Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was quiet at the top of the world. A gentle breeze rustled the grass blades, barely disturbing their tranquillity. Even a fussy child could sleep peacefully in such serene surroundings, yet there you stood, compelled to be outside. It was half-past midnight, and the mountains were cloaked in silence. The sun would rise in a few hours, but sleep eluded you. There was an indescribable presence out there, something tugging at your senses, something beckoning you towards it. Your cottage stood alone among the desolate rocks and birch trees, and everything appeared still and silent. Yet, your body urged you to move, drawn by an unseen force from within the pines.

Under the moon’s gaze, a burst of green light lit up the darkness. It burnt your corneas and your skin all together. You didn’t have time to scream before your throat closed and you were falling. Everything was silent once again.

Until it wasn’t. As quickly as it had started, the deafening silence ended. You went from falling to running. Your heart beat hurtfully against your chest. You couldn’t see behind you; nothing but darkness surrounded you. Then a light appeared and a woman was reaching out towards you.

Just as her warm touch caressed your hand, a sharp sting coursed through your body, accompanied by a sense of unease. The ringing in your ears subsided, giving way to the same tranquil silence that had embraced your cottage. You slipped in and out of consciousness, drifting between sleep and wakefulness.

You focused on the corner of the room, where the sound of water dripping broke every thought of yours. Drip drip drip, it was inconsistent, thoughtless and unfamiliar. You couldn’t take your attention away from it- you didn’t recognise it.

A door slamming open tore both your attention and your head up as it broke you out of your revere. It was dark, you noticed as you finally opened your eyes, and the room held a foul ordure.

Titling your head, which was now sore, you scanned your surroundings. You supposed you were in a cell, a jail cell perhaps. Your bound hands only reinforced that theory.

So…they had finally decided to lock you up. Were they prosecuting you for the crimes you committed, the curses you had spat? If it were not for you, they would not be here- or at the very least not willingly. They were going to lock you up, even after all this time…how long had it been since you did those things? You could not remember.

Someone muffled a cough behind you, and you realised something you hadn’t considered. You did not feel dread, nor did you hear the sounds of mourning prisoners.

As you turned to face the source of the cough, you realised it was a guard of some sort, though their uniform was unfamiliar. The metal armor they wore would be of little defense against magic.

Before you could respond, the guard uttered something, and another door swung open, this time louder and much closer to you.

Your fizzing hand stopped right in time for you to watch as an armoured woman approached. Like the guards behind you, and the two to your side pointing their swords at your bound throat, you did not recognise her attire. She too wore steel, so she wasn’t an Auror then.

That, coupled with the absence of dread, meant that you weren’t in prison—or at least, not the one you deserved to be in.

The woman and her companion, a slightly less armoured woman who wore what muggle priestesses wore, circled you, staring at you searching for answers you weren’t too sure you held.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the first woman said with a thick accent, one you couldn’t seem to place, which wasn’t strange considering the throbbing in your skull. She was standing staring at you now, seemingly done inspecting you, but the same could not be said for her companion.

You could not respond; you had no response to give. You were more surprised that they had taken so long in taking you.

“The conclave is destroyed.” The short-haired woman scowled. “Everyone who attended is dead. Everyone except for you.”

A conclave? You had no reason to be near a conclave- nor did you remember visiting one. You told her as such.

In response, she grabbed your left hand, pulling it up to your eyesight. Bright green magic poured out once again uncontrollably.

You stared at it. Magic. Of course it wasn’t magic you recognised, and seemingly it wasn’t magic that you could control either.

“That’s not mine. I don’t know how I got it.”

The woman didn’t like that answer either as she grabbed onto your shoulders and pulled you up into a kneeling position. “You’re lying!”

“No Cassandra.” The red-headed companion pulled Cassandra away from you. “We need them.”

Cassandra calmed quickly; a mask in place, reminiscent of someone you once knew.

As your hand calmed, the red-headed woman took her turn to question you. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

You did. You’d been sleeping, then you heard a thud, then there was the light and the-

“A woman?”

Cassandra cut off your response to tell the other woman to go to some forward camp. You learnt the other woman’s name to be Leliana.

Then Cassandra was unlocking your hands from the plank, though they stayed bound. Her attitude towards you had flipped. No longer did she glare and scowl, but rather she held an unknowing look in her eyes.

“I don’t remember…”

She helped you stand. “It will be easier to show you.”

She escorted you through a long hall. People dressed in similar steel stared at you, looking you up in down like you were a circus animal. You ignored them upon taking in the hall and it’s strange appearance. Strange artwork lined the walls, none you recognised. Some showed strange scenes of magic and strange beings. They told a story, though none you could recall. Where in Merlin’s name were you?

Another steeled guard opened one of two large oak doors, opening you to a world of bright light that burned your eyes. You hadn’t realised how dark the room you had been in was, or how fresh the air outside was.

The cold nipped at your cheeks, though you paid it no mind as green hues once again engulfed your vision. This time, however, it didn’t consume you entirely but appeared to have devoured a portion of the sky.

The sight of it nearly brought you to your knees. It was a painfully familiar sight, one you wished never to see again for the memories that accompanied it. Though instead of the ruby red, it was an emerald green, the same green that spurted from your hand.

“We call it ‘the Breach’. It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour,” Cassandra relayed as she too watched the sky.

“Daemons? Which sort are we talking about? The bad kind, or the good?”

She looked at you strangely. “The bad, I assure you.”

So a dark wizard had created it, and seemingly had created the mark on your hand too and its uncontrollable magic, if the women were correct in saying that the two were connected. It wasn’t magic you’d heard of before, and magic you didn’t wish to find out more about.

Why, out of everyone, had it been you? You had not bothered nor seen anyone in...years? And now here you stood, once again in the middle of a crisis.

“Spirits who feed on emotions. They come from the Fade and their only desire is to cause us harm.” She turned to give you a curious look. Now in the sunlight, she scanned your clothing with passing curiosity. “Were you not taught about these things from where you came from?”

“Not demons, apparently.”

The concept of a demon wasn’t as dangerous as Cassandra was making it out to be. Creatures born of dark magic; demons rarely went out of their way to harm humans unless they were endangered or commanded. Even so, commanding a demon was more effort than doing the work yourself. A kappa wasn’t going to kill your enemies faster than any spell could.

Cassandra returned to the great green breach. She told you it was not the only of its kind, but rather the largest to count.

“They were all caused by the explosion at the conclave. Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

“Okay. And what has that got to do with me?”

She did not need to answer, for the Breach answered in her stead. The Breach rumbled like a clustered thunderstorm and pulled your bound hands toward it. You came to kneeling in the snow and Cassandra staring solemnly over you.

“Each time the Breach expands, so does that mark on your hand…and it is killing you.”

Your hand buzzed in response to each word. You clenched it to disguise the pain.

“Closing the Breach may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

She was pulling you to your feet and pushing you through a throng of scowling pedestrians before you could breathe. Their anger was directed at you, though you recognised no one. Cassandra spoke of the town you were in; Haven, and spoke of how Haven’s people mourned the loss of the Head of the Chantry; a Divine Justina.

Both the town and the Head remained unrecognisable to you. These people didn’t seem scared of your magic, nor did they fear the breach in the sky. They knew of magic, they didn’t fear it either, yet they displayed none of it.

“-peace between mages and templars.”

Templars? How long had you been away from society that you had missed the return of templars?

The two of you entered onto a stone bridge and your companion cut your binds. “There will be a trial. I can promise no more.”

As your binds dropped to the stone, you stared up at the breach. A trial. You had succeeded through many trials in your time, some seemingly impossible. Now another stood before you, and you stood ready.

Chapter Text

As you trekked up the mountain, the pain in your hand grew increasingly difficult to bear. Cassandra was by your side each time, pulling you up and giving you responses with passing empathy.

“I don’t understand.” You stared up at the familiar cluster of magic. “How did I survive that?”

“They said you… stepped out of the rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

As you reached the end of a bridge, the Breach spewed forth another bolt of green light, splitting the bridge in half and causing both you and Cassandra to tumble to the frozen lake below. You quickly got to your feet, noticing something emerging from the ice out of the corner of your eye.

“Stay behind me!” Your companion nudged you behind her to face…whatever stood before you.

“What is that?” You called out, but Cassandra ignored you in favour of pulling out a- sword?

Another creature emerged from the ice, crackling with green electricity and hurling shards of ice toward you. Instinctively, you shielded your face and stepped back until your back pressed against something solid. The barrage of ice shards ceased, and as you looked up, you realised that nothing stood before you now.

Finishing with the thing, Cassandra returned to you. She paused midway upon seeing the remains of the monster. She went to ask something, but then raised her sword to you.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Think of what?”

You followed her line of sight and noticed that you were pressed against a wooden trailer. The trailer held medieval weapons such as swords and maces, objects you had only seen in paintings or on the suits of armour in the castle. They weren’t the kind of weapons you would consider using, if that’s what Cassandra was referring to.

“Wait.” She put her sword away. “I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenceless.”

She nodded and you followed her line of sight again. Again, she was looking at the trailer. You made no move to do whatever she was expecting you to do, and your ignorance appeared to anger her.

“You want me to use one of those?”

“Were you not trained?”

“I was. Weren’t you?” She used a sword less fluently than you’d expect her to use magic. Perhaps wherever you had ended up, was a place where they knew of magic, yet they could not use it. Perhaps that was why all of the people you had seen had sported swords, not wands.

Perhaps you had stumbled upon a town of warlocks who lived closely to non-magic humans, so they opted to use swords instead of wands. The Breach buzzed overhead, and you began to wonder why the ministry was allowing such a spectacle of magic to be seen by the non-magic folk.

“I have my magic… if you’ll allow me to use it.”

Cassandra made an exasperated sound and pulled a long stick out of the trailer. “You can use this. I suspect it’s owner will no longer need it.”

“Yes, I suppose they won’t.”

She gave you another strange look as you held onto the stick awkwardly. It had a fancy embellishment at the tip, though it seemingly had no purpose in striking down monsters.

Cassandra pulled a few bottles of bright green liquid from her pouch. “Take these. Maker knows what we will face.”

You grabbed the bottles- wiggenweld potions, clearly- and stuffed them into your own pockets. You were then struck with the realisation that you were missing your-

“Where’s my wand?”

“Your what?”

As Cassandra continued on her way, you began searching your robes for your wand. All that came from your pockets were some dried lavender, dittany leaves and a herb that you couldn’t identify.

Your short-haired companion eventually returned to you. “If we do not continue, the mark on your hand-.”

“My wand? Where is it?”

“I do not know what you’re talking about.”

“My wand.” You searched again. “A thin stick? I had it in this pocket.”

Realisation spread across Cassandra’s face. “Ah, that. I had it confiscated. Forgive me, I did not realise it held sentimental value to you.”

“May I have it back?”

Cassandra’s face drew blank. Was she perhaps a...

You rubbed your forehead. “Never mind. How am I supposed to use magic?”

Anger replaced confusion and Cassandra stared at you like you were insane. “You told me you were trained. Are you saying you were not trained in a circle? Do you not have control over your magic?”

Accusations. You’d been accused of such indictments before. Your worth was never good enough for those in authority, and neither were your abilities. For all you’ve done, you’ve been met with doubt. Sure, you deserved it in some cases, but there was a point where it was just plain stupid.

“Of course I can. I suppose you can’t say the same when you choose to use swords.”

The look of anger did not pass from either of your faces. The two of you stared at each other, until Cassandra broke away and spoke with that heavy, unplaceable accent. “I am not a mage.”

“Then how come you know magic?” Panic began to consume you. Had you inadvertently endangered the entire magical world? Was it you who had caused the Breach? The Ministry would do more than just throw you in Azkaban and discard the key.

Once again, your hand erupted in green light, and you were forced to your knees. It took what felt like an eternity to calm down before Cassandra pulled you roughly to your feet. “Come. We need to go now before it’s too late.”

The snow began picking up as the two of you climbed the mountain. The shocks in your hand were getting faster and so was your heart.

“We’re getting close to the rift. You can hear the fighting.”

Indeed, you could hear it. The sounds of battle and screams mixed with the clash of steel. The scene before you resembled what you had witnessed since awakening. Strange green creatures emerged from a small rift and were being fought off with swords and iron maces. However, this scene seemed more intense. A small man shot what appeared to be a crossbow into one of the monsters just as Cassandra dropped down from a ledge to join the fray.

You contemplated assisting, although you had no means to do so. You didn’t know what these monsters were. Cassandra spoke of demons, not shapeless beings that you had never seen before. Moreover, you couldn’t do much without your wand, and you dared not use magic without an instrument.

“Little help here?!” The shortest man called out as two of the monsters flanked him from either side. His companions were occupied and yours was shoving her odd sword into one of the monsters.

Cassandra had given you a stick. Unless she was insane, which was something you’d need to address, it must have had some use in battle.

You jumped down from the ledge and struck the monster to his left with the stick. You had expected it to be laced with poison at the very least, but instead, red light emanated from it. Instinctively, you dropped it, but the damage had already been done.

“Quickly, before more come through!” One of the other men grabbed your hand and held it up to the small rift. There was an immediate connection; your hand was pulled toward the rift and fused with it as if they were one. Under your hand, you felt the rift growing smaller and smaller, sealing into nothing in a matter of seconds.

“What did you do? What...?” You began to ask the man who had grabbed your hand but stopped mid-sentence, but it wasn’t a man who stared back at you. No, the person appeared to be an elf, although elves were usually under three foot tall, while this one was nearly double that. Sure, tall elves existed, so did half breeds, but other than this one’s ears, he did not resemble an elf at all. While he was bald like most house-elves, he lacked the constant scowl that most elves you knew wore, though one in particular never scowled at you. You supposed he had an elf as an ancestor, which had you feeling sorry for the man that the ears were a prominent reminder of that little slip-up.

You favoured staring at your hand over answering him. You had felt the rift, felt it as if it had been a part of you- an extra limb that you could move and feel from.

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorised the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake- and it seems I was correct.”

“Indeed.”

You wondered if you were to be one-handed if the elf had been wrong. You also wondered if anyone would care.

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.” Cassandra made herself to your side.

“Possibly,” the elf responded to the woman, then looked back at you. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Once again.

“Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” The man you’d helped before cut in and approached your little group. “Varric Tethras: rouge, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” He gave a small wink, though you didn’t know who it was directed at.

You gave him your name and looked to where strange creatures had crawled out of the rift. “Those were demons?”

He laughed, possibly uncertainly. “What did you think they were? Puppies? Now, how about we get this show on the road?”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra spoke firmly. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

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

As Cassandra and Varric continued what seemed to be a longstanding argument, the tall-elf began speaking to you. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

Varric called out with an amused lilt in his tone. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’.”

“You know about the mark?”

“Solas is an apostate, well-versed in such matters,” Cassandra grunted somewhat disapprovingly.

Unfazed by her slightly aggressive remark, Solas replied. “Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra.” Then he turned his gaze back to you. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of our origin.”

Apostates, Fade, circle. All those terms were unfamiliar to you, yet the non-wizard Cassandra seemed to know more than you did.

“Cassandra, you should know; the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

“The prisoner is a mage,” Cassandra stated as you bent to retrieve the staff you’d dropped in the scramble. It wasn’t quite a wand, but as any resourceful wizard knew, magic could be channelled through many tools in a pinch. Staves weren’t unheard of in wizarding history, just archaic and highly impractical by modern standards in the UK. At least you hadn’t been forced into full wandless magic yet. That would be another disaster entirely.

“It appears I was mistaken,” he stated, expression blank as he studied you. “I did not sense your magic.”

However he would be able to do that, you did not ask. Elf magic was different to wizard magic, more so closer to ancient magic, but even then sensing magic seemed like an odd ability. The Trace came to mind, along with the Prior Incantato charm that forced wands to show echoes of previously casted spells. Neither could sense magic in someone, only if it was used, or in rare circumstances, when the ancient form of it outlasted its host.

“We must get to the forward camp quickly,” Cassandra interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. She motioned sharply for the group to move on. Solas nodded and took off with her, the two quickly setting the pace toward the camp.

Varric, walking a few steps behind, sighed in a way that could only be described as dreamily. “Well, Bianca’s excited!”

You blinked, looking around the immediate area for someone named Bianca. But it was just the four of you, and the only others nearby were the lifeless corpses scattered across the battlefield.

“Pardon?” you asked, frowning in confusion as he brushed past you.

“The crossbow!” he said with a wide grin, gesturing to the weapon in his hands as if introducing a long-lost friend. “She’s been itching for a good fight.”

You stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to comment on the oddity of naming a weapon or simply let it go. In the end, you nodded, deciding that this place—and its inhabitants—was far stranger than you’d initially thought.

Chapter Text

The route to the forward camp was littered with more demons—creatures that looked unsettlingly different from the underworld terrors described in religious texts or mythological lore. Their forms were twisted, not quite humanoid, yet disturbingly close. Something about the word demon didn’t sit right with you. These things weren’t infernal—they were unnatural. They reeked of dark magic.

The red light sparking from the staff in your hand pulsed erratically, resembling a spell half-formed and ready to spiral out of control. Nobody around you seemed even mildly surprised by it, which was discomforting. You pushed the worry about everyone here being muggles to the back of your mind and instead focused on your here and now.

Varric, who had been unnervingly chipper despite the situation, had the same thought. “So… are you innocent?” he asked as you stumbled up the mountain.

“That depends,” you answered truthfully, sparing him a sidelong glance. “Cassandra believes me guilty, but I truly don’t remember what happened with the Breach.”

The man laughed, loud and coarse, not at all matching his small stature. “That’ll get you every time. You should have spun a story.”

Cassandra scoffed. They knew each other, you mused, well enough to exchange jabs like this, though the context of their relationship eluded you.

“Well,” you said dryly, adjusting your grip on the staff. “I’m still alive. Next time I need a story, I’ll make sure to come to you first.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The forward camp turned out to be a semi-intact tower, battered by weather and time. It was governed by a man who ordered you arrested upon sighting you. You’d barely had time to react before Cassandra intervened, barking something about needing your help and that no one would touch the prisoner.

The man didn’t seem particularly moved by the argument. Nor did he appear bothered by the grim line of corpses arranged just outside the tower walls—fallen soldiers, their lives extinguished defending this place.

When they turned to you for an opinion, you’d been startled. Why did your thoughts matter? You weren’t a leader, and you certainly weren’t one of them. After an awkward pause, you’d spluttered out the suggestion that seemed the least suicidal: the mountain path.

That decision had brought you here, standing at the base of a ladder, snow falling in sheets around you. The path had led to what Cassandra claimed was an old mining complex, and one that she hoped the missing soldiers were held up in. As you neared it, you grew hesitant of what lied within.

