”

“No.”

The flatness of it hit like a wall. Sereda blinked, but steadied her voice. “No? Why not?”

Sten finally turned fully toward her, his massive frame casting her into shadow. His arms unfolded, one hand gesturing curtly as if cutting the thought away. “People are not simple. They cannot be summarized for easy reference in the manner of, ‘the elves are lithe, pointy-eared people who excel at poverty’.”

Sereda folded her arms. “You said you were in the army?”

“I am.”

“Why would the qunari send soldiers here?”

“The antaam are the eyes, hands, and mouth of the qunari.” His voice was flat but steady, recited like scripture. “We are how my people know the world.”

“Doesn’t that make your view of things a little skewed?”

“Compared to what?” His eyes cut back to her.

“You only learn about the people you conquer?” she countered.

He tilted his head, his expression impossible to read. “What does anyone truly know of the world? The world changes. We change. The antaam observe what we can, just as you do. There is no point to this. We are keeping the darkspawn waiting.”

Sereda arched a brow. “What’s the hurry?”

For the first time, a flicker of amusement touched his voice, though his face barely shifted. “What a strange language you speak. You say "hurry" where I would say "duty"."

“It is not your duty to handle the Blight,” she pointed out.

“No. It is yours.” His eyes locked with hers, sharp and unwavering. “And you are chatting with me instead.”

The words hung between them. Sereda stood there for a moment, the chill of his rebuke settling heavy in her chest. With a quiet sigh, she stepped back, giving him the space he demanded. Some walls, she thought, would take time to break—if they ever did.

Sereda turned toward Morrigan’s fire. Or at least, that was her intention. She hadn’t taken more than a few steps when a familiar voice drifted across the camp, stopping her in her tracks.

“Ah! It’s good to see you, my timely rescuer!” Bodahn Feddic exclaimed as he bustled into camp, his face beaming with delight. His son, Sandal, toddled faithfully at his side, eyes wide as he took in the bustle of tents and fires. “Bodahn Feddic, at your service once again!” He gave Sandal a little nudge. “Say hello, my boy.”

“Hello,” Sandal said simply, his voice flat but endearing.

Sereda raised a brow, crossing her arms. “How did you find us?”

“I saw your camp and remembered the kind offer you made the last time we met,” Bodahn explained, his tone cheery as always. A hearty chuckle escaped him as he gestured broadly at the circle of firelight. “And is there anywhere safer for a poor merchant and his son to sleep? I think not.”

“I’m glad to see you’re both okay,” Sereda said, softening into a smile. “The roads are dangerous with darkspawn about.”

“They are indeed! We’ve been careful, though, thanks to your earlier intervention.” Bodahn hesitated for a moment, scratching his chin, before leaning in with a sly grin. “I don’t mean to impose, but if we could perhaps stay with your group for safety’s sake, I’d be more than happy to offer you a discount on my wares. How does that sound? Good, yes?”

Sereda tapped her chin as though weighing the offer. “Hmm... You can stay. Just mind yourselves.”

“Ah, thank you! Sandal, say thank you to the kind lady!”

“Thank you, kind lady!” Sandal chirped, making Sereda chuckle a little.

“See? Polite as always,” Bodahn said proudly, patting his son’s shoulder. “We won’t bother you or your companions, I assure you. If you need enchantments, speak to my boy. Otherwise, come see me for anything else.”

Satisfied that they had been welcomed, Bodahn guided Sandal off toward the edge of camp, already beginning to set up their caravan and tent.

With that settled, Sereda finally made her way across the campfire’s glow toward Morrigan. The witch sat apart, back straight, a book balanced on her knees. She didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by Sereda’s approach. Instead, she lifted her gaze briefly, eyes catching the firelight, and gave her a pointed look before turning another page.

“Evening, Morrigan,” Sereda greeted as she approached. She lowered herself against the trunk of a tree not far from where the witch sat. “How are you holding up?”

Morrigan let out an exaggerated sigh, closing her book with a sharp snap. “I was managing, until Leliana decided to regale me with more tales of her absent father-figure in the sky.”

Sereda smirked faintly, folding her arms. “We all have our beliefs. They deserve respect, don’t you think?”

Morrigan arched her brow, eyes glinting with mischief. “And you believe in your precious ancestors, do you not?”

“And the Stone,” Sereda added.

Morrigan chuckled dryly. “Fascinating. Now, what is it you need?”

“I saw you transform into a wolf during the fight earlier,” Sereda said, recalling the bandis they got rid of for the Chantry. She tilted her head, studying Morrigan with open curiosity. “How did you do that?”

“Shapeshifting,” Morrigan replied with a nonchalant shrug, as if it were as simple as breathing.

Intrigued, Sereda pressed, “how did you learn to shapeshift?”

“‘Tis a skill of Flemeth’s, taught over many years in the Wilds,” Morrigan explained, voice smooth as silk. “The Chasind have many tales of we witches, saying that we assume the forms of creatures to watch them from hiding. When a child is alone and separate from his tribe, that is when we strike. Dragging the young boy kicking and screaming to our lair to be devoured. A most amusing legend.”

Sereda folded her arms, leaning a little closer as though challenging Morrigan’s tone. “Your mother been doing this a long time then?”

Morrigan’s lips twisted into a sly grin. “Changing her form? Certainly. As for devouring children, I cannot say—she has not done it in my experience. But in truth, my lifespan is but a fraction of her own. Why do you ask? Is there something specific you want to know?”

“Can you change into other human forms, as well?” Sereda asked, tilting her head.

“The form of an animal is different from my own. One may study the creature, learn to move as it does, think as it does. I gain nothing by studying another human,” Morrigan explained. “I already am the same as they are. I learn nothing. So the answer is no—my human form is the only one I possess.”

“Shame,” Sereda said, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “I’d have liked to see what you could do with another face.”

Morrigan’s eyes flicked up from her book, catching the subtle change in Sereda’s tone. A single brow arched.

“Can anyone become a shapeshifter?” Sereda asked, almost innocently.

“Anyone with sufficient will,” Morrigan replied. “But the act of transformation is a magical one. ‘Tis a spell, and thus requires magical talent. If you had a notion to learn such a skill for yourself, sadly, you must remain disappointed.”

Sereda’s shoulders sank, her mouth quirking in disappointment. “Figures.”

Morrigan’s smirk widened. “Do not pout so. It ill suits you.”

“Do you spend a lot of time as an animal, then?” Sereda asked, brushing past the jab with an amused huff.

“There were nights when the Wilds called to me. ‘Tis true. You look upon the world around you and think you know it well. I have smelled it as a wolf, listened as a cat, prowled shadows that you never dreamed existed. But my life is human. I am under no illusions to the contrary.”

“And what do the animals think of you when you change?”

“They do not shy away from me. To their senses, I believe it seems like any other of their species. As to what they think, I truly cannot say. Just as I am still human, no matter my form, they are still animals. Thus they cannot speak, even were I to ask.”

“I never heard of this magic before,” Sereda admitted, leaning one shoulder against the tree, her eyes never leaving Morrigan’s face.

“No?” Morrigan sounded genuinely surprised. “This is not unheard of, in the remote corners of the world. There are traditions of magic outside of the Circle of Magi, despite what those cloistered fools would have you believe. Some of these traditions are old, indeed—passed down as carefully guarded lore from one generation to the next. The zealots of the Chantry would uproot all such practitioners if they could. But as luck would have it, some still exist. My mother is such a one.”

“Some traditions need to be preserved,” Sereda said quietly.

“I am surprised you think so,” Morrigan replied. “Still, ‘tis pleasant to hear. Have you an opinion on my abilities, then? Am I an unnatural abomination to be put to the torch?”

Sereda snorted, her smirk returning. “I think they’re quite useful.”

“A most practical opinion,” Morrigan purred, eyes narrowing just slightly, as though weighing more behind Sereda’s words.

“Practical,” Sereda echoed. She let her gaze linger on Morrigan just a fraction too long before pushing herself off the tree and brushing her palms together. “Useful things have their own beauty, don’t you think?”

Morrigan tilted her head, a slow smile curling her lips. “Careful, Warden. You tread dangerously close to flattery.”

“Dangerous isn’t always bad,” Sereda replied, the grin on her face subtle but pointed.

Morrigan’s sly smile still lingered in her thoughts as she wandered toward the edge of camp where Barkspawn lay curled by the fire. At the sound of her steps, his ears perked up, and his head lifted. His whole body wiggled with delight at her approach.

“Well, look at you,” Sereda murmured, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. The mabari leaned into her touch with a pleased grunt, pressing his massive head against her chest as if trying to knock her over. She laughed, bracing herself with one hand. “Careful now. You’re going to bowl me over, and I don’t think either of us would come out looking dignified.”

Barkspawn gave a short, happy bark, his tongue lolling out as she rubbed the thick fur along his neck.

“You know,” Sereda continued softly, “I wasn’t sure what to make of you at first. And I didn’t think you would survive. Just as how I felt in the Deep Roads.” Her smile faltered for just a moment as the weight of those words sank in. She rested her forehead briefly against the mabari’s brow. “Now it’s just us, isn’t it? We’re Grey Wardens. That means doing the impossible.”

Barkspawn gave a low, approving rumble, as though he understood every word.

“We have to gather armies, convince nobles, stop bickering kings and arls from tearing each other apart long enough to fight the Blight.” She sighed, scratching at his jaw as she thought aloud. “Sometimes it feels like we’re expected to be more than just warriors. Diplomats, leaders... even symbols.”

The mabari snorted, then leaned forward to lick her chin. Sereda chuckled, pushing his snout gently away. “Alright, alright. I get it. No time for doubts, eh? You just want me to keep moving forward.”

She leaned back on her heels, gazing into the firelight that flickered across the camp. “We’ll figure it out, boy. Step by step, treaty by treaty, battle by battle. And when the Archdemon shows its ugly head...” She ruffled the mabari’s fur with sudden determination. “We’ll be there. Together.”

Barkspawn gave a triumphant bark as if sealing the promise, before sprawling across her lap, pinning her in place with his sheer weight.

“Ancestors,” Sereda laughed, though she made no move to push him off. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I’ll stay right here a while.”

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the shores of Lake Calenhad, the last light of day had vanished, leaving the sky a velvet sweep of stars reflected in the still, black waters. The massive silhouette of the Circle Tower loomed in the distance, its windows glimmering faintly like watchful eyes.

Sereda, Leliana, and Barkspawn made their way down to the dock. A lone Templar stood guard there, his armor catching the faint shimmer of moonlight. He shifted as they approached.

“You!” the Templar barked, his gauntlet pointing sharply at the group. “You’re not looking to get across to the tower, are you? Because I have strict orders not to let anyone pass!”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Sereda replied firmly, her voice carrying across the quiet dock. “I require the mages’ assistance.”

The Templar squinted at her, his expression skeptical even in the dim light. “Oh, a Grey Warden, are you? Prove it.”

Suppressing a groan, Sereda dug into her pack, pulling free a weathered folder of parchment. She flipped it open to reveal the documents bearing her Warden seal and held them out. The Templar snatched them up, turning them this way and that under the pale light of the moon.

“A Grey Warden seal. A-ha. So you’re claiming to be one of those,” he said at last, tone flat with disbelief. He tilted the papers toward the light, squinting hard. “You know, I have some documents, too. They say I’m the Queen of Antiva. What do you think of that?”

Sereda raised a single brow, unimpressed. “Aren’t queens typically female?”

The Templar straightened, pointing a finger at her with mock authority. “Don’t question royalty! Anyway, it was nice chatting with you. Now on your way. Right now. Go.” He flapped a hand at them, as if trying to shoo away stubborn pigeons.

Sereda crossed her arms, unimpressed by the show. “I doubt your superior will be thrilled to hear you’ve denied Grey Wardens access.”

That seemed to strike a nerve. The Templar blinked, his smirk faltering as he muttered, “Oh, really? You think Knight-Commander Greagoir would be upset with me for not letting you in?” He hesitated, then frowned. “Wait... actually. He would. Good point. He’s the big guy around here... I bet he could deal with one Grey Warden. Alleged Grey Warden.” He stepped aside at last, gesturing stiffly toward the small rowboat. “Come along, I suppose.”

The boat creaked as they climbed in, the night air filled with nothing but the gentle splash of oars. The waters of Lake Calenhad were unnervingly calm, a mirror of stars stretching endlessly beneath them. Sereda sat silent, her gaze fixed on the tower's looming figure growing larger with every pull.

Less than half an hour later, the boat nudged against the far dock with a hollow thump. Sereda and her companions stepped out, offering Carroll—who finally introduced himself with a curt nod—a brief thanks before starting the ascent up the stone stairs. 

Injured Templars lay groaning on the cold flagstones, blood darkening the mortar, while others darted about on urgent errands—buckets of water, hastily bandaged wounds, shouted orders—each movement a flurry against the creeping dread. Smoke curled from a brazier knocked askew. The air smelled of wet wool and iron and a faint, underlying ozone that made the skin tingle.

Amid the bustle one man stood steady. He barked instructions at a younger Templar until the man saluted and ran.

“...and I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times,” he ordered, tone brooking no argument. “And no one opens them without my express consent. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander!” the Templar saluted, then hurried away to take his post.

The commander turned, his gaze landed on Sereda and her companions the instant they entered the main chamber. “Now we wait and pray.”

“You’re Knight-Commander Greagoir, I take it?” 

Greagoir did not bother to answer at first. Instead his eyes narrowed. “Who are you? I explicitly told Carroll not to bring anyone across the lake! We are dealing with a very delicate situation. You must leave for your own safety.”

“I am Sereda Aeducan of the Grey Warden’s,” she replied firmly. “I’ve come to request the mages’ aid in fighting the Blight.”

At the mention of Grey Wardens, Greagoir’s scowl deepened. He planted his hands on his hips and spat words that tasted of exhaustion. “I am weary of the Grey Wardens’ ceaseless need for men to fight the darkspawn, but it is their right. You'll find no allies here. The Templars can spare no men and the mages are... indisposed. I shall speak planely. The tower is no longer under our control. The Circle is lost. The tower has fallen.”

Sereda exchanged a quick look with Leliana. Everywhere she went, the ruin of some plan trailed her. Was it poor timing, or had the world simply turned its face from her? “How did this happen?” 

Greagoir let out a heavy sigh and turned his gaze back to the heavy doors as if they might offer answers. “We don't know. We saw only demons, hunting Templars and mages alike. I realized we could not defeat them and ordered my men to flee.”

Sereda’s jaw tightened. “What can I do to help?” 

He gave a bleak answer. “I have sent word to Denerim,” he explains, “calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment.”

“What is the Right of Annulment?” she asked, noticing the way Leliana’s face had gone still.

“The Right of Annulment gives Templars the authority to neutralize the mage Circle completely.” 

“You would destroy the entire Circle?!” Sereda’s disbelief rose. “Even the mages who are innocent?”

Greagoir’s patience snapped. “This is not an easy decision! The situation is dire. There is no alternative—everything in the tower must be destroyed so it can be safe again.”

Sereda shut her eyes for a breath, tasting metal and smoke. Wiping out every life in the tower was barbaric in the name of safety. She found the anger in her throat, then forced it into resolve. When she looked up her voice was steadier, colder with purpose. “The mages are not defenseless. Some may still be alone.”

Greagoir’s expression hardened. “If any are still alive, the Maker Himself has shielded them. No one could have survived those monstrous creatures. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find... nothing.”

Sereda felt her anger settle into stubbornness. She would not stand by and let every life be sacrificed without trying. “We will kill any demon and abomination in our way. And save whoever is still alive. That way, there will be no need for the Right of Annulment.”

Greagoir studied her for a long beat, then let out a breath that was both surrender and warning. “I assure you, an abomination is a force to be reckoned with, and you will face more than one.”

“I must try,” she said simply.

He held her with a look that might have been respect—or the recognition of someone who’d been given a choice he could not quite make. “A word of caution... once you cross the threshold there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred. I will open them for no one until I have proof that it is safe. I will only believe it is over if the First Enchanter stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen... then the Circle is lost, and must be destroyed. May Andraste lend you her courage, whatever you decide.”

Greagoir walked them to the massive iron doors and, with gloved hands, he pushed the barricade up and let them step through. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them with a resonant boom; the lock clicked home like the final seal on a tomb. Beyond the threshold the tower exhaled a cold, oppressive stillness. Their footsteps echoed as they stepped into corridors emptied by panic, the tower itself seeming to hold its breath as they entered the desolate, dangerous heart of the Circle.

To their right, an old dormitory waited with its door ajar. Inside, ruin greeted them: splintered beds lay broken across the floor, personal belongings scattered from overturned chests, and streaks of blood stained the walls.

The next dormitory offered no comfort. As they pressed deeper into the tower, the hallway became a graveyard. Templars and mages lay side by side, their faces frozen in shock, their final moments painted across shattered furniture and bloodied stone.

Ahead, a heavy door loomed. Sereda drew her sword and pushed it open.

From the shadows, a massive rage demon surged forward, its roar shaking the walls. Before Sereda could move, a figure stepped into its path.

“Wynne?” Sereda blurted, recognizing the mage from Ostagar.

Wynne raised her staff, frost exploding outward to encase the demon in ice. Another mage struck immediately, lightning shattering the frozen beast into jagged shards.

When the creature fell silent, Wynne swung her staff toward Sereda and her companions, her expression hard. “It’s you! No... come no further. Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down where you stand!”

“Wynne, wait!” Sereda raised her hands in a calming gesture, stepping forward cautiously. “What are you doing here?”

Wynne narrowed her eyes. “I am a mage of the Circle. More importantly, why are you here? The Templars would not let just anyone by.”

“We came seeking the aid of the mages,” Sereda explained.

For a long moment, Wynne held her gaze, then finally lowered her staff—though her face remained grim. “And you were told that the Circle was in no shape to help, I suppose. So why did the Templars let you in? Do they plan to attack the tower?”

Sereda frowned. “The Right hasn’t been granted yet. There’s still time to save the Circle.”

Wynne’s shoulders sagged, relief tempered with doubt. “They sent for it, then. I feared they might have. What else could they do? So Greagoir thinks the Circle is beyond hope. He probably assumes we all died. They abandoned us to our fate, but even trapped as we are, we have survived. If they invoke the Right, however, we will not be able to stand against them.”

“What exactly happened here?” Sereda asked.

“Let it suffice to say that we had something of a revolt on our hands. Led by a mage named Uldred.” Wynne’s voice tightened with frustration. “When he returned from the battle of Ostagar, he tried to take over the Circle. As you can see, it didn’t work out as he had planned. I don’t know what became of Uldred. But I am certain all of this is his doing. I will not lose the Circle to one man’s pride and stupidity.”

Her eyes flicked toward a glowing barrier further down the room. “I erected a barrier over the door leading to the rest of the tower, so nothing from inside could attack the children. You will not be able to enter the tower as long as the barrier holds. But I will dispel it if you join me to save the Circle.”

“But the Templars may attack at any moment,” Sereda warned.

“Yes.” Wynne’s reply was heavy, sad. “Even if we cannot eliminate all the demons and abominations, together, we could lead the survivors out. Once Greagoir sees that we have made the tower safe, I trust he will tell his men to back down. He is not unreasonable.”

“Greagoir will only accept it if the First Enchanter says so,” Sereda informed.

“Then our path is laid out before us. We must save Irving.”

Sereda glanced toward the children huddled behind together in a corner, terrified. “Will the children be safe here?”

“Petra and Kinnon will watch them,” Wynne gestured toward them. “If we slay all the fiends we encounter on our way, none will get by to threaten the children.”

“Wynne, are you sure you’re all right?” Petra interjected, stepping forward. “You were so badly hurt earlier. Maybe I should come along.”

“The others need your protection more,” Wynne replied. “I will be all right. Stay here with them... keep them safe and calm.”

“Have faith,” Sereda told Petra gently. “We will not fail.”

“Your confidence is refreshing,” Wynne looked back at her. “Though you should make sure it does not blind you to your weaknesses.”

With her mind set, Wynne stepped toward the barrier.

As Sereda moved to follow, Petra caught her shoulder. “I don’t know if she’s up to this... especially not after... I just worry.”

“Don’t worry.” Sereda placed her hand on Petra’s. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Petra smiled faintly. “Thank you. And thank you again for helping us.” She let Sereda go, and the Warden rejoined her companions.

“I am somewhat amazed at myself for having kept it in place this long,” Wynne admitted quietly.

Sereda stepped up beside her. “You did what you had to do, Wynne.”

Wynne looked down at her. “It made me very wary at times, but I had to stay strong, to keep us safe. Be prepared for anything. I do not know what manner of beasts lurk beyond the barrier. Be on your guard.”

Taking a steadying breath, Wynne raised her hand. The shimmering wall flickered, then dissolved, leaving the way open into the depths of the tower.

“May the Maker guide us.”

The air beyond the barrier was thick with oppressive silence, broken only by the faint crackle of unseen flames and the mournful groan of the tower’s strained stonework. The group moved cautiously, weapons drawn, until they rounded a corner and stepped into the library.

The room was vast, shelves looming like skeletal ribs in the flickering light. Shadows shifted unnaturally, and then three demons materialized from the gloom, their twisted forms pulsing with malice.

Sereda charged forward, shield raised, the first demon’s claws screeching across steel as she slammed into it with brute force. Her sword flashed, carving through its chest in a clean arc, the creature shrieking as it dissolved into smoke.

On the flank, Leliana planted her feet, loosing arrow after arrow with fluid precision. Her shots struck true, pinning another demon in place before her final arrow sank deep into its skull, the beast vanishing with a hiss of ash.

At the rear, Wynne summoned a shimmering aura surrounding Sereda as her wounds knit closed, the worst of the claw marks dulled by soothing magic. But Wynne was not idle—her staff flared with cold light, a shard of frost exploding against the last demon, locking its limbs in brittle ice. She followed with a crack of lightning, the smell of ozone sharp in the air as the frozen creature shattered.

As they continued on, the library offered no reprieve. It seemed endless, the aisles filled with an unrelenting tide of demons and abominations. They surged from every shadow, forcing them to fight step by step. Sereda’s shield rang again and again as she deflected blows, countering with heavy slashes that split abominations down the middle as Barkspawn mauled them down. Leliana wove between shelves, firing rapidly, each arrow whistling death into demonic flesh. Wynne’s magic sparked and flared behind them, bolts of frost slowing enemies while bursts of healing energy kept the others fighting when burns and blood threatened to fell them.

Each kill ended in a burst of flame, forcing them to dive aside or brace themselves as fire scorched the walls. Their armor smoked, their stamina frayed, but still they pressed upward.

On the second floor, devastation reigned. Blood painted the walls in wide arcs, furniture lay in shattered heaps, and bodies—mage and Templar alike—were strewn as though tossed by some monstrous hand.

To the left, the stockroom door stood ajar.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Sereda called into the dimness.

A flat, monotone voice answered. “Please refrain from entering the stockroom. It is a mess and I have not been able to get it into a state fit to be seen.”

They rounded the corner to find a man calmly stacking scattered supplies. His expression was blank, his motions mechanical.

“You’re Tranquil,” Sereda observed. “Who are you?”

“My name is Owain,” the man replied emotionlessly.

“Are you alright?”

“The stockroom is my responsibility. I must keep it clean,” Owain said simply. “I tried to leave, when things got quiet. That was when I encountered the barrier. Finding no other way out, I returned to my work.”

“Owain, you should have said something!” Wynne scolded, her voice softening. “I would have opened the door for you.”

“The stockroom is familiar,” Owain said flatly. “I prefer it here.”

“At least you’re safe,” Sereda sighed.

“I would prefer not to die. I would prefer it if the tower returned the way it was,” Owain replied. “Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all.”

“Niall?” Wynne’s voice sharpened. “What is he trying to do?”

“I do not know, but he came here with several others, and took the Litany of Adralla,” Owain explained.

“But that protects from mind domination,” Wynne murmured, her brows knitting. “Is blood magic at work here?”

“I do not know,” Owain replied.

“Niall was in the meeting,” Wynne said grimly. “He would know. Blood magic... I was afraid of this.”

“We’ll be able to handle it,” Sereda tried to assure her.

“We should find Niall,” Wynne replied. “The Litany will give us a fighting chance against any blood mage we encounter.”

“I wish you luck,” Owain said. “Perhaps this will be over soon and things will return to the way they are.”

They continued on. In a dim, blood-soaked chamber, a handful of mages lurked, their eyes wild and hands slick with crimson blood.

Sereda charged, shield raised, smashing into the first mage with bone-rattling force. Her sword followed through, cutting him down before he could finish his incantation.

Barkspawn lunged past her, a blur of muscle and teeth. He clamped onto a second mage, dragging him to the floor as snarls echoed off the walls.

An arrow whistled by Sereda’s ear—Leliana striking a third mage square in the chest. He staggered back, gurgling, before crumpling to the blood-slick stone.

The last mage raised a hand, dark magic flaring—only to be struck by Wynne’s spell. A precise arc of lightning crackled across the room, seizing her body with violent spasms before she collapsed.

Breathing hard, the group closed in. The woman, bleeding but alive, dropped to her knees.

“Please, please don’t kill me,” the mage begged, her voice cracking.

Sereda’s grip tightened on her sword. “The people you killed didn’t want to die either. Why should we spare you?”

Tears streamed down the mage’s face. “I know I have no right to ask for mercy. But I didn’t mean for this death and destruction. We were just trying to free ourselves. Uldred told us that the Circle would support Loghain, and Loghain would help us be free of the Chantry. You don’t know what it’s like. The Templars watching. Always watching.”

Sereda’s expression remained hard, though pity flickered in her eyes. “And instead, you’ve unleashed death and chaos. What you’ve done will make things worse for future mages.”

“We thought... someone always has to take the first step... force a change, no matter the cost.” The mage sobbed, clutching at the floor.

“Nothing is worth what you’ve done to this place,” Wynne snapped, disgust curling her words.

The mage lowered her head, trembling. “And now Uldred’s gone mad. And we are scattered, doomed to die at the hands of those who seek to right our wrongs...”

Sereda stepped closer, her shadow falling over the woman. “We’ll let you go,” she decided, “but we won’t help you escape. If you can evade the Templars, you’ll have your freedom. That’s all I can offer.”

The mage lifted her tear-streaked face, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Thank you. The Maker will surely turn His eyes on you for your mercy!”

“Go,” Sereda ordered, stepping aside.

The mage stumbled away, leaving them to continue their grim march through the Circle’s shattered halls, they pressed deeper, and the stench of rot hit them first, followed by the shuffle of feet and the guttural growls of a cluster of abominations lurching from the shadows, behind them, corpses animated by foul magic shambled forward with jerky, unnatural steps.

“Hold the line!” Sereda barked, planting her shield before her as one of the abominations scratched it. Her sword cut deep into its chest, the impact forcing the creature back with a howl that rattled the walls.

Barkspawn darted between undead legs, snapping tendons and dragging a corpse to the ground while Leliana loosed arrows in quick succession. Her shots pierced eye sockets and throats, dropping the reanimated dead one after another.

“Careful—left side!” Wynne cried, lifting her staff. A bolt of frost erupted from its tip, freezing a charging abomination mid-stride. Sereda swung hard, her blade shattering the creature into shards of steaming flesh and ice. Wynne followed with a burst of lightning that arced through two more enemies, their bodies convulsing before crumpling to the floor.

The last corpse lunged blindly at Sereda. She rammed her shield into its skull, the crack resounding, then thrust her sword through its chest. When it stilled, they pressed onward until they reached Irving’s office. What once had been a place of order and authority now lay in complete ruin. Books were strewn across the floor, pages shredded and fluttering like broken wings. Furniture lay in splinters, and blood had been smeared across the walls as though by a desperate hand. But of the First Enchanter, there was no sign.

Wynne let out a long, weary sigh, her shoulders sagging. “I half expected him to be here.”

The group spread out, searching half-heartedly for clues. Sereda’s eyes caught on a peculiar black tome, its leather cover untouched by dust or flame. With a glance at Wynne—who was busy righting a fallen chair—Sereda slipped it quietly into her pack.

They regrouped near the broken desk, deciding to take a moment to rest. Wynne leaned heavily on her staff, sweat beading her brow. Leliana sat cross-legged on the floor, wiping blood from her arrows with a scrap of cloth. Barkspawn padded over and collapsed beside Sereda, resting his massive head against her thigh with a tired huff.

Sereda stroked the mabari’s fur absently, then glanced at Wynne. “Tell me more about the Litany,” she asked, trying to make conversation.

“Adralla was a bard in the service of Divine Clemence I during the second Exalted March,” Wynne explained. “The Schism had split the Chantry into the one we know and the Imperial Chantry, in Tevinter. There was much mistrust of the Tevinter Imperium at the time, as you can imagine. Even though the Imperial Chantry had forbidden blood magic, our Chantry did not believe them. After all, many Tevinter mages—and even their magister lords—had used blood magic with impunity throughout history. Together with the help of the Chantry and its Templars, Adralla wrote the Litany, to protect against the mind-controlling abilities of blood mages.”

“Are you sure it still works?” Sereda asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Wynne replied. “Reciting the Litany breaks existing mind control and prevents future attempts at domination from being successful.”

“Can you tell me more about Uldred?”

“Uldred...” Wynne hesitated. “It’s uncharitable of me to speak this way, but I never liked him. He was a squirrelly, twitchy sort of person. He never mentored the apprentices, never taught. He didn’t seem to care much for the Circle—only his own advancement.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s responsible for this.” Still, after everything Sereda had heard, it was most likely his doing.

“Call it a woman’s intuition,” Wynne replied with a smirk. “I’m sure Uldred has some redeeming qualities. He probably has a perfectly good reason for not displaying them.”

“Can you tell me how this trouble started?”

Wynne’s expression darkened as she straightened, her exhaustion falling away under the weight of memory. “Ah, a long story. It all started when I returned from Ostagar. I was at that ill-fated battle, and I survived—barely. I was in no state to travel, so I stayed at Ostagar to recuperate and help the wounded. Uldred, on the other hand, left for the tower almost immediately. When I finally returned here, I found that Uldred had all but convinced the Circle to join Loghain, the man who nearly destroyed us all! I cannot fault the Circle though. Uldred had a persuasive argument, and how could they have known what happened at Ostagar?”

“Maybe Uldred had been in cahoots with Loghain all along,” Sereda suggested.

“That is my suspicion,” Wynne agreed. “Uldred always wanted power; perhaps Loghain promised Uldred the position of First Enchanter, once they had dealt with the Blight. Well, I told the First Enchanter Irving what Loghain did on the battlefield. I revealed him for the traitorous bastard he is. Irving said he would take care of it. He called a meeting to confront Uldred, but something must have gone wrong. I emerged from my quarters when I heard the screams. They were coming from the meeting room, and it wasn’t long before I saw the first abomination, running down a mage. It deteriorated very quickly.”

“So this all started at the meeting?”

“It must have, though I don’t know for sure. The creatures came from that direction, as far as I could tell.”

“Do you think Irving’s still alive?” Sereda asked.

“If he is,” Wynne replied quietly, “he would be in the Harrowing Chamber. I hope—Maker, I pray—that he’s survived this nightmare.”

Sereda placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Then we’ll find him,” she promised.

The group got up and continued to the third floor, weapons ready. The air grew heavier here, tinged with the acrid scent of smoke and something sweeter—cloying, almost intoxicating.

Pushing open a door, they stumbled into a strange tableau. A Desire demon lounged at the center of the room. Beside her knelt a Templar, his eyes glazed, his movements stiff and unnatural.

“Everything is just as you wanted, my knight,” the demon cooed, her voice a silken melody that sent a chill down Sereda’s spine. “Our love, and our family is more than you hoped for.”

Sereda’s sword rasped from its sheath as she stepped forward. “What are you doing to him?!”

The Templar turned his head toward her, his smile empty, his voice flat and tinged with eerie devotion. “Do you hear something, love?”

The demon caressed his cheek with a clawed hand, her expression tender. “It is nothing, my darling. Just the door. I will get it. The children have finished supper. Take them into bed while I see who it is.”

Children? Sereda’s thoughts reeled. 

The Templar nodded obediently. “Don’t be long. The children will want to kiss you goodnight.”

“I won’t be but a moment, my pet,” the demon said sweetly, her gaze snapping to the intruders. Her smile thinned. “You are intruding upon a loving, intimate moment, and I dislike disruptions.”

“There’s nothing loving about this!” Sereda snapped, stepping closer with her shield raised. “What have you done to him?”

The demon laughed, low and throaty, trailing her claws down her side. “Happiness is bewitching. There is a certain power in all things mortals delight in. I have given him what he always wanted. Where is the harm in that?”

“His happiness is an illusion. A cruel lie,” Sereda countered.

“All emotion is intangible,” the demon replied. “You cannot see it, cannot grasp it.”

“But it is normally caused by something real—real events, real people. What you’ve done to him is... abhorrent,” Wynne said, her staff glowing faintly in her grip.

“I saw his loneliness,” the demon purred. “And longing for a family that loved him.”

“She is feeding off his innermost desires and taking away his will,” Leliana muttered, her tone dark. “This... this is unholy.”

The demon tilted her head, almost pitying. “No one else would have known his heart. He did not know it himself. I fulfill his dreams... I grant him all his desires. Is he my slave, or am I his? We are partners. I give him what no one else can. And through him, I experience what it is to be mortal.”

“He deserves to be free from you,” Sereda said firmly. “To find his own happiness.”

“What happiness? He has gone through life empty, resentful of his vows. You would return him from this? I want nothing from you. I know what I need. All I ask is that you leave us alone.”

“Even if I do, the Templars will come for you eventually,” Sereda warned.

“Perhaps we will escape. Perhaps we will not.”

“Fine.” Sereda sheathed her blade with a sharp motion, turning her gaze aside before she could take it back. “You can go.”

“You have my thanks, if that means anything to you,” the demon said, her voice soft with satisfaction. “You will not see us again.” In a billow of smoke, she and the Templar vanished.

“Was that the right thing to do?” Leliana asked quietly. Her bow lowered, though unease lingered in her eyes. “It seems wrong, but the man is happy... and that is a good thing, isn’t it?”

No answer came. Perhaps there wasn’t one. The group pressed forward, leaving the chamber behind.

When they pushed open the door to the central hall, the sight that awaited them froze Sereda’s blood. The walls were splattered with gore, the furniture smashed into kindling. At the center of the devastation, a hulking demon loomed over the body of a fallen mage.

“Oh look, visitors,” the demon drawled, its voice smooth, mocking, as though hosting a casual gathering. “I’d entertain you, but... too much effort involved.”

Wynne’s voice shook as she pointed to the mage’s still form. “What have you done to Niall?”

The demon tilted its head, lips curling into a pitying smile. “He’s just resting, poor lad. He was so very, very weary. You want to join us, don’t you? Wouldn’t you like to lay down and... forget about all this? Leave it all behind?” Its voice shifted into a soft lullaby, each word tugging at their willpower like invisible chains.

Sereda’s grip faltered on her sword as an unbearable exhaustion washed over her. Her eyelids grew heavy, her limbs sluggish.

Barkspawn whimpered and sank to the floor with a dull thud.

“I’ll not listen to your lies... demon,” Leliana slurred, staggering as she clapped her hands over her ears. “You have no... power... over me.” But her knees buckled, and she collapsed beside Barkspawn.

Sereda’s vision swam. She fought to stay upright, but her sword slipped from her fingers as the floor seemed to rise to meet her.

“Resist... you must... resist...” Wynne gasped, her staff trembling in her hand before clattering to the stone. Her body crumpled as unconsciousness claimed her.

The demon’s grin widened, fangs glinting in the dim light. It was the last thing Sereda saw before darkness swallowed her whole.

Sereda stood in the throne hall of Orzammar, her chest tightening as her gaze swept the room. Her father’s throne loomed behind her, casting its long shadow across the stone. The chamber was suffocating, filled with dwarves pressed shoulder to shoulder, their cheers and applause echoing like a roar in her ears.

To her left stood Trian and Bhelen, calm, poised, as though they belonged there more than she did. To her right, Gorim and Harrowmont—her anchor and her father’s advisor, watching her with unwavering loyalty.

She looked down and froze. Gold armor gleamed against her chest, a red cape sweeping at her back, jewels and ceremonial markings glinting in the torchlight. They felt alien. Not hers.

Her father stepped forward, the royal crown in his hands. Her heart pounded as she tried to move, to speak, to protest—but nothing came. Her tongue felt like lead, her limbs weighed down. She could only stand and watch as he placed the crown on her head.

“With this, I crown you, tenth monarch of the Aeducan line, third queen to grace Orzammar as its ruler. Rise and greet your subjects, my daughter!”

The crown pressed down on her skull, suffocating, heavier than any helm she had ever worn. She rose shakily, the chamber spinning as dwarves dropped to their knees, their faces blurring into a sea of indistinct shapes.

Her lips parted, and words slipped out—foreign yet hers, trembling yet strong. “I... take my place as my father’s successor. I do not stand as your queen, but as your servant. Together, we will lead Orzammar into a brighter future. Rise, and feast with me. For tonight, we celebrate a new change for Orzammar.”

The hall erupted in cheers, but the sound twisted in her ears, a storm of laughter and voices melting together into a deafening hum.

Her father leaned close, his voice warm, grounding. “My beloved daughter, how does the crown feel?”

Sereda swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Strange,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “But I’ll... I’ll get used to it.”

Endrin chuckled, as if nothing were amiss. “It took me some time, too.”

Then Trian’s voice cut through the noise. “Look at you. My dear sister stole the crown right out from under me!”

Bhelen laughed, clapping his brother’s shoulder. “She won over the Assembly.”

“She earned it,” Trian added. “After returning triumphant with the Paragon Aeducan’s shield.”

Her breath hitched. That wasn’t right. Trian would never say that—not so easily, not without bitterness. Her gaze snapped to him, and the sight of his smiling face twisted in her mind, replaced with the image of his lifeless body cradled in her arms.

“No,” she whispered, her pulse racing. The throne, the crown, the applause—it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

The cheers blurred into the scrape of chains. In an instant, she wasn’t in the hall anymore. The dungeon walls rose up around her, damp and dark. Gorim was being dragged away by guards, his voice calling her name as she was pulled from him.

“Sereda?” It was his voice again—but no, not his alone. Her father’s, her brothers’, all of them speaking at once.

Her eyes locked on Bhelen. His smug grin burned into her mind. He killed Trian. 

She shook her head violently, her hands clawing at her scalp. “No, this isn’t right. This isn’t real!” The words tore from her throat, ragged and desperate. Memories clashed with visions, past and present folding in on each other. Duncan’s hand pulling her to the surface. Bhelen’s betrayal. Trian’s death.

“Stop it!” she screamed, the sound raw as it echoed through the false hall. “Get away from me!”

Gorim reached toward her. “My lady, are you okay?”

“Get away!” she shrieked, slapping his hand aside, her body trembling violently.

The figures around her warped, their faces melting like wax, twisting into grotesque masks. Her sword was suddenly in her hand. She barely remembered drawing it, but the weight grounded her. She raised it with shaking arms.

“I remember now. The tower. The demon. None of this is real.”

Her family’s faces stretched, hollowed, until Gorim’s voice dropped into a guttural growl. “Nothing will satisfy you.” His body convulsed, swelling into a rage demon, while the others shriveled into shades with hollow eyes and gaping maws.

Sereda screamed and charged, her blade flashing through the shifting forms. The fight was frantic, each swing desperate, each strike fueled by fury and fear. She cut them down, one after another, until silence returned.

Her chest heaved. Sweat dripped down her brow. Then she saw a pedestal glowing faintly in the dark, waiting.

Her body moved toward it, each step heavy. She reached out, fingertips brushing its surface. The moment she touched it, the world collapsed into darkness, and she fell.

When Sereda regained consciousness, she found herself in a place that was both solid and unreal. The ground beneath her was firm, yet it felt as though the very air pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, she pushed herself upright, her head swimming with disorientation.

She took a cautious step forward, then another. In the distance stood a lone figure, tense and watchful. As she drew nearer, his wary eyes locked onto her.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice sharp with suspicion. “Where did you come from? Are you a demon—no, wait...” He hesitated, studying her more carefully. His tone shifted, still edged but with reluctant recognition. “No... I see that you’re not. You’re like me.” Sarcasm cut into his words. “Congratulations on getting out of that trap.”

“Trap?” Sereda echoed, fragments of her vision—her family, the throne room—slipping through her mind like waterlogged memories.

The man sighed, shoulders sagging. “The demon traps everyone here in a dream it thinks they can’t—or won’t—try to leave.” His voice was bitter, hollow. “I thought I escaped too, but I’ve been wandering these empty, gray spaces for a lifetime.”

“Are you a mage from the Circle?” Sereda asked, cautious.

“Yes, I am. My name is Niall. I was trying to save the Circle when I encountered the Sloth demon. I expect our experiences were similar. And who are you?”

“Sereda,” she answered, then blurted, “Owain said you took the Litany of Adralla from the storeroom.”

Niall blinked. “The Litany was our weapon against the blood mages’ domination. But it’s too late... everyone’s dead.”

“It does matter!” Sereda shot back, her voice tight with urgency. “We can get out of here!”

Niall only shook his head, his eyes bleak and empty. “This place drains everything from you—hope, feeling, life. No. There is no way out of here. You think there might be, but you’d be wrong. You see that pedestal over there?” He gestured to a structure etched with intricate runes that were dim. “I’ve studied it. Each carving represents one of the islands in the Sloth’s domain. The demon itself is on the central island. But you can’t get there. The five outer islands form a protective ward. I thought I was close when I discovered that, but every time I tried to reach one of them, I failed. There’s always an obstacle—you’ll see the path, but it twists out of reach. It taunts you until you go mad.”

“Could my companions be on one of those islands?” Sereda asked.

“I... I don’t know. There are many dreamers here. You might find them, if you’re lucky.”

“Tell me about the protective ward.”

“I don’t know much. I... I think the Sloth demon placed lesser demons on each island. I’ve seen them. They take different shapes, but they’re there. Defeating them may be the only way to break through to the Sloth. But you have to reach them first. I couldn’t. I was too afraid to try.”

“And what do you know about the Sloth demon?”

“Not much. You couldn’t say we were friends, really.” His tone turned dry, bitterly sarcastic. “Demons have their own hierarchies. They play their own games, and mortals serve as pawns. Bargaining chips, at best. It won’t let us go easily, if at all.”

Sereda’s jaw tightened, resolve hardening in her chest. “I have to save my friends. Show me this pedestal.”

Niall gave her a long, weary look. “Nothing dampens your spirit, does it? I don’t know whether to admire or pity you.” Still, he led her toward the pedestal, running his hand over the runes. “This is where we are. If you touch another rune and it’s accessible, a portal will open. But beware—the paths are cruel. A river of fire before a portal. A door showing freedom through a keyhole, but no key that will ever fit. Once, I found a passage no larger than my hand, with a mouse scurrying in and out of it. Silly little thing fled before I could question it.”

“Why would you talk to a mouse?”

“Because almost everyone here is a dreamer—except the demons and spirits, I suppose. Each dreamer may know something another does not. The mouse could have told me what lay beyond the tiny passage, or how to reach it. Perhaps even how to make myself small enough to crawl through. And if one path can be walked by becoming small, perhaps the others have their own... conditions.”

Sereda studied the runes, her determination steady as iron. “I understand.”

Niall’s expression darkened. “Good luck, Sereda. Maybe you’ll succeed where I failed.”

“Goodbye, Niall,” she said firmly. “I will succeed. I’ll save my friends—and you.”

His lips curved into a faint, sad smile. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I don’t,” Sereda replied, her voice unshakable.

She pressed her hand to the first rune. The air shimmered, rippled, and the world shifted as a portal opened before her. Without hesitation, Sereda stepped through, her heart fixed on the fight ahead.

She found herself in another warped stretch of the Fade. The air was thick and heavy, the space small and disorienting, the edges of the world shifting as though nothing could hold still for long. She barely had time to gather her bearings when a cry split through the haze.

Her head snapped toward the sound. A rage demon towered over something small and trembling: the mouse Niall had mentioned.

Her sword rang as it left the scabbard, shield snapping into place at her arm. The demon’s molten eyes flared, its body cracking with fire as it turned toward her.

It roared and swung, claws of flame slashing through the air. Sereda ducked under the strike, heat searing across her back. She shoved forward, shield first, slamming into its core. The impact staggered it just enough—her blade thrust upward, sinking through burning flesh. The demon shrieked, its form unraveling in a storm of sparks and ash.

Psereda turned to the mouse. She expected it to flee. Instead, it trembled in place, and to her shock, he spoke.

“Th-thank you,” he squeaked, voice fragile as glass. “But it’s too late for me.” His small chest heaved with shallow gasps. “Kill Yevena, the demoness that rules here. She protects her master, Sloth. There is a door only demons can see. The key to it lies in another realm. Take my power... use it to reach places you couldn’t before...”

The mouse let out a squeal of pain that echoed through the Fade, his form flickering before it collapsed into nothing.

Sereda froze, her chest tight. Had he... died?

His words echoed inside her. Take my power.

At first, nothing happened. Then a strange current rushed through her, tingling in her veins. It prickled—like static across her skin—before surging into pain. White-hot and consuming, as though her body were breaking apart, folding in on itself.

She stumbled forward, vision spinning, until her gaze caught on a mouse hole in the wall. Could she fit?

Her body answered. The world expanded around her in a rush, her limbs small, her snout twitching. She looked down and squeaked aloud—she was a mouse.

The pain was gone, replaced by an eerie stillness. Testing her tiny legs, she darted into the tunnel. The narrow passage carried her forward until she spilled out into a new chamber.

Relief was short-lived. Another rage demon waited.

Its molten gaze locked on her instantly. With a hiss like breaking stone, it lunged.

Sereda bolted, her mouse form skittering fast—but fear scraped against her thoughts. She can’t outrun it like this. She clenched down, focusing, forcing her body to shift.

A ripple of sensation tore through her, limbs stretching, weight returning. She hit the ground hard on two feet, sword already in her hand.

So this is what Morrigan feels like, she thought fleetingly before the demon’s claws descended.

She met it head-on. Sparks flew as her shield caught the blow, her arm jolting under the force. She pivoted, driving her blade upward in a sharp arc, splitting through its fiery torso. The creature roared, staggering back—only for Sereda to press forward, smashing her shield into its chest and cutting across with a brutal downswing.

The demon exploded in a spray of embers, dissolving into nothing.

A portal shimmered into being where it had stood. Sereda wiped the sweat from her brow, breathing hard, before stepping through.

The path wound onward until something strange pulled at her attention—a door, semi-transparent, hovering in midair. She reached for it, but her hand slipped through like smoke.

The mouse’s words echoed back. The key lies in another realm.

Sereda gritted her teeth and pressed forward, carving through the demons that rose in her path until another portal shimmered into life.

Stepping through, she returned to the clearing where she had first found Niall.

He looked up as she approached, unsurprised—until his brow furrowed. “See? What did I tell you...” He paused, studying her closely. “Wait. There’s something different about you. What happened?”

“I talked to the mouse and he gave me his power to transform.”

Niall’s eyes widened. For the first time, something like hope flickered in them. “You must travel to the other islands. I can’t go with you, but I have a feeling... you’ll be the one to solve this. You’ll reach Sloth.”

“I will,” Sereda promised. “Stay safe, Niall.”

Turning to the pedestal, she ran her fingers across the runes. New symbols glowed with light. She touched one, and the air rippled as a fresh portal came to life.

Sereda drew a deep breath, steadying herself. Then she stepped through.

Over the next few hours, Sereda pressed on, relentless in her pursuit across the fractured realms of the Sloth demon. Each domain was a puzzle, a gauntlet of challenges meant to grind her down, but with every step, she grew stronger, surer of herself, and closer to her goal.

Her instincts about the shapeshifting powers had been right.

On one island, the air was thick with the stench of blood and rot. Shadows writhed, and from them poured wave after wave of darkspawn, their already-twisted bodies warped further by the Fade. Their eyes burned like coals, their claws longer, their teeth jagged. Sereda braced herself as a hurlock lunged, snarling, but her shield slammed into its chest with bone-cracking force. She spun, her blade arcing in a silver flash that split its throat. More came. She parried, ducked under a descending axe, and kicked another tainted brute square in the gut before driving her sword through its skull. The Fade-born darkspawn dissolved into oily smoke, yet more surged forward. She fought like a storm breaking through a dam, refusing to yield until the last fell screaming.

At the center of the carnage, she found a Templar spirit standing vigil, his form radiating faint, steady light like a lone lantern in the dark.

“You are strong,” the spirit intoned, his voice ringing with ancient resolve. “But strength alone will not suffice here. Let my essence aid you.”

His power washed over her. A strange weightlessness overcame her, and in an instant she became incorporeal, her form shimmering and translucent. In this ethereal state, the walls of the Fade bent to her will, and barriers that had once defied her simply vanished. It was with this gift that she slipped past the invisible doors and struck down Yevena, the desire demon the mouse had warned her of. Yevena’s shrieks filled the air as Sereda’s blade cut through her illusions, scattering them like shattered glass before plunging into her heart.

The next realm was worse—a fiery wasteland where the very air seared her lungs. The ground split in glowing fissures, rivers of molten stone licking at her boots. The haze shimmered with silhouettes of torment, and at its center, a Templar dreamer writhed, bound by flame.

“Free me...” he rasped, his voice brittle. “And take what you need...”

His power rushed into her, filling her veins with molten energy. She staggered as her flesh split with glowing cracks, her body alight—an undead of fire. The flames no longer burned her; they bent to her.

The next island was no less harrowing—a warped reflection of the Circle Tower, its halls stretching and twisting in impossible shapes. Walls groaned like they were alive, and the very air pressed down like a hand. Within its depths, a cursed Dreamer whispered his freedom, his essence flowing into Sereda and twisting her body once more.

She became stone.

A living golem, massive and indomitable. She felt the earth thrumming through her body with every step. Doors that once mocked her strength crumbled under a single swing of her fists. 

Finding herself in the top floor of the Circle she encountered Slavren and met him with a single crushing blow that sent shockwaves ripping through the floor. Vereveel, another of the Sloth's minions met the same fate, torn apart in a storm of stone and fire.

Uthkiel the Crusher fist descended like a boulder, but she caught it, with her own stone hands. With a snarl, she slammed her fist against his chest. His roar shook the island until it crumbled into ash. Rhagos followed at last.

With their deaths it marked the end of her grueling trials. At last, the path to Sloth lay open.

But Sereda wasn’t ready to face him without her companions.

Returning to the pedestal on the starting island, she noticed something had changed. The rune marking the Sloth demon’s domain still pulsed with sickly light, but now three smaller runes along the edges glowed faintly, beckoning her.

Her fingers hovered over one before pressing it. A new portal bloomed to life.

With steel in her grip and determination in her chest, Sereda stepped forward.

The rune sent her to a lush, green field where Barkspawn lay sprawled in the grass, peacefully asleep.

“Aww!” Sereda murmured, crouching down beside him. “What an adorable pup, sleeping so soundly.”

As she extended her hand, Barkspawn’s head shot up. His butt wiggled furiously, and he showered her fingers with sloppy licks. Sereda laughed, straightening as he pranced circles around her, barking with joy before bounding off into the tall grass.

She got up and went back to the pedestal, pressing the second rune. 

Sereda blinked and found herself in what should have been familiar territory—the Circle Tower. Only this tower was warped. Its walls were cracked and blackened, sections collapsed into heaps of rubble. 

Ahead, Wynne knelt among the bodies of apprentices. Blood smeared the floor beneath her trembling hands, and her face was twisted into something raw and broken.

“Maker, forgive me,” Wynne sobbed, her voice breaking under grief. “I’ve failed them all. They died, and I could not stop it.”

“Wynne?” Sereda called softly. Her hand hovered near her sword, her instincts warning her of the Fade’s cruelty. “This isn’t real. Don’t believe what you see here. We can still save the Circle.”

Wynne’s head snapped up. Her tear-streaked eyes blazed with anguish. “What about all this?” she cried, her voice sharp and wounded. “How can you say that when you are faced with this? The Right of Annulment will be invoked. Everyone is dead, and I-I could do nothing to stop it.”

“Wynne, listen to me,” Sereda pressed, firm but gentle. “This is the Fade. It’s all an illusion. You are stronger than this.”

But Wynne clutched her robes with shaking hands, as if holding herself together. “Why was I spared at Ostagar?” she whispered, almost to herself. “If not to help them, then why? What is the point of my life now, when I have failed in my task?” Her desperate eyes found Sereda’s. “Just leave me here. I will bury their bones, scatter their ashes to the four winds, and mourn them until I too am gone.”

“No!” Sereda’s voice rang with steel. She walked closer. “Wynne, this is not real. You know me. My name is Sereda. You need to focus. Do you even remember how we got here?”

Wynne flinched, shutting her eyes against the fog in her mind. “It is... difficult. I cannot focus. You are Sereda, yes... and we were fighting... something. Why were we fighting? It feels as though something is pulling at me, dulling my thoughts. I’ve never had such trouble before.”

“That’s it, Wynne,” Sereda encouraged, softer now. “Yes, I’m Sereda. We were saving the Circle. Keep going.”

A flicker of clarity broke through her grief, like sunlight piercing clouds. “I... I don’t know what this will accomplish,” Wynne murmured, “but I will try, if only to satisfy you.”

The bodies around them twitched.

Bones cracked, flesh tore. A guttural groan filled the hall as the fallen apprentices shuddered to life. Their hollow eyes fixed on Wynne, their faces grotesque parodies of innocence.

“Wynne?” one rasped, voice hollow and broken. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t leave us!” another wailed like a frightened child.

“We don’t want to be alone...” they chorused, staggering forward.

Wynne staggered back, horror twisting her face. “Holy Maker! No! You are not my students! Stay away, foul creatures!”

“Wynne!” Sereda shouted, seizing her arm and dragging her back. “We have to fight! We can break this nightmare, but we need to fight!”

Their eyes met—terror in Wynne’s, steel in Sereda’s—and a spark of resolve caught flame.

The undead lunged. Sereda shoved Wynne aside, drawing her sword in a flash of steel. She met the first corpse head-on, shield slamming into its chest before her blade carved through its neck. Another grabbed her shoulder with rotting fingers—she whirled, smashing its skull against the wall with her shield until the bones gave way.

“Sereda!” Wynne’s voice cut through the din, steadying now. Fire flared in her hands, and surged outward. A healing wave washed over Sereda, knitting shallow cuts and filling her with new strength.

“Perfect,” Sereda gritted, cutting down another with a savage backswing.

The undead wailed as they fell, one after another. Wynne’s magic seared the darkness, scorching corpses with bursts of fire while Sereda cleaved through bone and sinew. When the last apprentice crumbled into ash, silence reclaimed the chamber.

Sereda stood panting, blade dripping dark ichor. Wynne’s hands trembled, but her face was steadier now. “Thank you, Sereda,” she whispered hoarsely. “Thank you for freeing me from that... that nightmare.”

Before Sereda could respond, Wynne’s body shimmered. Her form dissolved into gentle light, fading into nothing.

“Wynne!” Sereda cried, reaching for her, but her fingers grasped only air.

Exhaling slowly, she lowered her sword. One rune remained. She turned back to the pedestal and touched the next.

The third rune hurled her into a grand Chantry.

Candles burned bright along polished pews. At the center, Leliana knelt before a glowing shrine, murmuring the Chant of Light beside a Revered Mother. 

“Blessed art thou who exists in the sight of the Maker...” Leliana recited.

“Leliana!” Sereda cried, relief bursting in her chest. “There you are!”

“Blessed art—what?” Leliana faltered, turning wide eyes toward her. “Who are you?”

Sereda’s stomach dropped. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Sereda.”

The Revered Mother frowned. “I beg you, do not disturb the girl’s meditations.”

“I... I don’t know you,” Leliana said, voice fragile. “Please, leave. I must seek His forgiveness.”

“Leliana, we’re friends!” Sereda pleaded, desperation creeping in. “We’re in the middle of saving the Circle, don’t you remember?”

But Leliana shook her head, confused. “I’m sorry but I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Revered Mother interjected, her tone commanding. “Please, do not vex her. She needs quiet and solitude to calm her mind and heal her heart.”

Sereda narrowed her eyes. “What have you done to her?”

“We have given her peace,” the Revered Mother replied, her smooth voice curdled with coldness. “She was lost, but now she has found solace.”

Sereda turned urgently to Leliana. “Leliana, this isn’t real. You’re trapped in a nightmare by a demon. You have to remember who you are—who I am.”

Leliana’s eyes softened faintly. “But... I’m happy here. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“No, Leliana,” Sereda pressed. “Think back to Lothering. You told me the Maker gave you a vision. Don’t you remember?”

Recognition flickered. Leliana closed her eyes. “A... vision? Yes, I think... there was a sign.”

The Revered Mother grabbed her arm sharply. “This is your home, your refuge. Do you truly wish to leave the comfort of this place behind? Stay, and know peace.”

“Don’t listen to her, Leliana!” Sereda urged, fire in her voice. “Trust what you know is true.”

Leliana’s face hardened. “The Maker cares for us. He misses His wayward children as much as we miss Him. My vision may not be from Him, but it leads me to do what is right.”

The Revered Mother’s mask cracked. Her grip tightened. “This is your home now, Leliana. You will never leave!”

“You’re not her!” Leliana cried, wrenching free.

The Revered Mother shrieked, her body twisting grotesquely as she towered into a monstrous shade. Her voice became a guttural roar: “Neither of you will leave! You will both die here!”

The demon lunged, backhanding Leliana aside and charging at Sereda. It slashed at her and Sereda rolled under the blow, coming up with her sword ready. Steel bit deep into shadowy flesh, the demon howling in fury.