“Are you sure this is the right direction?” you asked, hands curled tight around the icy rungs of the ladder. The snow stung your exposed skin as the wind howled around you.

“Did I not say the mountain path would be a lost cause?” Cassandra’s voice carried irritation from somewhere below you.

“We’re here already. It’s too late to turn back,” Varric shouted over the howling winds.

You sighed and climbed the last rung, pulling yourself closer to the mine’s entrance.

The interior was unexpectedly ornate, as if the miners had delusions of grandeur—or perhaps a forgotten kingdom had claimed this place long ago. The walls were carved with delicate patterns, and the floors bore the marks of careful design, even through the grime and debris. It was regal, but long abandoned.

The lot of you fought more of the strange creatures Cassandra called demons, the encounters leaving you winded. When the next chamber provided a reprieve, Cassandra allowed the group to stop briefly.

“Gather your strength,” she commanded firmly. “We cannot rest for long.”

Varric leant against a wall, panting, his short legs clearly bearing the brunt of the climb. “Really, Seeker? You don’t say.”

Curious, you asked, “Why are you called a Seeker, anyway? I’ve heard the term before… but not like this.” It was near-unheard of, though there’d been some mention of ‘seekers’ in terms of justice in your earlier years.

“Because that’s what Cassandra is: a Seeker of truth. A… sort of templar,” he explained, taking no minute to explain what sort of templar Cassandra was. “Didn’t she tell you? I’ll bet they didn’t even introduce themselves properly, or mention who all these soldiers are.”

“The prisoner is accused of a terrible crime,” Cassandra said. While her face wasn’t visible, you could sense the frown.

“And yet, you still want their help. Unless you’re taking them into the valley for a brisk walk and fresh air?”

If that was going to happen, you would simply not allow it. You’d leave now to prevent such a circumstance, but the growing green mark on your hand remained a prevalent issue.

You reached a small room that looked like an office, its compact interior providing an unexpected haven from the cold. With the light filling the room, it appeared somewhat cozy. Someone else had thought the same, considering a large casket of alcohol bottles lay empty across the floor. Coins also littered the floor. You picked one up, observing it.

“These mines have been abandoned for years. One can assume none will notice if these coins were taken,” Solas remarked from behind your shoulder.

You turned the coin around in your palm for a better look under the light of the torch. It appeared like a normal goblin-made galleon; gold and round with engraved faces, except goblins would never have let their coins fall into human hands without branding the coins with the word ‘Gringotts’. This coin, however, was the exception, and so were the many other coins lying on the ground.

“What currency is this?” you asked.

“A sovereign,” Solas replied, inspecting the coin with mild interest. “I believe the Fereldens engrave Andraste onto the faces of their coins.”

More strange terms. You were beginning to feel as if you weren’t in the Scottish Highlands anymore.

“Ah yes, pure Ferelden gold.” Varric grabbed another coin by your feet, flipping it in the air to land in his bag. He paused at the lost look in your eyes. “You doing alright there? Looks like you’ve never seen such large amounts of gold before.” He chuckled.

Blinking, you swiped another coin and tucked them into your pouch. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

“I mean.” Varric gestured at your clothes. “You can’t fool anyone with that act while wearing… whatever that is.”

You looked down at your robes. They were generic; you’d paid a woman from the closest hamlet to sew them for you. Certainly not outlandish. You did not wear a vest, as you had long since needed to dress up for your peers, so only your casual shirt was exposed under your robes. You hadn’t noticed anyone here, in Ferelden (another word, or place, you didn’t recognise) wearing anything like them. What a strange town you had woken up in, with non-magic people being exposed and knowing the fundamentals of magic. The idea that the ministry had gathered as many squibs as possible in one place crossed your mind.

Regardless, you needed to figure out how you got there in the first place. Although, perhaps you should find out what the mark on your hand was first.

“What’s wrong with my clothing? And what act?”

He gave a knowing look. “I take it you’re not from here. Northerner, maybe?”

“How do you figure?”

“Can’t place your accent. I’m from Kirkwall, but you’re from…” He paused, inspecting your face as if the answer laid bare on it. “Tevinter? I thought I heard some Tevene.”

His musings formed some of your own. On further thought, you couldn’t place his accent either, or Cassandra’s or Solas’ for that matter.

You shook your head, brushing off the suggestion. “I’m not familiar with Tevinter—or wherever here is.”

Varric blinked, momentarily thrown. “Well where’re you from? Don’t keep us in suspense. Can’t begin to guess why you were at the Conclave.”

“If you two do not mind,” Cassandra cut in, her glare enough to silence both of you. “This conversation can wait. We need to keep moving.”

Varric quickly caught up to her, leaving you watching after him. You were slow in following them; your adrenaline having boiled down to fatigue.

The soldiers you had come this way to find were found, but not in the state you’d all been hoping them to be in.

“That can’t be all of them.” Cassandra inspected the bodies. They’d been attacked. She crouched down to their bodies and did what appeared to be a prayer.

“So the others could be holed up ahead?” asked Varric.

Your hand flared again. The closer you got the Breach, the quicker your new-mark began to flare. It was beginning to feel as if the Breach was beckoning the mark, and you, towards it. Like a mother pulling her child along who wished to get lost in the crowd.

Solas watched as you stabbed your fingernails into your hand, an easy distraction to the pain. “Our priority must be the Breach. Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe.”

“I’m leaving that to the one with the glowing hand.” Varric chuckled, though his tone held a serious note.

You looked overhead at the Breach. It really did look like the repository. It had so many similarities to it too…perhaps this was a repository, or the contents of one, bursting from their original prison. It could be possible- you weren’t exactly the only one with your ability.

“So… holes in this ‘Fade’ don’t just accidentally happen, right?”

“If enough magic is brought to bear, it is possible,” Solas answered, seemingly the only one proficient in this situation.

The Fade seemed to be similar to the Veil—the one that separated life and death, that’s what you understood, at least. While you’d only heard theories, by both muggle and wizard sources, of what stood on the side of death, demons emerging from the Veil didn’t at all seem surprising. That only left the question of what had opened the Fade. Magic, clearly as Solas had stated, but such magic doesn’t just appear out of nowhere, nor does it work without the intent of another.

But it was you who Cassandra believed was behind it. While, theoretically, you had the magic to open holes in the cosmos, you didn’t know how or even why you would do such a thing. Your loss of memory was in part to blame, and as soon as you had time to yourself, you’d try to retrieve them – given that they were not forcibly removed.

Regardless, this Breach was still an overbearing threat.

Cassandra must have heard your inner thoughts. “We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger has passed.”

“I’ll await the answers.”

After closing another rift, you were led to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, were you supposedly walked out of. A sense of unease tugged at your thoughts, hinting at an underlying connection between you and the events that had transpired here. The temple held no familiarity to you, not even a slight hint of nostalgia. Yet something in the back of your mind told you that whatever happened here, you were the cause of it.

Amid the discussions and the tension, you found yourself lost in thought. The Breach, the magic, and the confluence of worlds swirled in your mind. It remained an overwhelming threat and a mystery that demanded answers.

Cassandra was suddenly standing in front of you. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

The Breach bristled behind her but stayed dormant. It was if it was… waiting.

“Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach,” Solas said at your silence.

Cassandra nodded and you mindlessly moved forward. You dropped down onto the level below and took a step closer to the Breach. Your hand reacted immediately, pulling you forward as you stumbled.

A memory played, one that you did not remember, but one you were accused of being part of. You couldn’t blame Cassandra; you stood before your very own eyes, wild eyed and very much at a loss for words.

The rift’s magic responded to your touch, as if recognising an unspoken connection. As the Breach seemed to stretch wide, a swirling vortex of energy enveloping you, you could sense the power coursing through you.

With a burst of determination, you unleashed the magic within, a burst of energy that surged from you and met the rift head-on. The ground trembled beneath your feet, the air crackling with an electrifying intensity. In that fleeting moment, you were the fulcrum, the nexus of power that could mend or rend the fabric of reality itself.

The battle began, your allies springing into action as the Breach’s guardians emerged. The clash of steel, the resonance of spells, and the cries of battle reverberated around you. As you fought, the memory that had haunted you faded to the background, replaced by the urgency of the present.

After a particularly painful hit to your stomach, you retreated to the edge of the destroyed conclave. The wiggenweld potion you hit back took a moment longer to work than usual. The part-elf, Solas, approached.

“Does your hand hurt?” he asked.

You flexed your fingers, the green mark pulsing faintly. “It spurts uncontrollable magic, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

His head tilted slightly as he regarded you. “The stave. You’re holding it… awkwardly. If you need to step away to recover, I can-”

His words were abruptly drowned out by the guttural roar of the beast—the Pride demon, they’d called it. It was large and had too many eyes than what was necessary. However, it was weakening under the many soldiers opposing it. Cassandra was yelling for you, perhaps believing you to be dead and squashed under the beast. She found you quickly and pulled you away from the wall.

Regardless of how you’d gotten into this situation, you were forced to admit one thing. After so much time of peace and keeping yourself away from other humans, the call for battle was strong. It ignited a powerful urge within you, fuelling your bloodthirst, bolstering your adrenaline into an intoxicating surge that had you craving for more after each demon fell. You wondered how long this would last- how long until the authorities learnt of the danger your presence here summoned. You ought to enjoy it while it lasted, nothing ever lived forever.

When the beast fell, you stretched towards the rift.

Time seemed to hold its breath as you reached out, your fingers grazing the rift’s pulsating energy. Green light filled your vision, burning your eyes, but you didn’t dare look away. Green turned to black, and you were falling in the darkness that was unconscious.

You stand before a familiar sight, your heartstrings pulled by the image of home. The Scottish Highlands, where solitude once cradled you in its tranquil embrace, now sprawl before you in a cascade of rolling hills and ethereal mist. The scent of heather and damp earth fills the air, birthing from the recent rain.

The cottage, your sanctuary amidst nature’s poetry, stands with its thatched roof and stone walls. The hearth warms you, guarding you from the frostbite that awaits you outside.

The night is alive with stars above, casting a gentle luminescence upon the landscape. The heavens seem to recognise you, as the stars glitter down at you. You extend a hand, fingers brushing against the glass panes of your windows. You don’t want to leave, but as you stand there, bathed in the stars, you begin to feel…torn. Something is reaching out for you, begging you to leave the safety of your home. You don’t want to leave, but you do. Your vision is once again burned with green light.

Your eyes are still burning when they open. For a moment, you think you’re back in your bed, but are proven wrong with the sound of approaching footsteps. You don’t get visitors, at least none that enter your home.

Then the memories of the last day come barrelling back. You’re not home, and you’re beginning to doubt that you’re not in Scotland either.

It is a woman who approaches, none that you recognise, though the ears are similar. She looks like Solas; long ears and a smooth face. Did everyone in this place have elvish heritage?

Perhaps that’s what this town was, you thought amusedly. The ministry rounded up all half-breeds and squibs and shoved them into a town in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunate, and somewhat sickening, but not something that would be surprising for the ministry to do.

“You’re fine- are you alright?” You asked to her stuttering figure that suddenly collapsed to the floor. She bent her head to the wooden flooring.

“I beg you forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days,” she mumbled all of this into the floor.

“What are you doing on the floor?”

She jumped to her feet before you could help her up. “I must go! I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. She said, ‘At once.’”

She only mumbled out an apology and left the cabin less delicately than she had entered it. You followed after her, ignoring the thin clothing you’d been adorned in, hoping it wasn’t nightclothes that you were stepping out in the clothes in. Your attire had been changed while you’d slept, dressing you in something that resembled that of which you’d seen worn by your recent companions. You picked up your pace after the woman when heads began to turn. People began approaching you as you passed, holding their hands up to their chests in a type of bow.

You followed the woman to a large, solid, stone structure that blended seamlessly with the rustic appearance of the village. Being the largest building in the village that you could see, it was most likely the chantry. Its design was awfully medieval and held little to no modern features. You were certainly in the middle of nowhere.

A man by the name of Roderick who held a title of ‘Grand Chancellor’ pulled you into an argument. He wanted to take you to a place called Val Royeaux to face prosecution for something you knew nothing of. You were defended by Cassandra and Leliana, and the others who introduced themselves as Cullen Rutherford and Josephine Montilyet. You greeted them in respect, but they offered you no light on your situation. Only one seemed knowledgeable on the mark on your hand, and you didn’t wish to speak to him right at this moment.

It was Leliana who returned your wand back to you. You’d seen the others eye it as if it could burn them. It could, but only if Leliana had any type of magic. Considering she and the other council members displayed grimaces at your mage-status, you doubted that.

“Cold?” you asked, approaching Varric, who sat on a log near the front gates of the village quaintly named Haven.

He seemed to be the most open member of your little group. You’d caught many smiles and grins he’d chucked over his shoulder. From what little you knew of these three, Varric was the polar opposite of Cassandra, who could probably reach a century in age and still not have a single crow foot to line her face.

“You mean am I still freezing my ass off? Yes.”

You joined him on the log, watching the soldiers march by. They were a standing army; Chantry soldiers once, now belonging to the Inquisition. Standing armies were difficult to maintain, yet somehow this issue wasn’t paid any mind.

“Could you perhaps remind me where are we?” You asked, adjusting your boots. They needed repairing.

“We’re in Haven, our current refuge.”

That wasn’t as helpful as he made it seem. You hadn’t taken to a map in years, and neither did the name sound familiar. “You mentioned we’re in Ferelden? How far are we from Edinburgh- and in what direction? I fear I’m having trouble deciphering where we are and my amnesia isn’t helping.”

He gave you an odd look that seemed almost frightening on his oddly constructed face. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

“It that an issue?”

“Oho! Don’t let Cassandra hear you- she’ll lock you right back up without hesitation. Look, you saw for yourself that the Breach and that mark.” He motioned towards your hand that you had curled around your other wrist. “Are connected. The only way of getting rid of that thing is by dealing with that,” he said, waving your attention to the Breach that still stood problematic.

“That is what you know.”

“That is what I’ve been told.” He began to grin. “If you want to know more, you should talk to Solas. Unless you don’t want to speak to him?”

You choked on your water. “Why would you think that?”

“Oh no reason. Just seemed like you were a bit put off by the fact that he’s an elf.”

“He’s an elf?” You stood from the log, not able to control your motor functions as of late. You swiftly sat back down.

“That wasn’t clear?” He chuckled. “Next you’ll be accusing me of being a human.”

“Ah, then you’re a dwarf? Well, I did guess that, I just didn’t want to presume…” At his stare, you tried to explain. “I know of elves and dwarfs- seen them too, if you’ll believe it -just not such large ones.”

Indeed, dwarves rarely grew higher than two feet. Varric here was no more than five feet. Just barely a dwarf, you’d supposed he’d simply been unlucky in genealogy. Turns out, he wasn’t human at all. Where in Merlin’s name were you?

Varric’s grin froze. “Were you sheltered up until now?”

Very much so. You’d gone to great lengths in staying away from the rest of civilisation. Holing yourself in the Scottish mountains and infrequently seeing the villagers in the hamlets definitely counted as being sheltered. But he didn’t need to know that.

“I don’t know how far I am from my home, or how I got here, but it seems things are very different on the other side of the world.” Perhaps something was in the water- or the snow, considering there was so much of it. You didn’t remember it being winter.

“I am curious where you come from.” He rubbed his hands together as he peered at you. He’d mentioned he was an author - whether he was a fictional or academic one... well, you didn’t want to stick around and see which one he was. The academic sort always had theories, and you didn’t want to see what theories he, or anyone else, could concoct about you.

“A place far away, it seems.” You stood from the log, hearing your joints crack from the sudden shift of pressure. “Farewell, then. I suppose I should talk to Solas about this mark.”

You followed the directions given to the elf’s temporary hut. Your eyes did not deceive you- he must have been doused with a growth potion at some point in his life, that was the only plausible explanation.

“Hello, Solas.”

“Herald,” he used the title you’d been given. You allowed it, seeing as who were you to crush a small town’s hope? “The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

You froze slightly at the title. You had been called that once before, though it was used by those unaware of what lengths you had gone to achieve what you had done. Whether or not Solas knew of your past ventures, which seemed unlike, his words didn’t seem to have any malicious intent behind them.

“I’m not a hero, particularly one of a saint I know nothing of.”

“You don’t know of Andraste?” He asked incredulously. “Has the Chantry not spread their word to where you’ve come from?”

“It appears not.” You were somewhat well-versed in religious texts, more for what hid between the lines. Yet this Andraste was not the one you were familiar with. You knew Andraste as a Celtic Goddess of Victory, who was vaguely connected to the mortal Warrior Queen Boudicca. But neither were revered as highly as the saint that your newfound title was borrowed from. “I was under the impression that all chantries had been abolished, but I suppose I could have missed their return.”

“Doubtfully so...” He nodded slowly, as if his mind was elsewhere. “I too cannot say much on Andraste, as I too am not well-versed on the Andrastian faith. However, I can tell you that the Andrastians will not be at all happy to hear that their herald disregards their faith so easily.”

“I wouldn’t go as far to say that, merely… uneducated. On that note, I’m told you’re knowledgeable on this mark. I’d hoped you’d be able to provide some insight into it.”

“Of course. This mark is no ordinary affliction. It- this Anchor, is a tear in the Veil that separates our world from the Fade. A rift that allows you to manipulate both the physical realm and the realm of spirits.”

That at all did not sound good. The ability to open the world to the realm of spirits, and most likely demons and summon those said demons. If it walked and talked like dark magic…

Solas continued, seemingly not aware of what the ministry would do upon learning how you held this power. You hoped they’d do what they’ve always done; ignore you and let you run wild, but this type of dark magic was far more dangerous than you’d encountered before. “The Veil was once a barrier, meant to keep the Fade and its denizens separate from our world. But this mark, it is a bridge, a connection between the two realms.” His gaze shifted, as if having trouble recalling information. “The mark is somehow tied to the Breach, though in what manner I cannot tell you. The magic is ancient, unpredictable, and may prove to have adverse effects.”

He only confirmed what you already knew; ancient magic was once again the cause of your woes.

“What is this Fade you keep referring to? I understand it is separated from the Veil, but from my comprehension, the two are not separate entities.”

He turned back to you in surprise. “How could you not know what the Fade is? You are a mage.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with my being a ‘mage’.” Or wizard, as was more a commonplace term in Great Britain. ‘Mages’ sounded somewhat puerile. “Humans have done as much research on the Veil as the Ministry, and yet both have failed to come to a gratifying conclusion. Neither are necessarily magic.” There’d been rumours the latter had even acquired a true manifestation of the Veil, but that was mostly chatter amongst children.

Solas was silent for a moment longer. “Are you not human?”