It swung again. She blocked with her shield, the impact rattling her bones, before thrusting her blade up into its gut. The shade shrieked, writhing as its form buckled under the blow. With a final cry, Sereda tore her sword free, cleaving it through the creature’s chest. The demon collapsed into ash.

Sereda turned, breath ragged, as Leliana staggered toward her. “Are you alright?” Leliana asked breathlessly.

Sereda steadied her with both hands. “I’m fine.”

“Where are we?” Leliana whispered.

“We’re in a nightmare,” Sereda explained. “A demon trapped you here, but killing it should set you free.”

Leliana’s form shimmered, her edges blurring. “Sereda? Where am I going? Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry,” Sereda whispered, holding her until the light consumed her. “You’ll be fine.”

When Leliana was gone, Sereda turned back to the pedestal. One rune remained. She set her jaw and reached out.

Before her stood Sloth, waiting on the final island. It looked different now than it had in the tower—its swollen, grotesque form radiated malice, its hollow eyes glowing faintly like dying embers. Its voice rumbled like distant thunder as Sereda drew her sword and shield and stepped forward.

“What do we have here? A rebellious minion? An escaped slave?” Sloth’s laughter was a low, guttural sound, vibrating through the air. “My, my... but you do have some gall. But playtime is over. You all have to go back now.”

Sereda caught the faint shimmer of Barkspawn’s form beside her and smiled, confidence strengthening her resolve. “You tried to keep us apart. You separated us because you’re afraid, aren’t you?”

“I do not fear mortals,” Sloth rumbled, tilting its head in mock amusement.

“You will not hold us, demon,” Wynne snapped, her staff glowing as she readied a spell. “We found each other in this place, and you cannot stand against us.”

Barkspawn growled low in his throat, crouched and ready to spring.

Sloth’s oily tone slithered into their ears. “Go back quietly, and I promise next time I’ll make you much happier. Isn’t that what you want?”

Sereda smirked. “We’ll make our own happiness, thanks.”

The demon coiled back, its face twisting. “Must you only think of yourselves? I’m so very wounded...”

Her eyes narrowed. “We’d rather just be rid of your evil.”

Sloth’s reply shook the island itself. “You wish to battle me? So be it...” Its body heaved and split, bones grinding and reshaping until the hulking form of an ogre loomed over them. “You will learn to bow before your betters, mortals!”

The ogre’s roar deafened them as it slammed the ground. The impact cracked the stone, shockwaves nearly knocking them off their feet.

“Spread out!” Sereda barked, charging forward with her shield raised.

The ogre swung its colossal arm, the force like a battering ram. Sereda deflected it with her shield but was hurled backward from the sheer impact. Wynne’s healing light immediately wrapped around her, closing the bruises as Sereda forced herself upright.

Barkspawn darted in, teeth tearing into the monster’s calf. The ogre howled, trying to crush him with a stomp, but the mabari was too fast, weaving between its legs. Sereda used the opening—her blade plunged into the ogre’s thigh, blood spraying hot across her armor.

The beast’s backhand sent her skidding, but Leliana was in position, arrows whistling through the air, each striking exposed flesh.

“Sereda!” Wynne shouted as fire erupted around her hands. “Keep its attention!”

Sereda braced her shield and slammed into the ogre’s knee. The joint buckled, and Barkspawn leapt up to clamp onto its shoulder. With a guttural roar, Sereda drove her blade into its chest.

The ogre reeled, then burst into flame with an ear-splitting scream. The fire engulfed the battlefield, knocking them sprawling. As the smoke cleared, the towering shape of a rage demon replaced the ogre, flames licking its molten claws.

Sereda clenched her jaw. “So that’s how it is...”

The demon launched a torrent of fire across the battlefield. Wynne threw up a frost ward, ice and heat colliding in a violent hiss. Leliana rolled aside, loosing arrows tipped with ice to pierce the fiery hide. Barkspawn circled, snapping at the demon’s ankles to keep it off balance.

Sereda breathed deep and let the Fade wash over her. Heat surged through her veins, her skin glowing like embers as her form shifted. She emerged as a Burning Man, her fiery silhouette crackling with raw power.

Sereda gave her companions no time to question. She charged into the inferno headlong. Fire washed harmlessly over her, her burning fists slamming into the rage demon’s core. Each strike erupted in molten shockwaves, staggering the beast backward.

The demon’s scream tore at their ears before it collapsed inward and shifted again—its body swelling, splitting—until a grotesque abomination stood before them, veins pulsing with dark magic.

“I can do what you can, Sloth!” Sereda snarled, her form rippling and hardening into stone. She rose taller to a golem.

The aabomination slashed at her, with one crushing blow, she drove the abomination into the dirt, then hurled its thrashing body toward Leliana and Barkspawn. Arrows pierced its skull, and Barkspawn tore at its throat.

The creature broke apart, reforming into a shadowy shade, wisps of darkness twisting into claws. But against Sereda’s golem bulk, its strikes were as feeble as twigs against a mountain. She pummeled it relentlessly until Sloth shrieked, its shadow unraveling.

At last, the demon fell back into its true form—its swollen body trembling, sparks of power sputtering out.

Sereda shed her stone skin, returning to herself. She raised her blade. “This is it! Let’s finish it!”

The group surged forward. Barkspawn leapt and dragged the demon down by its legs. Leliana’s arrows rained with precision. Wynne unleashed a surge of ice that seared the demon’s hide. Sereda closed the distance, shield high, and with a battle cry drove her sword through Sloth’s skull.

The arcane horror let out a final, soul-rattling scream before it collapsed into ash, its presence in the Fade extinguished.

Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breaths.

“How did you do that?” Wynne gasped, clutching her staff.

Sereda chuckled, brushing soot from her armor. “I learned to shapeshift here in the Fade. But I don’t think it’ll last once we return.” A wry grin touched her lips. “Having a golem would’ve been nice, though.”

Suddenly, Niall appeared before them, his face etched with both relief and sorrow. His form shimmered faintly, as though the Fade itself struggled to hold him together.

“You defeated the demon. I never thought... I never expected you to free yourself, to free us both. When you return... take the Litany of Adralla from my... body. It will protect you from the worst of the blood magic.”

“You’re free too, Niall,” Sereda said softly, lowering her shield.

Niall shook his head, his expression calm, though his eyes carried a deep resignation. “I cannot go with you. I have been here far too long. For you, it would have been an afternoon nap. Your body won’t have wasted away in the real world while your spirit lay in the hands of a demon.”

“Oh, Niall...” Sereda’s voice broke. Her grip tightened around her shield’s rim as guilt twisted in her chest. “I’m so sorry. If only I’d been faster—”

“Don’t,” Niall interrupted gently, lifting a hand. His voice was steady, though faint. “Don’t blame yourself. I was never meant to save the Circle... or survive its struggles. I am dying. It is as simple as that.”

“There must be something we can do,” Sereda pleaded, desperation in her tone.

“I do not fear what may come. They say we return to the Maker, and that isn’t such a terrible thing. My only regret is that I could not save the Circle. But you... you can. I’m not a hero. Perhaps trying to be was foolish.”

“You tried to the very end,” Sereda replied firmly, conviction sharpening her words. “We would not get the Litany without you.”

He faltered then, his image flickering like a candle about to burn out. “Darker times, greater acts of heroism, eh? My mother once told me I was destined for greatness...” A rueful smile crossed his lips. “I hope I didn’t disappoint her.”

“You didn’t, Niall.” Sereda stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. “You fought with everything you had. Your mother would be proud.”

For a moment, Niall’s face softened, his features illuminated by a fleeting peace. His smile, faint but genuine, brightened his fading form. “Thank you, Sereda.”

As his essence unraveled, dissolving into the ether of the Fade, his final word echoed in her ears. “Remember me.”

The air grew heavy. The entire realm shuddered as if mourning his passing. The ground beneath them trembled, cracks of light splitting the dreamscape.

“What’s happening?” Leliana called, clutching her bow as the sky itself seemed to collapse inward.

“The Fade is collapsing!” Wynne shouted over the roar. “We need to—”

But before she could finish, the world convulsed violently. Reality tore apart in a cascade of light and shadow, pulling them all into the unraveling void. Sereda stumbled, reaching out blindly as her companions cried out, their voices swallowed by the storm.

And then, there was only darkness.

Sereda woke to the cold bite of stone beneath her cheek. The warped dreamscape of the Fade was gone, replaced by the grim, blood-soaked ruin of the Circle Tower. Her joints ached as she pushed herself upright, glancing at her companions as they stirred one by one. Their eyes were heavy, faces drawn with exhaustion, but they were alive. That, at least, was a victory.

The stench of death hung thick in the chamber. Niall’s lifeless body sprawled across the floor beside the shriveled husk of the Sloth demon. Sereda’s throat tightened as she knelt beside him, closing his eyes with care. Without a word, she took the Litany of Adralla from his grasp and pressed it into Wynne’s hands. The mage accepted it solemnly, her expression shadowed.

No one asked what had passed in the Fade. None of them dared.

There was no time for mourning. Together, they pressed forward, deeper into the tower.

The climb was brutal. Abominations lurched from side halls, eyes burning with a sickly light. Some wore the faces of mages, now twisted beyond recognition. 

Even drakes emerged from the darkness, scales glistening like molten glass under Wynne’s spells. Their shrieks rattled the chamber as they spewed gouts of fire, scorching the walls. Sereda’s arm went numb when one beast’s claws raked across her shield, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward, shouting for Barkspawn to strike at its flank. Together, they brought it down, leaving it thrashing in a pool of its own blood.

The tower's walls bulged with pulsing, fleshy growths that oozed foul ichor, veins running through stone like diseased arteries. The stench made Sereda gag, but she forced herself onward, every breath a reminder of what was at stake.

At last, they reached the final chamber before the Harrowing Chamber. A shimmer of magic filled the air, encasing a lone Templar within a glowing cage. His armor hung loose on his trembling frame, and his eyes, rimmed with red, darted to Sereda as she approached.

“This trick again!” he spat hoarsely, collapsing to his knees. “I know what you are! It won’t work... I’ll stay strong!”

Sereda’s hand twitched toward him instinctively, but a spark leapt from the barrier, stinging her fingers.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly.

“The boy is exhausted,” Wynne murmured, studying the barrier. She crouched, peering through the shimmer at his gaunt face. “And this cage... I’ve never seen anything like it.” Her tone gentled. “Rest easy. We’re here to help.”

“Enough, visions!” the Templar cried, his voice breaking. “If there’s anything in you is human... kill me now and stop this game.”

“They’ve tortured him,” Leliana whispered to Sereda, pity darkening her eyes. She unslung her waterskin, stepping closer.

 “No!” His scream shook the chamber. He recoiled violently. “Stay away! Filthy blood mages... getting in my head... I will not break! I’d rather die!” His gaze snapped wildly between them, unfocused. “You’re here... but you’re gone when I close my eyes...”

Sereda dropped to one knee, meeting his frantic gaze with steady resolve. “We’re real. We’re here to help you.”

The Templar froze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Real?” His voice cracked. “You... you have to understand. The voices, the images—they’re so real.” He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to focus. “Did Greagoir send you? How did you even get in here?”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Sereda said, her voice like iron. “We’ve come to save the tower.”

At that, his expression twisted into fury. “Kill Uldred,” he rasped. “Kill them all for what they’ve done! They caged us, twisted us. I’m the only one left.” His face crumpled. “The others... they turned them into monsters.”

“Where is First Enchanter Irving?” Sereda pressed.

“In the Harrowing Chamber,” he answered, shaking. “I can still hear their screams. You must kill everyone up there! They’re all abominations by now.”

“Not all mages are dangerous,” Sereda countered. “Some might still be fighting against the corruption.”

His lips peeled back in bitter fury. “Only mages wield such power... and only they are so weak to the demons’ whispers.”

“Enough,” Wynne cut in sharply. “This argument won’t save lives. We need to move.”

“You don’t understand!” the Templar cried, desperation breaking through his anger. “You can’t save them!”

“We’ll save who we can,” Sereda said, her tone final.

A long silence followed before the Templar slumped, his head bowed in defeat. “Go then. Kill Uldred... They’re all in the Harrowing Chamber.”

“We’ll come back for you,” Sereda promised as she rose.

“Don’t waste your time!” he shouted after them, his voice ringing with despair. As they turned to leave, his prayers followed them, faint and broken: “Maker, help them all...”

They climbed the last flight of stairs, boots pounding against stone slick with blood. The air grew heavy with heat and the stench of rot, until at last Sereda shoved the double doors of the Harrowing Chamber open.

Uldred stood in the center of the chamber, flanked by two hulking abominations, his hand gripping the chin of a trembling young mage. Irving and a handful of survivors huddled against the wall, pale and hollow-eyed, their hope hanging by a thread.

“Do you accept this gift I offer?” Uldred hissed, his claws digging into the boy’s jaw. The mage’s head lolled forward. Uldred took the stillness as consent. His guttural chant began, echoed by the two abominations. The chamber thrummed with their voices, thick with corruption.

The boy’s scream cut through it. His body snapped and twisted grotesquely, bones breaking, flesh splitting until he collapsed forward on all fours—no longer a man, but an abomination.

Uldred turned slowly, a smile stretching across his ruined face. His skin was waxy, his flesh mottled with sores and bruises, yet his eyes gleamed with mocking delight. “Ah... look what we have here. An intruder. I bid you welcome. Care to join in our... revels?”

Sereda’s grip tightened on her sword. “I take it you’re Uldred.”

“Ah, very observant,” he purred. “I’m quite impressed you’re still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants. Ah, well—they are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence.”

“You’re turning these people into abominations!” Sereda spat.

He rolled his eyes. “A mage is but the larval form of something greater. Your Chantry vilifies us, calls us abominations, when in truth we have transcended. Look at them.” He gestured to the newly twisted creature still writhing on the floor. “The Chantry convinces them to deny themselves the pleasure of becoming something glorious.”

“You’re mad!” Wynne snapped, her voice trembling with fury. “There’s nothing glorious about what you’ve become, Uldred.”

“Uldred?” He laughed, a sound like shattering glass. “He is gone. I am Uldred, and yet not Uldred. I am more than he was. I could give you this gift, Wynne. You and all mages. It would be so much easier if you just accepted it. But some people can be so... stubborn.”

Sereda unsheathed her blade, steel flashing in the dim light. “I think I’ll pass. Killing you sounds far more appealing.”

His grin widened, stretching unnaturally. “Fight, if you must. It will only make my victory all the sweeter.”

Light poured from him, searing and violent. His body twisted and ballooned, flesh tearing as limbs elongated. When the glow faded, a towering Pride Demon loomed in his place, its oppressive aura pressing down like a storm.

“He’s fused with a Pride Demon!” Wynne cried.

With a roar, Uldred charged.

Leliana’s bowstring sang, arrow after arrow whistling into the first abomination’s chest. Barkspawn hurled himself at its arm, teeth sinking deep as the creature shrieked. Wynne’s staff glowed pale blue as she hurled a spear of ice into the second abomination, freezing one of its legs to the stone. Sereda surged forward, shield raised, slamming into the first creature to knock it back before pivoting toward Uldred.

The Pride Demon’s massive arm swept across the chamber, striking Sereda square in the chest. She flew back, her armor ringing like a bell as she slammed against the wall. Stars burst behind her eyes, but she staggered to her feet, blood at the corner of her mouth.

“You’ll have to hit harder than that!” she snarled, charging again.

An abomination lunged at Leliana, claws raking her arm. She hissed in pain, tumbling aside, loosing two arrows into its chest. It stumbled, growling—but Barkspawn leapt onto its back, jaws snapping at its neck. The beast howled, thrashing wildly as Leliana fired one last arrow into its eye. The abomination toppled, dead before it hit the floor.

Uldred began chanting, words thick with corruption. A senior mage convulsed, foam at their lips. Wynne raised the Litany of Adralla, her voice steady as she chanted, the words slicing through the demon’s spell. The mage collapsed, spared from possession.

“You’ll not take another!” she vowed, frost exploding from her staff to encase Uldred’s leg in a sheet of ice. The demon roared, shattering it with sheer force, but slowed just enough for Sereda to strike.

Her blade bit deep into his side, black ichor spilling across the floor. The Pride Demon shrieked, the chamber trembling with his fury. He raised both fists and slammed them down, sending a shockwave that hurled Leliana to the floor.

Sereda braced herself and pushed forward through the quake. “Keep him busy!” she shouted, teeth gritted.

Wynne’s healing washed over her, steadying her legs as Barkspawn darted between the demon’s strikes, snapping at its heels to draw its attention. Leliana, bleeding but unbroken, fired arrow after arrow into its hide, pinning its focus between them all.

“Wynne, the Litany!” Leliana cried as Uldred’s chant rose again, his gaze locked on Irving.

Wynne’s voice cut him off, strong despite her exhaustion. The spell broke, Irving crumpling but alive.

Sereda rushed forward, dodging a backhanded strike, and leapt. Her blade plunged into Uldred’s shoulder, driving deep as she clung to him. The Pride Demon howled, thrashing violently, but she drove the sword deeper with a scream of her own.

Light burst from the wound, and the demon’s body convulsed, splitting apart in ash and smoke. Sereda was thrown clear as the great form collapsed, disintegrating into nothing.

Silence fell, broken only by ragged breaths.

Uldred was no more.

Breathing heavily, Sereda stood amidst the wreckage of the Harrowing Chamber, her sword slick with black ichor. Smoke still curled from Uldred’s remains, and the acrid stench of burned flesh and blood hung thick in the air.

Wynne was already at Irving’s side, kneeling gently as she eased the First Enchanter into a sitting position. His robes were torn and scorched, his face pale with exhaustion. He groaned, voice rasping but laced with humor. “Maker. I’m too old for this nonsense.”

“Are you hurt, Irving?” Wynne asked softly, her hands glowing faintly as healing magic flared to life at her fingertips, ready if needed.

Irving gave a weary chuckle, a faint but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve been better. But I am thankful to be alive. I suppose this is your doing, Wynne?”

Wynne tilted her head with a wry smile. “It wasn’t just me. I had excellent company.” She cast a glance toward Sereda and the others.

Irving followed her gaze, his expression softening as it lingered on each of them. “The Circle owes both of you a debt we will never be able to repay.”

Sereda stepped forward, brushing soot and ash from her dented armor. “We need the Circle’s help in the fight against the Blight. The Grey Wardens can’t do this alone.”

Irving nodded, though the motion was heavy with weariness. “You have our aid. There are few of us left, but those who remain will stand with you. I will see to it personally.”

His face twisted briefly in pain as he shifted, leaning heavily against Wynne. “But first, we must speak to Greagoir. He needs to know that the tower is secure.”

Sereda closed the distance and offered a hand, steadying him. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

Irving managed a dry laugh, his voice touched with wry humor despite his obvious pain. “Do I look like I have a choice? Though I may have to curse whoever thought placing a Circle at the top of a tower was a good idea. Those stairs...” He winced as a jolt of pain racked him, teeth clenched. “I’m going to need all the help I can get to survive the descent.”

Wynne’s grip on his arm tightened, her expression softening with affection. “Then you shall have it, old friend.”

Sereda glanced at Leliana, who gave a small nod, and then down at Barkspawn. The mabari barked once, sharp and eager, as if to declare himself ready for duty.

“Let’s get moving,” Sereda said firmly. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

As they exited the Harrowing Chamber, Sereda noted with relief that the barrier which had once imprisoned the young Templar was gone—and so was he The group descended cautiously, but no more demons barred their path. When they reached the floor where Wynne had first joined them, they found the mages waiting anxiously. 

With survivors in tow, they continued until Sereda reached the heavy double doors at the base of the Tower. She lifted her gauntleted fist and struck hard, her voice ringing through the corridor.

“Knight-Commander! Open up!”

For several tense moments, silence. Then, the locks rattled, and the doors creaked wide. Greagoir stood framed in the doorway, flanked by several Templars—including the young man who had been trapped before. His expression shifted rapidly from disbelief to profound relief.

“Maker’s breath! You were in there for two days!” Greagoir exclaimed, astonishment thick in his voice. “I thought we’d lost you.”

Sereda’s brows shot upward. “Two days?” she muttered, then cleared her throat and forced herself back to focus. “We were trapped by a Sloth Demon. It held us in nightmares. It was... unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” Wynne arched a brow, incredulous. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Still,” Leliana added, her tone gentle but optimistic, “we made it in time to stop the Rite of Annulment. That is something to be grateful for.”

Greagoir’s gaze swept past them and fell on Irving, standing among the surviving mages, weary but resolute. His eyes softened. “Irving? Maker’s breath—you’re alive... I didn’t expect to see you again.”

Irving’s expression hardened, the weight of betrayal etched deeply across his features. “The Rite of Annulment, Greagoir? You truly believed we were beyond saving?”

“What was I supposed to think?” Greagoir shot back, his words defensive rather than angry. “You were trapped in there. The tower was overrun with demons and abominations!”

“You could have had more faith in us,” Irving replied, his voice heavy with disappointment. “But what’s done is done. Uldred is dead. He was behind all of this.”

The young Templar stepped forward, his expression grim. “Uldred tortured those mages, hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations. We don’t know how many have turned.”

Irving’s eyes widened in horror. “That’s... unthinkable! The mages—”

“Could still be corrupted!” He cut him off sharply, his voice rising. “You could be corrupted! Don’t you see what they did to my brothers? To me? I won’t stand by and let it happen again!”

“Enough!” Greagoir raised a hand, his voice firm. “I am the Knight-Commander, and I will not tolerate insubordination. Stand down.”

Sereda stepped forward. “The mages who survived should not pay for crimes they didn’t commit. Keep a watchful eye, but they deserve a chance to rebuild.”

Greagoir studied her closely, then gave a slow nod. “We’ll remain vigilant, but I’ll trust Irving’s word for now. The tower is secure once more.”

Irving straightened despite his exhaustion, his tone carrying the weight of duty. “The Circle will endure. We will rebuild and learn from this tragedy.”

Greagoir turned back to Sereda, offering a rare, tired smile. “You’ve proven yourselves as friends to the Circle and the Templars. I promised you aid, but with the Circle restored, my duty is here—to watch over the mages. They are free to help you, however.”

“The least we can do is help you against the darkspawn,” Irving added. “I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight.”

“So I have your word?” Sereda asked.

He nodded. “We will do what we can for now. But if the Blight spreads to the tower itself, we will be lost. Stopping the Blight is more important. You have my word as First Enchanter—the Circle will join the Grey Wardens in the fight.”

Wynne stepped forward then. “Irving, I have a request. I wish to accompany Sereda. The fight against the Blight calls to me.”

Irving frowned, his concern plain. “Wynne, the Circle needs you. You are one of our most skilled mages.”

“The Circle will manage,” Wynne said gently. “But the Wardens need me more. I can see she is destined for great things, and I want to help her.”

Sereda smiled warmly at her. “It would be an honor to have you with us.”

Irving sighed, though his lips curved in a fond smile. “You’ve always been stubborn, Wynne. Very well. I give you leave to follow the Grey Wardens, but know that you always have a place here.”

He turned back to Sereda, fatigue etched into every line of his face. “There is so much to be done, and I must go. You must forgive me for not being a proper host.”

“I understand. Until we meet again.”

“When the time comes, we will stand beside you.” He promised.

With those final words, the group prepared to depart the tower.

Chapter Text

The four left the Circle Tower behind, making their way down the long road toward camp. It was nearly sunset, the horizon burning gold and crimson, shadows stretching long across the fields. They would head for Redcliffe in the morning. Tonight, food and rest were all Sereda wanted.

She walked at the front with Barkspawn trotting happily at her side, his ears twitching at every sound in the tall grass. Behind her, Wynne and Leliana walked in easy conversation, their soft voices carrying over the hush of the evening. For a while, the only sounds were boots against dirt, the faint clink of armor, and the steady rhythm of their breath.

Until a woman came sprinting down the road toward them, panic etched into every line of her face. Her dress was torn, her hair wild, and her eyes darted frantically between them.

“Oh, thank the Maker!” she gasped, nearly stumbling as she skidded to a halt. Her chest heaved as she sucked in ragged breaths. “We need help! They attacked our wagon! Please, help us!”

“Show us where!” Sereda responded without hesitation, her hand moving instinctively to the hilt of her sword.

“Follow me! I’ll take you to them!” The woman motioned frantically, then turned and ran back up the road.

They followed after eyes scanning the tree line, every instinct prickling.

After several tense minutes, they came upon the supposed wagon. It laid overturned on its side, its frame splintered and wheels snapped. Two oxen sprawled dead beside it, tongues lolling, their bodies rigid.

Sereda narrowed her eyes. The smell of rot was faint but present. These animals had been dead longer than the woman had claimed.

“Hold on—” Sereda began, suspicion in her voice.

Before she could finish, the woman stopped in front of a thin blond elf leaning casually against the wreck. She gave him a single nod.

A crack split the air. Behind them, a massive tree came crashing down across the road, blocking their retreat. The ground shuddered beneath the impact.

“It’s a trap!” Wynne cried, her staff starting to glow in her hands.

Shadows erupted from the trees. Arrows whistled through the air, forcing Sereda to throw up her shield as one clattered harmlessly off the steel. A fireball streaked past, striking the ground with an explosion of dirt and sparks that sent them staggering back.

Figures surged from cover—bandits with blades drawn, their armor mismatched and grimy. And there, striding forward with twin daggers gleaming, was the blond elf.

He moved like a predator, light on his feet, eyes locked on Sereda.

Sereda braced her shield as the elf lunged. Their blades clashed with a metallic screech, sparks flying as he tried to slide past her guard. She shoved hard, using the weight of her shield to knock him back, her sword flashing in a deadly arc.

“You’ll have to try harder than that!” she taunted.

Barkspawn leapt at the woman who had led them into the trap, his jaws clamping around her arm just as lightning sparked from her fingertips. She screamed, the spell sputtering out as he dragged her to the ground, snarling and shaking violently.

An arrow zipped by, burying itself in the throat of a bandit rushing Sereda’s flank. Leliana stood behind them, her bowstring singing as she loosed shot after shot. Each arrow flew true—finding gaps in armor, dropping attackers before they could close the distance.

Another fireball shot toward them, but Wynne lifted her staff high and a shimmering barrier of magic flared to life just in time, the fire bursting harmlessly against the shield of light. She moved swiftly among them, healing magic ready in her hands, her eyes sharp as she tracked every injury and movement.

The elf darted back in, striking low and fast, Sereda met him head-on, blocking one strike with her shield, twisting to parry the other with her sword. He was fast—faster than any she’d fought so far—but her sheer stubbornness held him at bay. She slammed her shield into his chest, knocking him backward, then swept her blade across his guard.

Around them, the bandits faltered. Between Leliana’s arrows, Barkspawn’s relentless assault, their ambush crumbled. Those still standing tried to retreat into the trees, but Leliana picked them off until the road was silent but for the crackle of fading magic and the groans of the fallen.

Sereda kicked the elf’s daggers from his hands and pinned him to the dirt with her shield. He struggled for only a moment before going limp.

Barkspawn padded back to Sereda’s side, muzzle smeared with dirt and blood, butt wagging proudly. She reached down and ruffled his ears before turning back to the elf.

It wasn’t long before he groaned, eyelids fluttering. His gaze flicked to the group looming over him. He let out a faint, amused laugh.

“I rather thought I would wake up dead—or not wake up at all,” he said, his accented voice light with humor. “As the case may be, but I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

“That can change very quickly,” Sereda replied coldly.

He chuckled softly. “Of that, I have no doubt.” A sly grin spread across his face. “You are most skilled. If you haven’t killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?”

“You seem awfully glib for a prisoner.”

He laughed. “It is my way, or so I am told. Let’s see, then—I assume you kept me alive to ask some questions, yes? If so, let me save you the time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”

“I’m rather happy you failed.”

“So would I be, in your shoes,” he replied easily. “For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn’t it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one’s budding assassin career.”

Sereda rolled her eyes. “Too bad for you, then.”

“Yes,” Zevran sighed. “It’s true. Too bad for me.”

“Who hired you?” Sereda asked.

“A rather taciturn fellow from the capital,” Zevran said, finally sitting up. “Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that’s it.”

“Are you loyal to him?” Sereda’s voice sharpened.

Zevran snorted. “I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes? Beyond that, no. I’m not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.”

Sereda’s eyes narrowed. “When were you supposed to report back to him?”

“I wasn’t,” Zevran admitted with a careless wave. “If I succeeded, I’d have returned to Antiva, and the Crows would’ve informed Loghain of your demise. If I failed, well... I’d be dead. As far as the Crows are concerned.”

“How much were you paid?”

“I wasn’t paid at all,” Zevran said with another dramatic sigh. “The Crows, however, were compensated quite handsomely—or so I understand. I am as poor as a Chantry mouse. Come to think of it, being an Antivan Crow isn’t for the enterprising, to be perfectly honest.”

“Then why do it?” Sereda asked, curious despite herself.

“Well,” he began lazily, “aside from my distinct lack of ambition, I wasn’t exactly given a choice. The Crows bought me young—a bargain, or so I hear. But don’t let my tragic backstory sway your judgment.” He grinned wickedly. “They’re not all bad. The Crows keep one well supplied: wine, women, men, whatever you fancy. Though the severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were thinking of joining, I’d advise against it.”

“Mm-hm. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You seem like a clever woman... and quite beautiful, if I may say so. Surely you have other options.”

Heat crept into Sereda’s face before she cleared her throat, forcing the conversation back on track. “You’re rather talkative for a prisoner.”

Zevran shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t paid to keep silent. Actually...” he muttered, “I wasn’t paid at all.”

“You don’t seem particularly loyal to your employers.” She observed..

He chuckled. “Loyalty is such an interesting concept. But if you’re done interrogating me, perhaps we could discuss that further?”

Her brow arched. “I’m listening. Make it quick.”

“Here’s the thing,” he said, his tone dropping into seriousness. “I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows most definitely will. Thing is, I like living... and since you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause, here’s what I offer. Let me serve you instead.”

Sereda crossed her arms. “And what kind of loyalty can I expect from someone like you?”

Zevran feigned hurt. “I’ll have you know I’m a very loyal person... up until the point where someone expects me to die for failure. Surely that’s not a fault?”

“What’s stopping you from finishing the job later?” Sereda pressed.

“Ah, an excellent question,” Zevran leaned forward. “I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. I think I’ve paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with somebody they can’t touch. Even if I did kill you later, they might still kill me on principle just for failing the first time. Honestly, I’d rather take my chances with you.”

“Won’t the Crows come after you?”

“Most likely,” he admitted with a shrug. “But I happen to know their wily ways. I can protect myself, as well as you. Not that you seem to need it, though.” He grinned. “If not, well... it’s not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?”

“And what, exactly, would you want in return?”

“Well, being allowed to live would be an excellent start. It would make me far more useful to you, after all. And if, at some point, you decide you no longer need my services, I’ll simply go my own way. Until then, I am yours.”

Sereda hesitated, then extended her hand. After a moment, Zevran took it, and she pulled him to his feet.

“Having an Antivan Crow might just prove useful.”

Leliana offered a soft smile. “Indeed. Your skills will no doubt be an asset to us.”

Zevran turned to her, eyes glinting. “Ah, another lovely companion-to-be? I wasn’t aware adventuring parties could be so enchanting. Perhaps I chose wisely after all.”

Leliana raised a brow, though amusement tugged faintly at her lips. “Perhaps not.”

Was he going to flirt like this the entire journey?

Zevran returned his gaze to Sereda, his tone suddenly solemn. “I hereby pledge my loyalty to you until such a time as you release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear.”

Sereda handed him back his daggers, her voice firm. “Don’t try anything funny.”

“What a warm welcome,” Zevran said with a laugh.

Sereda allowed the faintest smile. “Welcome to the team, Zevran.”

The fire crackled in the heart of camp, casting long shadows that danced across weary faces. The smell of woodsmoke mingled with the lingering tang of blood and sweat from the day’s battle. Sereda sat with her shield propped at her side, Barkspawn curled at her feet, ears flicking at every small sound in the night. Across the flames, Alistair leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire as if the answers to all their troubles might surface there. Morrigan lounged against a fallen log, arms crossed, her eyes flicking between the newcomers. Leliana busied herself with poking the fire.

Wynne settled carefully onto a blanket beside Sereda. Zevran sat a little apart, his hands resting loosely on his knees, his twin daggers conspicuously absent but his smirk intact.

For a long moment, only the fire spoke. Then Sereda drew in a breath and broke the silence.

“You all deserve to know what happened at the Circle Tower.”

Leliana’s gaze softened, and she nodded, folding her hands in her lap. “It was a harrowing place. We fought so many demons and blood mages.”

Wynne, her expression grave, leaned forward. “The Circle had been overrun. The veil was thin, and abominations roamed freely. Many good mages lost themselves to the creatures of the Fade. I feared all was lost. But Sereda...” she glanced at the Warden beside her, “...she led us through the chaos, with courage I have rarely seen. Were it not for her, none of us would have emerged alive.”

“Not all of us,” Sereda said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of those they could not save.

Leliana reached over and brushed her hand against Sereda’s wrist in a small, steadying gesture before looking to the others. “But the Circle is secure now. The mages have agreed to aid us against the Blight.”

Alistair sat up straighter, a spark of relief lighting his tired eyes. “That’s something at least. We’ll need every ally we can get.”

Wynne inclined her head, lips pressed into a firm line. “I will travel with you. My healing may prove useful in the battles ahead.”

Barkspawn huffed as if in agreemen.

Sereda gave Wynne a grateful nod before shifting her gaze to the other newcomer. The firelight glinted off Zevran’s earrings and the mischievous curve of his smile. “And as for him...”

Everyone’s attention turned. Zevran, unruffled, leaned back on his hands. “Ah. Yes. This is where it becomes interesting, no?”

“Zevran,” Sereda said evenly, “is an assassin from Antiva. Loghain hired Crows and sent him to kill me—and Alistair.”

Alistair’s head snapped up. “I’m sorry, what?”

Zevran gave a small, theatrical bow from where he sat. “It’s true. A most unfortunate contract, as you can see. I attacked, and yet here I sit alive, while my dear companions from earlier lie very much not alive. What can I say? I miscalculated.”

“You miscalculated,” Morrigan repeated, her voice dry as bone. She tilted her head, her golden eyes narrowing. “Or you are attempting a new angle of deception. An assassin in our company.”

Alistair scowled, resting a hand on his sword hilt. “And we’re just supposed to sit here and let you stay with us? What happens when he decides to “miscalculate” again while we’re all asleep?”

“I rather think,” Zevran said lightly, “that if I had wanted you dead, you would already be so. Besides, I have no desire to return to Antiva in disgrace. The Crows do not treat failure kindly. Staying with you is simply... safer.” He flashed a smile, but it only deepened the scowl on Alistair’s face.

Leliana, though more composed, frowned as well. “Your words are smooth, assassin. But the Maker teaches us that trust must be earned, not given.”

Sereda folded her arms, her expression steady but stern. “Which is exactly why he will stay under watch. He lives because he can be useful, but one wrong move...” She let the unfinished threat hang in the firelit air.

For the first time, Zevran’s smirk softened into something less mocking. “Understood, Warden.”

Sereda rose, brushing off her hands. “We’ll rest here for the night. We set out for Redcliffe tomorrow. The Blight won’t wait for us.”

Barkspawn stretched and yawned, settling closer to the fire. One by one, the others found their places to sleep, though it was clear few would rest easily with an Antivan Crow in their midst.

Zevran, lying back with his hands behind his head, only chuckled softly to himself, as if the danger around him was a familiar blanket.

Sereda went to her tent and shifted through her pack, pulling free the heavy tome she had discovered in Irving’s office. The leather was old, cracked with age, but still strong—its weight carried a sense of importance. She rose and crossed the circle of firelight to where Morrigan sat apart from the others, her long legs tucked beneath her as she prodded at the fire with a stick.

“Morrigan,” Sereda said softly.

The witch glanced up and Sereda held out the book.

“Tis Flemeth’s Grimoire!” Morrigan exclaimed. She snatched the tome as if afraid it might vanish if she hesitated, her eyes wide in astonishment. “Where did you find this?!”

“I found it in the First Enchanter’s office,” Sereda answered, gauging every flicker of emotion across Morrigan’s face. “Why would he have your mother’s spellbook?”

Morrigan turned the Grimoire in her hands, her long fingers brushing reverently along the worn leather as though it were something sacred. “’Tis was lost long ago,” she murmured, her voice stripped of its usual sharpness. “Some Templars raided her home before I was born. She mourned its loss for years, though she rarely spoke of it.”

Her thumb lingered on the edge of the binding, stroking it thoughtfully, as if willing the secrets inside to whisper themselves to her. Firelight gleamed in her dark hair, and for once, her eyes held no mockery—only wonder. “This... this is remarkable. I am eager to study this tome and uncover what my mother kept hidden from me.”

Then she looked up, and her gaze caught Sereda’s. The guarded wall she so carefully wore seemed to falter, if only for a heartbeat. “Thank you. This is a gift beyond measure.”

Sereda inclined her head. “I hope it’s useful to you.”

Morrigan clutched the Grimoire to her chest, already withdrawing from the world around her, drawn inward by the promise of hidden knowledge. Sereda stepped back, giving her space, her eyes were drawn to a quieter corner of camp. Barkspawn sat obediently before Sten. The massive qunari was crouched in front of him, his massive frame folded down in a way that seemed almost unnatural, yet not without grace. His broad hand rested on the mabari’s head, stroking once with a careful, almost reverent touch.

The sight made Sereda pause. Sten’s expression was unreadable, as ever, but there was a calmness about him in that moment, a softening she had never seen when he addressed any of the group. The firelight flickered across both mabari and qunari, casting them in the same glow, and for a heartbeat, the hardened warrior looked almost... at peace.

“You know,” she said lightly, a chuckle coloring her voice, “I think he likes you better than me.”

Sten straightened the moment she spoke, rising to his full, towering height. Even after weeks of traveling together, his sheer size still had the power to make her feel small—an odd thing still. She was not quite used to the other race’s height. She’s considered tall for a dwarf. His eyes fixed on her with the same weight of judgment they always seemed to carry.

“The Blight,” he said, his voice deep. “How will you end it?”

Sereda blinked at the bluntness of the question, then tilted her head. “We have to fight the Archdemon,” she answered plainly.

“Is that all?” Sten’s tone carried no scorn, but there was no softness in it either—just practicality. “It is surrounded by an ocean of darkspawn. How will you reach it? If you reach it, how will you slay it? You say you are a Grey Warden. I have heard stories of this order. Great strategists and peerless warriors. That is what we hear of the Wardens. So far, I am not impressed.”

Sereda’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I’m not here to impress you.”

“Evidently not,” Sten replied, his face as unreadable as always. “It remains only to see what you are here for.”

His words hung in the cool night air for a moment. Sereda shook her head slightly, choosing not to argue further. She turned away, her steps carried her to the edge of the firelight where Zevran lay stretched on the grass, his lean frame relaxed and arms tucked behind his head, he gazed up at the star-swept sky with an air of ease that seemed almost unnatural given the day’s events. The moment her shadow fell across him, he turned his head and flashed her a smile.

“Here I am,” he said.

Sereda lowered herself to the ground beside him, resting her elbows on her knees. “Why did you want to leave the Crows, exactly?”

Zevran arched one dark brow, his smile lingering. “Well, now, I imagine that’s a very fair question. Being an assassin, after all, is a living. At least as far as such things go. I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself, why should I not seize upon it?”

“You didn’t choose to join the Crows?” Sereda asked.

“To be truthful, I didn’t even know the Crows existed when I joined them,” Zevran replied with a chuckle, clearly amused by the surprise on her face. “I was but a boy of seven when I was purchased. For three sovereigns, I’m told. Which is a good price, considering I was all ribs and bone and didn’t know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end. The Crows buy all their assassins that way. Buy them young, raise them to know nothing else but murder. And if you do poorly in your training, you die.”

Sereda frowned, her thoughts drifting to the rigid caste system of Orzammar. For all its cruelty, even that seemed kinder in comparison. “And that system works?”

“Of course,” Zevran said without hesitation. “You compete against your fellow assassins, and those who survive are rightfully proud of it. In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect. It gets you wealth. It gets you women... or men, or whatever you might fancy. But that does mean doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable. It’s a cage, if a gilded cage. Pretty, but confining.”

“I think I understand,” Sereda nodded. “In Orzammar, everything revolves around the caste you’re born into. There’s no way out, unless you’re a noble hunter.”

“A noble hunter?” Zevran echoed, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“A woman who sires a child with a higher-caste man. If the child is male, she can live with his family as a concubine,” Sereda explained.

“Interesting. And what caste were you in?” he asked, leaning toward her ever so slightly.

“I was of the Noble caste, part of the royal family of Aeducan,” Sereda said, pride and regret threading her words together in equal measure.

“A princess?” Zevran’s eyes lit with intrigue, his grin sharpening.

“I was a candidate for queen,” Sereda clarified with a small shrug. “My mother was a noble, but not of royal blood. So I suppose... but as long as you are noble, you can become the ruler.” She glanced sideways at him. “I think I understand. But why didn’t you just leave?”

“Why didn’t you?” Zevran countered.

She chuckled at that, shaking her head. “I lived the life of royalty. I was fed and clothed, given the highest education. Would you have left?”

“Hmm. Perhaps not,” Zevran admitted, a thoughtful crease forming briefly at his brow. “But, as for what I’ll do in the future... presuming that there is one... I truly cannot imagine. It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change. Far away from Antiva, of course. For now, I naturally go where you go.”

“I’m happy to have you along,” Sereda said sincerely.

“And here I am happy to be had!” He laughed brightly, the sound carrying easily in the quiet camp. “Isn’t it wonderful how things work out that way? Well, thank you for the chat. But goodnight, my dearest Warden. I need my beauty sleep.” He gave her a wink as he rose to his feet and walked off toward his tent.

Sereda watched him go, a small smile curving her lips before she sighed and turned back toward the fire. The glow was lower now, embers glowing red beneath the wood, and Wynne sat nearby with a weary expression. She rubbed at her temple, exhaustion clear in her posture.

“It’s been a long day,” Wynne murmured, she sat nearby. “Rest... rest would be welcome.”

Sereda chuckled softly, looking over at the mage. “Then you should get some.”

Wynne smiled faintly, her eyes crinkling at the corners.”As you may have noticed, I’m no spring chicken.”

Sereda smirked. “I’m sure there’s still some life left in those old bones of yours.”

Wynne laughed, light and genuine, the sound easing some of the tension that had lingered since the Circle Tower. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say. But in all honesty, I do not know how many years I have left in me. I have lived for such a long time. But there’s always something else to do, and I have to keep going in order to do it. I think I will be glad when I am... done.”

Sereda’s smile faded, her gaze softening into concern. “You’ve got plenty of time left, Wynne.”

Wynne’s eyes warmed, twinkling in the firelight. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’m not the type to leave things unfinished. I’ll see this through to the end—I promise you that.”

Relief touched Sereda’s chest, and she allowed herself a small smile. “Get some rest, Wynne. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Good night, Sereda,” Wynne said softly as she rose, her robes whispering against the grass. She moved toward her tent, leaving Sereda by the fire’s dwindling glow, she moved to sit by Alistair who was across from her by the fire. Barkspawn ran up to her and shoved his broad head between them, demanding attention. Sereda let out a soft chuckle, scratching behind his ears/

“Tomorrow, we head to Redcliffe,” she said after a moment, her voice quiet, almost thoughtful.

Alistair nodded, his expression tightening, shadows deepening the lines around his mouth. “Redcliffe,” he repeated, letting the word hang between them as if it carried a weight only he could feel. He sighed, eyes flicking to the flames. “It’s been a long time.”

Sereda studied him for a beat, noting the tension in his jaw. Finally, she broke the silence. “You said Arl Eamon raised you?”

“Did I say that?” Alistair turned toward her with mock surprise, eyebrows raised. “I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact.”

Sereda smirked, rolling her eyes. “That must’ve been hard on them.”

“They were flying dogs, you see.” His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes softened a little at her smirk. “Surprisingly strict parents, too. And devout Andrastians to boot—practically barked out the Chant of Light every morning.”

“Flying dogs, you say?” Sereda played along, lips quirking. “Well, I was raised by a bolder.”

Alistair tilted his head, feigning seriousness. “Aren’t all dwarves?” he teased, before his voice shifted, quieter, more thoughtful. “Funny, the dreams you have when you’re sleeping on hard ground.”

“I’ve slept on rocks my whole life,” Sereda said with a shrug.

“Well, that must’ve been... uh, hard.” His grin was sheepish, awkward. Then his smile faded, replaced by something heavier. “Look, if we’re being honest, I’m a bastard. And not the charming, lovable rogue type—just the fatherless kind.”

Sereda tilted her head slightly, saying nothing but urging him on.

“My mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young.” His gaze dropped to the fire, the flames dancing in his eyes. “Arl Eamon wasn’t my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me when he didn’t have to be. I respect the man, and I don’t blame him anymore for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough.”

Her brows drew together. “So you don’t know who your father was?”

“I know who they told me was my father,” Alistair admitted, fiddling absently with the strap of his gauntlet. “But he died before my mother. Not that it matters. Anyway, Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais. Which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her. The new arlessa resented the rumors which pegged me as his bastard. They weren’t true, but of course they existed. The arl didn’t care, but she did. So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn’t a home to me by that point. She despised me.”

“What an awful thing to do to a child,” Sereda blurted out before she could check herself.

“Maybe she felt threatened by my presence,” Alistair said with a small shrug. “I can see that now. I can’t say that I blame her. She wondered if the rumors were true herself, I bet. I remember I had an amulet from my mother, with Andraste’s symbol on it. The only thing I had of hers. When they sent me away, I was so angry that I threw it against the wall and broke it. Stupid, really.” His voice wavered slightly before he pressed on. “The arl came to see me a few times at the monastery, but I wasn’t exactly welcoming. Eventually, he stopped trying.”

“You were just a boy,” Sereda said softly, her heart heavy with sympathy.

“And raised by dogs, remember?” Alistair tried to lighten his tone again, forcing a crooked smile. “Still, the arl is a good man. He’ll want Loghain to answer for what he did.”

“I’m sorry, Alistair.”

“For what?” he asked, his usual smile tugging at his lips but not quite reaching his eyes. “You didn’t send me away. Or... wait. Are you planning to send me away?” He gasped theatrically, hand to his chest, and she chuckled.

“No. I just think... no child should’ve gone through that.”

Alistair looked at her for a moment, then let out a small shrug. “Maybe not. But it happened.”

“Try to get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

“Thanks,” Alistair said softly, all sarcasm gone now. He lingered by the fire with her for a little while longer, letting the silence settle comfortably between them, before finally rising and heading to his tent.

Sereda stayed where she was, Barkspawn resting his chin on her knee, her eyes scanning the shadows beyond the firelight. She tipped her head back, gazing up at the canopy of stars overhead—so distant, so untouchable. For a moment, she let herself imagine the Stone stretching that far, endless and eternal.

Eventually, she pushed herself to her feet with a soft sigh. Barkspawn gave her a questioning glance before curling up again by the fire. Sereda’s eyes sought out Leliana, who sat a short distance away. The redhead’s face was half-lit by the glow of the flames, her expression serene as she smoothed the fabric of her skirt.

Sereda approached quietly, her boots crunching softly on the grass. Leliana looked up, a small smile on her lips.

“Yes?”

Sereda hesitated only a beat before asking, “what was life like in the Chantry Cloister?”

“Quiet,” Leliana replied almost instantly. “It was a life suited for contemplation. In the cloister, away from the fuss and the flurry of the cities, I found peace. And in that stillness, I could hear the Maker.” Her gaze drifted briefly to the fire before returning to Sereda. “But it was not perfect. Some of the Chantry fellows were condescending. That is the nature of religious focus, I suppose.”

“How so?” Sereda asked, settling herself down across from her.

“When I talked about my beliefs—that the Maker Himself reveals in the beauty of His world—they... treated me with disdain.” Leliana’s voice grew softer, her eyes shadowed by something more guarded. “They want to believe that He is gone. So when He turns His gaze on them, it means they are special—chosen. He cannot possibly have love for all. The sick and the weary, the beggars and the fools.”

“I prefer your ideals to the Chantry,” Sereda admitted quietly.

“Thank you,” Leliana smiled. “Maybe I am wrong, but it is the Maker’s place to decide if I am worthy. Not men. Not the Chantry.” She rose to her feet. “But there is work to be done, and I have talked enough for now. I will see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Leliana,” Sereda said, watching as the bard turned and made her way toward her tent. The firelight caught in her hair, flickering like the last traces of sunset before the night claimed her figure.

Sereda sat there a while longer, letting the silence of the camp settle around her before getting up and deciding to head back to Morrigan. The heavy leather tome rested in her hands, Morrigan’s eyes drank it in, sharp and hungry, until Sereda’s shadow fell across her.

She looked up, one brow arching. “What do you need?”

Sereda lowered herself onto the ground beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eye. “Did you grow up in the Korcari Wilds?”

Morrigan gave her a withering look, though there was a spark of curiosity in it. “Why do you ask me such questions? I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?”

“You can probe me anytime,” Sereda replied smoothly, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed, though the faintest twitch of her mouth betrayed her amusement. She shut the grimoire with a snap and set it aside. “Be pardoned, then, while I leap for joy.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm, but the way she shifted her body slightly toward Sereda suggested she wasn’t entirely displeased. “What was it you asked? If I “grew up” in the Wilds? A curious question. Where else do you imagine me?”

Her voice softened as she continued, less sharp now, almost thoughtful. “For many years it was simply Flemeth and I. The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than Flemeth’s tales of the world of men. In time, I grew curious. I left the Wilds to explore what lay beyond. Never for long, but brief forays into a civilized wilderness.”

“And you remained unnoticed?” Sereda asked, her tone part curious, part impressed.

“For the most part,” Morrigan admitted. She leaned back, her gaze distant, recalling the memory. “Flemeth taught me well. But for all I had been taught, the truth of the civilized lands proved... overwhelming. I was confident, bold even, yet there was much Flemeth could never have prepared me for.”

“Very daring. That sounds like you,” Sereda said with a small grin, her eyes lingering on Morrigan’s profile, lit gold by the fire.

Morrigan laughed. “Equal parts daring and foolhardy, perhaps. Only once was I accused of being a Witch of the Wilds. A Chasind man traveling with a merchant caravan pointed at me, shouting in his strange tongue. Most assumed he was casting a curse upon me. I acted the terrified girl, and naturally, he was arrested.”

“That was quick thinking.”

“Hmm.” Morrigan’s lips curved in a sly smile, her golden eyes flicking sideways to Sereda. “Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman. One, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive. I played the weakling and batted my eyelashes at the captain of the guard. Child’s play.” She tilted her head, her voice low and smug. “The point being, I was able to move through human lands fairly easily. Whatever they think a Witch of the Wilds looks like, ’tis not I.”

Sereda smirked. “Not what they were expecting, no. You’re... more dangerous than they could imagine.”

Morrigan’s smile widened briefly, before she continued. “Not that I did not have trouble. Human society is riddled with absurdities. The touching, for example—why all the touching for a simple greeting?”

“Touching?” Sereda chuckled. “You mean like a handshake?”

“To begin with, yes!” Morrigan waved a hand, clearly exasperated. “What is the point of pressing your flesh into mine? I find it an offensive intrusion. There are many nuances Flemeth never told me of—when to look into another’s eyes, how to eat at a table, how to bargain without offending. None of these things I knew. I still do not understand it all, truth be told. I gave up long ago any hope of doing so. When I returned to the Wilds last, I swore to Flemeth I had no intention of leaving again.”

Sereda tilted her head, smiling softly. “I’m glad it worked out, to say the least.”

Morrigan scoffed, though the faintest warmth lingered in her eyes. “Yes? Let us ignore the entire darkspawn threat and the presence of a simpleton as your other Grey Warden ally, then. Not that I lack appreciation for the intent of your comment. Thank you.” She leaned forward, retrieving the grimoire again, though her eyes lingered on Sereda just a beat longer than necessary. “I will take first watch tonight. I shall busy myself with my mother’s grimoire.”

Sereda smirked, standing slowly, brushing her hand briefly against Morrigan’s shoulder as she did. “Don’t stay up too late with your book.”

Morrigan’s eyebrow rose, and for once, she didn’t retort—she merely smirked, a faint flush of color touching her pale cheeks as she opened the tome again

Chapter Text

The group pressed on through the woods, morning mist still clinging stubbornly to the low branches. Birds scattered at their approach, their shrill cries echoing through the trees. It had been quiet until the sudden rustle of undergrowth announced a pack of wolves.

The skirmish was over quickly—steel and spell cutting through fur and teeth, Sereda’s sword splitting the skull of the last predator. She wiped her blade against the grass before clambering over the trunk of a massive fallen pine, using one hand to steady herself.

Halfway down, she froze.

Just ahead, an odd creature grazed on sparse patches of greenery. Its shape was clumsy, its head too large for its body, legs long and awkward. It resembled a horse, but not quite. 

Sereda pointed, brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

“A mule,” Leliana answered lightly, stepping up beside her.

“What’s a mule?” Sereda asked, dead serious.

“It’s a cross between a horse and a donkey,” Leliana explained with a serene smile.

Sereda’s jaw dropped slightly, realization dawning. “So I was right.”

The mule stood calmly, its brown coat shaggy, its harness tangled in a low branch. It swished its tail lazily, unconcerned by the armored and armed strangers staring at it. Its dark eyes blinked at them with surprising patience.

Leliana held out a hand and gestured for the others to stay back. With soft words and steps, she eased forward until she reached the creature’s side. Her fingers closed around the harness, and to her relief, the mule only flicked an ear before allowing her touch. She stroked its neck, murmuring comfort as though it were an old friend.

“What are we going to do with it?” Sereda asked, folding her arms across her chest. “Eat it?” she added with a half-hearted smirk.

Leliana whipped around, glare sharp enough to cut.

Sereda lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Let’s just... try to find its owner.”

They coaxed the mule free and continued north until the forest thinned. Eventually, the underbrush gave way to a dirt road. Another half-hour of travel brought them to a small campsite tucked beside the path.

A man sat slumped by a broken cart, surrounded by bolts of cloth that had spilled onto the ground. He muttered curses under his breath, tugging at one wheel as though sheer stubbornness might fix it. When his gaze landed on the mule trailing behind Leliana, he nearly leapt to his feet.

“My mule! Oh, thank the Maker!” he exclaimed, joy lighting his face with almost comical fervor.

Leliana smiled softly and handed over the reins. “Of course. Poor thing,” she said, giving the mule a final affectionate pat along its neck.

The man’s eyes shone as he rubbed the animal’s muzzle. “How did you find her?” he asked, practically bouncing with excitement.

“How did you lose it?” Leliana countered. “We found her wandering in the woods.”

“The blasted thing got scared and bolted!” the man exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “I’ll have to hire help once I reach Redcliffe. Couldn’t find anyone back in Glanyrafon.”

“You’re heading to Redcliffe?” Sereda asked, curiosity piqued.

“Aye. Trouble’s brewing in the villages to the south,” he said, his tone shifting, growing heavier.

“Trouble?” Sereda repeated, brows drawing together. “Don’t tell me the darkspawn has spread that far out of Ostagar already.”

The man nodded grimly, his earlier relief fading. “You guessed it. I barely escaped Glanyrafon before they overran the place.”

The words hit like a stone in the gut. Sereda glanced at Alistair, whose jaw tightened. Wynne frowned deeply, while Leliana lowered her gaze.

“What about the villagers?” Leliana asked, voice hushed with concern. “Did they manage to escape?”

“Some might have,” the man said, scratching his head. “I couldn’t stay to find out.”

“We’re heading to Redcliffe too. What are the odds? I’m Sereda.”

“Felix de Grosbois,” he introduced himself with a quick, almost courtly bow. “Merchant and entrepreneur.” He hesitated, tugging at his sleeve. “Look, I know you’ve already helped me, but I wonder if I could ask for another favor?”

“Depends,” Sereda said warily, hand resting on her hip. “What do you need?”

Felix cleared his throat, clearly rehearsing his pitch. “Well, among all my troubles, I’ve got this artifact I purchased from a trader from Jadar. It’s a control rod for a golem—or so I’m told. I can’t use it, but maybe you could?”

Sereda raised a brow. “What’s the catch?”

Felix chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, well, the catch is... the golem doesn’t come with the rod. It’s supposedly waiting in a village down south, waiting to be activated.”

“How much do you want for it?” Sereda asked, folding her arms tighter.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just want to be rid of it. Paid too much to just toss it, but I’d rather not carry it around anymore.”

Sereda considered, weighing his words before finally giving a small nod. “I’ll take it.”

Felix’s face brightened with palpable relief. “Thank you! The golem is in a village called Honnleath.” He rummaged for a scrap of parchment and scribbled out directions with a shaky hand before returning the map. “To wake it up, hold the rod and say “duler gaf.” Or so I’m told.”

He dug through his bag until he produced the rod—a simple, heavy length of stone etched with faint runes—and handed it over.

As Sereda slipped it into her satchel, she tilted her head. “You could always come with us, you know. Redcliffe’s on our path. Might be safer to travel together.”

Felix shook his head quickly, patting his mule with a weary smile. “Tempting, but no. I’ve got to gather my things, settle my beast, and salvage what I can from this wreck. Maker willing, I’ll be right behind you. But I won’t slow down a party like yours.”

“Suit yourself,” Sereda said with a shrug, though there was no malice in it.

They exchanged farewells, Leliana lingering a moment to give the mule one last fond stroke before rejoining the others. As they walked away, the forest seemed quieter somehow, the news of Glanyrafon gnawing at their thoughts, they really needed to hurry up.

They reached Redcliffe after several hours of steady travel, the morning sun climbing higher as the trees gave way to rolling fields. Alistair led the way, his posture stiff, his eyes never straying far from the dirt path ahead. He alone knew the route, his familiarity with these lands evident in every confident step.