“…I am? Physically, yes.” It was only magic that separated wizards from muggles. “I’ve never heard of the Fade and if I have a magical hand that has access to it, I think knowing more than its name would be appreciated.”

“Quite.” Scorn hinted his tone. It faded before you could ponder it. “The Fade is the Beyond, home to spirits and demons alike. The Fade is where mages draw power to use their magic. I find it difficult to believe that you’ve never heard of it with what you showed that day.”

Mages drew magic from elsewhere but themselves? “Many things are difficult to believe.” Including the trustworthiness of the elf’s words. You could, in a way, take magic from external forces, but that was due to a rare ability and not something you’d done in some time. “So demons truly exist? To be honest, I didn’t quite believe those things earlier to be demons.” They’ve certainly been misrepresented by those who preached about them. Then again, you’d been declared Herald without doing anything but raising a hand. The beings may have looked like demons to these people, but to you it looked like the dark arts. Necromancy, perhaps, for the creatures formed from the rifts. Perhaps the people of Haven were too quick to jump to their superstitions.

Even if these demons were of religious depiction, it did not explain why the Breach held both demons and spirits. Spirits were beings who had not passed through the Veil, into the world of the dead, whether because they could not or did not wish to. Spirits did not belong with demons.

“It appears you’ve lost more than your memories, Herald. Perhaps it would be best for you to get more rest,” Solas said.

“That might be for the best. Thank you, Solas. I’ll take what you’ve said into consideration. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve much to think on.” You shuffled through the snow back into the cabin you’d been assigned. It was small and the fireplace was lit and waiting. It offered warmth against the everlasting chill in your bones.

The need to return back home was only stronger, yet no one seemed willing to let you leave.

A part of you knew you didn’t need anyone but yourself to figure out how to remove the mark. The Breach could be delt with by others, surely, if another had created it. There was no reason to suspect you could be the Breach’s creator.

You sat down on the bed and closed your eyes, levelling your heartbeat until you reached a type of meditation. You thought of your home in Scotland, the small hut away from civilisation. Your home reached for you, feeling you searching for it, but in the end the connection couldn’t be formed; it was too far away.

You supposed it was for the best. You still lacked your memories. The Breach remained an issue, one that you were accused of being the cause of. The mark on your hand still throbbed like an unhealed wound. Your habit of running away from responsibilities was one you had never cared to break, but now you had no choice but to sit and do your time.

Chapter Text

With no option to tuck your tail and run, you played the role you were forced into – as hero, no less.

Resources proved limited in your search for answers. Wishing for so many answers, you took to writing the questions down, for they muddled your mind too much to think clearly.

One thing that did not muddle your mind were your lost memories. You’d attempted to recall them with a spell or two, which had all failed. Your memories had been forcibly taken from you, which meant retrieving them would be an impossible accomplishment if achieved.

You could only dream.

How one could get close enough to take your memories… You could only assume.

The library, which had been locked to keep you out but not locked to stand a simple Alohomora, held little value.

Pinned on the wall was a map. It had been neatly drawn and was well-detailed; fit with the terrain of the area it mapped. The map itself gave no indication of exactly where it slotted into the world. All you knew was that it was not part of the United Kingdom; the isles didn't match, nor the terrain, nor the sea that split north of the continent. The labels were even more strange. They were written in some type of rune—not one taught in school, that was for sure, nor one you had ever come across previously.

There’d been similar runes in the war room, but considering how fast events had flown by recently, you hadn’t taken them into account. Perhaps you should have, for now, wherever you looked, the runes lay bare. They were everywhere. Covering every cover of tome in the library. They covered the scrolls. They covered the notice on the wall. It was the common language—Runes, not English—yet that had been all everyone had spoken.

It was easy for wizards to pick up languages. English was the predominantly spoken language in the United Kingdom as of the late 19^th century. But most wizards, particularly those who travelled across the world, knew more languages. Considering how wizards could live for centuries, flee from death, and accidentally end up in a different part of the world with just a thought, it was proficient to know the language of that area. An old professor of yours had known one hundred languages before hitting a century of age and still wished to learn more. If they reached their goal of learning 777 languages, it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibilities.

Whether they did end up learning more or not, you were not aware. That life had long since been thrown away, though the dredges still clutched deeply onto you.

All that to say, learning languages was as simple as studying the alphabet, depending on whether you were already familiar with it beforehand.

But if you’d only been here for four days, three of which you spent unconscious, it would be impossible to learn another language in that little time. Of course, there was the matter of your loss of memories. It was possible you’d learned this language in that time, which only meant you lost as little as a week, which was a week more than you’d suspected you’d lost.

Haven spoke English, but there was simply no other script for that language but the Roman alphabet.

“Shit,” you said aloud, hearing it sound distinctly English.

Of course, there was the possibility that, due to how isolated Haven was, they may have used another language, but used English for your benefit. The books written in the runes could have been handed down from the cities. But that only called into question what the runes were. As of the 19^th century, no modern country used runes as part of their standard alphabet.

“Who is in there?” A voice called out, distinctly not English. If you had not been listening, you may not have been able to tell the difference. It sounded like Dutch or German. Maybe both, maybe neither. A terrible headache took form when you continued to focus on the language.

The door slammed against the wall, leaving your head ringing. The door had been ajar; now it was visibly off-hinge.

“I am,” you said, speaking once more in what you thought was English.

Cassandra’s dark brows softened just slightly. “Herald? What are you doing in here?”

“Attempting to read.”

She looked on in confusion. Well, that settled it; she couldn’t understand you.

“I’m sorry,” you said in their common tongue, a simple switch. Whatever it was, you were certainly fluent in it, more so than generally possible. “I came down here to take a look at the texts.”

“The door was locked.”

The door itself seemed to have cracked slightly upon Cassandra’s forceful entry. “Yes, that was the case.”

Solas slipped out from behind Cassandra. While he was taller by an inch or so, the armour she wore doubled her size in width.

“Have a way with locks, do you?”

“One of my many talents.” Seeing as you'd be getting no peace, you snapped the book in your hands closed. “I apologise if I trespassed. I wasn’t aware that I wasn’t allowed down here.”

“It is fine,” Cassandra said. “You are the Herald; you may walk wherever you please in Haven. However, there are many ancient scrolls kept here. It would not do the Chantry good to see them lost.”

By the looks of it, everything in this library was ancient. But whether that was due to the type of materials used or something else, you do not yet know.

“Of course. I don’t often desecrate that which does not belong to me.”

The following days were spent in the war room, which smelled of mildew and dust. Talks of approaches and techniques that may potentially help quell the Breach were thrown around, though no clear conclusion was settled for some time. Confined in small, tight spaces for hours on end wasn’t something you were used to anymore, and neither was interaction with other people. You found you rarely opened your mouth, opting to nod or object when necessary. The council meetings droned on endlessly, with your input rarely making a difference.

You didn’t particularly like being the one people looked to again. While you weren’t leader-material, nor was your knowledge of Ferelden that expansive, they still looked to you. And that bothered you.

When you were not in council meetings, you were in the hut assigned to you. It held few personal attributes, though a book on local folktales told you it had indeed been owned by someone before you’d intruded. A few things went missing over the days, most likely belonging to the owner, who had been all but kicked out. The book itself had content unheard to you and provided an easy way to sink into sleep at the end of the day right before being swooped back up for council meetings.

You could not escape, even if you wanted to. Not even your dreams provided an escape, though; when had they ever?

A break from these meetings came in the form of a trip to the Hinterlands after Leliana suggested speaking to a Chantry Cleric by the name of Mother Giselle. She was of the Andrastian faith, but that was not what concerned you.

One fortunate thing that came from waking up in Ferelden was that nobody seemed to know about the Ministry. The wizarding government did not have reach in this strange land, but whether that was a good thing or not, it remained unseen. While it meant you wouldn’t be thrown into Azkaban for the different magic you had at hand, it also meant that a new type of law-doer had taken over.

Templars, resurrected in this time to wage war against mages. These were the types of things that you would have been happier to hide away from.

But that was not the case.

The Hinterlands trip came with more than a week of travel. Haven had shilled out a waggon, but you had the feeling they did so to get you out of the village quicker. The waggon itself had been falling apart, and one of the horses had a slight limp. You fixed both with spells, and another to calm the horse enough from trampling you.

“Ah, the Maker’s blessing,” a townsperson bowed.

“Please, it was only magic.” You tried to say it, but all they saw was the glowing hand.

They did not stand until you walked some distance away from them. There was a light in their eyes that bothered you, though Cassandra took it as some sort of confirmation of her belief in you.

Secretly, for how the people of Haven would react to a display of such magic wasn’t clear, you transfigured a hood over the waggon to protect from the harsh weather. Then the body was extended, as it lacked ample room for your companion’s weapons and armour.

The plentiful room did nothing to qualm Cassandra, as she shifted every so often in her seat.

“Once we arrive in the Hinterlands, we will need to walk on foot,” she said, plated knees digging into your clothed ones. It bothered you more than what she wore, which belonged in a glass cabinet for people to woo and aah over, not on her actual person.

With each rock the waggon wheels rolled over, so did the contents of your stomach. The travel had only just begun, and you’d been told it would last a week or so longer.

“Are there not alternative ways of traveling? Particularly faster ones.”

“Not used to being patient, are we?” Varric chuckled. He seemed rather comfortable sitting by your side, not at all affected by Cassandra’s bulging armour.

He somehow had gotten it into his head that you were highborn. No matter how you refuted him, “I’m often referred to as the ‘itinerant tramp’ by the children living in nearby hamlets, so I don’t understand why you keep insisting I’m of noble breeding.”

“Yeah? Whatever you say, you can’t trick me that easily.”

It was easier to ignore him; thus, that is what you did.

“What other ways of travel do you have in mind?” Cassandra asked. “We should be grateful Haven gave us a waggon. It was the least they could do after what they endured.”

You shrugged. As they did for you, you needed to be careful with what you said. Some things went over their heads. “Floo flame. Portkeys. I don’t know, a conveyor? A train? I’ve been nothing but surprised since waking up in a cell, so any more might be nice.”

A tense silence exuded from your two companions. Only the horses outside, trotting along and being directed by Solas, were audible. That and the howling wind.

“Did you get any of that, Seeker?” Varric finally asked, eyes scattering from meeting yours.

She cleared her throat awkwardly. “It would be good if we could acquire steeds for the Inquisition. Then we do not need to be in such close quarters.”

It wasn't long before the sun began to settle. When you looked out the small hole for a window, there was nothing but snow for what seemed like miles.

“It’s getting too late to ride. We’ll settle here for the night,” Solas said from outside the waggon.

Cassandra nodded, stepping out first and stretching her limbs. Varric followed suit, muttering something about the cold. You hesitated for a moment before joining them, taking in the sight of the snowy landscape around you. The snow seemed to muffle any noise, creating a sense of isolation similar to that of the cold winter nights in the Highlands.

Home. That isolation was like your home, which you knew now for a fact was nowhere near here, where they spoke a language you never heard of and read from texts written in runes you’d never seen.

Your hand throbbed at the thought. The mark had yet to dwindle, and no healing spell had any effect on it. It appeared to be true that the only way to remove it was to destroy the Breach.

You itched to put up protection enchantments. There was nothing but darkness rolling out before your little, worthless camp. When the fire was lit, you would be like sitting ducks. Bullseye targets for anyone wishing to fill a bounty.

Your qualms were not shared with the others, so you focused your attention on clearing patches of snow.

Cassandra approached you wearily, looking at you in what seemed like true fear, though no danger lurked nearby. “It looks like someone forgot to pack the last pack. Someone will need to share-”

“No, I have my pack right here.” You patted your pouch for good measure.

She eyed your person. “Where?”

“It’s all in here. You needn’t panic.”

“In…” She stared wildly at your pouch, as if she suddenly grew blind and was struggling to come to terms with the fact that she could not see what stood before her. “…There?”

“I’ll go set it up.”

After finding a flat enough space, you summoned the pack out of your pouch. The seams of the pouch stretched for a moment before the pack, which was five times the size of your pouch, dropped to the ground.

With a swish of your wand, the tent made itself—fabric unfurling, pegs digging into the ground—as if guided by invisible hands.

“There.” You dusted your clean hands, turning back to your companions. “Well then, goodnight.”

“Breathe, Seeker,” Varric said as you disappeared into your tent.

The second day of travel came and went, leaving you wishing you were anywhere else. Your hand continued its continuous dull ache, as did the ache in your lower half as more travel rolled ahead. Never had you spent so much time mindlessly travelling.

A distraction came in the form of listening to Solas’ murmurings. Though he was an elf, he too was labelled a mage. He’d taken the front seat alongside you as you directed the horses. The map you’d taken from the library was in his hands, but his mind was scattered elsewhere.

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

“In the Fade, it wears a different face. The hills cascade like memories, each one a fragment of time. I've walked these paths in dreams and seen the echoes of the people who tread them. The villages, now in ruins, tell stories of lives long gone.”

You scarcely said a word, more so focused on the horses. They were of no telling breed, nor did they appear compatible with the snowy climate that was Haven. They traversed the snow easily enough, as if coldblooded, though they could have done with more filling…

“I have seen the parrots of old conflicts, the rise and fall of empires, all imprinted upon this land like marks on the skin of the world.”

The reins slid between your palms, grating against the dull throbbing of your mark. A strange green residue seemed to rub onto what you grasped with your left hand. “You’re well knowledgeable. Did you live in the Hinterlands?”

He seemed disappointed to return to mundane talk. “No. I’ve traversed the Fade to view the stories and the history. I know it from an outside perspective, but a close one nonetheless.”

“You can enter the Fade? Is that not dangerous?”

“It is, but I do not enter it physically. I enter it like most mages; in my dreams. However, I place barriers…” He continued while you directed the horses through a rather thick brush. “I do set wards. And if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.”

“Giant spiders. Say no more.”

“A fear of yours?” He said, sounding humble.

“That could be said.” You shivered. “You have rather descriptive dreams. Many would be jealous of such an ability.”

“Are you?”

“Far from it.” You were happy with the dreams you had now, or did not have, specifically.

“It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Nor is it as rare as you’ve been led to believe. Perhaps not as deeply as myself, but all mages are able to traverse the fade in their dreams; it is only a matter of wishing to and preparing in advance. That includes yourself. Herald,” he added as an afterthought.

“I’d rather not. I prefer to stay away from beings of death and despair.”

“The Fade is not for the dead.”

“Oh? Yet it is full of demons and spirits, as you’ve told me. That sounds awfully like an afterlife to me.”

“It is not, I assure you.”

“Well… Whatever makes you happy.”

“Thank you for your consideration, Herald,” he said, scorn in his tone.

One week in, you were woken from your sleep. Dredges of sleep clung to you, along with the dreams and nightmares that wished to be relived. You laid in your tent for a minute, listening to the low drizzle of rain hitting the fabric.

Your hand reached for your pouch and for the vial of liquid you’d used as a nightcap for however long it had been since you’d first needed them.

You came up empty, and your hand flared. Green magic, more visible than most magic; it appeared to be actually physical. It was more akin to an illness than magic—more blood than the essence of your soul. It left a residue like blood, had a physical form like a semi-transparent limb, and gave you pain no magic had ever given you.

Magic itself was not tangible. But this was?

Not to mention the way the rifts seemed to pull at it when they were near. It was like the pull of a magnet. The rifts pulled at your hand, pulling magic you couldn’t control. Then, when the rifts were closed, they spat out clumps—actual corporeal remains of the so-called magic. In all of your time researching magic—modern, ancient—had you ever found something that could truly be touched—sourced exclusively from magic?

No, of course not. How absurd. These remnants of the rifts could not be so simply explained as conjurations.

This, ultimately, was the ‘Fade magic’ that was often spoken of. A new type of magic never seen before. Yet the people, mages, elves included, here were so comfortable conducting it.

Ignoring the pain pulsing through your palm, you pushed yourself out of your tent. All were asleep, and the moon was low enough in the sky. There was still food in the cooking pot above the dwindling fire. It felt cold in your stomach, but it wouldn’t kill you, so you continued to eat.

If you were to cast your eyes above, to look to the stars, you would find the constellations above, twinkling as if to garner your explicit attention. Most constellations are visible from most locations on the Earth, though others depend on factors such as latitude and the time of year. Circumpolar constellations had been a recurring topic in Astronomy classes. They included Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, and Cassiopeia, to name a few. Theoretically, anyone could stand anywhere in the world, regardless of hemisphere, and they would be able to easily see any circumpolar constellation.

Yet here, sitting in the winter winds of a strange continent by the name of Thedas, you saw no recognisable constellation.

In fact, no major constellation that your studies had been focused on could be seen. The Crux, Centaurus, Canis Major, Draco, Cepheus, Andromeda, and the Zodiacs.

There was Pyxis if you connected three stars in a straight line, though it looked exceptionally wrong.

Sighting no familiar constellation plunged a deeper pit into your stomach than any spoiled food ever could.

Over the next few days, the weather changed so drastically that it was as if you were on a different continent. No longer did the endless snow crunch beneath your feet; now it was replaced with crunching greenery and hot dirt. Your robes protected much of your skin from the blazing sun, but your face still baked under the rays.

Most of what you had on you before you woke up in Haven was gone. While your wand had been returned to your service and, fortunately, your pouch hadn’t been detected, everything else was gone. It was rather unfortunate timing, as was that beacon that had presumedly brought you here. You’d been on the verge of a long-awaited discovery, then you woke up here in chains.

That particular ‘discovery’ was also not within reach. It had been ripped from you, once more lost, though what is lost will always be found.

“We’ll have to go on foot henceforth. There are too many hostiles to deal with on a waggon.”

“I can place enchantments,” you told her, disliking the idea of walking even more than riding in a cramped waggon. “Neither might nor magic shall touch us.”

A troubled look passed over her face. “It is quite all right. It will be good to be on our feet.”

The waggon was left among the Inquisition soldiers who had arrived in the Hinterlands before you had. A female dwarf met you somewhere nearby. “The Herald of Andraste! I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach. Everyone’s a little nervous around mages right now, but you’ll get no back talk here. That’s a promise.”

“What exactly do these ‘stories’ say?”

“Oh, nothing bad. They only say you’re the last great hope for Thedas.”

“Fantastic.”

She soon sent you off towards the last known area this ‘Mother Giselle’ was seen in. As you continued along, now on foot due to the brewing war of templars and mages, you were awoken to what truly lay before you.

Soldiers. All dressed head-to-toe in armour. While they’d been in Haven, it seemed more like they’d been Haven guards. Yet they wore the newly-appointed Inquisition symbol.

Evidently, you were not used to organisations being so quick to bring out force. The Ministry was uncharitable compared to the Inquisition. Then again, at least the Ministry was practical when dealing with wars between humans and wizards.