The rest of the group naturally fell into pairs: Sereda walked between Alistair and Wynne, Leliana matched strides with Sten, speaking to him in a soft undertone while Zevran drifted close, his smirk suggesting he enjoyed needling the stoic qunari. Morrigan trailed behind, keeping to herself, her arms folded tightly across her chest as her eyes wandered over the surrounding wilderness. Barkspawn darted among them, bounding between legs and trees, sometimes trotting alongside Morrigan, who scowled each time his wet nose brushed against her skin.

The village finally appeared in the distance—huddled cottages, smoke curling from only a few chimneys, and the glimmer of water in the nearby lake.

“Everything alright, Alistair? You seem a bit tense,” Sereda asked, tilting her head up at him. His jaw was set, his shoulders tight beneath his armor.

He exhaled deeply, a sound caught between a sigh and a groan, his hand rubbing the back of his neck before glancing down at her. “There’s something I need to tell you... something I should’ve mentioned earlier.” He raised his voice, looking back over the others. “Actually, everyone should hear this.”

Concern flickered in Sereda’s eyes. “What’s going on?”

Alistair hesitated, lips pressed into a thin line. “I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and after she passed, he took me in?” He waited for her nod before continuing. His voice lowered at first, but then he forced the words out all at once. “The reason he did that was because... well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my... half-brother, I suppose.”

 Sereda blinked in surprise, her eyes widening slightly before she covered it with a crooked grin. “So, you’re not just a bastard... but a royal bastard?”

Alistair chuckled nervously, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Ha! Yes, I guess it does. I should use that line more often.” The humor faded as quickly as it came, his smile faltering. “I would have told you, but... it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule, and so they kept me secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone.” His voice softened, the confession heavy. “Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me... even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn’t want you to know, at least not right away. I’m sorry.”

Sereda’s smirk gentled into understanding. “I think I get it. I was a spare to the throne, just kept around as a “just in case”.”

Alistair let out a relieved breath, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “I’m glad you understand. It’s not like I got special treatment for it, anyhow.”

Her lips quirked mischievously. “Are you sure you’re not hiding anything else?”

“Besides my undying love for fine cheeses and a slight obsession with my hair? Nope, nothing else. Just the whole secret prince business.” He cleared his throat, trying to brush it away with humor. “But I’ve never had any illusions about my status. I’m the son of a commoner, and a Grey Warden to boot. It was made very clear to me early on that there was no room for me raising rebellions or such nonsense. And that’s fine by me. No, if there’s an heir to be found it’s Arl Eamon. He’s not of royal blood, but he was Cailan’s uncle and—more importantly—very popular with the people.” His expression clouded as he rubbed the back of his neck again. “Though... if he’s really as sick as we’ve heard... no, I don’t want to think about that. I really don’t. So, there you have it. Now we can move on and I’ll pretend you still think I’m some... nobody who was too lucky to die with the Grey Wardens.”

Sereda swept into an exaggerated bow. “Of course, my prince.”

Alistair groaned, dragging a hand down his face as they continued down the road. “Oh, lovely. I’m going to regret this. Somehow I know it.”

At the bridge, a young man stood guard with a bow clutched tightly in both hands. His eyes widened as the group approached. “I... I thought I saw travelers coming down the road, though I scarcely believed it. Have you come to help us?”

“Help? What’s going on?” Sereda asked, her tone edged with concern.

“What’s going on? Don’t you know?” The young man’s astonishment deepened. “Has nobody out here heard?”

“I heard the arl is ill.” She replied.

“Sick?” The man scoffed bitterly. “He could be dead for all we know! Nobody’s heard from the castle in days! We’re under attack. Monsters come out of the castle every night and attack us until dawn. Everyone’s been fighting... and dying.”

“Well, that’s just typical, isn’t it?” Zevran muttered with a crooked grin.

Morrigan let out a sharp sigh, stepping up beside Sereda with her arms crossed. “Apparently everyone seems to agree that the Blight is the perfect time to start killing each other. Marvelous, really.”

“We’ve no army to defend us!” the villager cried, shaking his head. “No arl and no king to send us help. So many are dead, and those left are terrified they’re next.”

“Hold on—what is this evil attacking you?” Alistair pressed.

“I... I don’t really know. I’m sorry. Nobody does,” the young man admitted, shifting uneasily. “I should take you to Bann Teagan. He’s all that’s holding us together. He’ll want to see you.”

“Bann Teagan? The arl’s brother? He’s here?” Alistair exclaimed.

“Yes, I can take you to him. Follow me.”

The urgency in his voice was undeniable. They crossed the bridge into Redcliffe proper. The village was a husk of itself: empty streets, windows shuttered tight, the occasional face peeking out from a crack in a door only to vanish again. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant caw of crows.

They reached the Chantry, its doors wide open, the square before it crowded with frightened villagers. Inside, the air was thick with incense and whispered prayers. Families huddled together, clinging to one another, children peering out with wide, hollow eyes.

At the far end of the room stood Bann Teagan, tall and composed despite the grim circumstances. His presence alone seemed to keep the room from unraveling.

Teagan spotted the young guard leading them and called out warmly, “It’s... Tomas, yes? And who are these people with you? They’re obviously not simple travelers.”

The young man bowed quickly. “No, my lord. They just arrived and I thought you would want to meet them.”

“Well done, Tomas.” Teagan’s gaze shifted to the newcomers. “Greetings, friends. My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, brother to the arl.”

Alistair’s face lit faintly with recognition. “I remember you, Bann Teagan. Though the last time we met, I was a lot younger and covered in mud.”

Teagan blinked, then squinted as realization dawned. “Covered in mud?” His eyes widened. “Alistair? It is you! You’re alive—this is wonderful news!”

“Still alive, yes. Though not for long if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it.”

Teagan’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “Indeed. Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, among other things.”

Sereda stepped forward, chin raised. “You don’t believe him?”

Teagan’s gaze settled on her, studying her a long moment. “What, that he pulled his men to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory? Hardly. Loghain calls the Wardens traitors, murderers of the king. I don’t believe it. It is the act of a desperate man. But... you are a Grey Warden as well? A pleasure to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances. You’re here to see my brother? Unfortunately, that might be a problem. Eamon is gravely ill. No one has heard from the castle in days. No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts. The attacks started a few nights ago. Evil... things... surged from the castle. We drove them out, but many perished during the assaults.”

“What kind of creatures are attacking?” Sereda asked.

“Some call them the walking dead; decomposing corpses returning to life with a hunger for human flesh... they hit again the next night. Each night they come, with greater numbers. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my urgent calls for help. I have a feeling tonight will be the worst yet.” Teagan’s eyes locked onto Alistair. “Alistair, I hate to ask, but I desperately need the help of you and your friends.”

Alistair looked down at Sereda, his expression conflicted. “It isn’t just up to me. Though the Grey Wardens don’t stand much chance against Loghain without Arl Eamon.”

“How pointless to help these villagers fight an impossible battle,” Morrigan said coolly, folding her arms tighter. “One would think we had enough to contend with elsewhere.”

“Of course we’ll help.” Sereda’s reply was swift, her tone brooking no argument.

Teagan’s relief was palpable, his shoulders lowering as his expression softened. “Thank you! Thank you, this... means more to me than you can guess. Tomas, please—tell Murdock what transpired. Then return to your post.”

Tomas bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Now then,” Teagan turned back to the Wardens. “There is much to do before night falls. I’ve put two men in charge of the defense outside. Murdock, the village mayor, is outside the Chantry. Ser Perth, one of Eamon’s knights, is just up the cliff at the windmill, watching the castle. You may discuss with them the preparations for the upcoming battle.”

Sereda cleared her throat, speaking firmly. “I’d like to discuss the situation with you.”

Teagan inclined his head. “Of course.”

“You have some of Arl Eamon’s knights here?”

“I have those few who returned from their quest. You know of this, yes?”

“Their search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes?”

“Yes,” he nodded gravely. “I... question Isolde’s decision to send so many knights in search of this relic, but I am a practical man, whereas she is a woman of faith. Ser Perth was one of the knights sent on this quest. Perhaps you should speak to him if you wish to know more.”

“Why are you in the Chantry with the villagers?” Sereda pressed, one brow raised.

“Ser Perth insists,” Teagan replied. “He wants me to be with the villagers, so everyone he needs to protect is in one place. I don’t mind, to be honest. The point of all this is to protect the villagers. And I can do that best here. This is the last line of defense, should things go amiss.”

“Do you need more men with you?” Sereda asked, her eyes flicking to the frightened families huddled in the pews.

“We could bring some men in to stand beside me,” he mused. “But I’d rather keep the monsters away from the villagers if possible.”

“So what happens after the attacks?”

“Hopefully we can find the source and stop it before it causes more damage. With luck, we’ll also find Eamon and be able to help him.”

“Thank you.” Sereda bowed respectfully. “I should get to work now.”

Teagan returned the gesture. “Very well. Luck be with you, my friend.”

The group stepped back from Bann Teagan, the low hum of prayers and frightened whispers around them pressing like a weight against their ears. Sereda gathered them near the Chantry’s side wall, just out of the way of the villagers.

“We’ve got work to do,” she said, glancing between them. “The villagers need us prepared before night falls, and that means splitting up. If we try to cover everything together, we’ll waste precious time.”

Alistair nodded, though unease lingered in his eyes. “She’s right. Murdock and Ser Perth will both need help, not to mention the villagers outside the Chantry. We can’t be everywhere at once.”

Zevran folded his arms across his chest, his smirk faint but present. “Very sensible. I assume I should go wherever my particular skills of persuasion and—how shall I put it?—unconventional talents might be of use?”

“Which means with me,” Sereda said firmly, cutting off his theatrics before he could get rolling. “Morrigan too.”

Morrigan arched a brow, lips curling. “Oh, splendid. Babysitting villagers. How I do adore being chained to such thankless tasks.” She gave a long-suffering sigh, but didn’t argue further.

“Good,” Sereda said briskly. She turned to the others. “Sten, Leliana, Wynne—you three should go speak with Ser Perth at the windmill. He’s a knight; he’ll want disciplined voices, strong support, and Wynne’s counsel for his men’s morale. Barkspawn goes with you.”

The mabari, as if understanding his name, gave a bark of .

Leliana inclined her head. “We’ll see what the knights require and make sure they’re ready. If their faith wavers, I will remind them that the Maker’s gaze falls on those who fight for the helpless.”

Wynne smiled faintly. “And I’ll tend to any injured, see if their supplies need bolstering. They’ll be glad of a healer among them.”

Sten gave a curt nod, his deep voice flat as stone. “Knights or no, they must fight as soldiers if they are to live. I will see to their discipline.”

Sereda gave each of them a firm look. “We split, do what we can, and meet back here before dusk. No later. Agreed?”

A quiet round of assent moved through the group, even from Morrigan’s reluctant huff.

“Alright then,” Alistair said, straightening. “Let’s give these people a fighting chance.”

The two headed off in different directions—Sereda and her group were about to leave the Chantry, movement at the edge of the crowded hall caught her eye. A girl sat hunched on a bench near the wall, her small shoulders shaking, face buried in her hands as muffled sobs wracked her thin frame.

Sereda slowed, then crossed to her. “What’s wrong?” she asked gently, ducking her head to meet the girl’s eye level. “Why are you crying?”

The girl lifted her head, eyes red and swollen, cheeks slick with tears. Her breath hitched as she spoke. “Those—those things dragged my mother away. I don’t know what happened to her, but I hear her screaming all the time, everywhere!” She choked on the words. “And now my brother, Bevin... he ran off. I... I don’t know where he is, and I’m so scared they got him too!”

Sereda’s heart twisted. “Why would he run off? Do you know where he went?” she asked softly.

“He... he said he was going to save our mother! I don’t think he understands she’s gone! He’s just a little boy!” The girl scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve, but the tears kept coming.

“I’m so sorry,” Sereda said, her voice thick with compassion. “Grief can make us do desperate things.”

The girl broke into fresh sobs, clutching her skirt. “He said something about saving mother... he’s just a little boy! He doesn’t understand she’s gone.”

Morrigan’s voice cut sharp through the Chantry’s hushed air. “If he has foolishly run off then he is no doubt dead. You should get used to the fact.”

“Nice,” Alistair muttered, glaring at her. “Maybe you want to kick her in the head while you’re at it?”

“Shall we comfort her with lies?” Morrigan asked coolly. “If she is to face death, better she face it honestly.”

The girl’s sobs rose into a panicked wail. “I hope he didn’t go to the castle! That would be awful!”

“Have you searched for him?” Sereda asked, keeping her tone steady.

“I went to our house,” the girl replied, trembling. “It’s by the square. He wasn’t there. I searched the rest of the village too. I called and I called, but he never answered. I... I wonder if he ran off into the woods! I’m so worried! Without me he has nobody!”

Sereda placed a reassuring hand on the girl’s arm. “We’ll look for him,” she promised. “If we find him, we’ll send him back to the Chantry.”

“You will? Oh, Maker bless you! Thank you!” The girl clasped her hands together, relief mixing with her grief.

Once outside, the sunlight struck them harshly after the candlelit gloom of the Chantry. Across the square, a burly man was barking orders at weary townsfolk as they carried barrels and boarded up windows. 

“That must be Murdock,” Sereda murmured, leading the way.

The man spotted her approach and straightened, his eyes narrowing with a skeptical squint. “So you’re the Grey Warden, are you?” His tone was half-accusation. “I didn’t think they made women Grey Wardens.”

Sereda raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And why would you think that?”

Murdock shrugged, dismissive. “For more reasons than you’d care to hear, I bet. Still, there’s no reason to think Bann Teagan’s lost his mind. We aren’t going to turn aside anyone who wants to help, though. Don’t take me for being an ingrate or nothing.”

“That’s good,” Zevran said smoothly, flashing a lazy smile. “The survival rates of ingrates are remarkably low. Or so I hear.”

Murdock grunted but didn’t rise to the bait. Crossing his arms over his chest, he introduced himself gruffly. “Name’s Murdock. Mayor of what’s left of the village—providing we aren’t all killed and hauled off into the castle tonight.”

Sereda lifted her chin. “Have faith, good man. We will defeat this evil together.”

The words gave him pause. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased, though exhaustion still weighed on his features. “I... I hope you’re right. I’ve been trying to hold us together, but it isn’t easy. Anyhow, you’re here. And they tell me you’re in charge.”

“What can we do to help?” Sereda asked.

Murdock rubbed his beard, his mouth pulling into a grim line. “We need what little armor and weapons we got repaired, and quickly, or half of us will be fighting without either. Owen’s the blacksmith who can do it, but the stubborn fool refuses to even talk. If we’re not ready for the night, we’ll need that crotchety bastard’s help.”

“Why does Owen refuse to talk to you?” 

“His daughter, Valena, is one of the arlessa’s maids. So he hasn’t heard of her since this whole business started. He demanded we attack the castle, break down the gate and force our way in. I said it was impossible, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s locked himself in the smithy now. I can’t force him to do repairs... he says he’d rather die first.”

“Nobody else can do repairs?”

Murdock shook his head wearily. “Not by nightfall. And not well enough that I’d be happy to test it in combat. If there were others, don’t you think I’d ask them?”

“Is there anything else?” Sereda pressed.

He thought for a moment. “We could use some extra bodies. Having a veteran like Dwyn in the militia would help a lot, but he flat out refuses.”

“Tell me about Dwyn.”

“He’s a trader, a dwarf. Lives near the lake. Locked himself up in his home with some of his workers, he has. Says he doesn’t need any of us. We could use somebody with his fighting experience. But he won’t come out.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Sereda promised firmly.

“Thank you. Truly.” Murdock inclined his head. “Let’s hope we see morning.”

Sereda and the others left Murdock and went to the smithy. It stank of soot and spilled ale. Muffled sobs seeped through the door as Sereda stepped forward and rapped her knuckles against the wood.

“Go away, curse you!” came a slurred shout. “Leave me in peace! You’ve already taken everything out my stores! There’s nothing left!”

“Are you Owen, the blacksmith? We need to speak with you,” Sereda called through the door.

“Oh, who is that? What do you want? I’ve been through enough...” The voice cracked with drink and grief.

“I’d prefer not to have this conversation through a door,” Sereda replied. “May we come in?”

A long silence followed, then grudging clanks as locks were undone. The door swung open to reveal a stocky man with bloodshot eyes, his shirt half-buttoned, reeking of stale drink.

“Someone’s been drinking...” Alistair said in a sing-song, smirking.

Owen staggered, wiping at his mouth. “So I let you in. You wanted to talk; now we’re talking. Mind telling me who you are?”

“My name is Sereda.”

He looked her over blearily. “Funny, you didn’t sound like a dwarf through the door. Can’t say I expected that.” He stumbled toward the forge, gesturing vaguely. “Anyhow, my name is Owen... though you might already know that. Care to join me as I get besotted? Or is there something in particular you want?”

“Why have you locked yourself in the smithy?” Sereda pressed.

“My girl, Valena, is one of the arlessa’s maids and she’s trapped up there in the castle, but the mayor won’t send anyone for her.” He jerked his chin toward the far wall, where a row of etched lines marked a child’s growth over the years. His face twisted with pain. “She’s been my life since my wife passed on two years ago. Now she’s dead or soon to be. I don’t care what happens to me, or the village, or anyone.”

Sereda’s voice softened. “So, you’re just going to drink yourself to death while your daughter might still be alive?”

Owen froze, her words cutting deep. “Why not? It’s not like we’re going to live past the night anyhow. Or are you going to save us?”

“Yes,” Sereda answered without hesitation.

Owen blinked, then squinted as though trying to pierce through her certainty. “Is that so? Huh. Maybe it’s the drink talking, but you almost sound like you believe that.” His shoulders slumped. “It’d do me a world of good to think maybe someone like you could go in and find her... provided any of us live through the night.”

“I promise,” Sereda said firmly. “I’ll do everything in my power to find her.”

He let out a ragged breath, the fire dim in his eyes flickering faintly. “All right. I’ll hold you to that promise. It’s something to cling to, at least.”

“Thank you, Owen,” Sereda said warmly as he shuffled back toward his forge, fumbling with tools.

“Oh, lovely!” Morrigan said dryly. “Shall we next begin rescuing kittens from trees?”

Owen ignored her. “And I suppose there’s no point in me sitting around, is there? Time to re-light the forge and get the smithy going, hey? Murdock’ll be pleased.”

Leaving the smithy, they went to Kaitlyn’s home, Sereda eased open the door. The silence inside was heavy, the air stale. Wooden boards groaned underfoot as they explored, until a faint thump echoed from the closet in the bedroom.

“Hello?” Sereda called gently. “Is someone in there?”

“This is my home!” a muffled voice shot back. “My home, you hear me?!”

“Are you Bevin?” Sereda asked.

“How... how do you know my name?” the boy stammered.

“I spoke to your sister in the Chantry.”

There was a pause. “Yes. Please, come out. You’re safe with us,” she assured him.

“Did... did she tell you to take me back to the Chantry? Don’t make me go back there! I hate this place! I hate it!”

“Don’t you think your sister might be worried for you?”

“Maybe,” he muttered. “But she just tells me not to be scared, even though she is! She tells me not to be sad, but she keeps crying because mother died. I... I don’t want to be sad! I’m brave! I’m going to be a hero! I’m going to fight them off, I will!”

“From in there?”

“N-no... I just heard you coming and... I guess that’s not very brave of me, is it? I’ll... I’ll come out now.”

The closet door creaked, and a skinny boy with tangled hair stepped out, eyes darting nervously.

“All right, I came out,” he said quickly. “You won’t hurt me, will you? I’ll go back to the Chantry if you want.”

“Of course not,” Sereda said warmly, crouching to meet his gaze. “Why were you hiding?”

Bevin crossed his arms stubbornly. “I... I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

“Are you sure?” Sereda coaxed. “Maybe I could help if you told me.”

“You... could? All right... I guess.” He shuffled his feet, then finally blurted, “Father said I could have his sword when I grew up. It was my grandfather’s, and grandfather was a dragon-slayer. I thought... if I was brave like grandfather, I could use his sword and... kill the bad people who took mother.”

Sereda’s heart ached at his words. “Where is the sword now?”

“In the chest... in mother’s room,” Bevin admitted, hesitating. “Father gave me a key, but I’m not supposed to give it to anyone.”

“Bevin,” Sereda said softly, “is there something I could do to help you and your sister in exchange for the sword? I promise it will be used to protect the village.”

The boy thought, then nodded. “Maybe... you could give my sister some money? She said if we had money, we’d be all right... even if mother is dead.”

“I’ll talk to your sister, all right?” Sereda promised.

At last, Bevin handed her the key, his small fingers trembling. “I hope you use it to kill lots of those bad things. I’ll go back to the Chantry now. Good luck.”

Upstairs, the room was sparse. A chest sat at the foot of the bed. Sereda unlocked it, lifting free an old but well-kept sword, its worn leather grip familiar to countless hands before hers.

Rejoining the group, she held it aloft. “Let’s hope this gives us the edge we need tonight.”

They left the home and went to Dwyn’s by the lakeside, the home stood shuttered and bolted, its door freshly repaired. Beside it, the general store was half-empty, they checked it out and it contained barrels of oil, a useful discovery.

Sereda rapped on the door. “Hello?” Silence. She knocked again, harder, but still no answer. Unease prickled at her. She kicked the door. The wood cracked open.

Inside, a stout dwarf and two men turned sharply.

“Wonderful,” the dwarf’s voice dripping sarcasm. “Intruders. I hope you have a good reason for breaking and entering my home.”

Sereda remained in the doorway, hands visible at her sides. “I apologize. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Apology accepted,” he said easily. “The name’s Dwyn, pleased to meet you. Now get out.”

“Murdock says he needs you for the militia.”

“Pfft. So? Murdock’s sending a dwarf to do his begging for him? Hoping I’ll get all misty-eyed with thoughts of home?” He crossed his arms. “Look, I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: I’m not risking my neck for this town.”

“Is there any way I can change your mind?” Sereda asked.

He eyed her appraisingly. “Hmph. I have to admit, you’ve a better chance than most. At least another dwarf is likely to have a few rocks to rub together between their ears. What do you have in mind then? Let’s hear it.”

“I’ll hire you to protect this village.”

“I won’t stick my head out this door for less than a hundred silver.”

“I won’t go higher than fifty.”

Dwyn’s lips twitched, then he sighed. He stuck out his hand. “Fine. Hand over the money and I’ll help out. Just don’t mention our deal.”

Sereda dug into her coin purse and pressed the silver into his palm.

“You better be out there too when the sun goes down,” he warned, strapping on an axe. “I’m not fighting for a lost cause, you hear me?”

He shoved past her, heading toward the square to join the militia.

After scouting the rest of the lower village, Sereda led her companions up the hill. The path was narrow and steep, the ground slick with the day’s mist, and the sharp incline afforded them a sweeping view of Redcliffe. Smoke curled from chimneys, and torches had already been lit along the road, though the sun had not yet fully dipped. To the left, tucked against the hillside, sat a tavern—its wooden sign swaying in the wind with a rusty squeak.

Sereda slowed her pace. “We should check inside,” she said, her gaze sweeping over the weathered building. “There might be someone who can help.”

The tavern’s heavy door groaned as they pushed it open. Inside, the air was thick with stale ale, and hopelessness. Shadows clung to the corners where a few patrons hunched over their drinks, their conversation muted and strained. Tankards scraped across scarred tables, but there was little laughter, little life.

In the far corner, a lone elf sat rigidly, shoulders hunched, eyes darting toward the group before quickly sliding away again. He looked uneasy—too much so for a simple drinker. Odd.

Before Sereda could approach, a redheaded woman stepped into their path, wiping her hands on a worn apron. She carried herself with a tired sort of humor, her smile edged with weariness. “More doomed souls here to drown their sorrows?” she asked with a wry chuckle. “If you came for a drink, you’ll have to talk to Lloyd. He’s got a vise grip on the spigots. I’m here just to keep the boys from mutiny. Name’s Bella.”

“Sereda,” the Warden replied, inclining her head before tipping her chin toward the elf in the corner. “You know anything about him?”

Bella followed her gaze and shrugged. “Not much. He’s very quiet. His name’s Berwick, and he claims he’s here to meet his brother, but... I think he’s lying. He’s sort of... creepy.”

Sereda filed that away for later. “So how’s business been?”

“What business?” Bella laughed without mirth, her arms folding across her chest. “Without the castle’s soldiers, the only customers we’ve got are locals. And they’re all in the militia, with no money to spend. The few with coin are here, but it’s not enough to justify working. Lloyd’s a greasy pig, and if I didn’t need this job so badly...” She cut herself short, shaking her head. “He gropes me and pays me next to nothing. But I suppose it could be worse. Not like I’ve got many options.”

Sereda’s brow furrowed. “I could talk to Lloyd about this.”

Bella’s eyes widened, and she quickly shook her head. “No, no—that’ll just make things worse. That’s very sweet, but I’ll be fine.”

“How about a raise, then?” Sereda pressed.

Bella’s lips quirked into a small smile. “I’d like that. Maybe we could talk after the battle tonight... if we’re still here, that is. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve work to do. If you’ll excuse me.” She slipped past Sereda, her warm smile fading as she turned to tend to a table of weary men.

Sereda turned her attention toward the bar, where Lloyd was polishing a mug that was already clean. He looked up at her with a sly smirk. “Hello there, friend. Can’t say we’ve met before. Stranger to the village, I take it? Haven’t had many travelers lately. All this nonsense is bad for business. Bet you regret coming, yes?”

“Not at all.”

He set the mug down, a flicker of surprise on his face. “Brave words, brave words. Well, we’ll see when night falls, won’t we? So what’ll it be? You are here to drink, I hope?”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “Shouldn’t you be helping defend the village?”

“Why?” Lloyd snorted. “When them creatures attack, I lock myself up in the cellar. Just batten the hatches and wait it out. What’s the point in getting myself killed with all the rest of them? If that makes me a coward, I’m a coward.”

Sereda’s eyes hardened. In a heartbeat, she had him by the collar, dragging him across the counter until they were face to face. “Join the militia tonight,” she said, her voice low and cold.

Lloyd paled, sputtering. “B-but... Bann Teagan said we didn’t have to! He said... he said... argh, fine! Fine! I’ll go.” He stumbled back, straightening his shirt as he scrambled out from behind the bar. “But all of this better be here when I get back! I don’t want this place drunk out from under me! Blasted, bloody...” He kept grumbling until he pushed out the door.

As the latch clicked behind him, Bella burst into laughter, her relief bubbling over. “That was amazing! It’s about time he did something to help out. I guess this... puts me in charge? Poor Lloyd will have an apoplexy just thinking about it, heh. Keep safe, and come back any time—I won’t lock up till near sundown.”

Sereda allowed herself a faint smile. “Take care of the men. We’ll need everyone at their best tonight.”

With that, she crossed the room to the elf in the corner. He stiffened as she approached, eyes darting toward the door like a trapped hare.

“Not looking for company,” he muttered.

“I hear your name’s Berwick,” Sereda said evenly, folding her arms.

His head snapped up, eyes wide. “What? How did you know that? Err... well, that’s my name. Why?”

“You seem nervous. Why is that?”

“I—no reason. I just didn’t expect you to know my name, that’s all.”

“I asked around,” Sereda replied, her gaze never leaving him.

He licked his lips, voice dropping to a whisper. “Look, you’re very pretty and all, but I don’t want any trouble. I was just told to—never mind. Forget it.”

“Told to what?”

“Nothing!” he blurted, too quickly. “Nobody told me anything! Just because you’re a Grey Warden doesn’t mean you can go around threatening people!”

Sereda stilled, her expression sharpening. “Who said I’m a Grey Warden?”

Berwick froze, blanching. “I just... overheard it. That’s all. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, pushing back his chair, “I want to get to the Chantry before the sun goes down.”

She stepped into his path. Her voice was calm, but iron laid beneath it. “This will be easier if you just tell me what you’re hiding.”

His shoulders slumped as though a string had been cut. “If I...? But... oh, all right. I’ll tell you! Just... don’t hurt me.” His gaze flicked nervously around the tavern before he leaned closer. “This is more than I bargained for. They just paid me to watch the castle and send word if anything should change. But they never said anything about monsters! I haven’t been able to report anything since this started! I’m stuck, same as you, I swear!”

“Who paid you?” Sereda demanded.

“A tall fellow... I forgot his name. He, uh, said he was working for Howe. Arl Rendon Howe. He’s an important man! Teyrn Loghain’s right hand! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Her eyes narrowed. “What were you supposed to watch for?”

“Just to report any changes, honest! All I could send word about was the arl getting sick. After that, monsters started coming from the castle.”

“So you know how this happened? Tell me.”

“I don’t know anything about these creatures! When the arl got sick, I got scared people would think I was involved! But I swear I didn’t do anything about it! They sent me to watch. Maybe they knew the arl would get sick, I don’t know!”