But ignorant of creatures such as goblins.

Overall, the Ministry focused on quick, dirty business—ironically, cleaner than the bloodshed that followed swords and medieval-looking soldiers.

“Where’s your amour? I asked you to speak to Harrit,” Cassandra said to you once the fight was over. She turned you around forcibly while she inspected your back, where a sword had been plunged. That slip had only happened because you lacked much experience with foes who carried swords.

The wound itself was already healed, yet she ignored your complaints.

“I wasn’t in need of his services. I don’t need more to weigh me down.”

"There is nothing stopping a blade from tearing you apart," she replied hoarsely. "We must take every precaution to ensure your safety. Your mark is our only hope."

“As I’ve been told,” you said, pulling away from her. “My robes are enchanted, and never once have I actually needed physical shielding. Very little can truly kill me.”

She scoffed. “Continue to bleed then. Perhaps that is what you want.”

The Crossroads were surreal. A hub of activity in the Hinterlands, it was bustling with travellers, refugees, and soldiers. The air was thick with the smell of smoke from distant fires and the iron of flowing blood.

These were real people, struck in a war-torn town, city, or country. The faces of the refugees, etched with fear and fatigue, soldiers hardened by battle, and travellers seeking safety blurred together in a mosaic of what could only be desperation.

“Come, we must speak with Mother Giselle.” Cassandra pulled you away when you reached the Crossroads.

“Before we do so… I think you’d best be the one to speak with her.”

“You are the Herald of Andraste. You are why we’re here. She asked to speak to you.”

“I’m not fighting you on that. I’m only saying I’m not one with words.”

“That has not gone unnoticed,” she sighed. “Fine, I will do this. But you cannot continue to shift responsibility onto others.”

“I have many responsibilities; talking is just not one of them.”

Cassandra gave you a disapproving look before striding towards Mother Giselle, leaving you to observe the sombre activity of the Crossroads.

As you turned to follow her, your eyes caught on to a young girl. She’d been approaching you tentatively. She had wide, frightened eyes that seemed to plead for help without uttering a word. Her tattered clothes and dusty face were those of many around you. Her ears, long and pointed, labelled her an elf. Though she stood at the normal height of elves, she was a child, yet to grow to her full form.

"Are you one of them?" she finally whispered, her voice barely audible over the din of nearby Inquisition soldiers.

"One of whom?" you asked gently, crouching down to her level.

"The ones with magic," she replied, glancing around nervously as if afraid someone might overhear.

“Yes, I am.”

She stared up at you with those large eyes. Not in fear; otherwise,  she would not have approached you so easily.

“May I?” You held out your hand for hers, where clotted blood lined her forearm.

She wearily nodded, and with a soft glide of your thumb, the cut beneath stitched together. You wiped the blood away, revealing unmarred skin.

“What was that?” She asked in wonder.

“Episkey. A healing charm. If you are a mage, wizard, witch, you too will be able to help others with magic. Unlike what you’ve been led to believe, our magic is neither dangerous nor something to be feared.” You patted her palm before dropping it. “Where are your guardians?”

“They- My parents were taken… by the templars. Templars said they had used forbidden magic. Bad magic. But they only wanted to protect us. With good magic.”

Parents are being taken away from their children, and vice versa. Not even the Ministry would think of doing such atrocities.

“Please bring them back to me,” the girl implored. The tiredness in her eyes displayed a knowingness of that false hope.

“I will.”

Another rift closed, another bout of spluttering magic from your cursed hand, you had to shake off a coolness that clutched to your skin. It was a sensation that lingered, subtly present even when battle had not yet begun.

You found the elf, Solas, observing you from nearby. Even more unsettling were his large eyes, which were of all the elves you’d known.

"Are you placing enchantments on me?”

“Yes, that is my doing,” he responded. “Cassandra asked that I shield you. She seemed concerned about your lack of exterior armour.”

“Ignore her. Your spells are unnecessarily distracting.”

“They’re protective.”

“I have my own protection charms.”

Solas regarded you curiously. “Your own protection spells are notable, but they may not be enough in certain situations. It wouldn’t harm to have extra layers of defence, especially considering the nature of the adversaries we face.”

Your sixth sense flared to life right as you cast Protego, stopping the steel-tipped arrow from piercing your companion’s skin.

“Perhaps you should focus on your own defences before you consider mine.”

The events continued to blur in your mind. Magic had always been a comfort, but it came as an even bigger one now as humans—soldiers—fell to the blades and bolts of your fellow travellers. Red, thick, iron, retch-smelling blood dripped from their hands and utensils. They killed easily, paying no mind to the lives of those that ended at their feet.

Magic rarely drew blood, unless that was your intent. Similarly was the intent to kill, which, for you, had not been the case in a long time.

The man choked on his own blood. It spluttered from his lips like a fountain. While you’d come across many humans who didn’t at all hesitate to hurt you, regardless of your age, you’d never killed anyone—not those who utterly deserved it. But this man—he'd just been defending himself. Perhaps he’d been paid, or he’d been ordered by some overarching figure. Regardless, he hadn’t struck you. It was you who’d made the first move.

Before you could do anything, Cassandra strode over, and in one move, her sword was slicing above the man’s chest plate and through his chest. The light left his eyes a moment later.

“What point is there to more bloodshed?” You said when Cassandra’s blade punctured another neck. You fought to keep the bile from rising. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“Would you rather he slit our throats in our sleep? Or would you like for him to collect the rest of his unit?” She said, looking the most angry she’d been since she’d woken you in your cell. “If we do not kill them now, they will kill us or the refugees. This is not something to be argued with.”

“Killing is not the answer. It is just as simple as removing their memory,” you told her matter-of-factly. “As long as they’re not ‘possessed’ as you say, they won’t have the mind to harm anyone for quite some time, if ever.”

“And how do you expect us to do that?”

You stood your ground. “Leave that to me. Just don’t kill anymore… people. If you can help it.”

She scoffed and turned away. Varric was grinning when you gathered the courage to meet his sharp smile.

“I didn’t take you for a pacifist.”

How wrong he is. “I’m not. As long as another’s death isn’t on my hands, I couldn’t care less.”

He whistled lowly. "Sounds like you're trying to make up for something. Does the Herald not like the feel of a guilty conscious?"

You gave him no answer.

It was Solas, the aloof elf, who approached you when you kneeled next to the unconscious templar solider. Templars, as they were, had the sole goal of killing mages—you included. But in times of war, the need for survival outweighed morality above everything else. Perhaps for once, you were the outlier.

Whisps of memories, coloured light blue, chased after the tip of your wand. Dropping your hold on them, they floated in the air before merging with the winds, not having anything to grasp onto.

“You can remove people’s memories that easily?” Solas asked with nothing short of mild incredulity.

“It’s better than killing them. They’ll recover their memories in time, depending on how much they want them back. There’s always the counter spell, after all.”

"You possess a strange magic. One that no mage has ever possessed before.”

Crouching by the templar at your feet, you frowned. Just a woman, one taught to detest your kind. The Ministry had long since declared magic to be hidden from muggles. Perhaps this was what happened when that example was not followed. Humans could not fight fairly against magic, nor was magic something to be repressed.

Did this woman have a family? A partner? Youths to watch over? A war-torn country this was; adding to the depravity was something not to be beared. “None at all? We know of different magics. It's unwise to dismiss them so readily.”

“I have never met anyone who can manipulate memories in such a way,” he said, watching intently as you wove your magic around the templar. “No living being, that is.”

Varric stumbled over. He was nestling a bleeding knee, one of which would be healed once he finished the bottle of ‘Healing potion’ (notably not called Wiggenweld potion, though that’s a given considering it was not the English language spoken here).

“No shot you’ve tried that on yourself, have you? This counter spell to recover your memories?” He asked.

“As a matter of fact, I have. But whoever took my memories knew what they were doing.” You pulled more whisps of memories from another solider. “There is little left I can do to recover them. I fear they’re lost forever.”

As you finished with the last soldier, Solas spoke up again. “A fascinating choice. But what were to happen if these soldiers, marked with their banner, come across those hostile to them? Would they not know how to defend themselves? Would all your effort be for nought?”

You directed your hand to the soldier’s chest plate. The branding lifted and left a shining, silvery, clean base. “Any additional issues you can think of?”

“The Hinterlands are rife with wild animals. I presume you’ve taken their fighting prowess away too.”

“Unless they lacked common sense beforehand, they should know to keep from wandering too far into the woods. Most humans know to run away from danger, not towards it.”

“You’d think so,” Varric said, chuckling at nothing particularly funny.

When you went to take another soldier’s memories, Cassandra complained about how long this would take.

“We’re not on an immediate time limit. This won’t take long,” you said, pulling the fragments of memories from the soldier’s skull. The whisps took flight and disappeared into the air.

After securing the Crossroads, Cassandra led the way to the horse master west. Horse master Dennett was hesitant to enter the Inquisition’s service, but in the end, he came to his senses.

Riding a horse was like that of any other mount, though exceptionally slower. It was just an ordinary horse. Traversing the mountainous terrain would prove difficult without a flying mount.

Cassandra rode beside you on her own brown mount, her presence imposing and her authority evident. It was only natural to assume she led the group. Fortunately, when your attention waned to other areas, she slowed her horse to a stop.

The Hinterlands were a strange place. The landscape was a mix of familiar and foreign, with various plants and animals from different regions coexisting in this strange place. There’d been plenty of gorse seen, a rather invasive weed native to Europe, though it tended to spread without your meaning to. Fennec foxes were local to Africa, yet easily sighted among your travels. Behind Dennett’s farm, there’d been daikon growing, which was native to East Asia.

Of course, naturalisation was fairly common and didn’t explicitly mean anything. You knew you weren’t in the British Isles, or Western Europe in general, but with so many flora, fauna, animals, and beasts that did not belong together being found within a day’s travel, no thought can possibly comprehend the reason why.

This, among other things, made your dreams the very more violent.

A cluster of delicate flowers with yellow-white pedals caught your eye. A telltale sign of henbane, although the petals were smaller than usual. Indicating youth or a variation of what grew outside the ravine closest to your cabin back home.

You slid off your horse to crouch by the patch, carefully severing the stem with your wand.

"Hold on there, Herald," Varric's tone was cautious. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Not at all.”

“Well then,” he said, eyeing the purple flowers wearily. “You should know that’s the death plant. You don't want to touch it unless you want to die prematurely and leave us to figure out this Breach on our own."

"It’s called henbane, and it isn’t that dangerous. When handled correctly, it’s actually quite beneficial. It's an excellent calming agent and can induce peaceful dreams." You directed the petals into a vial you had. They laid cramped, but would prove useful when juiced. “Harmless, Varric. Very helpful for difficulties in sleep.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he quipped. “Is that a usual thing in Tevinter?”

“What is Tevinter?”

“Well, I pegged you for a Vint. Though maybe it’s the dreams making you so grouchy.”

“Do you not dream of the Breach? With the ‘demons’ and the other creations of dark magic? I assume it’s a source of torment for many. Not knowing what will crawl out of it next is a valid fear. Even here, we’re not as close to the Breach as Haven, yet the refugees spoke of it more than the war they’re in the middle of.”

“No, Grouch, I don’t dream,” he said matter-of-factly.

“An amusing nickname.”

“I do try.”

You rode on for a moment or so before slowing down once more, coming to ride beside Varric. “What do you mean you don’t dream? At all?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Does it sound as if I jest?”

Varric shrugged irresolutely. "Aren’t you aware that dwarves don't dream like surface folk do? It's just the way we are. Thankfully, I have no fear of demons and dragons plaguing my sleep."

“I…” Didn’t know that. Biologically, they were closer to wizards than goblins or elves; all three had the ability to dream. There was no obvious reason why dwarfs could not dream. Sure, you didn’t spare a thought for the species, nor were they really in abundance in Northern Scotland, but something like that would have been mentioned at least once.

Though the prospect of not being able to dream was perhaps an enviable one, seeing as you rendered your sleep dreamless with the amount of tonics you used to take and still would take, if not for the ingredients being rather difficult to find.

“Am rendered speechless,” he chuckled. “I tend to do that to people, though it’s generally followed with a round of applause. You’re not the first to be awed by my knowhow, Grouchy.”

“I detest that name.”

“It’s better than calling you Herald, right?”

“Hm. I’ve been called worse.”

As night fell, you sat by the fire with your companions, enjoying a warm meal in the warm air. It would be your last for a while, as the trek back to Haven promised everlasting snow.

As you picked at your meal of mild meat and spoiled vegetables, a sense of tranquillity settled over you. For a moment, you could almost forget about the looming threat of the Breach and the responsibilities that rested on your shoulders. Out of sight, out of mind. Only a tinge of green graced the night sky.

But even in this moment of peace, a part of you couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered at the edges of your consciousness. The world was changing, shifting beneath the very ground you sat on.

“Herald, a question?” Solas approached you by the fire you nurtured.

You motioned for him to continue.

“According to my research, the ancient elves set up wards all throughout Thedas. If we can find the artefacts they used, it may help strengthen against tears in the Veil.”

“Ancient elves? So these tears are not a new issue.” A localised one, then. All the more evidence to establish that this Fade was not worldwide, therefore not ‘normal’. “Are you positive these artefacts are close by?”

“I sensed one when we were at the Crossroads, but I did not wish to dally with our goal. I’d hoped we’d return to it before we leave the Hinterlands. There are too many rifts for us, you, to close, and we cannot guarantee more will not open when we’re not here. If you are willing, I would like to locate it. I have marked it's location as best I could determine."

“Very well, if you believe they'll help us. …But you said you could sense them?”

“Yes. They are of elven making. They resonate with a frequency only the elven can perceive. And, their presence permeates tenfold when exploring the Fade.”

They were for rifts, which were a localised issue. But only elves could perceive them? Not all mages? Perhaps it had to do with the making, but why wouldn’t the elves share in a shared issue?

A trivial question with no doubt trivial answers.

“I see.” You nodded, not in true understanding. Wizards rarely wrote of elves, not finding them interesting past Helga Hufflepuff’s attempt to incorporate them into the workforce via wage labour. Their biology, history, and literally anything besides their servile disposition were unknown and generally uncared for. They had their own magic, ancient in nature (though interestingly, Solas had not shown such displays, though you didn’t tap into that magic either), that rivalled your own quiescent magic. Furthermore, elves weren’t exactly known for producing anything of notable making. Goblins, yes, but not elves.

The only thing they may have created was Excalibur, King Arthur's sword. But there were other conflicting accounts of the creator: Merlin, the Lady of the Lake, Morgana, so on and so forth.

Though… You were basing all you knew on the elves in the UK, not Thedas. May as well start afresh, considering the elves here didn’t look as you knew them to be. Perhaps this had to do with a loss in translation.

Different languages, missing constellations, strange naturalisation of plants and animals. Merlin, how far were you from home?

You met the elf’s stare. “In my experience, ancient artefacts are not to be trifled with. A shift in time means a change in definition, a loss of meaning, a variation in perspective, etcetera. Activating them might not bring about the result we want.”

“I am positive that I am correct, Herald,” he said, somewhat dissatisfied. “I have seen in the Fade. Trust that they will help us in our journey.”

“Such a useful tool, this Fade. If there’s no harm, we might as well see to activating these ancient artefacts. I don’t know why you needed my permission. Cassandra’s the one leading our little collaboration.”

“You’re the Herald.”

“Allegedly. Was there something else you wanted?”

“I’ve noticed that you don’t bend the Fade when you cast. If no one was observing, they would find no difference. Where do you draw your magic if not from the Fade?”

“Where else but from myself? My magic is my own. It is weaved into my very blood and soul. I cannot expel it, nor will it ever deteriorate. My magic is like an extra limb, one that cannot be cut away unless I were to die.”

“Interesting," he remarked in a stale manner. Words conflicting with his tone. "Magic comes from the Fade, not the self, unless it is from some other obscure source. Mages draw forth the essence of the Fade, and use that essence to shape the very reality we stand in. The fire,” he nodded towards it. “A mage would first need to heat the air around it. But you simply lit it.”

“A vast amount of hoops to jump through to light one fire.” What next: if someone was falling to their death, they'd first need to ensure their shoelaces were tied properly before even attempting to cushion their fall? “So much for the grandeur of magic.”

“It’s a standard, natural process.”

Having no answer, you concentrated on crushing the henbane petals. It formed a dark grey paste, which turned lilac when you added the dried lavender you already had on hand. The lavender also helped with the rotting odour of the henbane.

Ultimately, the mixture would not provide useful until you collected the other ingredients: wormwood, flobberworm mucus, valerian sprigs, asphodel petals, and stinging nettle. After collecting all ingredients, you’d need a cauldron, and perhaps a potions table. Then you could focus on improving everything else. You’d already enchanted your bedroll, which had previously had you waking with a sore back every morning, but enchantments couldn’t help you in the long run like conjurations could.

However, any conjurations you conjured now without the proper amount of moonstone, of which you had very litter, would simply disappear when your attention waned.

Solas lingered in your peripheral vision. “Your lack of armour suggests either you are naïve or overconfident in your abilities,” he said, tone lighter than the weight of his stare. “Or a wish to bleed without fearful eyes. Cassandra has taken to believing you’re a blood mage.”

“There’s hardly a need for specifications." You stuffed the vial of the henbane-lavender mixture into your pouch. Solas watched it disappear into the near-endless confines. "On what basis has she developed this belief?”

“She wouldn’t confide in such matters with me, but it is evident her fears are founded on the way you speak of your magic.” He motioned to your left hand, where the green slice of magic had settled down for now. With no rifts nearby, it seemed dormant; happy to let live. “You refuse to use the mark, but it is a pathway to magic that is most enviable. Blood mages draw power from their own life force rather than the Fade, much like how you describe your magic.”

“I see the Templars know little of what they try to eradicate. I’ve no reason or wish to use my blood.” With no reason to bond or hold rituals, bleeding would be a miserable ailment. The healing potions kept on Cassandra’s person were not Wiggenweld potion; they were notably weaker too, if comparisons were to be made. Any wounds sustained took longer to heal with the potions on hand. Even now you nursed a veiny bruise on your neck from a mage’s lightning spell—which one? Who could say? It certainly hadn’t been the Baubillious charm.

If you’d taken Wiggenweld, it would have been long since healed. “Her fears are misplaced, as are yours if you share them.”

“I do not. Your magic is not powerful enough to be borne from blood.”

Chapter Text

Returning to the Crossroads, you began distributing the much-needed supplies—bundles of food, fresh water, and warm blankets—to the refugees. Most of the supplies had been collected during your short time in the Hinterlands, but a few blankets had been conjured with the little moonstone you’d found.

Duplicating those blankets, you’d slowly made enough to warm a large army or two. One of the people overlooking the supply of blankets fainted when you pulled the blankets out of your pouch. Thankfully, they fell atop the cushions, not the wood floor.

“I’m very sorry; I didn’t mean to hoard them for so long,” you told the overseer’s partner as more blankets piled out, quickly filling the room with soft sheets. Both people, an elf and a human, were mages, so really, it shouldn’t have been your doing that made the human faint. This was basic magic, after all. Perhaps the stress was getting to them.

When you rejoined your companions outside, Cassandra was nowhere in sight.

“I’ve determined the artefact is eastward from here,” Solas said, coming to your side after healing a person’s bleeding arm.

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten. Now where is Cassandra?”

Having nothing to do while you waited, you looked through a trader’s wares. The wares were meagre and of little to no use to you. Many of the herbs on display were unfamiliar, if not wilted and crushed, most likely due to the ongoing rebellion causing the deformation.

“Looking for anything in particular?” The trader asked, giving a weak smile.

You had nothing but the coins you’d taken from the mine near Haven. Judging by the trader’s slight shift in expression, the coins weren’t worth much when you showed them to him.

“This is why we collect anything we find of use,” Varric murmured, referring to how you’d objected to stealing from the unconscious and even the fatally wounded, templars, and mages who’d attacked you. As they’d just been defending themselves, in a way, it wasn’t right to steal from them.

“Here.” He sighed and dropped a pouch of coins on the table. It hit the table with a soft thud. “Buy whatever you want. You deserve it. Hopefully you’ll find something that turns that frown around.”

“I hardly deserve it more than anyone else here.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that. Here’s a hint: when someone offers you something of their goodwill, you accept it. It’s rude to turn down an offer.”

“Keep your coins. There’s nothing I want more than to return home, and nothing here can do that,” you left them with a biting tone. Whatever could be bought here was likely attainable for free elsewhere.

“Everyone here has a home they want to get back to, or a safe place to live in general,” Solas said unkindly.

“Yes, I have a home waiting for me, possibly,” you retorted sharply. “But I am far from it. I may not have my memories, but I know for sure that I am not here by choice. The same cannot be said about you, so with all respect, refrain from commenting any further on such matters.”

Varric intervened, trying to diffuse the sudden, rising tension. “Alright, let’s not dwell on it too much,” he said, sounding awfully cheerful.

“Forgive me,” you murmured, the edge softening in your voice. “I appreciate the gesture, Varric. But I prefer collecting my own goods.”

“Ah, not a fan of consumerism?” he asked, though the term was lost on you. “Or just paranoid?” When you made no attempt to reply, he changed subjects. “So… Do you have someone waiting for you? Family, a partner? For someone who is leading us to our hopefully-not-fatal victories, we don’t really know much about you.”

“All you need to do is ask,” you sighed. “And yes, my… father. He’s the only one waiting for my return. I only hope that when I do, it will not be too late.”

“Is he ill?”

“Dearly.”

For once, Varric looked taken aback. There was no room for jokes on such a serious, unversed subject. “…Have you asked Leliana to send a message? Her ravens can get a message anywhere, so I’m constantly told.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” You didn’t reveal that only last week you’d attempted to train an owl. Owls were supposed to be intelligent creatures—no more than ravens, that is—but the tawny barn owl had just stared at you unblinkingly. Besides, no one here knew what Scotland was, so a random bird knowing was implausible.

“Well, if your father’s anything like you, I’m sure he’s resourceful.”

“Thank you, Varric.”

Cassandra found you a minute or so later, emerging from the bustling crowd, her expression muted. “Herald. A letter for you.”

“What does it say?”

As a response, she held out the envelope. It was sealed with bright, red wax and an intricate stamp.

Knowing you wouldn’t be able to read it, you preoccupied your hands by picking at a nearby flower bush. The flowers were blue and starkly unfamiliar, but perhaps they had some sort of quality to them. “Read it for me.”

“It’s private,” she said, sounding pained.

“Not from the Inquisition?”

She shook her head and once more pushed the letter towards you. You took it but made no attempt to break the seal. If you attempted to read it, you feared you’d look like a dunce. Sure, you could have come forth and revealed you couldn’t read the common tongue here, but really, there didn’t seem to be a point. The pattern of the stamped wax could have been a source of comment, though it seemed even Cassandra knew nothing of it, nor did she pressure you into reading it right there and then.

East of the Crossroads, following Solas’ determination of the location of the artefact, you found a lone mage fighting a hoard of demons.

“Peace, stranger,” she said with an unplaceable accent when the demons were quelled. “I mean you no harm. My name is Mihris. By your weapons, I see you come ready for battle. There are demons in these woods. We may face a common enemy.” She smiled sparsely at Cassandra’s sword.

“You held your own well against the demons.”

“A pointless feat. There will always be more, and I have no means of closing the rifts,” Mihris replied. “But I have heard of Elvhen artefacts that measure the Veil. They may tell us where new rifts will appear.”

“It appears we share the same goal. Our friend here mentioned sensing the location.” You nodded to Solas, who pressed his lips together. “Can you lead us, Mihris?”

“Thank you.” She pointed her stave to her right, towards a cave. “It shouldn’t be too much farther ahead.”

“What brings you to the Hinterlands?” Varric asked.

“I was—am—First of Clan Virnehn. I left in service of my clan and saw that great tear in the Veil on my journey. I know more of magic and the Veil than any shemlen, so I hoped to help.”

“Ma harel, da’len.”

Liltingly spoken, the phrase seemed to have been sung. With Varric and Cassandra walking in front of you, it could only have come from Solas or the wind.

Mihris silently led the rest of the way through the Hinterlands, stopping at a crumbling entrance. Solas did not lift a hand, despite being addressed purposefully by Mihris.

“Flat-ear,” she’d called him, though you’d thought she’d meant you at first. To your surprise, she’d been referring to Solas, somehow.

Regardless, tension between elves was not your place to comment on, so you fixed the crumbling structure and continued forth, seemingly surprising the hoard of demons found inside, as they did you.

“Demons!” Someone warned.

With a battle cry, Cassandra charged forward, her sword gleaming in the dim light. Your eyes adjusted a moment before a wraith swung for your neck. A cooling sensation covered your limbs right before you blasted the wraith with ice.

Three more emerged, ghostly forms swirling with actual, tangible energy. Compared to the beings that split out of Fade rifts, these ones seemed feeble.

Swiftly, the wraiths fell under the onslaught, dissipating into the air like mist before dawn. As the last echoes of battle faded, you wiped the remnants of the demons off. Your robes had begun to glow green, possibly more so because of your hand.

“You possess abnormal magic, shemlen,” Mihris said, picking up a torch that burned with light blue flames. The light cast her eyes in a mesmerising light. “The stick more so.”

“What did you call me?”

“Worry not, Grouchy. It just means human,” Varric intervened, grinning while blinking one-eyed at you.

“Quickling,” Mihris corrected, either referring to rate of breeding, ageing, or something else, you didn’t wish to clarify.

Exploring more of the dungeon caused a light dew to collect on the skin. The ends of your robes felt damp where they grazed your exposed ankles. The hair on your arms stood stiff on gooseflesh. There was something familiar about the air in the dungeon, but the source of it was unknown. Beyond it, whispering called out to you—not a strange occurrence.

Finding the dungeon descending into darkness, your wand lit with Lumos, circumstantially sending Cassandra to stumble to the side.

“Apologies,” you murmured.

Withdrawing it, you took to lighting a sconce to ease her. Instead of the red flames as intended, they lit in blue. The blue flames cast a spectral light upon the ancient ruins, illuminating the faded carvings that adorned the walls.

“That’s not normal fire,” Varric said, peering into the fire.

Agreeing that it was not a normal fire, you reached a hand towards the flames. Not to your surprise, you found the flames licked at your skin like that of a fish’s tongue—cold, leaving a kiss of mist glazed on your skin. Though perhaps somewhat surprising, it lacked warmth entirely. While the flames were normal for being cold, they should have caused some form of heated reaction where they pierced the atmosphere. The body of the flame should be cold and non-burning, but the air around it should emit heat.

“Do you always stick your hand in perilous situations?” Varric asked, looking ill. He eyed your hand. Nothing but the green cut showed any hint of abnormality. “That explains how you got the mark.”

“I suspected correctly that they were Bluebell Flames, or Cold fire if you’d like the less deceiving term.”

“You don’t suppose that means fire that is cold? Not much of a point in using it for burning, then.”

“Correct indeed. It’s quite easier to see through blue light than red. And if you happen to fall asleep during your studies, you will not wake to find your materials burned to ash.”

“I suspect there are alternative important matters to use veilfire for,” Solas said.

“Oh yes, immensely. Do you call it ‘veilfire’ because of your affinity with the Veil, Solas?”

“I name it as such because that is it’s true name. It is a form of sympathetic magic, a memory of flame that burns in this world where the Veil is thin. Elves were the ones who invented it.”

“In this part of the word, perhaps.”

“It does not matter what it is called,” Cassandra interrupted with a forceful tone. “We are losing sunlight. Let us continue forth.”

As you ventured deeper into the dungeon, the air grew colder, and the whispers became more insistent. Shadows danced on the walls as if trying to tell their own tales. The green glow of your hand illuminated the path before you, joining the blue light of the Cold fire in casting an eerie light on the cobbled stones.

More demons and shades had taken shelter in the innards of the dungeon. After clearing them, Solas led the way to a small globe-like structure. At his touch, crackling green energy encircled the globe.

“There. The wards are helping to strengthen the Veil. This area should be safer for travellers now,” he said.

Taking in your surroundings—the towering statue, the collection of weathered skulls, the forlorn bags of coins, the ceremonial jars—you found they were all signs of gifts offered by the grieving. Either this was some type of mauseoleum or a covert place of worship.

“Well, that should prove useful. And it seems the ancestors left something for me as well.” Mihris sidled past, crouching by the largest statue, where jars and boons sat in solidarity. “Interesting.”

“Do you believe it’s appropriate to loot offerings for the dead?” you asked. “Some would consider that bad luck.”

“Falon’Din has guided me to this place, and if these items are truly meant for the departed, then surely they would not begrudge a traveller in need,” Mihris replied, her tone matter-of-fact as she examined the offerings. “I believe our alliance is concluded. Go in peace, Stranger.”

“Ma Halani, Ma Glandival. Vir Enasalin,” Solas spoke in that lilting tongue once more. It was unlike anything you’d heard before.

“I… Perhaps you are right. Here. Take it.” She pushed an amulet into your hand, choosing to believe you were ‘safer’ than the other elf. “Go with Mythal’s blessing.”

Perhaps it was the heavy weight of the amulet, which glowed a soft blue, or the remnants of the demons; whichever, you suddenly felt light-headed.

“Mythal?” you repeated, but by the time you gained the ability to move your tongue, Mihris had disappeared into the shadows.

It was Varric who answered your feeble enquiry. “Elven goddess of justice.”

You continued to be surprised. Firstly, there was both an elven language and a pantheon? The house-elves in Great Britain would never dare, but perhaps that’s why no wizard knew of such things—they were basically a different species from the elves of Ferelden.

The Chantry held immense power; its beliefs likely dominated the majority of Thedas, if previous conversations were anything to go by. To even utter a word of an alternative faith would surely be heresy. Would the Chantry not label her a sinner? She did it so comfortably, as if she did not fear persecution. Even Cassandra, a devout follower of the Chantry, did not react.

Solas wandered towards the side of the dungeon, holding the torch of blue flames up to a crumbled wall. “Bring the veilfire here.”

You picked up the forgotten sconce and approached, watching with your own eyes as drawings on the wall appeared seemingly at your approach.

In doing so, the low whispering grew louder.

“What are those runes?” Varric asked, having followed you over. “Never seen their like before.”

“Fire,” you breathed, finding the rune translating itself in your mind. The translation came innately, though the rune was certainly not familiar.

“It appears this rune was written using veilfire. It allows for conveying a range of impressions to the reader,” Solas said, sounding smug, if only slightly. “The proper use for veilfire, if you will, Herald.”

The journey back to Haven was, in part, spent staring off into nothing. You mostly led the horses, for you had nothing to read, craft, or plant. Boring, really, and utterly mind-numbing. There was more fun to be had in Professor Binns’ class.

You would have cursed your previous self for never having a book on hand for these types of moments, but then again, you never had ‘these’ moments before. You could easily travel from one side of the country to the other and back in literal seconds, but unfortunately, that was duly improbable here. Apparating with so many people would be dangerous, at the very least.

A day or two from Haven, you once again busied yourself with sorting through the herbs you’d collected. The ones you didn’t recognise, you took to illustrating in a book you’d cleaned. Their properties would be evaluated later, in a safer environment. Though, of course, you could ask your companions, though you certainly didn’t.

Varric, lounging against a nearby fallen log, soon piped up. “Alright, let’s play a game to pass the time. How about ‘I spy’?”

“No,” Cassandra groaned.

“Oh, come now, Seeker. I’m just trying to be friendly.”

You dumped the vials of herbs into your near-endless pouch. “That’s a child’s game.” One even played here, astonishingly.

“Yeah, but it helps develop social skills. You should take notes.”

Somewhere near the tents, Cassandra sighed in resignation.

“My social skills are well-developed,” you said.

“Perhaps by your standards.” His chuckle sizzled off due to your blank stare. “Come on, humour me. It’ll be fun, I guess. I spy with my little eye... something starting with ‘S’.”

‘S’ he’d said, which was not the same ‘S’ as in the Roman alphabet. It was distinctly different, and if written down, it would certainly not look familiar. Yet your mind easily accommodated it.

You scanned the area. “…Sky?”

“Nope.”

Letting out a small sigh, you glanced around again. “Stone?”

“Not what I had in mind.”

“That's it, I give up. What is it?”

“You can’t give up that easily. It’s simple, really.”

“This isn’t fun. I’d rather watch paint dry.”

“Giving up already?”

“Smoke. Stars. Stream. Stick. Squirrel. Stump. Shrubbery. Sack,” you listed autonomously, only faltering at Solas’ complaints.

“Be thankful this isn’t a time where timing is critical; otherwise, we’ll all be doomed,” Solas said mordantly.

“Solas,” you finally guessed.

“Close.” Varric pointed towards behind you. “Spider crawling up that tree over there.”

“How was I supposed to see that?”

“You weren’t. It’s called ‘I spy’ for a reason. Not ‘you spy’.”

You rolled your eyes. “Alright, my turn then, right? I spy something beginning with... ‘R’.”

Varric squinted for a second. “Rocks?”

“Correct,” you said, more so surprised you’d gotten the correct letter. “Got it in one turn. Congratulations.”

“Literary master,” Solas murmured, so unlike his normal humble self.

Varric feigned offense. “I’ll let you know I’m quite the wordsmith myself, thank you very much.”

As the waggon rumbled along the dirt road, the midday sun cast a warm glow over the landscape, bathing the occupants in its golden light. The day had been long and exhausting, and weariness clung to everyone’s bones.

“We’ll reach Haven by nightfall if all goes well,” Cassandra’s conversational voice cut through the walls of the waggon.

You shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat, feeling the fatigue settle into your bones after the recent events. Haven… You couldn’t wait.

Mind wandering as the scenery passed by in a blur, your thoughts dipped back into your memories. Realisations and revelations of the past days were beginning to catch up with you, forcing you to acknowledge them. It wasn’t that you were slow; it was merely that you considered all of your options before getting up and arms about something.

At first, it seemed like a fantastical dream—a strange and surreal adventure. But with each passing day, the truth began to sink in: you were no longer in the world you knew.

The people spoke a language you couldn’t understand; their customs and traditions were foreign to your own. The landscape, too, was unlike anything you had ever seen—towering mountains, dense forests, and vast plains stretching out as far as the eye could see. It was as if you had stepped into another realm entirely, a world that existed beyond the boundaries of your own reality.

At first, you clung to the hope that it was all a mistake and that you would wake up at any moment and find yourself back in familiar surroundings. But as the days turned into weeks, and now a month had passed, that hope began to fade. The truth was unavoidable: you were stranded in this strange new world with no way of returning home.

The Breach in the sky, the presence of magic, the strange language spoken by the locals—all pointed to a reality that was not your own. As you struggled to make sense of it all, a deep sense of longing washed over you. You yearned for the familiarity of home, for the comfort of the known.

Something slammed into the wood behind your head, wracking pain through your skull.

“Demons! Prepare yourselves!” Cassandra shouted from outside the waggon.

Heart pounding in your chest, you scrambled to your feet, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Instinct kicked in as you reached into your robes for your wand.

Everyone else was already outside when you met them. Demons swirled and twisted in the air; their dark forms a stark contrast against the fading light of day. The air crackled with magic, a sensation that made your skin prickle.

The route back to Haven was the same one you took to the Hinterlands. Therefore, you would have passed by this section of the dense forest and closed any rift. However, that didn’t seem to be the case.

Soon, the demons fell back to the rotten earth they came from.

“There must be a rift nearby,” Solas commented. “We must close it.”

You inspected your hand. Typically, when near a rift, it would bubble with uncontrollable magic. Right at this moment, it was docile.

“Any idea where it is?”

As the demons had come from the West, that is where you set forth. The waggon struggled through the untravelled path of the underbrush and had to be tethered to the trees.

The forest grew thicker, the shadows deepening as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

“Surely we can leave it until morning?” You said, waning through the sharp brush. “At this rate, we won’t be able to find our way back to the carriage. It’s not like anyone but ourselves are at risk.”

“I would much rather we are not attacked in our sleep, Herald.” Cassandra led the way, forging through the thick foliage.

“Ah, but you won’t allow me to set enchantments around your bedroll, Seeker. So can you really say it’s protection you seek?”

Cassandra shot you a withering look but uttered nothing as she continued leading the way west.

When you were beginning to doubt whether you would find the rift before nightfall, or at all, a faint shimmer caught your eye through a gap in the trees. There were no denizens of the rift, so closing it was far easier than the walk back. By then, the woods had always closed in around you. It seemed even Lumos could not light your way back entirely, for the canopy of darkness wrapped around that too.

“How do you think the demons found us?” Varric eventually asked as the trek back carried on.

“A road frequently travelled attracts many species,” Solas said.

“We have not seen anything but wolves and bears since leaving the Hinterlands,” Cassandra piqued up. “Do you not find it a coincidence that the demons were waiting for us?”

“It is unlikely.”

The night had well and truly set when the waggon entered back into view. The horses, miraculously, stood unharmed.

While your companions busied themselves with setting up their tents, you took to making the nighttime meal.

“Spare any magic for my tent?” Varric relented.

With a mere glance and a flick of the wand, his tent made itself.

“Ha! …Seeker, you know you’re allowed to ask.”