Sereda’s stare remained hard. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Berwick fumbled with his pack, hands shaking as he pulled out a crumpled letter and thrust it at her. “Here! This is a letter from them! It has instructions and everything... keep it! Do whatever you want with it! I just thought I was serving the king and making a bit of coin on the side! You have to believe me!”

Sereda took the letter, her jaw tight. “If you’re truly sorry, help defend Redcliffe tonight.”

Berwick hesitated, chewing his lip, then slowly nodded. “All... all right. I’ll do that. Thank you for your mercy. I won’t forget it.”

He hurried out, nearly tripping over himself in his rush.

The group lingered only a moment before stepping back into the open air. The sun was sliding low, gilding the rooftops in amber and crimson, and long shadows stretched across the hill. Ahead, the windmill’s broad sails creaked in the breeze, and beyond it, Ser Perth stood vigil.

“Your mother is supposedly the one called Flemeth, the very witch from legend, is that not true?” Zevran asked, his eyes glinting with curiosity as they ascended the slope.

Morrigan glanced sideways at him with a scowl, her lips curling into disdain. “There is nothing supposed about it. Flemeth is my mother.”

“Hmm.” Zevran tapped his chin, his mouth quirking in skepticism. “I was more doubtful of the legend rather than your relationship to this woman. Anyone can claim a name, after all.”

“You’re welcome to ask her, if you ever meet her. You’re just her type.” Morrigan’s tone shifted to something mocking, almost playful, though her eyes were cold.

Zevran raised a brow, amused despite himself. “Oh? Elven and handsome?”

“The sort that will never be missed.”

Zevran blinked, taken aback for a beat before letting out a soft laugh. “Sounds intriguing, if you ask me.”

Morrigan grinned. “You assassin types have a death wish, I see.”

Zevran chuckled, unbothered. “Only the really good ones.”

Their banter carried up the final stretch of the hill until the looming shape of the windmill came into view. 

Ser Perth stepped forward and inclined his head with respect. “Greetings, Grey Warden. I am as relieved as Bann Teagan to see you here. However, I must admit, I am unfamiliar with addressing a dwarf of your station. I do not wish to be rude.”

“You can call me Sereda, as is my name.” Sereda was tired of being reduced to nothing more than her title. Being called her name by strangers would be nice.

“As you wish, and thank you kindly,” Ser Perth replied with a grave nod. “I am Ser Perth. Until recently, I served in direct service under Arl Eamon of Redcliffe. For now, my charge is defending the village from these evil assaults. Would that I had chosen not to seek out the Urn of Sacred Ashes, perhaps I would have fended off whatever evil befell the castle... or perhaps I would be dead. Ah, well. With a Grey Warden aiding our defense, perhaps not all is lost.”

“Have you considered using the oil in the village store?” Sereda asked, recalling what she’d seen earlier.

His eyes widened. “No one told me of this. Oil, you say? How much exactly?”

She thought back, recalling the stacked barrels. “Enough to set many monsters aflame.”

“Assuming that would hurt them...” He rubbed his chin beneath his helm, lost in thought. “Yes, I see what you have in mind. That might be effective if used carefully.”

“A fine tactic,” Zevran drawled, shrugging one shoulder. “Provided it actually kills them and you don’t end up having to deal with flaming undead.”

“It is an excellent idea nonetheless,” Ser Perth said with conviction. “I’ll send some men to collect oil. We’ll use it to slow these creatures down.”

“Is there anything else we can do to help?” Sereda pressed.

“I heard Owen has opened up the forge again—so we should have sufficient armor and weapons. But my knights are too few to stand against the monsters without assistance,” he admitted. His voice softened into something more thoughtful. “Perhaps you could approach Mother Hannah in the Chantry for some holy protection against these evil creatures? Otherwise, I do not know what else could provide beyond your own talents. We are as prepared for the onslaught as we could possibly be, all things considered.”

“I’ll go speak to Mother Hannah,” Sereda said. “But first—I have some questions for you.”

Ser Perth inclined his head. “Ask me whatever you wish.”

“Tell me about the Urn of Sacred Ashes.”

Ser Perth’s expression turned grave. “When the arl fell sick, we were at a loss. Nothing worked to cure him and he just kept getting worse. Finally, Arlessa Isolde came up with a plan: the Urn of Sacred Ashes is a legendary artifact said to hold great healing powers. If found, it might save him.”

“They say the followers of Andraste smuggled her ashes out of Tevinter and hid them in Ferelden. The urn’s never been heard of since,” Alistair added, his tone skeptical yet hopeful.

“We knights volunteered to seek it out,” Ser Perth continued. “Few of us have returned; many are still out there, unaware of what is happening here.”

“Why did the arlessa believe anyone could find the urn?” Sereda asked.

“The arl once employed a scholar,” Perth explained. “Brother Genitivi. He had proof the urn was in Ferelden, or so I was told.”

“Just what was the arl sick with?”

“We were never certain. He thirsted for water, and then grew weaker and weaker. We brought a mage but even that did nothing. The arlessa believed he was cursed and that we needed the power of Andraste herself, or he would surely perish.”

“Can no one find the other knights and bring them back?”

“Eventually, perhaps,” Perth said, though doubt clouded his tone. “The ones I have were those near enough to recall within the last few days. I only returned myself because I was passing by Redcliffe and heard news of strange attacks.”

“So the knights left the castle defenseless?”

“Not at all.” Perth shook his head firmly. “A great number of soldiers remained in Castle Redcliffe. I wonder if they perished there and were transformed into those... things. The thought chills my blood.”

“I’ll go talk to Mother Hannah. Thank you.” Sereda inclined her head.

Ser Perth smiled faintly. “Thank you, Sereda. I await eagerly for your return.”

With that, Sereda and her companions descended the hill, heading back toward the Chantry. By the entrance stood Kaitlyn, crouched before Bevin, gently brushing dirt from his cheek. When she noticed them, she rose quickly, eyes wide. “Bevin said you were the one who found him. I can’t possibly repay you!”

Sereda’s gaze softened as she glanced at Bevin, who smiled shyly before clutching his sister’s hand.

“About the sword I found in your home...”

“Bevin told me about grandfather’s sword. So you have it, then?” Kaitlyn’s voice trembled with mixed sorrow and acceptance. “I... suppose it won’t go to waste, at least.”

“I’ll return it after the battle, I promise.”

“Use it well. If we survive, I’ll gladly take it back. Thank you again for Bevin. With my mother gone... well, I’m just glad he’s safe. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Just stay safe, both of you.”

“The Maker sent you; I just know it. Thank you again.”

Sereda offered a nod before continuing into the Chantry, where Bann Teagan stood waiting. His eyes met hers, and a flicker of relief softened his face.

“I heard Murdock and Ser Perth are nearly ready for nightfall,” he said. “Excellent news.”

There was still about an hour left until sundown. Sereda paused, curiosity stirring. “Tell me more about yourself.”

Teagan arched a brow. “This is hardly the time to be discussing personal details, don’t you think? We will have to fight for our lives very shortly.”

“Come now, is it so much to ask to know a little more about you?”

He hesitated, then sighed with a smile tugging at his lips. “I... I beg your pardon, my lady. Where are my manners? What would you like to know?”

“If Arl Eamon doesn’t survive, what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed, voice low. “If Connor survives, he’ll be the arl, and I’ll need to help him with it. If he’s... well, I don’t want to think about it.”

“Why did you stay? You could have left.”

“The bannorn gear up to battle Loghain while the darkspawn loom to the south. Loghain won’t send anyone. So Redcliffe is on his own,” he answered simply.

“Are you a skilled warrior?” she pressed.

“Skilled enough to know there are many better than myself,” Teagan admitted with a grin, casting her a sidelong look. “And it looks like I’ve met one of them.”

Sereda chuckled softly. “Do you have any family?”

“Oh... you mean, am I married?” He flushed slightly, almost boyishly. “I... no. No, I’ve never had the pleasure. If I did, I’d be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself.”

“Flatterer,” she teased.

Teagan hesitated, then asked, “if I may be so bold, my lady... are you married?”

“No, I’m not.”

“I find that hard to believe! Surely that is a crime somewhere. But I am too bold, my lady. This is hardly the time for such... banter. Please accept my apology.”

Sereda’s smirk widened. “Actually, I think you’re not being bold enough, my lord.”

“You’re too kind, my lady,” Teagan replied with a grin. “Among other things.”

She laughed under her breath. “Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand.”

“Good,” he said, clearly relieved. “Then my secrets are still safe. I was worried for a moment, there.”

With a shake of her head, Sereda passed into the side chamber, where children huddled together under blankets. Mother Hannah stood at their forefront, praying softly. She turned as Sereda entered, her expression weary but resolute.

“You are of dwarven blood and a stranger amongst us, yet you defend a home that is not your own. We are grateful for that.”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” Sereda asked, arching a brow.

“Perhaps not, but many dwarves do not hold the Chantry and its adherents in high regard.”

“I don’t need to believe in the Maker to think an entire town should not be massacred,” Sereda pointed out.

“You are right...” Mother Hannah conceded after a pause, then inclined her head. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Revered Mother Hannah, head of this Chantry... which, for the moment, is a place of refuge for these poor villagers. They are terrified of tonight’s attack, and I fear these walls will not keep them safe. What can I do to help with your task?”

“Ser Perth needs holy protection for his knights,” Sereda explained.

“I have done all I can for them,” Hannah said gravely. “I pray for them each night and seek the Maker’s forgiveness for their sins before they face their deaths. What Ser Perth seeks is something that is not in my power to give.”

“Can’t you just bless them?”

She shook her head. “I can pray with them and give them my blessing, but Ser Perth wants me to call upon the Maker to shield them from evil.”

“Well, can’t you just tell him the Maker will watch over him?” Alistair suggested. “Morale is a powerful thing, you know.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean you want me to let them think the Maker protects them in a real sense? I will not lie to them like that!”

“But if they think it helps them...” Sereda urged.

The Mother pursed her lips, weighing the matter. At last, she sighed. “I suppose their belief in the Maker’s power could inspire them, but it seems like trickery. Very well. I will do what I must. I have a number of silver-cast holy symbols. Tell Ser Perth that he can have them, and that wearing them will confer the Maker’s protection. Now, please... let me tend to these poor folk. I must do what I can, and I suggest you to do the same.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Sereda said before leaving with the others.

They left and found Murdock again, his face was brighter than it had been all day.

“Well, I don’t know what you said to him, but thank you!” he exclaimed. “Owen’s finally gotten to work on the repairs—just in time, too. Damn fool’s already half-drunk, but he’s hammering out weapons like it’s nothing.”

He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Maker help me, we might actually stand a fighting chance tonight.”

“We will defeat them, Murdock,” Sereda swore. “I have to go to Ser Perth, and we’ll be ready.”

The group climbed back to the windmill, where Ser Perth greeted them.

“The knights of Redcliffe are ready to fight at your disposal.”

“You said you wanted holy protection?” Sereda asked.

“Have you spoken to the Revered Mother? Has she offered anything?”

“Mother Hannah has some holy amulets. Will those do?”

“If they are the same as the symbols blessed by their priests... well, that would more than suffice! I will send men to collect the amulets.”

“We’re ready to take our stand.”

“Then let us make our way to the Chantry to speak with Bann Teagan and Murdock of the battle plan.”

With that, Ser Perth turned, and Sereda followed him back down the hill. The last light of the sun was fading, painting Redcliffe in deepening shadow.

The Chantry was thick with the scent of tallow and incense, but the air itself carried the heavy, sour weight of fear. Villagers huddled in the pews, whispering prayers or clutching their loved ones, the creak of wood echoing like a heartbeat under the vaulted ceiling. At the front, where the altar gleamed in candlelight, Teagan stood with Ser Perth, Murdock, Alistair, and Sereda.

Teagan’s face was grim but steady, his voice calm as he gestured to a rough map sketched across a tabletop. “The creatures will come from the castle, down the hill. We don’t know their exact number, only that they are relentless. The men are frightened, but they’ll stand if given clear orders.”

Ser Perth crossed his arms. “The knights can hold the line on the hill. If we can prevent the creatures from reaching the village proper, fewer innocents will be at risk.”

Murdock shook his head. “With respect, Ser Perth, the militia aren’t knights. They’ll panic if left too far from the Chantry. We need a strong defense at the village center—here, closest to the people we’re protecting.” He jabbed a calloused finger at the map.

The two men fell into silence, eyes shifting toward Sereda. She studied the map, her brows knitted, and finally spoke in a voice that carried the weight of command honed in Orzammar’s endless halls of stone.

“You’re both right,” she began, and the others leaned in. She tapped the hill with her gauntleted finger. “The high ground is critical. If we hold the slope leading from the castle, we’ll slow their momentum. Alistair and I will lead here with Ser Perth and his knights. We’ll form the first wall.”

Her hand slid down to the village square. “Murdock, you’ll command the militia in the center. Keep them close to the Chantry, where they’ll fight harder knowing their families are behind them. If any break through us on the hill, you’ll be the second line of defense. The Chantry itself becomes the fallback point.”

“And me?” Teagan asked, tone testing, though his eyes were already narrowing in consideration.

“You’ll stay inside the Chantry,” Sereda answered without hesitation. “The people need leadership if the lines fail. They’ll rally to you. Someone must ensure the innocents don’t scatter.”

Teagan regarded her for a long moment, a faint flicker of surprise in his expression before it gave way to a thin, impressed smile. “You’ve done this before.”

“In Orzammar, I commanded warriors against darkspawn incursions,” Sereda said simply, though her tone softened. “This is no different. It’s strategy and resolve that win battles—not just steel.”

Alistair glanced at her sidelong, clearly impressed despite himself. “Maker’s breath... remind me never to argue with you over where to pitch camp.”

That earned a small, fleeting smile from her, but she returned her focus to the others. “We know what needs to be done. Everyone fights where they’ll be strongest. Hold your ground, trust each other, and we’ll make it through the night.”

The room was quiet for a moment, the weight of her words settling like iron. Then Murdock straightened, shoulders squaring as if the plan itself had steadied him. Ser Perth gave a curt nod, conviction burning brighter in his eyes.

Teagan inclined his head respectfully toward Sereda. “Then it’s settled. We fight as you’ve laid out. Maker watch over us all.”

Outside the Chantry, the night air was heavy, charged with the anticipation of battle. The villagers bustled about, dragging carts into place for barricades, hauling buckets of water, or sharpening whatever weapons they had scrounged together. The sound of hammering boards and anxious voices carried through the square.

Sereda gathered her companions near the edge of the steps. She swept her gaze over each of them before speaking.

“Listen closely. When the creatures come, we can’t afford confusion.” She pointed toward the slope that cut down from the looming silhouette of the castle. “Alistair, Morrigan, Zevran—you’re with me. We’ll take the hill. That’s where the brunt of their assault will hit first, and if we don’t hold it, the rest won’t matter.”

Her finger moved toward the village square below, where the militia were already clustering with their makeshift weapons. “Sten, you’ll lead Leliana, Wynne, and Barkspawn. Stay close to the militia. Keep their spirits from breaking and their line from collapsing. If any of the beasts slip past us, they’ll come down on you. Be ready.”

Leliana nodded firmly, adjusting the strap of her bow. “We’ll keep them from breaking through. They’ll have no choice but to fight alongside us.”

Sten only gave a low grunt of acknowledgment, hefting his greatsword onto his shoulder with a fluid, practiced motion. Barkspawn barked once, as if already anticipating the chaos to come.

Sereda’s tone softened, but only slightly. “We don’t have an army behind us—just scared farmers and tradesmen. If we don’t hold our lines, no one will.” She let her words settle before adding, “so fight smart. Watch each other’s backs. And remember—we’re the only thing standing between these people and death.”

The heavy lock of the Chantry door clicked shut behind them as Teagan sealed the innocents inside. Around the village, militia hurried to their stations, carrying torches, shields, and crude spears. The air grew taut with silence, broken only by hurried shouts of preparation and the restless lap of the lake beyond.

Taking their positions, Sereda led her group up the hill. From their vantage point, they could see the entire village spread out below, torchlight flickering across the cobbled streets. Down in the square, Sten and his team mingled with the militia, their presence a quiet pillar of strength amidst the frightened villagers.

Sereda’s eyes locked on the castle above, its silhouette shrouded in an unnatural glow. That eerie green haze drifted down across the bridge, seeping like poison into the path. Her grip tightened on her sword hilt, heart hammering.

“They’re coming!” a lookout shouted, his voice cracking with terror. “The monsters are coming!”

“Light the barricade!” Ser Perth bellowed, his voice commanding over the growing panic.

Morrigan stepped forward, she slammed her staff into the ground with a resonant crack, and a serpent of fire roared along the oil-soaked barricade. The wood and sharpened spikes erupted into a blazing wall, sending sparks spiraling into the night. She lifted her staff again, its head glowing faintly, already gathering more flame.

Sereda took her place at the front, shield up, sword raised. Alistair fell into position beside her, their shields overlapping slightly.

The smell came first—something sour that curdled the stomach. Rot. Then the green mist at the barricade’s edge thickened, writhing like a living thing before tearing apart. From it poured the dead. Dozens of them, skin sloughing from bone, jaws slack and eyes glowing pale white. They surged forward with jerky but terrifying coordination.

The flames caught many, turning them into screaming pyres as fire devoured their flesh. Yet still they advanced, mindless of pain, clambering over their burning kin.

“Archers!” Ser Perth shouted. A volley of arrows whistled through the night, piercing skulls and dropping corpses before they reached the line.

Morrigan spun her staff in a sharp arc and hurled a massive fireball into the heart of the horde. It exploded, a sunburst of fire lighting the battlefield. A dozen corpses crumpled, burning, but the gap quickly filled as more pressed forward.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair muttered, bracing his shield as the first wave hit. He shoved a corpse back, then drove his blade into its throat, twisting hard until it went down. Another swiped at him, but he blocked, sparks flying from the clash before he slashed clean through its rotting neck. “How many more of these things are there?!” he shouted.

“Enough to keep us busy,” Sereda answered grimly. She stepped forward with a shield bash that shattered an undead’s ribs, then stabbed through its sternum, wrenching her blade free in a spray of black ichor.

Zevran darted past her shoulder, twin daggers flashing like silver lightning. He ducked under the swipe of a corpse and slashed its hamstrings, dropping it to its knees before plunging both blades into its back. He wrenched them free with a flourish, spinning into another strike that opened a corpse’s throat. “Hah! They fall apart so easily, no?”

Ser Perth and his knights held the barricade flank, massive two-handed swords cleaving through the dead with wide, brutal arcs. Each swing cut down two, sometimes three, their shields raised high as they fought in a wall of steel. Perth barked orders between strikes, his voice steady and sure, rallying the men even as one knight went down screaming.

Dwyn fought not far from him, roaring like a madman as he carved into the undead ranks with savage overhead blows. His two-handed axe cleaved bodies in half, splitting skulls like melons. Every swing left blood and rot spattering the ground, but sweat poured down his face as he fought tooth and nail to hold his ground.

The undead pressed harder. Their bodies piled against the barricade, creating grotesque ramps for others to climb. Fire-blackened corpses hurled themselves forward, their charred arms clawing as if they didn’t know they were already dead.

Morrigan snapped her staff high, and a storm of flame spears rained down on the thickest part of the mob. The heat seared the night, and the air filled with the shrieks of burning flesh. She sneered, lips curling. “Pathetic wretches.”

“Hold the line!” Sereda’s voice cut through the cacophony. She surged forward, shield-first, ramming into a knot of corpses and knocking them backward into the fire. 

Alistair fought beside her, sweat running down his brow. He blocked a corpse’s lunge, slammed his shield into its face with a sickening crunch, and skewered it through the skull in the same motion. “Maker, I hope this ends before dawn!”

“Then fight harder!” Sereda barked, cutting down another with a clean strike.

Corpses clawed at their shields, teeth snapping inches from their faces, and for every one cut down, two more seemed to crawl over the pile.

The night was only just beginning.

The battle at the barricade had begun to turn in their favor. The undead were thinning under relentless steel and fire, their shrieks echoing across the hills as their twisted forms fell. For the first time that night, a spark of hope flickered among the defenders.

That spark was crushed when Leliana came sprinting up the hill, her bow clutched in one hand. “They’re attacking from the lake!” she gasped, breath ragged. “The militia can’t hold them!”

Sereda’s heart sank. She exchanged a grim glance with Alistair. “We can’t let them flank us.”

“I’ll hold the line here,” Alistair said, stepping forward, shield raised. His voice was steady, but his eyes burned with determination. “Go!”

Sereda hesitated only a moment before nodding. She spun on her heel and sprinted down the hill, Leliana at her side. The sounds of battle roared behind them as Alistair and Ser Perth’s men braced to hold the barricade without them.

The closer they came to the village, the louder the screams. Sereda’s stomach turned as she saw the water of Lake churning unnaturally, glowing with sickly green pulses beneath the surface. Shapes stirred below, then clawed their way free—rotting corpses dragging themselves ashore, water streaming from their sodden forms as they staggered toward the defenders.

“We’ll hold them here!” Sereda barked, raising her shield. “Wynne, give us cover!”

The mage’s lips tightened, but a faint smirk tugged at her mouth. “Gladly.” She raised her staff high, and a wall of fire erupted along the shoreline. Steam hissed violently as lake water hit flame, but the blaze held, slowing the advance. Her other hand glowed faint blue as she touched the nearest soldier, mending a deep gash on his arm with ease.

The center of the village was chaos. Smoke curled up from burning homes, shadows lashing across the square in the firelight. The copper tang of blood clung to the air. The militia fought in desperate clusters, their spears and axes clashing against claw and bone. They lacked the training of Ser Perth’s knights—their movements were sloppy, their fear obvious—but still they stood, refusing to abandon their homes.

Sereda plunged into the fray, shield-first. She intercepted a corpse lunging at a militia man, slamming it aside before plunging her sword into its chest. She ripped the blade free and turned, already cutting down another.

“Barkspawn! To me!” she called.

The mabari bounded from the melee, slamming into an undead with bone-crunching force. His jaws clamped onto its throat, tearing through rotting flesh. He shook the creature violently until it collapsed, then turned to the next, lips pulled back in a furious snarl.

Sten was a towering figure at the center of the line. His greatsword carved through the horde in wide, devastating arcs, severing limbs and splitting skulls with every swing. A pack of undead rushed him at once, their claws raking his armor, drawing blood. With a roar, Sten swung in a massive overhead strike that split one from crown to pelvis, then booted another back into the flames.

Sereda fought her way to his side, cutting down one that tried to claw at his exposed flank. “They keep coming,” she grunted, breath ragged.

“We do not need forever,” Sten replied calmly, even as he cleaved another corpse in half. “Only until morning.”

A sharp bark from Barkspawn drew their attention. The mabari growled at the roof of a nearby building, where half a dozen corpses clawed their way up the shingles. They snarled, preparing to leap onto the defenders below.

“Not today!” Sereda growled. She snatched up a discarded pitchfork and hurled it like a spear. The weapon skewered one through the chest, knocking it off the roof. The others scrabbled for balance.

Barkspawn darted forward, leaping onto a cart and launching himself onto the roof. He barreled into another corpse, dragging it down in a heap. They crashed to the dirt, but Barkspawn landed on his feet, unharmed, already tearing into the next attacker.

Nearby, Leliana’s bow sang as she loosed arrow after arrow with uncanny precision. One shot pinned a corpse’s skull to a wooden beam, another sank clean into an eye socket, dropping the creature mid-lunge. She barely paused to draw breath. “Keep them off the walls!” she shouted, nocking another arrow.

Murdock fought like a man possessed, bow in hand, loosing shafts from the front lines alongside the militia he commanded. His arrows didn’t always find their mark, but he kept shooting, teeth gritted, encouraging his men by refusing to fall back.

Berwick loosed arrows beside him, his hands steady despite the chaos. His shafts found hearts and skulls with ease, thinning the horde wherever the line wavered.

Lloyd, in contrast, darted nervously through the melee, a pair of daggers clutched in his shaking hands. He wasn’t skilled, but desperation drove him. He managed to stab one corpse through the ribs, then another through the neck before stumbling back, his face pale with terror.

Wynne’s staff pulsed with light as she sent waves of healing energy through the ranks, sealing gashes and steadying faltering men. Her magic was the thread holding the line together, keeping the militia on their feet.

The undead pressed harder, their sodden bodies dripping lake water onto the dirt as they clawed forward. 

“Warden!” a militia soldier shouted, panic in his voice as he pointed westward. “The gate! They’ve breached the gate!”

Sereda cursed. “Sten, with me!”

The qunari nodded sharply, hefting his greatsword. Together with Sereda, Barkspawn, and a cluster of militia, they raced toward the western gate.

The barricade there had collapsed, splintered timbers strewn across the ground. A dozen undead were already pouring through, their claws reaching for the defenders.

“Hold the line!” Sereda roared, throwing herself into the breach. Her shield met the first attacker with bone-crunching force, knocking it back, and her sword slashed downward to split its skull.

Sten joined her with a bellow, his blade cleaving through the horde in brutal arcs. Barkspawn darted in and out, snapping at ankles and throats, dragging corpses down so others could finish them. The militia rallied behind them, striking with spear and axe, emboldened by Sereda’s unyielding command.

“Push them back!” she shouted, her voice hoarse but unbroken. “For Redcliffe!”

The cry carried through the square. Murdock echoed it, then Berwick, then a dozen more throats. The defenders surged with renewed vigor, hacking and slashing, shoving the undead back step by step.

The night was far from over, the horde unrelenting—but Redcliffe’s defenders held fast, their will as unyielding as the stone beneath their feet.

As dawn broke over Redcliffe, the relentless waves of undead finally began to thin, their once endless horde crumbling into silence. The first rays of sunlight pierced the smoky haze, painting the village in faint gold and washing the cobblestones in a fragile warmth that clashed against the carnage below.

The militia stood tense and bloodied, gripping their weapons with trembling hands. Only when the last ghoul staggered forward—half its body charred, its jaw hanging loose—did Sten stride into its path. With a heavy roar, he swung his sword, cleaving it clean in two. The corpse fell in a wet thud at his feet.

For a moment, silence. Then a ragged cheer erupted, swelling into triumphant cries that echoed across the battered village. Survivors collapsed where they stood, armor dented and shields splintered. Some sank to their knees, overcome with exhaustion, while others clutched their blades like lifelines, unwilling to let go even in victory.

Sereda lowered her shield, her breath coming in deep, burning gulps. She scanned the battlefield: bodies sprawled across the square, broken barricades still smoldering, the cobblestones slick with blood. Her jaw tightened, pride and sorrow warring in her chest.

The heavy doors of the Chantry burst open, and villagers spilled out in a wave of relief. They rushed to embrace loved ones, tears streaming freely as children clung to parents. For a brief, fragile moment, hope reclaimed the square.

Bann Teagan emerged among them, his face alight with gratitude. Without hesitation, he swept Alistair into a fierce bear hug, nearly lifting the startled Warden off the ground. Alistair let out a half-laugh, patting him awkwardly on the back. Sereda, despite her fatigue, found herself smiling at the sight.

“Thank you!” Teagan exclaimed, his voice breaking with emotion. He turned to Sereda, clasping her hand firmly, his grip both strong and grateful. “Words cannot express my gratitude for what you’ve done! You’ve saved us all.”

Nearby, Kaitlyn stared at the sword in trembling hands, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Keep it,” she whispered hoarsely. “You saved us. You saved my brother, and all of us. I want you to have it as a reward.”

Sereda softened. “Here,” she said gently, offering her a small coin purse and pressing the sword into Kaitlyn’s grasp. “This should take care of you both for a while.”

Kaitlyn clutched the items to her chest, tears spilling freely now. “Thank you,” she whispered brokenly. “I’ll never forget you.”

The Revered Mother emerged from the Chantry, her voice steady as she led the villagers in prayers. Survivors gathered around, their heads bowed in grief and gratitude. Teagan stood at her side, with Sereda, and her companions, Ser Perth, and Murdock gathered close.

“Dawn arrives, my friends! And all of us remain! We are victorious!” Teagan cried, his voice booming across the square.

A roar of cheers answered him. Teagan lifted a hand, gesturing to the Wardens and their companions. “And it is these good folk you see beside me that we have to thank for our lives today. Without their heroism, surely we would have perished.”

He turned back to Sereda, bowing low. “I bow to you, dear lady. The Maker smiled on us when He sent you here in our darkest hour.” Ser Perth then stepped forward, offering Teagan a helm, which he held out solemnly to Sereda. “Allow me to offer you this: the helm of Ser Ferris the Red, my great uncle and Hero of Ferelden. He would approve, passing it to one so worthy.”

Sereda accepted it with both hands, her voice steady. “Thank you, Bann Teagan. I am honoured.”

“Take it, then,” he said, his tone firm. “And use it in good health.”

Mother Hannah raised her arm to the crowd, palm upward. “Let us bow our heads and give honor to those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe.” She lowered her hand. “Now they walk with He who is their Maker. Long may they know the peace of His love.”

Sereda bowed her head, murmuring, “May their ancestors give them welcome.”