She made a sound that was a mix between a scoff and a sigh.

A half hour later, with your stomach no longer eating itself, and your skin as clean as the nearest stream would make it, you sat around the fire.

The campfire crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the faces of those gathered around. Despite your better judgement, exhaustion tugged your eyelids close.

Fire had never been very pleasing. It ate at anything in its path, turning the most beautiful things into ash.

The smell, however, like coffee, could be more appealing.

No matter the type of wood used to fuel fires—oak, pine, or cherry—kindling always smelt the same when burning. That distinct aroma, reminiscent of late nights spent with your nose in old tomes, in both your youth and adulthood, tugged at your most dearest of memories. It was a scent that, while not necessarily tasteful, could leave you slavering for more.

If you allowed your thoughts to simmer, you could convince yourself you were back home, sitting around the hearth with your… father by your side, his own tome in his hands. Or, if you dug deeper, you’d find yourself seated among housemates of a long-forgotten time, a time when things were simpler and the weight of your actions did not lie so heavily on your shoulders. A time so much simpler than the one you found yourself in—before and after the Breach.

The flames of your memories burned in vibrant hues of red, orange, and- green.

Why was it that green seemed to leech into everything? Everywhere you looked, there was green—vivid, lush, and persistent. It was in the grass you trampled under, the herbs you dutifully collected, and the landscape you roamed.

And, of course, it made up the body of your most recent torment—the damned beacon in the sky.

Involuntarily, your eyes snapped open, surprising not just yourself when you immediately snagged Solas’ flame-hued eyes across the dwindling fire.

“I apologise. I didn’t intend to wake you,” he said faintly, as if speaking out of habit.

Exhaustion clung to your limbs, making your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. “Don’t apologise. I’d much rather not wake with a sore back.” Not after going to great lengths to make it more comforting. Soon enough, your bedroll would be fit for a king—the very little you had to look forward to during these long, monotonous rides.

Varric was nowhere in sight, and Cassandra could be seen cleaning her sword of demon-gunk. Both would have eaten by now, so you set your sights on the last remaining portion of food in the cooking pot.

“Did you want this?” you asked Solas.

He motioned for you to take it, but in exchange, he asked you a question. “Is there a limit to your magic?” His voice was calm and measured, almost putting you to sleep on the spot.

“Depends.” You’d only known him for… about a month, yet everything seemed to be about magic to him. You, on the other hand, didn’t particularly care for his magic. His magic was the Fade, and the Fade had created the Breach. The Fade was arguably not even magic.

“On what, may I ask?”

“Accuracy, I guess. …Confidence, willpower, instinct, knowledge. Oh yes, knowledge is key. If you don’t know any spells, you’re dead. Death is the limit, for sure. But even then it can be— I don’t understand your question. Magic shouldn’t have true limits beyond skill and the law.”

He seemed uninterested in anything you’d just listed. “And your source of magic? Does that deplete?”

Ah, the true aim of his queries.

“Again, it depends.”

“On what factors?”

Modern magic, as in the magic all wizards possessed, could not deplete—at all. The very notion was amusing. However, the other source of magic you possessed, ancient magic, could. It was limited, as it wasn’t something you’d always ‘owned’. It was inherently an external source. Sometimes it seemed like the amount you had stored within your own body was endless.

Since long ago, you dared not touch that magic. It was safer not to.

Instead of telling Solas this, you pushed a spoonful of congealed stew into your mouth.

Solas continued, unperturbed by your silence. “There are other sources than the Fade, as you may be aware. But a mage is limited by the mana they have. It determines how much magic can be drawn from the Fade. It ultimately restricts mages in the prospects they may be able to accomplish, though there are ways around such restrictions. Do you face similar limitations?”

You pushed more food into your mouth, chewing it slowly in the hopes he’d give up his probing sooner.

Unfortunately, the elf was patient.

“I’m limited based on my mortal confines,” you finally relented, finding he still lingered by the time you got to the bottom of your bowl.

“Fatigue and hunger, I presume?”

“Sure.”

As smooth as silk, he changed subjects.

“How often do you cleanse the mana from your wand? It is faint around you, but it is there. I assume it is due to the mark, not your other source of magic.”

“I’ve never had a reason to clean my wand. It seems rather futile.”

“Perhaps because you are unaware of the repercussions. Can you not feel the magic surrounding you? Try for yourself.”

You tried to feel for something around you, but to no avail.

“It is like a gentle hum in the air, an undercurrent of power. Weak, almost dismissible entirely. I can see why you’ve largely ignored it,” Solas explained. “However, most mages are attuned to it.”

You shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. The idea of this unseen magical energy lingering around you was disturbing. Would that not warn foes of your presence? There’d be no hiding, no sneaking, no getting away with anything if that was a common skill relied upon.

“Why should I be cleaning away magical energy?”

“To limit the possibility of attracting demons,” he replied matter-of-factly, his eyes never leaving your wand.

You couldn’t help but scoff; the idea of possession sounded absurd. “Demon possession?” you echoed incredulously, unable to hide the mockery in your voice. “Are you suggesting I’m at risk of being possessed by a demon? How quaint.”

Solas had been called an ‘apostate’ by many, which would insinuate he’d renounced a religious belief, most likely that of the Chantry. But if he was quoting religious jargon, including demon possession, clearly he still held it in some regard.

Solas observed you with a steady gaze, his expression unreadable. “Mock all you want,” he said evenly, his tone betraying no offense. “But demon possession is a very serious matter. While it is true that your magic may not be noticeable to beings of the Fade, or desirable for that matter, there will come a point where the accumulation will hold serious consequences. If you have never once cleansed your wand, I am simply surprised you have managed to stay alive.”

“I assure you,” you replied confidently, shaking your head in disbelief. “No ‘demon’ is going to possess me. I’ve never heard such nonsense before.”

“It is unwise to tempt fate,” he bemocked. “Ensure those are not your final words.”

“What—that I won’t be possessed? Bollocks.” You bristled at the insinuation, though despite your bravado, a seed of doubt took root. “Touch wood,” you added for good measure, knocking your knuckles on the wood under your legs.

“For what reason?” Asked Solas, having heard you.

“A figure of speech. No one is free from superstition. If you have concerns, then I'll ensure I carry a pouch of salt. That should ward off all evil spirits, yes?”

Solas regarded you silently, his gaze inscrutable. In the dull light emitting from the fire, he looked almost like a statue: smooth skin, bleak eyes, and a frozen stare. He’d taken offence to your dismissal of his warnings; oh well, a clash of opinions never hurt anyone.

“Very little that will do," he said after after a prolonged minute of silence. He nodded to your wand. “May I?”

Wordlessly, you handed it over into his awaiting palm. Solas held it delicately, his fingers tracing the carvings on its surface. His expression drew down into excessive concentration, as if he was trying to decipher the materials that made up the wand by appearance alone.

“It’s made of wood,” he observed, pressing a finger to the pointed tip. “Staves have always been crafted from metal, as were wands. What statistical purposes does using wood have?”

“I… Well, I’m not sure. Wood is naturally imbued with magic, and using it for wands is traditional.”

In ancient times, in many religions, it was a commonly held belief that spirits and gods dwelled within the trees, leading people to worship them. Touching the wood of a tree was thought to bestow good fortune upon them. Simultaneously, touching the wood was believed to ward off malevolent spirits residing within the trees. Not to mention Wiggentrees were known to protect against dark creatures.

It was a straight fact that there was magic everywhere, but the most tangible matter of it was held in nature itself, including the trees. Trees rose from the earth; trees were made into homes for both people and the creatures that burrowed within the wood. There was a reason the Ollivanders had followed the tradition of using wood for wands since the medieval era.

Wands weren’t exactly a necessary instrument for casting magic; however, instruments made of non-wood materials were inherently weaker. You’d once come across a dark wizard who used a type of wand made of an assortment of finger bones—human, elven, and goblin. It hadn’t benefited them in the end, even despite their odd affinity for alchemy.

But the fingers had held magic from where they’d been severed. Metal, on the other hand, shouldn’t have any magical properties, at least none in comparison to wood.

Regardless, it wasn’t the wood that mattered. The appearance was nothing compared to what truly lay inside.

“Remnants from closing the rifts have clung to you,” Solas stated, tearing you from your old memories.

“I see. So it is not my magic at risk, but rather that of the Fade. How dangerous is demon possession exactly?”

“Beyond your comprehension, one can assume. It is not to be underestimated. A demon can twist your mind, control your actions, and make you do things you would never consider in your right state of mind.”

His brow furrowed slightly as a thick string of blue magic wrapped around the wand, from tip to base. You felt a pull of some sort, like your skin was being stretched. Feeling uneasy, you went to take back your wand right as the end vomited pale-blue sparks.

His hand flinched back from the sparks, readjusting his grip to hold firmly onto the base. He didn’t drop it, despite that clearly being the safest course of action. “I was attempting to assist you, Herald.”

“That wasn’t my doing; it was the wand’s. Fickle things, they are. Whatever you did triggered it. If you’d told me you were attempting to wield it, I may have warned you.”

He was silent as you drew the wand into your hands, ensuring it had endured no damage. It was slightly warm and had what felt like electricity humming within the core. It quietened at your touch, finding solace in your familiar grasp.

Other than that, it was no different than it had always been.

“Is it clean by your standards, Solas?”

“For now, it will suffice. It’s recommended you learn to cleanse lingering mana yourself.”

“How ever will I do that?”

“With a process that requires both focus and intention. Something you will have to learn.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “for the cleansing, that is.”

“Along with the Fade,” you guessed, not even liking the name, nevertheless the suggestion.

“Is that an issue?”

You told him it wasn’t, and then you went back to your tent. The bedroll fit for a king did not do much to ease your worries. Solas’s words about demon possession lingered in your mind as you twisted and turned. Sleep evaded you, despite the comforts.

The idea of demon possession seemed preposterous, yet a sliver of doubt crept into your thoughts. The Fade was an odd thing. Strange in nature, unnatural in existence, and dangerous in use.

For nights on end, the Breach had haunted your sleep, its presence inescapable and foreboding. Once, you had dreamed of one sole beacon of biting magic. Red and corruptive, it had painted the inside of your mind in bleeding light.

Now, another beacon joined it: the Fade. Green and red tangible, suffocating streams of magic circled one another, dancing, intertwining, and colliding in a chaos of blood and nature. At times, they merged seamlessly, their colours blending into a sickening shade of brown and purple.

When you returned to Haven, you were greeted with a troubling sight—a gathering mob, their faces contorted with anger and fear. They shouted accusations, blaming mages for the catastrophic events caused by the Breach. Torches flickered in the gathering dusk, casting ominous shadows on the wooden structures of the village. The air was thick with tension and apprehension as the mob’s voices rose, echoing through the valley.

Seeking counsel inside, you met with the advisors in the war room to discuss the idea of addressing the Chantry. Josephine suggested you speak to the clerics. Cullen expressed concern over that idea, suggesting it might give undue importance to the Chantry’s opinions. Despite doubts, Cassandra agreed to accompany you to rally the clerics together.

“We will depart for Val Royeaux in a day. But first, you need some rest. Val Royeax will demand our utmost attention,” Cassandra stated.

“Understood,” you sighed.

The trip back to Haven had been a dull compendium of mindless travel and extraneous bickering. You may have wanted to go back to your assigned cabin, if not to sleep in a semi-comfortable bed, but also to get away from the people you’d seen more of than anyone else in years.

However, your feet did not take you in that direction. They instead forced you to continue walking down the steps, beyond the gate, through the shin-high snow, up the foreboding mountain, and towards one of the towering beacons that had tormented your dreams as of late.

Compared to the previous time you’d made this trek, it was far quicker this round. There were no frequent bouts of pain due to the mark, no rifts pulling at your hand, no demons infesting the path.

Your feet continued leading you through the Temple of Sacred Ashes, needing no map to direct your way to the Breach.

It seemed to call out for you. Standing at the edge of the upper balcony of the ruined temple, you gazed up at the swirling green energy that stretched into the sky like a tear in the fabric of reality. The mark on your hand was engulfed in pinching green sparks, joining the air as it crackled with magic. You could feel the raw power emanating from the breach, calling out to you like a siren’s song.

From what you were taught, the Veil was the barrier between the world of the living and the world of the dead. The Breach, in its perceived indomitable form, was where the Veil was thinnest. It’s a place of transition, a boundary that separates life from whatever lies beyond. And now, standing here, you wonder if perhaps you crossed that boundary without even realising it.

Perhaps, by some unlikely chance, you died. Perhaps this is what the world of the dead is; after all, no one can truly determine what death is. There is life after death, so many say, but they never quite describe it. But if this is the afterlife, it’s unlike anything imaginable.

Even so, your circumstances are undoubtably unique. The Breach is new; you fell from it and were titled a saint’s chosen. That would mean it has not happened to another, at least not in recent times. The pieces of the puzzle refuse to fit neatly together, leaving you with more questions than answers.

Whichever the case, that you’re in a different nation, time, world, universe, living state… The Breach is your only answer.

From behind you, the faintest of rustles caught your attention—a soft, deliberately measured tread drawing nearer. The subtle hush of footsteps, barely audible over the crackling energy of the Breach, alerted to a cautious approach.

Turning swiftly, you found it was not a beast, but Solas.

“You followed me here?” you asked.

“I had a feeling you would come here,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “You have been distant as of late. It is obvious the Breach has caught your attention. I wanted to ensure you did not attempt anything reckless. Based on our earlier conversation, the Fade is an enigma to you. You fear the magic and power it holds.”

“I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t magic.”

“There is more to the world than what we see, what we understand,” he mused, his gaze fixed on the swirling energy of the Breach. “The Fade is a realm of dreams and spirits, where reality and magic intertwine. It is not to be feared, but understood.”

Your neck strained as you stared up towards where it appeared to be rooted in the clouds. “What’s stopping me from closing it now?”

“We do not know what will happen if it is closed. Anything can happen, and I guarantee that with only yourself and I here, we would not survive.”

“How much do you trust that?”

“You are our only hope. If you are impatient, you risk everything. There is no second chance.”

“There is always an alternative.” Despite that, you retreated from the Breach, not yet wanting to stir the port. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know how many of my memories were taken. But I know that this Breach is why I’m here. The last thing I remembered was a green beacon of magic—this, or something like it. It swallowed me whole before I could even breathe. Then I was here, in this strange land.”

“Are you suggesting you travelled through the Breach? Through the Fade?”

“I was seen coming out of it, no? I am Andraste’s chosen, after all. But no, that happened after. We both saw the memories with that man. That was before the Breach was part of the sky, before this.” You clenched your left hand. It was rather dormant today, even this close to the Breach. It had a bigger reaction when near rifts. Perhaps it also knew you couldn’t yet close the Breach. “I have nothing else to go off of.”

Solas regarded you with a mix of curiosity and concern, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed your words. The energy of the Breach crackled ominously behind you, a constant reminder of the perilous situation at hand.

“It is a conundrum indeed,” he finally said, his voice soft yet filled with gravity. “The rifts you have closed, it appears as if you do not have total control over them. You struggle to close the smallest of rifts, so how do you plan on closing the Breach?”

“With pure hope and luck, I expect.”

“You have a key to accessing raw power from the Fade. You should not allow it to lay waste.”

“If you’re suggesting I use it, I disagree. I know all I need to know that I don’t need to use it more than I have.”

“Do you have objections to perfecting what you are barely succeeding at doing?”

“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t use it at all,” you said. “It’s unnatural.”

“One can assume marks of the Fade don’t usually appear on many hands,” he agreed. You’d meant the Fade itself was unnatural, not the mark of it. “But if you wish to turn a blind eye to a solution, I will not stop you. Only remember that it is not only your life at risk.”

The mark on your hand was a death sentence. Apparently it would leech all of your life force in time, if that was even possible. It was more akin to dark magic, yet the Fade itself had caused this. It was another reason why the Fade was unnatural.

“When you use something that has a mind of its own, when you manipulate it, does that make it yours? If it has its own mind, yet you’re the one pulling the strings, does that mean you own it? Or are you simply controlling another entity?”

“Is your wand not sentient? Do you not control it; own it?” He replied with his own questions.

Mildly surprised that he’d realised the unspoken words you’d uttered, you paused to think. “That’s different. It’s sentience is a product of my use and that of its maker’s. If I perish, the wand no longer answers to anyone. The Fade, however, is different. From what I’ve heard, the Fade is sentient, and whoever sources it seems to be manipulating it. I dare say it is not their magic they’re using; rather, it is nature’s.” You held up your hand, where green magic bubbled from the unhealable wound. “A corrupted accumulation of Mother Nature’s seed.”

“The Fade is not sentient.”

“All magic is sentient, in some way.”

“You’ve been misled. Though one can assume that is because you were not taught in a Circle, were you not?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where did you learn magic?” He reiterated.

“Only at the greatest wizarding school in the entire world, Hogwarts. Surely you’ve heard of it?”

“I cannot say I have. Beyond Thedas is a mystery. How far the Fade and Veil stretch is a wonder. Though it appears from your account that they are confined to Thedas.”

By his definition of the Veil, perhaps.

For someone who knew so much, his not knowing the existence of possibly the most renowned magical school in the world was a harsh blow. Hogwarts was founded in the 10th century, and with all the magic imbued within its halls, it should have stood the test of time.

As of right now, you had very little theories as to where or when you were. Time travel was the most likely answer, even if your expansive knowledge of history gave no insight as to a place such as Thedas. Given how finicky time could be, it was also the most reasonable answer. The only question now was when were you? Likely in the past, perhaps when the tectonic plates had yet to shift in the position as you know it now. But that meant you’d gone back thousands, millions... too long to even comprehend.

Or, alternatively, you’d somehow ended up in the future, where the world had been destroyed by some magic, making it unrecognisable but also holding some semblance to what it once was. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities—many cultures held stories and tales of the world being burned and reborn through the ashes, with only a few holding the knowledge of the past.

There are so many possibilities. Perhaps it wasn’t a different time at all. Maybe you were on the moon or in Limbo.

You shook away the harrowing thoughts. “Your Fade magic is… odd, to say the least. I have watched you use it as one would an instrument. With all the risks involved and the frivolous steps, it seems more like a tool that was not built to be used.”

“A close-minded opinion wrought from ignorance,” Solas replied. “Was it not you who said it is foolish to dismiss alternative forms of magic without further consideration?”

“I’m saying it’s not right. It’s quite clear to me that the Fade shouldn’t be trifled with. You speak of demon possession and the precautions needed to access your magic. Is that not a clear warning that it should not be touched?”