“With the Maker’s favor,” Teagan added, “the blow we delivered today is enough for me to enter the castle and seek out your arl. Be wary and watch for signs of renewed attacks. We shall return with news as soon as we are able.”

For a moment, they all stood quietly, watching as villagers clung to each other. The victory was real, but its scars were deep. Sereda’s thoughts drifted onward, to the Blight, to the battles yet to come.

When the rites concluded, Teagan turned back to her, his expression grim. “Now, we’ve no time to waste. Meet me at the mill. We can talk further there.”

Sereda exchanged a glance with Alistair before nodding. Together, they followed him up the hill toward the looming windmill. From its crest, the castle looked deceptively still.

“Odd how quiet the castle looks from here,” Teagan murmured, staring at its shadowed walls. “You would think there were nobody inside at all.” He turned back. “But I shouldn’t delay things further. I had a plan... to enter the castle after the village was secure. There is a secret passage here, in the mill. Accessible only to my family.”

Sereda tilted her head. “If you had a way into the castle, why didn’t you use it earlier?”

Teagan sighed heavily. “I had no idea what lurked in the castle! And I couldn’t abandon the people of the village! What if—”

His words cut short. His eyes widened. “Maker’s breath!”

Down the hill, a woman in a tattered but elegant gown hurried toward them, her lone guard close behind. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing ragged. She stumbled to a halt before Teagan, gasping, “Teagan! Thank the Maker you yet live!”

“Isolde!” Teagan’s relief was palpable. “You’re alive! How did you... what has happened?!”

“I do not have much time to explain!” she panted. “I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly! And I... need you to return to me. Teagan. Alone.”

Sereda stepped forward, narrowing her eyes. “We need more information than that.”

Isolde turned sharply, frowning. “What? I... who is this woman, Teagan?”

Alistair sighed. “You remember me, Lady Isolde, don’t you?”

Her eyes widened. “Alistair? Of all the... why are you—?”

“They are Grey Wardens, Isolde,” Teagan explained quickly. “I owe them my life.”

“Pardon me,” Isolde said to Sereda, her voice trembling. “I... I would exchange pleasantries, but... considering the circumstances—”

“Please, Lady Isolde,” Alistair interjected, almost begging. “We had no idea anyone was even alive in the castle! We must have some answers!”

She turned back to Teagan, her voice breaking. “I know you need more of an explanation, but... I... I don’t know what’s safe to tell. Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead awaken and haunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues! And I think... Connor is going mad! We have survived, but he won’t flee the castle. He has seen so much death! You must help him, Teagan!” Her voice cracked into sobs. “You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!”

“What about Arl Eamon? Is he alive?” Sereda asked.

Isolde nodded quickly. “He is. He is being kept alive so far, thank the Maker.”

“Kept alive?” Teagan repeated, horrified. “Kept alive by what?”

“Something the mage unleashed. So far, it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live.” Her voice faltered, tears streaming. “The others... were not so fortunate. It’s killed so many, turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village! It wants us to live, but I do not know why. It allowed me to come to you, Teagan, because I begged. Because I said Connor needed help.”

“Do you think this “evil” could be some kind of demon?” Sereda suggested.

Isolde’s face went pale. “I... I do not know. Oh, Maker’s mercy! Could it truly be a demon? I can’t let it hurt my Connor!” She sobbed again, then clutched Teagan’s arm. “You must come back with me, Teagan! Please!”

“Tell us about the mage,” Sereda pressed.

“He is an infiltrator, I think—one of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband. That is why Eamon fell ill.”

“Eamon was poisoned?!” Teagan shouted, horrified.

“He claims to be an agent of Teyrn Loghain’s, hired by him,” Isolde explained. “He may be lying. However, I cannot say.”

Sereda’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like you’re not telling us everything?”

Isolde recoiled. “I... I beg your pardon! That’s a rather impertinent question!”

Sereda raised a brow. “For a dwarf, you mean?”

“No! I did not mean... that is to say, I... please, stop this!” she cried, collapsing into sobs. “An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage! I came for help! What more do you want of me!” She turned back to Teagan desperately. “Teagan, I do not have much time! What if it thinks I am betraying it?! It could kill Connor! Please come back with me... must I beg?!”

“Why must Teagan go alone?” Sereda asked.

“For Connor’s sake,” Isolde pleaded. “I promised I would return quickly and only with Teagan.” She looked back at him. “Teagan, I know you could order your men to follow me when I return to the castle. I beg you not to, for Connor’s sake!”

“The king is dead, and we need my brother now more than ever.” Teagan placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “I will return to the castle with you, Isolde.”

“Oh, thank the Maker!” she gasped, seizing his hands. “Bless you, Teagan! Bless you!”

“It seems we have little choice,” Sereda muttered.

Teagan turned to her, his voice low and firm. “I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone. You, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable. Isolde, can you excuse us a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you.”

“Please do not take long! I will wait by the bridge.” She hurried off, her guard close behind.

When she was out of earshot, Teagan faced Sereda again. “Here’s what I propose: I go in with Isolde, and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door. Perhaps I will... distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?”

“I can’t let you do that,” Sereda said firmly. “That’s insane.”

“And what do you propose we do?” he snapped. “It is the only way. Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle entrance. If you can open the gates from within, they can move in and help you.”

Sereda frowned. “I’ll get Eamon out, but I’m not leaving anyone else to die. I swear it.”

Teagan’s expression softened. “You’re brave as well as beautiful, it seems. Truly, the Maker smiled on me when He sent you to Redcliffe.” He hesitated, then slipped the signet ring off his finger and pressed it into her palm. “Here is my signet ring. It will open the lock on the door in the mill. Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, and anyone else is... expendable. I must go. Farewell... and good luck.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” Sereda replied quietly.

Teagan offered a faint smile, then turned and followed Isolde back toward the bridge, his figure growing small against the looming shadow of the castle.

Sereda and Alistair exchanged a grim look before returning down the hill.

Sereda stood at the base of the hill with her companions and Ser Perth. Alistair stood beside her, adjusting his shield straps with a grimace. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered. “Teagan’s walking into that willingly. I almost envy him for not having to stand around wondering when the next corpse is going to come clawing at the gate.”

Ser Perth cleared his throat, drawing all eyes. “With Teagan inside, we cannot afford to falter. My knights will stand with the militia and hold the line should the undead return. But if the corruption is not cut out at its source, we’ll only delay the inevitable.”

Sereda nodded, her expression firm. “The castle is the heart of this. If we get inside, we can end it.” She glanced around at her companions. “Alistair, Morrigan, Zevran—you’re with me. We’ll infiltrate the castle, find whatever’s behind this, and stop it.”

Alistair gave a dry laugh. “Of course. Straight into the cursed fortress. I’d complain, but I suppose I’d just be ignored anyway.” Still, he drew his sword and planted it point-first in the dirt, as if sealing his commitment.

Morrigan folded her arms, lips curling. “At last, a plan that does not involve endless skirmishing with shambling corpses. Very well. I will accompany you.”

Zevran gave a smirk. “Lead on. I live for dangerous assignments.”

Sten stepped forward, planting his greatsword into the ground. “I will remain here. These people are weak. They will need strength to hold the line.”

Barkspawn barked, almost as if to second his words, butt wagging as he pressed against the qunari’s leg.

“Then it’s settled,” Sereda said. “Sten, Leliana, Wynne, Barkspawn—you stay here with Ser Perth and Murdock. Protect the village. Buy us the time we need.”

Leliana gave a firm nod, though her voice was soft. “May the Maker guide your steps, Sereda. We will hold until you return.”

“Do not fail,” Sten rumbled.

Sereda met his gaze without flinching. “I won’t.”

With the plan decided, the group split—one half tightening their defenses around the Chantry and the weary militia, the other made their way to the old mill, its wheel creaking faintly in the breeze. Inside, dust and cobwebs hung thick in the corners, the smell of mildew clinging to the air. Just as Teagan had described, lay a heavy trapdoor reinforced with iron bands. Sereda heaved it open, the hinges groaning, and a faint rush of cold, damp air wafted up from below.

A sturdy ladder descended into darkness. Sereda slung her shield onto her back and went first, boots clanging against the iron rungs as she lowered herself into the black. Alistair followed, muttering under his breath, while Morrigan descended with far less concern, her staff glowing faintly to light the way.

When they reached the bottom, their boots splashed into a shallow puddle. The air was thick with damp and rot, every breath heavy with must and stagnant water.

Alistair wrinkled his nose, pulling his cloak tighter around him. “Smells... musty,” he muttered.

Morrigan’s unimpressed gaze flicked his way. “We’re beneath the lake, fool. What did you expect? Perfumed air?”

“Just saying,” Alistair smirked, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his nerves. “What if the lake caves in and we drown? Tragic way to go, really.”

Sereda shot him a sidelong glance but didn’t answer, her focus locked on the slick tunnel stretching ahead. Still, the thought lodged in her mind, and she placed her boots more carefully.

The passage walls wept moisture, streaks of moss and mold glistening in the faint glow of Morrigan’s staff. Drips echoed from unseen cracks above, splattering into puddles that soaked through their boots. The confined space carried every sound—the crunch of gravel beneath their steps, the creak of leather, even their breathing—making the darkness feel alive.

After what felt like an age, the tunnel sloped upward, the air drying as they climbed away from the lake’s suffocating embrace. At last, they reached a reinforced wooden door. Sereda withdrew Teagan’s signet ring, slotting it into the hidden keyhole. With a solid click, the lock released, and the door creaked open.

The air beyond was colder, stale with the scent of dust and decay. They stepped into a dimly lit corridor lined with prison cells. Rusting bars stretched into shadows, and faint clinking echoed—a hollow, metallic rattle that set their teeth on edge. Ahead, a knot of skeletons clawed at one of the cells, their bony fingers scraping against iron as if desperate to get at something within.

Inside, someone screamed for help.

The corridor was narrow, barely wide enough for one person to swing a weapon properly. Sereda raised her shield, slamming her sword against it with a resounding clang. The sound cut through the air, drawing the skeletons’ heads toward her.

They surged forward, bone scraping against stone. The hallway filled with the crash of combat—Sereda’s shield smashing into ribs, Alistair’s blade crunching through brittle spines, Morrigan’s staff flaring as she sent a burst of flame spiraling down the cramped space. Bones scattered across the flagstones until, at last, the final skeleton collapsed in a heap.

From the cell came the faint sound of movement, then a trembling voice. “Hello? Who’s there? Is there anyone alive out there?”

Sereda approached the bars cautiously, her companions close at hand. A pale man stood within, backing away slightly as the torchlight fell on him. His eyes darted nervously between them. “Wait—you don’t look like the arlessa’s guards. Are you from outside the castle?”

“Yes,” Sereda replied curtly, arms crossed. “And who are you?”

The man swallowed hard. “My name is Jowan. I’m a mage Lady Isolde hired to tutor her son, Connor. Until they... ahh, threw me into the dungeon here.”

Recognition flashed across Alistair’s face, and his expression darkened. “You’re the one who poisoned the arl!”

Jowan winced but nodded, voice defensive. “I’m not proud of it. The arlessa had no idea what I was hired to do when she took me in to tutor Connor. I... I know it looks suspicious, but I’m not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle.” He began pacing, words spilling faster. “I was already imprisoned when that began. At first, Lady Isolde came here with men, demanding I reverse what I’d done. I thought she meant the poisoning. That was the first I heard of the walking corpses. She thought I’d summoned a demon to torment her family. She had me tortured, but nothing I said appeased her. So they left me here to rot.”

“Why did you poison Arl Eamon?” Sereda’s voice was hard, cutting.

Jowan’s shoulders slumped. “I was told Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden. That, if I dealt with him, Loghain would settle matters with the Circle. You see, I’m a maleficar—a blood mage.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened, a rare flicker of surprise crossing her features. “You? A blood mage? Truly? I would have never guessed.”

“A blood mage!” Alistair’s voice rose in outrage. His grip tightened on his sword. “Well, that isn’t good.”

“I dabbled in the forbidden arts,” Jowan admitted, his tone heavy with shame. “The Circle condemned me to death. I thought Loghain was giving me a chance to redeem myself… but he’s abandoned me, hasn’t he? Everything’s fallen apart, and I’m responsible! I have to make it right somehow, I have to!”

Sereda’s eyes narrowed. “But why did the arlessa need a mage to tutor her son?”

Jowan’s answer came in a whisper. “Connor had started to show... signs. Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle would take him away. She wanted him taught in secret.”

“Connor? A mage? I can’t believe it!” Alistair exclaimed, shock plain in his voice.

“She sought an apostate,” Jowan said quickly. “To help him hide his gift. Her husband knew nothing. He would have sent Connor to the Circle immediately.”

“Perhaps her son is responsible for what happened here,” Sereda theorized grimly.

“I thought that too,” Jowan admitted. “Connor barely knows magic, but he could have torn the Veil by accident. Spirits, demons... they could have slipped through. Powerful ones—enough to create these corpses.”

“And Eamon truly had no idea?” Sereda pressed.

“No,” Jowan shook his head. “Isolde was adamant he never find out. She said he’d “do the right thing” even if it meant losing their son. That infuriated her.”

“How much magic did you teach him?”

“Some,” Jowan said quietly. “But he’s still a child. He couldn’t cast a real spell—not intentionally. I don’t know if he’s involved at all.”

Sereda exhaled slowly. “I see. I think I understand.”

Jowan gripped the bars suddenly, eyes pleading. “I never meant for it to end like this. Let me help fix this.”

“I say this boy could still be of use to us,” Morrigan said coolly. “But if not, then let him go. Why keep him prisoner here?”

Alistair turned to her, baffled. “Hey, hey! Let’s not forget he’s a blood mage! You can’t just... set blood mages free!”

“Better to slay him?” Morrigan’s glare was sharp. “Better to punish him for his choices? Is this Alistair who speaks, or the Templar?”

“Give me a chance, please!” Jowan begged.

After a tense silence, Sereda exhaled sharply. “I’m letting you out. But don’t try anything.”

Jowan nodded fervently. “Understood. You won’t regret this.”

Sereda glanced at Zevran who unpicked the lock, watching every twitch as he stepped free. Alistair muttered darkly under his breath but said nothing further.

“What now?” Jowan asked, eyes darting nervously toward the shadows.

“Run,” Sereda said, voice cold. “Get out of the castle.”

Jowan hesitated, his face pale in the dim torchlight. His eyes flicked between them, fear and guilt warring behind them. “I—”

“Do you want to die here?” Sereda pressed.

The mage swallowed hard, trembling. “No,” he whispered. “I—I don’t.”

“Then go. You’re on your own from here. I won’t help you again.”

“Are you truly suggesting just... let him go?” Alistair asked, disbelief. “A dangerous blood mage?”

“I won’t leave him here to die,” she replied without hesitation, meeting his gaze squarely. “Would you?”

“I... I guess not.”

Jowan’s hands were shaking as he glanced between them. “Then... then I’ll go.”

Jowan lingered only a heartbeat longer, his face twisted with something like remorse, before he bolted down the corridor. His footsteps echoed once—twice—and then were swallowed by the castle’s silence.

“Let’s move,” Sereda ordered.

They pressed deeper into the belly of Redcliffe Castle. The air grew colder, the corridors narrower. Shadows stretched long along the walls, broken by the flicker of dying torches. Every corner felt alive with whispers.

A sudden clatter broke the quiet—bones striking stone.

Another wave of skeletons lurched from the side passage, their armor hanging in tatters, hollow sockets glowing faintly red. Swords and claws scraped across the flagstones as they advanced in a rattling tide.

Sereda lifted her shield and charged and Alistair was instantly at her flank. The two Grey Wardens moved in tandem—shields up, blades flashing. Her sword caught a skeleton mid-swing, shearing through its ribcage, while Alistair’s backhand strike crushed another’s skull. Bone fragments scattered across the stones.

Behind them, Morrigan’s staff flared with orange light. “Enough of this.” Her words dripped with disdain. A pillar of flame roared down the hallway, engulfing the rear ranks of the undead. The smell of scorched bone filled the air as firelight painted the walls in flickering orange.

Still they came.

One skeleton broke through, its blade scraping along Sereda’s shield before she pivoted and drove her sword into its spine. Alistair’s shield smashed into another, shattering it against the wall. When the last one fell, the corridor was silent once more, save for the hiss of fading flames.

They didn’t pause long. There was no point.

The next hall twisted sharply downward into darkness. The air reeked of blood and wet fur.

From the shadows ahead came the sound of growling—low, guttural, wrong. A heartbeat later, a shape lunged into the light.

Corrupted mabari, their flesh gray and torn, eyes gleaming with sickly green fire.

The first beast hit Sereda squarely, claws scraping against her shield. She braced, twisting with the blow and shoving it off-balance. The moment it hit the ground, her sword came down in a clean, brutal arc. The blade bit deep, splitting skull and silence alike.

Another came from the side, faster. Zevran intercepted it in a blur, his daggers flashing. He ducked beneath snapping jaws and drove both blades up into its throat, twisting until the light in its eyes went out.

A burst of ice rippled from Morrigan’s staff to freeze two more mid-charge. Alistair swung hard, shattering one into shards. The other broke free and leapt—only for Sereda to meet it mid-air with a shield bash so fierce it sent the creature sprawling lifeless.

After what felt like an eternity navigating the castle's winding halls, Sereda and her group stumbled upon a small room at the end of a dim corridor. She cautiously pushed the door open, bracing herself for another attack. Instead, a high-pitched scream startled her.

“Please! Don’t hurt me!” a young woman cried, pressing herself against the wall.

“Calm down,” Sereda said gently, lowering her weapon. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

The girl hesitated, her wide eyes darting between them. “I-I'm sorry. I’m just so frightened! There are monsters everywhere! I found this closet to hide in.” She swallowed hard. “My name’s Valena. I’m the arlessa’s maid.”

“Valena?” Sereda’s eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. “Are you Owen’s daughter?”

The mention of her father’s name made Valena’s face light up. “You know my father?”

“He’s worried about you,” Sereda replied. 

“I want to go back to him,” Valena replied, her voice trembling. “Is there a way out of here?”

“There’s a tunnel we came through,” Sereda explained. “We’ve cleared the path and it’ll take you back to the village. Don’t stop running until you’re out of here.”

Relief washed over Valena, and she nodded quickly. “Thank you. I—I can run fast. I know my way through the castle.” Without another word, she bolted past them, disappearing down the corridor.

Sereda exhaled sharply, turning back to her companions. “Let’s keep moving.”

The narrow corridor gave way to an iron-banded door. Sereda pushed it open, and a rush of cold air swept through, carrying with it the scent of smoke and night.

They stepped out into the open courtyard of Redcliffe Castle.

The damp, stifling air of the castle cellar gave way to the chill of night as Sereda led her companions up the final flight of steps. The heavy wooden door groaned open beneath her hand, spilling them out into the courtyard.

The air was thick with decay. Smoke from distant fires mingled with the scent of rot, and the soft rustle of the wind through broken banners was the only sound—until the ground began to tremble.

A figure rose from the ground, its armor blackened and fused with the flesh beneath. Rusted plate hung from a frame of sinew and bone, and within the hollow of its helm, eyes glowed like dying suns. The revenant’s sword dragged against the stones with a shriek that set their teeth on edge. As the undead rose from the ground with it.

“A revenant,” Alistair muttered, tightening his grip on his blade. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked nervously toward Sereda. “Of course it’s a revenant.”

Sereda’s gaze never left the creature. “Alistair, with me! Zevran, stay quick on the flanks. Morrigan—burn them!”

“Gladly.” Morrigan’s lips curved into a predatory smile. She raised her staff and muttered a guttural word of power. A roaring wall of flame burst forth, rolling across the cobblestones and setting the first wave of undead ablaze. The creatures shrieked and stumbled, burning silhouettes staggering through the inferno before collapsing into ash.

The revenant didn’t even flinch. It lifted its massive sword and charged, moving far faster than anything that size had a right to.

Sereda raised her shield just in time. The impact was thunderous—metal slammed against metal, sparks showering across the ground. The blow drove her down to one knee, and pain shot through her arm from the force.

“Maker’s breath, it hits hard!” she snarled, shoving upward with a grunt. Her shield edge bit into the revenant’s arm and forced it a step back.

Alistair was already moving. He lunged in beside her, his sword biting into the revenant’s flank. The blade tore through corroded armor, but the thing barely reacted. With an inhuman snarl, it swung its greatsword in a wide arc, smashing Alistair aside. He skidded across the courtyard, his shield clattering from his hand.

Zevran darted through the chaos. “Do keep the big one busy, yes?” he called, sliding behind a cluster of half-burned corpses. “I much prefer the smaller dance partners!” His daggers flashed in the firelight, cutting through tendons and rotted sinew as he dispatched the shambling dead before they could swarm Morrigan.

“Focus, Zevran!” Sereda barked, intercepting another of the revenant’s swings. The sheer weight of its sword sent vibrations down her arm, and she tasted blood where she’d bitten her lip.

Morrigan twisted her staff and a freezing mist burst outward—frost spreading across the revenant’s armor, slowing its movements. Ice crystals crawled up its limbs, clinging to the runes carved into its breastplate.

“Now!” Sereda shouted.

Alistair was already on his feet. He dove forward with a roar, driving his blade deep into the revenant’s leg. Bone cracked. The creature stumbled, roaring in pain—a hollow, echoing sound that shook the air.

Sereda seized the moment. With a guttural cry, she slammed her shield into its chest with all her might. The impact sent the revenant staggering backward, armor shrieking as it collided with the courtyard wall.

Sereda lowered her sword, chest heaving. Sweat and soot streaked her face.

She approached the gate and unlatched the heavy iron bar. It groaned as it slid open, and Ser Perth and his knights surged through.

“My men are eager to see the arl again,” Ser Perth said. “Shall we enter the main hall together? It must be held if we are to regain control of the castle.”

“Let’s finish this.”

The air changed as they entered the hall. It grew colder, unnaturally so, the kind of chill that crawled beneath armor and clung to the skin like damp cloth. Every flame they passed seemed to dim as they approached, the shadows stretching and bending unnaturally long.

The silence was thick, suffocating—until Sereda caught the faint flicker of firelight ahead. A muted, steady glow spilled from a half-open door at the corridor’s end.

Sereda raised a hand, motioning the others to stillness. Zevran’s daggers slid soundlessly into his palms, Morrigan’s eyes narrowed, and Alistair lifted his shield into guard. Sereda eased forward, the metal edge of her shield nudging the door open with painstaking care.

The hinges creaked.

She peered inside.

The audience chamber had once been grand—a place where noble disputes were settled beneath banners of red and gold. Now, it was a grotesque parody of itself. The rich carpets were scorched, the air heavy with incense and decay. Four guards stood rigid before the grand hearth, their eyes glassy, expressions blank, weapons held limp but ready.

At the room’s center, Isolde knelt in terror, her hands clasped to her chest. And beside her—Connor. The boy’s features twisted with cruel delight as Teagan danced before him, arms flailing, his laughter sharp and hollow.

Connor turned toward them suddenly, and the demon’s voice that issued from his small frame was deep and resonant.

“So these are our visitors? The ones you told me about, mother?”

Isolde shuddered, her words barely a whisper. “Y-yes, Connor.”

Connor’s gaze fixed on Sereda. “And this is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?”

“Yes,” Isolde stammered.

Connor tilted his head, scrutinizing Sereda with an eerie curiosity. “And now it’s staring at me! What is it, mother? I can’t see it well enough.”

Isolde flinched from his voice. “This is a dwarf, Connor. You... you’ve seen dwarves before. We’ve had them here at the castle..."

Connor sneered. “Had them? For dinner, maybe. Looks like a tough chew. Maybe in a nice stew?” He let out a cruel laugh, a sound that made Sereda’s hand instinctively tighten around her weapon. “Shall I send it to the kitchen, mother?”

“No!” Isolde cried, falling to her knees. “Connor, please! I beg you—don’t hurt anyone!”

Connor’s expression softened, his eyes widening as a flicker of innocence surfaced. In a trembling, childlike voice, he stammered, “M-mother? What’s... what’s happening? Where am I?”

Isolde gasped, a desperate hope lighting up her tear-streaked face. “Oh, thank the Maker! Connor! Connor, can you hear me?” She took a tentative step forward, reaching for him.

But the moment shattered as Connor’s head snapped back, his face contorting into a sneer. The voice that came next was low and venomous. “Get away from me, fool woman! You are beginning to bore me!” With a sudden, brutal motion, he struck her across the face, sending her sprawling to the floor.

Sereda’s instincts took over. Her hand shot to her sword, ready to intervene. Isolde, crumpled but still resolute, raised a trembling hand toward her. “Grey Wardens! Please, don’t hurt my son! He’s not responsible for what he does!” she cried, her voice breaking as she wiped the blood from her lip.

Sereda’s gaze darted to Connor, then back to Isolde. Her voice was steady but sharp. “So, he is the evil force you spoke of?” Her sword left its sheath with a metallic hiss.

“NO!” Isolde wailed. “Don’t say that! Connor didn’t mean to do this! It was that mage—the one who poisoned Eamon—he started this! He summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!”

“And made a deal with a demon?” Morrigan spoke up. “Foolish child.”

“It was a fair deal!” he spat. “Father is alive... just as I wanted. Now it’s my turn to sit on the throne and sent out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!”

Teagan’s voice broke through the tense atmosphere. “Noooobody tells him what to do! Noooobody! Ha ha ha!” He twirled on his heels, his movements as ridiculous as his tone.

“Quiet, uncle!” Connor hissed, his small frame trembling with anger. “I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting! Didn’t I? Yes, I did!” His attention shifted back to Sereda, a predatory smile curling his lips. “But let’s keep things civil. This woman will have the audience she seeks. So, tell us... woman, what have you come here for?”

Sereda stood her ground, her voice unwavering. “I came to help if I could.”

“Help me? Help father? Or help yourself?” Connor’s voice dripped with disdain, his eyes narrowing as he leaned toward her. “Which is it?”

“To help the people you terroized” she replied firmly, locking eyes with him.

Connor tilted his head, his smile turning cold and calculating. I was just having fun! Everyone else had fun to,” he turned to Teagan. “Are youhaving fun, uncle?”

“Marmalde!” Teagan shouted from where he sat. 

“You see?” Connor lets out a laugh, his gaze darkened, malice radiating from his features. “We’re having fun! I think you’re just trying to spoil things. What do you think, mother? I think it’s threatening me.”

Isolde flinched under his piercing gaze. “I—I don’t think—”

“Of course you don’t!” Connor cut her off, his patience snapping. “Ever since you sent the knights away, you have done nothing but deprive me of my fun! Frankly, it’s getting dull.” His voice grew quieter, more menacing. “I crave excitement! And action! This woman spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village, and now, she’ll repay me!”

With a dark mutter, Connor turned and bolted from the room, disappearing into the shadows. 

Without warning, the guards and Teagan’s glassy eyes turned hostile, their movements jerking unnaturally as they closed in.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair muttered, raising his shield. “He’s turned them against us!”

The chamber erupted.

Morrigan was first to move, slamming her staff against the stones. A shockwave of cold burst outward—a cone of frost that swept across the nearest guards. Armor cracked under the sudden ice, their movements slowing to a grinding halt as their skin frosted over.

Sereda surged forward with a battle cry, meeting Teagan head-on. His sword came down hard, clumsy but fast. She caught the strike on her shield, sparks flaring, then shoved him back. “Forgive me,” she grunted, forcing him off balance. “But I won’t let you kill us.”

Two of the guards broke from the ice, lunging at Alistair. Steel rang loud in the vaulted chamber as his sword met theirs. “They’re strong!” he shouted, his shield shuddering beneath their combined assault.

“Perhaps because they feel no pain,” Morrigan snapped, sending a plume of fire surging into one of the guards that had managed to flank him. The man screamed as his armor ignited, stumbling to his knees in flames.

Zevran darted through the chaos. His twin daggers caught the torchlight as he slid beneath a guard’s swing, carving across the back of the man’s knee before twisting away. Blood spattered the floor. “Puppets they may be, but they bleed all the same,” he called lightly, ducking another strike. “Shall I cut the strings, or would you prefer them neatly bound?”

“Non-lethal if you can manage it!” Sereda barked, ducking as Teagan’s sword whistled past her ear. She rammed her shoulder forward, slamming into his chest with the weight of her shield. The blow sent him crashing into the dais steps. Still, he rose, eyes vacant, blade dragging sparks as he advanced again.

One of the frozen guards shattered Morrigan’s spell, lunging straight for her. She stumbled back, snarling, but Sereda was already there. The dwarf intercepted the blade mid-swing, the impact ringing through her shield arm. She twisted, hooking the edge beneath his sword and wrenching it wide before slamming her hilt into his helm. The guard went down hard.

“Do keep some alive!” Zevran called out as he kicked one of his opponents backward, pommel-striking him across the jaw.

Alistair drove his shield forward, sending another soldier sprawling. “Alive? That might be asking a bit much!” he grunted, blocking a follow-up blow. He pivoted and brought his pommel down hard on the man’s temple, and the guard dropped, unmoving but breathing.