“Observations from someone who has not witnessed the true potential the Fade can offer,” he countered. “There is beauty and power in the unknown, in embracing what others fear. Your hesitation stems from a lack of understanding, not from inherent danger.” He took a moment to think, or to raise tension. “And you forget that time is not on our side. The Breach grows stronger with each passing day, threatening to consume all in its path. You have the potential to make a difference, but only if you are willing to accept it. All possibilities that lay before you must be considered. The power you wield is not to be underestimated, and with proper guidance, you could harness it for the will of the Inquisition.”

The thought of wielding such raw power made your skin crawl. Dipping your finger into a pot of boiling, raw magic had already once caused everlasting issues. When Ranrok, that damned goblin, unleashed the accumulation of ancient magic, you’d been forced to take it in yourself, lest it destroy whatever fell into its path. However, you’d been forced. Now, with the Fade, you could live without tapping into it, but there was a temptation.

The Fade wasn’t Ancient magic, at least not in its raw form. Ancient magic had a mind of its own; its sentience made it the more difficult to wield. The Fade was inherently different, based on what you’d observed.

Perhaps he was right; perhaps using it could benefit the Inquisition, not damn it, even when used by your hand.

Magical or not, it wouldn’t hurt to be more familiar with the Fade. It may even be your key to returning home. And if it could help you close the Breach and save countless lives, then perhaps it was a risk worth taking.

“I will teach you,” Solas offered, as if reading your mind.

Bewildered, you regarded him with a cautious stare. He’d made the offer so voluntarily. “You’ll be willing to do that?”

“Do you have an issue with an elf guiding you in the forms of magic?”

Not too long ago, it all made sense why every being, regardless of race, were titled ‘mages’ as long as they could use magic. Whatever the Fade was, any person could manipulate it, irrespective of whether they had the magical gene or not. Furthermore, the magic cast by a human was no different than that cast by an elf.

“As long as you know what you’re doing, then I have no qualms,” you said with such finality that it nearly betrayed your previously displayed apprehension.

You didn’t take to living in the unmapped mountains of the Scottish Highlands because you liked the scenery. You had magic that could help everyone, but like those before you, you decided keeping it yourself, keeping it locked inside your own body, was far better than extending it to others. But on the other side of the same coin, that magic was volatile, dangerous, uncontrollable, and yet desirable all at the same time.

The aspect of controlling more magic stirred a hunger within you, a hunger that would neither be satiated nor sedated, for they both held the same outcome.

Chapter Text

You’ve had many mentors in your life, all teaching you valuable lessons and passing on priceless information. While now they were mere faceless beings in your foggy mind, their teachings continued to live on.

It was natural to believe that the older the mentor, the more wisdom they held. An obvious, plausible matter that was, for the longer you lived, the more you experienced the world.

That varied, of course. The oldest living professor you’d had during your schooling was said to have been nearing two hundred years of age (reached due to a diet of frog eggs and elderberry juice) when she was employed. Yet she hadn’t taught you much other than not to drink firewhiskey while casting the simplest of magic. She was in employment for a month before being sacked for drinking on the job.

But Solas, appearing a fifth of that age, displayed more wisdom—tenfold.

Or most likely, it appeared that way, considering he was the only one willing to answer your questions.

Regardless, perhaps by getting older, but growing more absurd or immature was a wizard thing. It seemed the older they aged, the more unreliable they became. Wise, but inane.

“Focus your mind. Tap into the energy around you,” Solas commanded, as if it were that simple.

Tonight, the frost of winter hung thick in the air, seeping into the very bones of the nearby trees as you cradled around the blazing campfire. The flickering light of the fire created dancing shadows on the snow-covered ground, providing some relief from the cold. The night sky above was filled with twinkling stars; their far-off radiance was a sharp contrast to the campsite’s earthy warmth.

“I’m trying. But you haven’t exactly explained what I should be feeling,” you said, your voice tinged with bitterness despite the enchantments inscribed in your robes shielding you from the cold. The enchantments hadn’t taken long to reconstruct.

“The feeling differs for everyone. Do you feel as if something is different or out of place?”

Pain sliced your palm. The mark was misbehaving today. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Sometimes, you might not realise you’re feeling the Fade around you. It’s subtle, like a whisper or a faint scent in the air.” He motioned to the bowl, half-filled with water. “Imagine the air cooling around you. Picture icicles forming, slowly growing, and spreading. That is how you will freeze the water. Visualise the transformation, and your magic will follow your intention.”

“Shall I speak an incantation or make a gesture?”

“For what purpose?”

Normal magic is based on incantation, an abstraction limited to the knowing of a certain spell’s root. That’s why it’s nearly impossible to cast a spell you don’t know the full extent of—except when tapping into innate magic. For the ancient arts, no such boundaries exist; you need only think for your wish to be granted. Or, in this case, imagine, and it will happen.

Closing your eyes, you followed his instructions, imagining the surface icing over, the air around it cooling, and frost forming around the edge. Opening your eyes, you saw the water in the bowl had frozen into ice.

“There. I did it.”

Solas frowned. “No, you did not. You used your own magic, not that of the Fade.”

“How can you possibly know that?” you asked.

“Because the Fade did not once shift.”

“Well, this suggests that whatever part of the Fade I can control isn’t powerful enough to cause destruction if misdirected. That, or I work as a filter.”

“No. That would be impossible. However, you might be acting as a barrier. I have wondered if it was your particular form of magic that was intervening with the Fade. There are alternate forms of magic that interfere with a mage’s connection to the Fade. Blood magic, for example. It appears a similar occurrence may be happening here. Your hand.” He motioned down, as if you’d lost it and didn’t know where it was. “The anchor appears to have bypassed that.”

“With all the talk about the Fade and its dangers, I would have thought any severe to it was ideal. But blood magic is frowned upon?”

“It is no more dangerous than any other magic. It is the user who typically suffers the most. The Chantry warns against the use of it simply because they cannot control it. As for why it hinders the Fade, blood magic operates off the life force. Using it damages the soul, therefore the connection with the Fade. This act, however, is not without its price. The damage to the soul caused by blood magic not only weakens the individual’s connection to the Fade but also distorts the Veil.”

“Are you suggesting my soul has been damaged? Torn?”

“An analogy. Blood magic is driven by violence, which, in turn, thins the Veil. As I’ve witnessed, your presence has no impact on the Veil or Fade, excluding the active use of the Anchor.”

The act of coldblooded murder itself ripped the soul, yet plenty had no issues doing it, in here and wherever you originated from. The world was full of those willing to sacrifice their humanity for power or survival. The implications of such actions were far-reaching, staining the very essence of who they were. And now, you were left to wonder if your connection to the Fade tainted your soul in a similar way. But that, surely, would be impossible.

“Varric has informed you that dwarves cannot dream, yes?” He continued when you said nothing. You’ll keep your questions quiet for now, lest they create more of his own. “Due to the exposure to lyrium in the Deep Roads, they have developed a type of immunity to the Fade. Therefore, they are generally unable to perform magic of any kind.”

“And you believe a similar occurrence is happening here with me? That I have somehow been long since exposed to this lyrium?” Lyrium, gathered from previous scarce conversations, was something that induced magic. Assuming lyrium was a material form of magic, building a resistance to it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities for yourself.

It could be compared to bacteria, in a way. For centuries, humans who lived in constant contact with bacteria evolved their immune systems to the point of being capable of combating the harmful bacteria. The body’s innate and adaptive immunity, along with beneficial bacteria in the microbiome, provided protection.

That is, of course, if the Fade existed outside of Thedas.

“Consider the alternative. You are not immune to the Fade, but you lack the natural attunement. While the Anchor rewards you with a grasp on the Veil where you would otherwise not have, there remains a conflict as if you were incompatible to its hold or blindly attuned to it,” he suggested, his expression turning contemplative. “You mentioned your magic is innate. It comes from your soul?”

“Nobody can be certain of where magic comes from. Nor are souls and magic intrinsically linked, though perhaps they’re of similar nature.” Extracting one meant the erasure of the other; for wizards, removing the magic poisons the soul, while removing the soul completely nullifies the magic. “Some wizards lack magic yet possess a soul, as do non-magical humans. A damaged soul doesn’t necessarily hinder magic either; in fact, it may even strengthen it, for there are fewer moral bounds. Not to mention the soulless beings who possess magic.” Or are created from it; ‘living’ for all intents and purposes, but not alive at the same time.

The conversation ebbed away like dying embers on a hearth. Solas’s brow furrowed in deep thought, his eyes distant as if searching for answers hidden in his own mind. You too pondered the recent revelations—the implications sinking like stones dropped into a muddy pond.

Could the powers the Anchor bestowed upon you also be causing unseen harm? Was your soul somehow damaged by it? No doubt it had damaged your body; it was a glowing green mark, after all. It had attached itself to you in mysterious and incomprehensible ways. Whatever the case may be, your soul has long since been damaged. Understandably, your reluctance to reveal secrets was what was keeping questions from being answered.

Cassandra’s footsteps were soft against the snowy ground as she approached from within the woods. She wore a different type of armour this night, likely sleeping in it.

“Evening,” Cassandra greeted, her voice a low rumble that cut through the crisp air. She glanced between you and Solas with a hint of concern in her eyes. “You should both consider turning in for the night soon. We will reach Jader tomorrow, then Val Royeaux will be upon us.”

“We’ll retire to bed shortly.”

With a tired nod, she turned and disappeared into her tent, leaving you once more in the hushed glow of the campfire.

Solas cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him. “Where were we?” he prompted. “It appears your connection to the Fade is insufficient. I cannot help you at this moment. Closing more rifts will accumulate enough energy to manipulate them.”

“So you suggest that in the midst of battle, I shall attempt to fumble with magic I barely understand?”

“With great risk comes great reward.”

If you had never been to France before, entering Val Royeaux would certainly match the descriptions given by the Daily Prophet. Storefronts boasted curated displays of haute couture, shimmering beneath crystal-framed mirrors that directed the sunlight to shimmer on the clothing. The elegantly dressed patrons, draped in dangerously tight silks and holding jewel-adorned masks to their faces, glided with a cold grace. One or all patrons outside a little shopfront upturned a snobby nose at your less-than-refined attire.

For a moment, you indulged in the thought of transfiguring all of their garments into something to truly turn their noses up at. A swift motion of the hand, and they would never know it was you.

“Well, that went as expected. How could a mad man have so much authority?” You asked, watching the departing Lord Seeker Lucius Corin. A strange man, one who abused his position for all of its worth. The Chantry mother he’d hit still whimpered on the ground, defiling herself before her peers.

Cassandra tore her eyes away from him with some grievance. “He took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre.”

“Suppose this means we won’t be getting the templars to help us? Coming here was a waste of time.”

“Nothing is a complete waste. There must be those in the Order who see what he’s become. The Breach affects everyone.”

“But not enough to give reason to overthrow their leader.”

Cassandra took lead, heading back to where you’d entered the city. Most abruptly, an arrow landed a few inches from your feet.

In the direction of where the arrow had been shot- a flash of red, then nothing.

Using the slightest magic to lift the letter from the arrow, as a few times you’d been injected by some type of poison clinging to blades and wayward arrows, you read the letter, or at least tried to. The letter was written in the common tongue, a language you’d yet to be able to read.

“What is it? A threat?” Cassandra asked.

“It’s just a letter from a child.” Then you took notice of the crude drawings littering the letter. “A rather rude child.”

At the bottom of the parchment was a messily drawn illustration of a market and an ornate balustrade merged into it—the same balustrade that edged every balcony you could currently see. If it was a treasure map for the local children to entertain themselves, it was a shite one. Alongside the scribble was a splattering of what was hopefully red ink.

“May I?” asked Solas, holding out his palm.

“The Enchanter to the Imperial Court has invited you to her château,” he said, reading the second letter you were given a moment later. Your illiteracy was making you look like an uninterested fool.

“The Ghislain Estate is quite far north. A couple days on the road,” Cassandra supposed, hand-delivering you bad news in a few harmless syllables.

“You’re telling me that in all of this.” You motioned to the architecture. “The Orlesians haven’t discovered a faster way of travelling than horseback?”

Varric nudged your side. “I’m hearing a lot of complaining, but no suggestions.”

“I made many suggestions, but you assumed I jested. …Who exactly is this Enchanter? And which Imperial Court are we talking about?” Ferelden was under a feudal monarchy political system, headed by the current king. The Orlesian Empire, despite being a couple days on ship from Ferelden, was more of a mystery than a threat.

“It’s in the title. She’s Empress Celene’s enchanter and adviser.”

“Recruiting Vivienne de Fer into the inquisition will greatly help us,” Cassandra advised, thereby solidifying where you’d be travelling the next few days.

Quite frankly, no empire has had a court wizard in its midst for centuries, not since it was declared illegal worldwide. The thought hurt. It was entirely incomprehensible, but whoever Empress Celene was, there was no way anyone from your origins could have remembered her, much less known who she was. There was untamed magic amidst.

“Who’s her husband?” you asked.

“Empress Celene’s?” Cassandra’s face reddened to a soft shade of maroon. “No... She is unwed.”

“She sits on a throne without...” You took in Cassandra’s armour. While the Wizarding World typically didn’t have limits based on sex, the same could not be said for the non-magical world. If Cassandra could wield a sword, then an Empress could lead without an Emperor.

Unwittingly, you found your eyes settling on Solas. Of course, this was no ordinary world.

“Assuming her duty is to her lineage, then she will marry a fine man from a fine, wealthy family, regardless of what her lover wants,” Varric said. “Star-crossed lovers. A tale as old and treacherous as time.”

“Strength of royal blood remains something to fret over? A shame.”

Cassandra insisted, “Discussing the Empress’s romantic life is inappropriate; such matters should be kept private.”

“C’mon, it’s just harmless gossip, Seeker.”

Leaving the marketplace, a woman stepped into view. She was an elf, as identified by her long ears and lean, long stature, and she was wearing a type of cloak people from the medieval era would wear.

“If I might have a moment of your time?” She asked in a thick French-like accent.

Cassandra cleared her throat in surprise. “Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

“Leader of the Mage Rebellion. Is it not dangerous for you to be here?” Solas clarified.

Lucius, some sort of leader in the templar order, was not interested at all in extending help to the Inquisition. But Fiona, holding the other end of the rebellion, had already given a better impression.

The woman’s eyes settled on you, despite your silence and Cassandra’s prevailing authority. “I heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes. I did not expect to find you.”

“Rarely anyone is,” you replied. A reputation you’d crafted for yourself once was how you managed to worm your way into every situation. Years passed, tectonic plates shifted, and you still managed to shove your hand in places you shouldn’t and, regardless of your loss of memories, wouldn’t ever wish to do. Old habits die hard.

“You’ve met the Herald before?” Cassandra asked.

“Once. When I did, I imparted a warning. One you seem to have forgotten.”

“My memory isn’t as it used to be,” you excused.

The best established theory to explain your situation was that you’d been away from home no more than a month before the conclave. That gave you enough time to grasp the language enough to speak it, but not enough to be able to read it. A month was a good amount—too generous, maybe. But a good amount.

“Remind me, if you may. How is it we know each other?” you asked.

“I came here to offer you a proposition. Our previous exchanges don’t change that. If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps you should look among your fellow mages.”

She’d guessed correctly that you were a ‘mage’. Many people here, particularly your adversaries, assumed your lack of a visible weapon meant you were an easy target. Furthermore, your lack of a ‘magical presence’ meant other mages and templars expected no light shows from you, other than the spectacles that were closing rifts. As Varric once put it, no one found your “twig” dangerous.

“And what do you want in exchange for the mages’ help?” Cassandra asked, taking command of the conversation.

“Oh, I haven’t promised the Inquisition our help yet. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe: come meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all. I hope to see you there.”

Redcliffe, as in the Hinterlands, as in a week away from Haven, which was a week away from Val Royeaux. “Why not speak here?”

“We’d both prefer not to speak in such company.”

“Then can we converse in this tongue?” you queried in French.

“Perhaps another time. Au revoir, Herald,” she bid goodbye before taking her leave, unperturbed by your wish to halt her.

Cassandra stressed seeking shelter for the night over spending it outside the city’s walls. Whoever’s gold was keeping the Inquisition running certainly was getting its money’s worth. Being part of the inquisition served you no extra comforts, but you weren’t barred from the inn either.

Not until the fifth inn you checked out, that is. You ended up on the outer skirts of the city, near the undesirable, such as the slums. The low hum of music persisted, even after closing the window tightly. The inn itself was a stark contrast to the opulence of Val Royeaux’s marketplace centre. The paint on the walls was peeling, the floorboards creaked underfoot, and the scent of dampness permeated the air.

You had been lucky to secure a few small rooms for your group. The innkeeper, a grizzled old human man, had eyed you suspiciously but accepted your coin without question. The rooms were cramped, with barely enough space for the basic furnishings: a narrow bed, a rickety table, and a single chair. Despite the meagre accommodations, it was a welcome respite.

Retiring early for the night, you found yourself lying awake, staring at the ceiling. The noises of the city—drunken laughter, distant shouts, and the occasional clatter of a passing cart—filtered through the thin walls of the inn. The moon was low and large in the night sky, yet there was a hub of liveliness.

The bed creaked as you stood up. Similarly, the stairs creaked as you descended them. The common room was dimly lit, filled with rowdy patrons who likely would sleep when the sun rose. Varric was at the centre of it all, and as always, he was surrounded by a small group of strangers he’d lured in by his beguiling tongue. He was telling some type of story, though his voice wasn’t loud enough to hear exactly what it entailed. Strange rumours and embellishments had begun circulating about you and the Inquisition, mostly about you. Likely, he was, in part, the source. Something he and Cassandra shared, despite their differences.

He didn’t look up as you passed. No one seemed to notice you. You passed through the inn like a ghost, stepping out into the musty street for some essence of fresh air.

Turning a corner, you found yourself face-to-face with a creature out of nightmares: a giant spider, its many eyes glinting in the darkness. It was massive, its legs spanning the width of the alleyway, blocking any escape.

You tried to back away, but your feet felt glued to the ground. The spider moved closer, its fangs dripping with venom. Panic rose within you, and you felt a scream building in your throat. Just as the spider lunged, you jolted awake, heart pounding and drenched in sweat.

The room was dark and quiet, just as it’d been before. The faint sounds of the inn below drifted up, but they were comforting now, grounding you in reality. You took a few deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart.

You retraced your footsteps, stopping at the bottom of the staircase once more. This time, however, Varric looked up. His companions too looked over, curious about the glowing cut on your palm.

“Hey, there you are!” he greeted, waving you over. “Come join us.”

You made your way to the table. As you sat down, Varric slid a bowl of stew over. His expression quickly shifted when he noticed the look on your face.

“What’s wrong? I’m starting to associate that look with danger only you can sense.”