“Sereda!” Morrigan’s voice cut sharp through the din.

Teagan was charging again, sword high.

Sereda spun, catching the blade with her shield’s edge. The impact nearly knocked her off her feet, but she held, teeth bared, muscles straining. With a roar, she shoved him back, slamming him against the stone wall. Dust rained down from the impact.

“Stay down!” she shouted, twisting her arm and driving the rim of her shield up beneath his chin. The force cracked his head against the wall. For a heartbeat, his body went limp.

“Teagan!” Isolde’s cry broke the stillness. She rushed to his side, her dress sweeping through ash and blood. She knelt beside him, hands trembling as she cupped his face. “Teagan, are you all right?”

He pressed a hand to his temple, grimacing as though the world itself throbbed in his skull. “I am... better now,” he managed, voice hoarse. “My mind is my own again, I think.” When he looked up at her, his eyes were shadowed with fatigue and grief.

“Blessed Andraste,” Isolde breathed, relief spilling through her voice. “I would never have forgiven myself had you died. Not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!”

She turned, desperation carving lines deep into her face as she faced the group of Wardens. “Please—Connor’s not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!”

“I am not about to kill a child.” Sereda assured her.

“Clearly this child is an abomination,” Morrigan cut in, her tone clipped. “There is only one way to stop it.”

Isolde shook her head fiercely, tears spilling down her cheeks. “He is not always the demon you saw! Connor is still inside him—sometimes he breaks through. Please, I just want to protect him!”

“Isn’t that what started this?” Teagan’s voice snapped. “You hired that mage to teach Connor in secret. To protect him?”

Isolde flinched, as if the words themselves had struck her. “If they discovered Connor had magic, they would have taken him away!” she cried. “I thought if he learned just enough to hide it... then...” Her voice faltered, collapsing under the weight of guilt.

Sereda stepped forward, her tone calm. “Where do you think Connor has run off to?”

Teagan inhaled deeply, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I think he ran upstairs—to the family quarters.”

“Violence scares him,” Isolde murmured weakly, wiping her tears with the back of her trembling hand. “I know that sounds strange... but he may have run up to his room. The fighting might have frightened him into... coming out again. So he ran.”

“So you’re saying he may be vulnerable?” Teagan asked quietly.

“I... yes,” she admitted, voice quivering. “Is there... is there no other way?”

“Where is Arl Eamon?” Sereda pressed.

“In his room,” Isolde replied, lowering her gaze. “I think the demon has been keeping him alive.”

“So, if we destroy the demon...” Sereda began slowly.

“Then my husband may perish, yes.” Her voice was hollow, almost a whisper.

Sereda’s expression hardened. “So you had no idea the man you hired was an assassin?”

Isolde looked up sharply, but there was no conviction in her denial—only shame. “None. I trusted Loghain. Why couldn’t I? How could I have suspected the mage he sent to be a murderer?”

“Arl Eamon knew nothing of your plan?” Teagan’s disbelief was palpable. He looked at her as though she’d spoken gibberish. “Do you not realize what you’ve done, Isolde?!”

“Eamon would only demand to do the right thing!” she shouted back, tears streaking down her face. “I was going to lose my son—to... to magic!”

“And now you may lose him,” Sereda said, her voice cold as iron, “and so much more.”

“No, no—please, don’t say that!” Isolde cried, desperation turning her voice raw. “There must be another way! There must be something we can do!”

Sereda turned to her companions, her expression grave. “Then what are our options?”

Alistair sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “I wouldn’t normally suggest slaying a child...” His voice faltered as he looked at the trembling mother. “But... he’s an abomination. I’m not sure there’s any choice.”

“No!” Isolde protested, her voice cracking. “What... what about the mage?” She turned toward Teagan, grasping at the faintest shred of hope. “He could know something of this demon! If he still lives, we could speak to him!”

“The mage is gone,” Sereda said simply.

“How?!” Isolde demanded, the sharp edge of hysteria in her tone.

Sereda’s gazed away. “Why does it matter? He can’t help us.”

Isolde’s breath hitched, her hands trembling against her dress. “Th-there must be some way to save my son. Please, Wardens... don’t kill him!”

“There might be one other way,” Morrigan interjected. The others turned toward her as she continued. “Killing the child is the quickest course, but to say there is nothing else possible would be a lie. We can confront the demon in the Fade—though not easily.”

“What do you mean?” Teagan asked, brow furrowed. “The demon is within Connor, is it not?”

“No,” Morrigan said. “It lies in the Fade, and controls the boy from there. We can follow that connection, however—and do battle with its true form.”

“So you can enter the Fade?” Isolde asked, hope flickering in her tear-streaked face. “And kill the demon hurting my boy?”

“Possible, yes,” Morrigan replied. “Able to? Perhaps not. Entering the Fade requires lyrium... as well as numerous mages to perform the ritual.”

“Neither of which we have...” Isolde murmured, her voice breaking again. “I... understand. Can we do nothing else?”

“There must be another way to enter the Fade,” Sereda insisted. “We only kill Connor if there’s no other option.”

Alistair hesitated, then his eyes lit with sudden realization. “You could find lyrium and mages at the Circle of Magi—if they’d even help us.”

“The Circle isn’t far from here,” Sereda pointed out. “And they owe us.”

Teagan nodded grimly. “The tower is about a day’s journey across the lake. You could attempt to get the mages’ help.”

“But what will happen here?” Isolde asked, panic creeping into her voice. “Connor will not remain passive forever!”

The group fell into a tense silence.

Sereda finally spoke, her voice steady but low. “Me, Alistair, Zevran and Morrigan will travel to the Circle while the rest of you stay here. If the demon attacks, kill Connor only if there’s no other choice.”

Teagan’s jaw tightened. “Go to the tower quickly, then. The longer you’re away, the greater the chances of disaster.”

Isolde bowed her head, her hands clasped tightly together. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice trembling. “May the Maker guide your path.”

Sereda gave her a curt nod, then turned toward the doors. The four departed in silence, boots echoing down the corridor as the great hall dissappeard behind them

Sereda and her companions departed Redcliffe. The village, though still scarred by the night’s horrors, was beginning to breathe again. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and a few villagers moved cautiously through the square, clearing debris and tending to the wounded. Even so, the air carried a heaviness—an unspoken dread that hung like fog over the ruined rooftops.

As they passed through the gate, Alistair cast one last glance back at the castle perched above the cliffs. “Maker,” he muttered under his breath, “I hope we’re not too late when we come back.”

Sereda said nothing, her expression grim as she adjusted her shield on her back. The path down the hill was quiet, save for the distant cries of birds and the rhythmic clink of their armor. Zevran, for once, was silent, his gaze sweeping the horizon as though searching for threats that might break the fragile peace.

Soon, the waters of Lake Calenhad spread out before them. The boatman, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and a cap pulled low over his brow, looked up from his moorings as they approached. 

“We need passage to the Circle Tower,” Sereda said.

The man squinted at her, then shrugged and motioned toward his vessel—a sturdy fishing boat rocking gently against the dock. “Hop in, then. Water’s calm today. Shouldn’t take long.”

They climbed aboard, the planks creaking under their boots. The boat pushed off from the dock, and soon Redcliffe’s jagged cliffs began to shrink behind them.

Lake Calenhad stretched endlessly before them, a glittering expanse of blue and silver. In the distance, the Circle Tower rose from the heart of the lake like a colossal spear of stone. A few boats were moored at its docks, and banners fluttered faintly in the morning breeze.

“Looks less like a tomb,” Alistair remarked. “That’s something, at least.”

When they finally reached the base of the tower, Sereda led the way up the long, spiraling ramp to the entrance. The heavy doors stood open, and faintly the murmur of voices echoed from within. Inside, the once bloodstained halls had been scrubbed clean—mostly. The air no longer reeked of death, though the faint scent of incense hung in the air, masking what lingered. Apprentice mages moved quietly through the halls.

As they entered the central chamber, Irving turned at the sound of their approach. His expression softened at the sight of them, though his eyes still carried the weariness of a man who had seen too much.

“Welcome back, friend,” he said warmly. “You’ll be glad to learn the Circle is well on its way to recovery. We have... gotten most of the bodies out, and plan to hold a mass tomorrow morning.”

Sereda inclined her head respectfully. “There’s a boy in Redcliffe—Arl Eamon’s son. He’s possessed by a demon.”

Irving’s face fell, the weight of her words evident in the slow exhale that followed. “A possession is no small thing,” he said quietly.

“We need to enter the Fade to save him,” Sereda pressed. “Please, I know your numbers are few, but we can’t let him die.”

Irving regarded her for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful and tired, yet compassionate. Finally, he nodded. “You’ve done much for us. I and a few others will accompany you to Redcliffe. We’ll do what we can.”

Sereda’s shoulders eased, and she let out a quiet breath of relief. “Thank you.”

Irving sighed again. “I will prepare my fellow mages. We should be ready to make the trip in an hour.”

As he turned to give instructions to the other enchanters, Sereda glanced toward the upper levels of the tower, where sunlight streamed faintly through the high stained-glass windows. The place still bore its scars—but hope, fragile though it was, had begun to take root again.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the surface of Lake Calenhad shimmered in molten hues of orange and gold. The boat cut silently through the calm waters, its oars sending ripples across the dying light. The distant silhouette of Redcliffe Castle rose against the reddening sky, its stone towers haloed in the last glow of day. 

When they finally docked, Teagan was already waiting at the pier. His chest heaved with effort, sweat glistening at his temples as though he had sprinted the whole way down from the castle. Relief flooded his features the instant he saw them.

“Thank the Maker you’re back!” he called, his voice rough from exertion. “A guard spotted you from the ramparts.”

Sereda stepped off the boat first, the wooden planks creaking beneath her boots. Behind her, Alistair offered a steadying hand to Irving. The First Enchanter’s robes brushed against the dock, while two other mages trailed behind, their expressions tight with fatigue but determination.

Sereda offered Teagan a weary smile. “Has anything happened while we were gone?”

Teagan shook his head, though his eyes betrayed exhaustion. “There have been no more attacks by the undead, but the demon within Connor has grown bolder. It’s threatened his life if anyone approaches. Lady Isolde has barred anyone from entering his chambers.”

Irving’s brow furrowed deeply, his hands folding behind his back as he studied the dark outline of the castle looming above them. “That is most troubling,” he murmured. “Such entities grow stronger when left unchecked. It is good we came when we did.”

Teagan glanced toward him, recognition dawning. “You’re the Circle’s First Enchanter, aren’t you? I had hoped—” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “—I had hoped help would come sooner.”

Irving inclined his head, his tone calm but edged with fatigue. “The Circle has endured its own... trials of late. But we are here now, and I give you my word—we will do everything in our power to end this.”

Teagan exhaled slowly, a mix of gratitude and dread passing through his eyes. “Then we have little time to waste. The longer the demon holds the boy, the more dangerous it becomes.”

Sereda nodded, her voice firm. “We’ll take care of it.”

Teagan’s shoulders slumped, relief and apprehension warring in his posture as they began the climb up the winding path toward the castle. 

Inside the audience chamber, the air was thick with tension and the scent of burning incense. The stone walls seemed to press inward, heavy with dread and candlelight that flickered against old banners depicting long-forgotten victories. Sten stood silently by the dais, massive arms cradling Connor’s limp, fragile form as if he were made of glass. The boy’s face was pale and still, the faint rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. Zevran lingered nearby, arms crossed and smirk faintly in place, though his eyes betrayed unease. It didn’t take much imagination to guess he’d been the one to slip through the castle’s corridors and subdue the boy—but Sereda chose not to ask for the details.

Isolde knelt beside her son, her gown rumpled and streaked with dust, hair tangled where she’d torn at it in grief. Her trembling hands clutched Connor’s small one, as though her will alone could anchor him to the waking world. Her lips moved soundlessly in prayer, but her eyes—red and hollow—spoke of a mother long past desperation.

Across the chamber, the mages worked with urgency. Circles of powdered lyrium and chalk glowed faintly on the stone floor, their runes thrumming with energy. Candles burned at each point of the design, the wax dripping down to pool at the edges of the ritual glyphs. Runes were carved hastily into the flagstones, and strange artifacts—crystal orbs, metal rods etched with Tevinter markings—were laid out with care. 

Finally, Irving’s calm but heavy voice broke through the thick silence. “Who will enter the Fade?”

Morrigan stepped forward, her confidence cutting cleanly through the unease. “I will go.”

Alistair blinked, caught off guard, his eyebrows shooting up. “Wait—you? Really? I didn’t know you cared.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes with all the grace of an irritated cat. “Don’t mistake practicality for sentiment. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can move on.”

Alistair smirked faintly, muttering under his breath, “Maker help us all if this is your idea of kindness.”

Sereda turned toward her, concern and something gentler flickering behind her eyes. “Morrigan,” she said softly, “are you certain about this?”

“No,” Morrigan replied bluntly. “But someone must.”

Irving stepped closer, his robes whispering across the floor as he nodded in approval. “Very well. The ritual will begin shortly. Prepare yourself.”

At his signal, the mages formed a tight circle around Morrigan, their hands clasped and heads bowed. Their chanting deepened, the tones resonating through the stone like a heartbeat beneath the earth. A shimmer of light began to form around the witch—first a faint silver haze, then a swirling glow that pulsed brighter with each verse spoken.

Morrigan’s eyes found Sereda’s across the room. For just an instant, something human—something unguarded—passed between them. A flicker of fear, of trust, of understanding. Sereda gave a single, firm nod in return.

The magic swelled to a crescendo, the sound and light merging into one overwhelming wave. Morrigan’s body tensed, her breath catching sharply. Her hands flew to her temples as if to push back an unseen force tearing at her mind. The glow brightened, engulfing her completely, and the mages’ voices rose until the very stones of the keep seemed to tremble.

Then, with a strangled gasp, Morrigan’s body went rigid—and collapsed to the floor in a heap.

The chanting ceased. The light vanished.

Morrigan awoke to the gentle weight of soft linens against her skin. The room around her was dimly lit, golden lamplight painting soft shadows across the stone walls of the castle. The faint scent of herbs and burning candles clung to the air. For a long moment, she simply laid there, eyes tracing the embroidered canopy above, until the rustle of movement caught her attention.

Turning her head, she found Sereda seated at her bedside. The dwarf looked utterly exhausted, hair disheveled and slightly frizzed from where she’d run her hands through it too many times. A cold cup of tea sat forgotten at her elbow, its surface dark and still. She must have been there for hours.

Morrigan’s voice came out softer than she intended, rough with disuse. “What... happened?”

Sereda’s head snapped up instantly. Relief washed over her features in a way so unguarded it made Morrigan falter. “Thank the ancestors, you’re awake!” she breathed, her voice trembling somewhere between laughter and tears. The smile that followed was radiant—bright enough to make Morrigan’s chest tighten. “You killed the demon, Morrigan. You saved Connor.”

Morrigan blinked, her mind slow to catch up with the words. “I don’t recall waking after leaving the Fade,.”

“You’ve been unconscious for a few hours. But Arl Eamon...” Her voice faltered.

Morrigan’s golden eyes softened with faint understanding. “Still hasn’t awakened,” she finished for her. 

Sereda hesitated before nodding. “No, he hasn’t.”

Silence stretched between them for a heartbeat—quiet, fragile. The sound of the wind brushing against the castle windows filled the gap, a soft whisper in the stillness.

Then Sereda rose. She stepped closer, the floorboards creaking under her boots, and extended a hand. “Can you walk?”

Morrigan’s lips curved faintly—not quite a smile, but close. “I can manage.” She waved off the offer with a flick of her fingers, her pride too sharp to yield. But when she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her body betrayed her; a tremor ran through her knees, and she swayed slightly before catching herself.

Without thinking, Sereda moved closer, her hands catching Morrigan’s shoulders before she could stumble. The touch was firm but careful—steadying. Warm. Their eyes met in the dim glow, and for a fleeting moment, neither of them moved.

Morrigan could feel the heat of her palms, grounding her more effectively than any spell. “You are... insufferably persistent,” she murmured, though the usual bite in her tone had softened into something almost fond.

Sereda’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “You’d rather I left you to fall?”

Morrigan’s gaze lingered a heartbeat too long. “I would rather you stopped looking at me as if I were something fragile.”

“I don’t think you’re fragile,” Sereda replied quietly, her thumb brushing once against Morrigan’s arm before she withdrew. “Just human.”

That earned her a faint, incredulous laugh. “An amusing notion.” Morrigan drew in a breath, straightening, her composure sliding neatly back into place.

“Teagan asked me to meet him in Arl Eamon’s room once you were awake,” Sereda said, voice softer now, her eyes never leaving Morrigan’s.

Morrigan smoothed a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I’ll manage alone,” she said curtly, though her hand brushed briefly against Sereda’s as she passed—a touch so light it might have been an accident.

Sereda entered Arl Eamon’s chambers quietly, the heavy oak door groaning on its hinges as she pushed it open. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the faint scent of incense. Sunlight filtered weakly through the high, arched windows, dust motes swirling lazily in the golden light.

Isolde sat at her husband’s bedside, her posture stiff and brittle. Her hands were clenched tightly around Eamon’s motionless one, her knuckles bone white from the strain. 

Teagan stood behind her, arms crossed, his expression drawn and weary. Alistair lingered near the foot of the bed, pacing restlessly. His eyes flicked between Teagan, Isolde, and the still form of Arl Eamon, his brow furrowed with visible worry.

At the sound of the door closing behind Sereda, all three turned to face her.

“Connor is his old self,” Teagan said first, he nodded toward the small figure seated on the opposite side of the room. Connor sat quietly at a table, his small hands folded in his lap, gaze fixed on the floor. There was no sign of the creature that had once twisted his body and mind—only a pale, frightened boy.

“He does not seem to remember anything, which is a blessing,” Teagan continued, his tone softening. “I suppose we will need to send him to the Circle of Magi’s tower for... training. Once the war is over.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “It’s odd to think of the boy as a mage, of all things.”

He glanced down at his unconscious brother, his expression shadowed. “Eamon has much to mourn and rebuild, should he recover. But at least he can be thankful his son and wife are safe.”

“I owe you my deepest thanks,” Isolde said suddenly, her voice breaking through. She turned to Sereda, eyes glassy with emotion. “I had nearly... I can scarcely believe Connor is the boy he once was.”

“But our task is not done,” Teagan said grimly, his hands tightening around his arms. “Whatever the demon did to my brother, it seems to have spared his life... but he remains comatose. We cannot wake him.”

“The urn!” Isolde exclaimed, her voice trembling with urgency as she rose abruptly to her feet. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon!”

Sereda’s gaze shifted to Alistair, who looked uncertain. “And I suppose you want our help to search for it?”

“If your business leads you elsewhere, I cannot hold you here,” Teagan replied. “But I hope you want to restore Eamon as much as I.”

“My husband funded the research of a scholar in Denerim—a Brother Genitivi,” Isolde explained quickly, stepping closer. Her voice quavered but carried a flicker of hope. “He has been studying the inscriptions of Andraste’s Birth Rock. When Eamon fell ill, I sent the knights to speak to Genitivi. I hoped that he had finally discovered the location of the Urn of Sacred Ashes itself.”

Her voice faltered. “They were unable to locate him. In desperation, I sent more knights in search of the brother—or some clue of the urn’s location.”

Teagan picked up where she left off. “No one else can continue the search. Even if I wished to do it myself, I cannot abandon Redcliffe to its own devices. Perhaps you could seek out the brother’s home in Denerim and see if any clues remain on his whereabouts. It is the only place to begin the search, I think.” He gave a slow nod. “I must go to the hall and begin rebuilding. I wish you luck—and may the Maker be with you.”

Sereda nodded. “We’ll go. We need your brother’s assistance. If that means tracking down Brother Genitivi, then we will.”

Alistair’s shoulders relaxed just slightly at her words, though his worry hadn’t entirely left him. His gaze lingered on Eamon for a long moment before turning away.

Isolde gave a silent nod, her eyes shining with gratitude but still shadowed by exhaustion. The lines around her mouth were deep, her fingers still clutching her husband’s hand as if afraid that letting go would mean losing him entirely.

With a final glance toward Teagan, Sereda turned to Alistair. His expression softened when he met her eyes—relieved, but still carrying the quiet weight of doubt.

“We’ll need to gather the others,” Sereda said quietly.

He nodded, his voice low. “Right. We’ll make sure everyone’s ready.”

They stepped out of the chamber together, the heavy door closing behind them with a dull thud. The hallway beyond was cool and quiet, the torches along the walls flickering with the faint scent of oil and smoke.

Sereda glanced sidelong at Alistair as they walked, catching the troubled crease between his brows. He didn’t meet her eyes, lost in thought.

“Alistair,” she said softly, her voice breaking the silence. “You’re concerned about him.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m concerned about a lot of things. I’m concerned about him. About the plan,” he admitted. “The urn... it’s a legend, Sereda. And even if it exists, how do we know it’ll work?”

Sereda’s gaze softened, her tone gentle. “We don’t. But we have no other choice. If it’s the only hope we have left, then we take it.”

Alistair gave a small, resigned nod. “I just... I don’t like the uncertainty.”

Sereda didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she reached out, giving his shoulder a brief, reassuring pat before walking ahead. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

The two of them continued down the corridor together, their footsteps echoing softly through the halls of the castle.

The great hall was quiet save for the low crackle of the hearthfire. The long dining table had been cleared of most of the remnants from the evening meal, but the scent of roasted meat and smoke still hung in the air. 

Sereda stood at the head of the table, leaning her palms against the polished surface. The golden light of the fire cast her shadow across the hall, long and jagged against the far wall. Around her, her companions gathered—Alistair polishing his sword absentmindedly, Wynne seated near the fire with her hands folded neatly in her lap, Leliana humming softly until she noticed Sereda’s expression and fell silent. Sten loomed near the far corner, arms crossed, while Zevran leaned lazily against a column, a half-empty goblet of wine in hand. Barkspawn lay sprawled beside Alistair’s boots as he snored softly.

Morrigan was absent. Wynne had insisted she needed more rest after entering the Fade, and even Sereda couldn’t argue.

Sereda straightened, her eyes moving from one face to another. “All right,” she began, her voice cutting through the comfortable murmur of the room. “We’ve done what we came here to do. Redcliffe stands, for now, and the demon is gone from Connor. But the Blight won’t wait for us to rest forever.”

Alistair glanced up, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “You sound like you’re about to tell us you have another insane plan.”

Sereda smiled faintly. “Something like that. We’ll stay here tonight—ancestors know, we’ve earned a proper bed for once. Tomorrow, we head for Honleath.”

Zevran raised a brow, swirling his wine lazily. “I can hardly contain my excitement.”

Sereda rolled her eyes. “The control rod there could awaken the golem we found in Honnleath. And if it works, it could give us a powerful ally for the Blight.”

Wynne nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a wise course. A golem could turn the tide in battle—at least, for a time.”

Sten shifted, his armor plates clinking. “We waste time,” he said flatly. “This “rod” is a distraction. The Blight worsens every day. Our focus should be the Archdemon—nothing else.”

Sereda met his gaze, unflinching. “If the golem can help us fight the Archdemon, then it’s not a waste.”

The qunari’s expression didn’t change. “If.”

“Sten,” Wynne said gently, “every edge we can gain matters. Charging into battle against an Archdemon with no plan and no allies would be suicide.”

He regarded her for a moment before turning his gaze back to Sereda. “You command. I will follow. But I say this now—if we chase ghosts while the world burns, the Qun will judge us as fools.”

“I’ll take that risk,” Sereda replied evenly.

Alistair set his sword down with a sigh. “Well, it wouldn’t be us if we weren’t being called fools by someone. So, Honleath first.”

“After that,” Sereda continued, “we make our way to Denerim. We still need to find Brother Genitivi—if there’s any chance he’s discovered something about Andraste’s ashes, it could help us heal Arl Eamon completely.”

Leliana leaned forward, eyes bright. “It would be a pilgrimage worthy of song. And if he truly has found the urn, the Chantry will be forever in your debt.”

Sten grunted in disapproval, but said nothing more.

“We’ll leave at first light.” Sereda says.

The room fell into a quieter rhythm after that. Wynne began gathering her things, mumbling something about checking on the wounded. Leliana offered to fetch more blankets from the servants’ quarters. Zevran excused himself to find “one last drink before freezing his lovely ears off,” and Sten simply stood in silence, watching the firelight dance against the stone.

As the others drifted off to their respective corners of the castle, Sereda lingered a moment longer. The fire had burned low, leaving the hall dim and shadowed. She let out a slow breath, her hand absently brushing over the worn surface of the table.

Alistair, the last to leave, paused at the doorway. “You know,” he said softly, “for all the madness we’ve been through, I think you’re starting to sound like a real leader.”

Sereda gave him a tired smirk. “Don’t say that too loud. I’d hate to ruin my reputation.”

He chuckled, shook his head, and left her to the look at the dying fire.

Night had settled over Redcliffe and the lake laid still beneath the pale light of the moon, its dark waters reflecting the silver shimmer of the stars. Along the wooden docks, torches burned low, their flames wavering in the soft wind coming off the water.

The villagers gathered in silence, their faces drawn and tired, lit by flickering orange light. Men and women stood shoulder to shoulder, some clutching hands, others holding children close. The weight of what they’d survived hung over them all.

At the water’s edge, a row of wooden boats had been lined up, each one carrying a shrouded figure. The bodies were wrapped carefully in cloth, the Maker’s symbols painted upon them. Flowers and herbs—what little could be spared—had been scattered over the coverings: sprigs of sage, small red blossoms from the gardens, bits of ribbon and thread.

Sereda stood near the front while companions stood close behind—Alistair with his hands clasped in front of him, Wynne murmuring a quiet prayer under her breath. Leliana’s head was bowed, her eyes closed, while Sten stood rigid and silent, watching the boats be sent off. Zevran had his arms folded loosely, the usual humor gone from his face, and Barkspawn sat at Sereda’s heel.

Morrigan lingered at the edge of the crowd, her hood drawn, expression unreadable in the firelight.

At Sereda’s side stood Teagan, and Lady Isolde stood a few steps behind him, one arm around Connor who leaned into her, looking out at the lake with wide, uncertain eyes.

Teagan cleared his throat, his voice carrying softly over the quiet. “These were brave men and women,” he began, “villagers, soldiers... fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. They gave their lives defending Redcliffe when no one else could. We honor them tonight—not with sorrow, but with gratitude. May the Maker guide them to His side.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd. Then, as one, the gathered villagers raised their bows.

Teagan gave a small nod.

The first arrow arced through the night—a streak of orange light against the black sky. Then another, and another, until dozens of arrows whistled out over the water. They landed among the boats with soft, dull thuds, the flame caught—a spark that licked up a strip of oiled cloth—and one by one, the boats began to glow.

The fire spread quickly, catching on the dried herbs and flowers. Soon the lake shimmered with reflected gold and red, the small pyres drifting slowly outward, pushed by the faint current. Smoke curled upward into the dark, carried away by the wind.

Sereda stood still, watching the flames recede. The heat brushed against her cheeks, and her throat felt tight. For a long while, no one spoke—the only sound was the crackle of burning wood and the whisper of the waves.

When the last of the boats was little more than a dim, distant light, the people began to move again. Some turned away, weeping quietly. Others lingered, murmuring prayers.

That was when Owen approached, his arm was around his daughter, who looked shyly up at Sereda.

“Warden,” Owen said, his voice rough. “I wanted to thank you... for bringing her back to me.” His grip on his daughter tightened slightly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.”

Valena stepped forward hesitantly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You saved me.”

Sereda managed a weary smile. “You both deserved better than what happened here.”

Owen nodded, swallowing hard. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you—anything at all—you come to me. You hear?”

“I will,” Sereda promised, though exhaustion made her voice low.

A few more villagers came after that—a farmer whose wife had survived the siege, a guard who had lost his brother but wanted to thank her anyway. Each word of gratitude felt heavy in her ears, and though she tried to answer every one, her body ached with the effort of standing.

The adrenaline of battle had long faded, leaving only the deep weariness that followed every fight, the kind that crept into the bones and refused to leave. She wanted nothing more than to sleep without hearing the fire or screams.

Alistair must have noticed, because he stepped forward and gently touched her arm. “Come on,” he murmured. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

Sereda nodded faintly, glancing one last time toward the lake. The boats had drifted far out now, their flames dimming to small, flickering dots against the dark horizon.

“They deserve peace,” she said quietly.

“They’ll have it,” Alistair replied.

Together, they turned back toward the path leading up to the castle. Behind them, the villagers still lingered, some singing softly now—an old mourning hymn, low and lilting. 

As they climbed the hill, the night grew still again. The sound of the lake faded, replaced by the gentle rustle of the wind through the grass.

By the time Sereda reached her chamber, her eyes felt heavy. She removed her armor piece by piece, each buckle and strap an effort, until she stood by the small window overlooking the lake. The fires below were gone now.

She rested her hands on the windowsill, breathing out slowly.

Tomorrow, there will be plans to make. Roads to travel. Fights to face.

But for tonight—just for tonight—she allowed herself the rarest of things: rest.