You shook your head, trying to shake away the strange feeling that had taken hold of you. “I just had the strangest case of déjà vu. Well, I guess it wasn’t déjà vu. More like some sort of precognition.” Divination by dreams: it was unfortunate you weren’t being assessed for this. Suddenly acquiring new abilities was never a good sign. If this wasn’t a one-off thing, this would make sleep harder to acquire and retain.

“What language is that? I haven’t heard it before.”

“Pardon?”

He lost the amused look on his face. Instead, his brows drew further down.

“Sorry,” you accentuated the syllables, now speaking in the Thedas common tongue. “I didn’t realise I switched languages. Who are your new friends?”

“Oh, just some local folks curious about the tales of the Inquisition,” Varric replied, gesturing to the group gathered around him. “I was just telling them about our fight with the high dragon in Crestwood.”

The name flew over your head, as did the idea of fighting a dragon.

“Well, they seem to be enjoying themselves,” you remarked with a small smile, glancing around at the rapt faces.

“Eh, they’re a good bunch,” Varric agreed. He lowered his voice a twinge before continuing. “But what about you? Looked like a ghost. Something on your mind?”

“Nothing you’d want to hear.”

“Entertain me.”

“I don’t think I can. You aren’t able to dream.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have a good ear. C’mon, I’ll hear you out. Unless you want to hear about my own tales?”

You hesitated, glancing at the group that had been amassed. They now turned to talk amongst themselves, perhaps disappointed about Varric’s tale being interrupted too soon. After a moment, you conceded.

“I had a dream—no, a vision, of sorts. It felt so real, like it was actually happening, and then it did happen.”

“I’m not an expert on the matter, but it sounds like the Fade’s doing. Heard it has a knack for unsettling people in rather peculiar and considerably strange ways.”

“Of course it’s the Fade.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with Solas,” Varric suggested casually. “Our resident expert on all things Fade-related and all that.” He took a sip of his drink, eyes wandering briefly before meeting yours again. His tone was gentle, yet there was a hint of knowing in his expression, as if he understood your reluctance to confide in the elven mage.

“You don’t happen to know anything about the Fade, do you?”

“Sorry, Grumps,” he said, not at all sounding apologetic. “You’ll need to talk to him at some point. Did I tell you he saved your life?”

In lieu of responding, you downed the rest of your stew.

“Hey, how about a game?” he asked, holding up a stack of cards with illustrated sides. This time’s version of playing cards.

“I think I’m going to head back to bed,” you replied, not at all feeling exhausted. What little sleep you’d received was enough to rejuvenate you; that or it was the fear. “It’s been a long day. You have fun, though.” Varric, on the other hand, seemed to be the only one able to sleep during the day in the waggon, even when the wheels rolled over rocky terrain.

“Suit yourself. Goodnight, Grumps.”

Passing by Solas’ door on the way to your room, you hesitated. Would he be asleep at this hour? Well, there was only one way to find out. Hopefully he was already asleep and wouldn’t hear, or if it did wake him, he wouldn’t think much of it. Then you could tell Varric you tried your very best and you could move on. Bad dreams happen all the time, now more so than ever.

After a moment’s hesitation, you raised your hand and rapped softly on the wood, half-expecting silence in return. To your surprise, a calm voice floated through the door almost immediately.

“Come in.”

You paused for a few seconds, debating if this could be put off for tomorrow. Then, with a steadying sigh, you turned the handle and entered. Solas sat in a chair by a small table, a book in hand, seemingly unsurprised by your visit.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I? I just had something on my mind.”

“Not at all,” he assured.

After a moment’s inner debate, you took the chair across from him. He closed the book and placed it on the table between you.

“I had a strange dream earlier. At least I think it was a dream. I feel as if I haven’t slept in years.”

“Whatever you saw must have been unsettling enough for you to seek me out, particularly this late in the night.”

“I did ask if I was bothering you. Do you need reminding of what your response was?”

“Tell me about this dream that has upset you,” he sidelined.

You recounted the details of your dream: how it felt so real, the giant spider, the lingering sense of something wrong, and how the dream was a borderline prophecy, but as usual, an utterly useless one.

Solas listened attentively, keeping his attention on you despite this possibly not being something he ever thought he’d be spending his night on, giving you council on dreams that would otherwise be inconsequential.

“You assume it is gone?”

“A giant spider in the street?” To ease the seed of doubt, you pulled the window up, allowing the night breeze in. The window let out to a side alley, the same one where the spider had filled; its body squeezed between the buildings, and its long legs climbing up the walls. If it was real, everyone would know about it. Unless, of course, it had consumed everyone.

Solas hid his ill-placed amusement behind a glass of water.

“Laugh it up, Chuckles. I’ve seen enough giant spiders to know they are of no weak threat.”

He failed to suppress his smile. “Forgive my curiosity, but I couldn’t help but notice that you struggle to read the common tongue?”

“Was it that obvious?” you asked stalely, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

“Nearly everyone in the Inquisition is aware,” he admitted plainly. “Cassandra avoids the topic to spare you embarrassment, and Varric has been duly warned by her not to tease you about it.”

“And yourself?”

“I figured you would appreciate transparency.”

“Yes, I do so enjoy being known as an illiterate. There is no joy in not knowing what people are saying behind your back,” you replied dryly. It wasn’t that bad not being able to read a language you didn’t know existed a month ago (or longer… whichever), but you were always playing catch-up with your peers.

Solas regarded you prudently. “Not being able to read is not as significant an impediment as you believe it to be. Knowledge can be shared through other means than just words on a page. Stories endure through oral traditions. Before writing, stories were passed down orally and in dreams. Tones and intent are often lost when composed.”

“Arguably, stories passed on by word of mouth and mind are more prone to being changed to suit the storyteller’s desires.”

“Like most concepts, it depends on who’s telling it.”

“Written stories are more consistent and less prone to alteration. Details don’t accidentally change with each retelling. At least with writing, there’s a baseline, and-” a sudden realisation interrupted your train of thought. “Oh, now I understand. You believe the Fade to be the best way to retain information. Better yet, that would mean very few are privy to said information. Less acquired, yet significantly more accurate. The words will not wither as quickly when passed through fewer minds. How could I have missed that.”

“Yes, that was once a suitable method of retaining information. While I commend you for realising the potential benefits of the Fade, it’s important to remember that the Fade is not always trustworthy either. It can distort the truth as much as it reveals it. It is a realm that reflects the subconscious and can be influenced by many factors.”

“The Fade can lie?”

Not sentient, he’d once said. Not sentient, my arse.

“In a manner of speaking,” Solas confirmed. “It reflects the thoughts and emotions of those who enter it, often distorting reality to fit their perceptions.”

“Suppose there’s no perfect way to preserve information then. Not in stories, written records, the all-encompassing and all-mighty Fade.”

He inclined his head in agreement. “Everything has its limitations.”

“And what are yours?” you asked. “You’ve asked so many questions about my magic; I haven’t had the chance to ask about yours.”

“What do you wish to know?”

Whatever questions you had were severely cut off when an arrow sliced through the air, whizzing perilously close to your face before embedding itself into the wall with a sharp thud. The tip was pierced through a note.

Outside, under the moon’s pale gaze, there was a glimpse of red fabric retreating into the shadows. Without a second thought, and with adrenaline coursing through your veins, you reacted swiftly, apparating with a soft crack.

Landing on the rooftop across the alleyway, the loose tiles threatened to send you off the edge. You steadied yourself, heart pounding, and scanned the surroundings for the assailant. There she was, perched on the edge of a nearby roof, her bow slung across her back. The woman wore a bright red shirt and yellow-patterned pants. There was no way she could have been missed. An appearance like that among the citizens of Val Royeaux could not so easily be ignored. Her maskless face made her stand out even more.

“Wow, that was quick.” Her voice was light and carefree, a stark contrast to the seriousness at hand.

“Are you trying to assassinate me?” you asked, dumbfounded that you’d found yourself in such a presence.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you’ve shot two arrows at me.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if you followed the notes. I went through all that effort.” She scrutinised you for a moment. “You’re kind of plain, really. All that talk, and then you’re just… a person. I mean, it’s all good, innit? The important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Sera. I needed to make sure you were worth talking to,” she continued, flipping the arrow in her hand and pointing it in your direction. “And now that I’ve got your attention, let’s have a chat, yeah?”

“Next time, try knocking.”

Through great pain, she revealed her purpose and why she felt inclined to shoot arrows at you. She offered the support of the ‘Friends of Red Jenny’, a network of common folk. She’d said she would have given you a demonstration of her skills, but you’d failed to show up. She had an uncanny ability to gather intelligence and provide unconventional support to the Inquisition.

The inn was empty, apart from a lone soul resting at the bar table. Varric must have retreated to his room, so you went straight back to yours. As you returned to your room, Solas intercepted you in the hallway.

“You move with remarkable speed,” he remarked, his eyes alight with what may be taken for a mix of awe and curiosity. “I had no idea you were capable of such swiftness. It’s not often one witnesses agility to that extent.”

“Ah, yes. Well, you know me, always in a hurry,” you replied coolly, masking the truth.

Swift was indeed an ability you possessed, but not the one you’d used this night. The Swift ability was an older and less refined version of apparating, as you never truly vanished, nor was holding it for long recommended. It required channelling yourself between spaces like electricity through a wire. Invisible, but entirely existent.

Apparition, on the other hand, allowed for an immediate transport from one space to the other without a split second spent in the void or between the locations. Therefore, it was more so considered ‘teleportation’ than a speedy transportation. This suggested the former notion was not a viable concept in Thedas, further indicated by the established fact that horseback was the standard way of travel.

“But to maintain such velocity,” Solas continued. “Such magic is not a simple feat. And yet, the Veil remains unchanged. Speed such as that should have drained considerable mana.”

“We’ve already established my magic isn’t compatible with the Fade. And are you not going to ask about the person who shot an arrow at us?”

“Right, yes. Did she threaten your life? As you stand before me unharmed, I imagine she was of no great threat to you.”

“She offered to give her services to the Inquisition.”

“You appear shocked at the prospect.”

“She shot two arrows at me. She tracked us down here. I thought she was an assassin, but really she wanted to talk.”

“Herald, the Inquisition is a beacon of hope in these troubled times,” Solas explained calmly. “Many will offer their services or their lives for what they believe will save them from despair. Desperation often drives people to unconventional actions.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

The Ghislain Estate was a grand building with a beautiful Orlesian design (similar to French and Italian secular Gothic architecture), set among well-kept gardens. The chateau looked elegant and timeless, with stone walls that seemed to tell old stories. Glittering chandeliers lit up the polished marble floors in the entrance hall.

Cassandra had given you council on Vivienne de Fer. Vivienne de Fer, a formidable Orlesian mage, excelled as the First Enchanter of Montsimmard and adviser to Empress Celene. Her reputation for navigating the intricate web of Orlesian politics was well-known, and her loyalty, though not without scrutiny, held weight among those who valued pragmatism over idealism. Her husband, Duke Bastien de Ghislain, hadn’t been seen much at court lately, though that had yet to tarnish his reputation.

“If I may be candid,” Vivienne said, her eyes meeting yours with a hint of appraisal. “I see an opportunity here—a chance to align our interests. As First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchanter to the Imperial Court, I possess both influence and resources that could prove invaluable to your cause.”

“What assistance do you envision providing?”

“I am well-versed in the nuances of the Orlesian Empire’s politics. I have cultivated relationships within the Imperial Court that could open doors and secure alliances for the Inquisition. Furthermore, my capabilities as a mage are not to be underestimated.” Vivienne paused, allowing her words to settle before concluding with a pointed gaze. “I offer you not only my skills and knowledge but also my unwavering commitment to seeing stability restored to Thedas. Consider it a strategic alliance, if you will.”

In the end, you were left with no choice but to accept her offer. Cassandra had advised as such.

Before departing the château, you asked for a private room for relief. To your astonishment, you discovered a functioning flushing toilet—and upon further inspection, plumbing and running hot water. In Haven, all you’d had were chamber pots. The discovery brought a glimmer of hope, reassuring you that you were not trapped in a medieval era or some undeveloped time—though the ‘where’ would continue to be unanswered.

Strangely enough, and despite the remaining grievances, the discovery of plumbing proved to be the highlight of your night—possibly the whole trip to Orlais.

You were kneeling in your greenhouse, kneeling by the planter pots, surrounded by the familiar scents of rich soil and fresh fertilisers. The moist earth clung to your hands, seeping under your nails as you worked. You could feel the dirt against your skin, the cool breeze carrying the scent of nature.

Unclothed feet entered your peripheral vision, coming to stand beside you, but you didn’t turn to look.

“What are you planting?” a calm, curious voice asked.

“Bubotubers,” you replied, focusing on your task of carefully placing the bubotubers into the prepared soil. Fully grown, their large, slug-like forms squirmed in your palms like worms. The process was methodical, almost meditative. “They need to be planted before the end of summer.”

“It is summer?”

Your attention tore, pulling your head up to look out the stained glass walls of the greenhouse. White pills of snow dropped outside. That wasn’t right.

“Bubotubers can’t grow in winter. They’ll die from the cold,” you explained, watching as the snow melted into rain as it fell. The air was warmer as lightning struck overhead. Ah, a summer storm.

You returned to work, sinking your fingers into the soil, plunging your hand further and further until it appeared your whole arm had sunk into the soil. The pot wasn’t more than a few inches deep. Bubotubers needed room for their roots to spread, but not that much room.

The stranger was quiet, almost disappearing into irrelevancy until he spoke once more after what felt like hours. “I don’t recognise them. Can you tell me more?”

“The pus is useful. It heals skin spots and scars. If I boil it, I can use it in wiggenweld potions, but the taste is never right. Tastes like gruel.”

You continued to work as you explained; your attention kept on your gardening, digging more holes for the bubotuber seeds that had reverted back to seeds and not full-grown bubotubers. Why would you need to plant fully grown bubotubers?

Distressingly, the soil kept refilling as soon as you removed it.

You frowned, trying to focus harder, but the soil wouldn’t cooperate. You tried again, and the same thing happened. Over and over again it happened. Frustrated, you went to water the plants, but the water kept falling short, as if an invisible barrier were stopping it.

Your frustration mounted with each futile attempt. You dug again, more aggressively this time, but the soil seemed to mock you, refilling faster than you could empty it. Frustrated, you went to water the plants. The water spilling from your wand, however, kept falling short, as if an invisible barrier was stopping it, leaving the plants as dry and crisp as ever.

The greenhouse around you seemed to close in, with the walls warping and the air growing thick. Your hands were trembling now, your fingers aching from the repetitive, futile motions. You could feel the sweat on your brow mixing with the dirt, smearing it across your skin.

Outside, lightning struck, painting the mountainside and surrounding exterior in an unnatural bright green that bubbled like bubotuber pus. Bubbles of lightning popped, splattering the greenhouse with green tar that climbed through the gaps in the glass.

“Why do you persist?” the stranger asked.

The greenhouse began to blur, the edges of your vision darkening, making you pause, your focus fully splitting between the tasks and the stranger beside you.

You looked up. It was Solas, the too-tall elf who asked too many questions. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re doing this.”

Solas met your gaze calmly. “This is a dream.”

The realisation hit you like a cold splash of water, and you woke up immediately, the sensations of your garden fading away as if from a previous life. The sharp smell of fertilised dirt took a moment longer to fade into nonexistence, greedily clinging to your nostrils.

The soft rattling of the waggon wheels against the uneven earth composed your perception of consciousness. Somehow you’d found the ability to sleep sitting up once more, though the pain in your neck didn’t at all make up for the quelled feeling of the restlessness.

“Giant spiders again?” Solas asked, sitting opposite you in the far right corner of the waggon, having hidden in your peripheral vision. A leather-bound tome sat propped in his hands, pushed up to his face to read through the dim lighting.

“Nightmares aren’t always about fears.”

“Memories then?”

“As a matter of fact, I regularly dream of man-eating butterflies. Neither memory nor fear,” you replied, voice lowering as you took notice of Varric, seated in the other corner, sleeping like a rock. “Reading in the dark strains the eyes.”

“Only humans suffer from their inability to see through the dark.”

“Touché.”

You closed your eyes and leant your head back against the waggon’s wall, stretching out the muscle that twinged. The waggon’s rhythmic movement and the low rumble of the wheels against the road lulled you into a sense of relaxation, but it wasn’t enough. You listened for the sound of a page being flipped, but it never came.

Opening your eyes slightly, you saw Solas still fixed on the book, lost in thought.

“What’s the book about?” you asked, breaking the silence and his concentration.

“It recounts the tale of Luthias Dwarfson,” he replied immediately. “A blend of bravery, betrayal, and tragedy. Despite his stature, Luthias became a legendary warrior among his people.”

“Is it any good?”

“As you would expect from the tales of that culture,” he explained cryptically. “Of course, unless you do not know what to expect from them.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” you said, then pulled the hood of your robes up and over your head, seeking the warmth as much as the privacy it offered.

As you settled back against the wall of the waggon, attempting to drift into sleep, your mind did what it always did: it wandered.

Outside, the soft murmur of voices disrupted your attempts at rest. The sound grew clearer, though muffled by the waggon’s walls.

“Has Cassandra taken to talking to herself?” You asked, leaning an ear out. The voices were undeniably feminine, though higher-pitched than what usually came from the Seeker. “I didn’t know her voice could go that high.”

“It’s the woman you recruited our first night in Val Royeaux. The rogue archer,” Solas replied.

“The what?” Your curiosity piqued, and perhaps alarmed, you pushed open the door and climbed outside without waiting for the waggon to come to a halt.

The wind tousled your robes as you leant outward to get a better look at the front. Indeed, there, beside Cassandra on the drivers seats, was Sera, animatedly chatting away, her gestures lively and her tone irreverent. She wore the bright red tunic again, and the sun made her yellow leggings painful to look at.

She noticed you immediately and called out, “Oi, you! How’s it hanging?”

Cassandra, alarmed by your sudden appearance at the moving waggon’s edge, jerked the reins sharply, bringing the waggon to an abrupt stop. “Herald?! Have you no concern for your own safety?”

“Please, there is little danger in being thrown off a vehicle that goes no faster than a brisk walk. You needn’t have stopped the waggon,” you said, jumping down from the ledge.

“We near the docks, anyway. Now is the best time of any to prepare yourself, Herald,” Cassandra said, dropping down from the front seat.

“Pardon, prepare for what?”

Cassandra sighed, her expression grave. “As we approach the docks in Val Royeaux, considering the Inquisition’s recent activities in Orlais, there may be those who see us as a threat. We must be prepared for potential confrontations. This departure will not be without its difficulties.”

“We can’t wait out the fire?” you asked.

“We cannot afford to delay. The longer we stay, the greater the risk of drawing unwanted attention.”

True to her word, as you neared the docks of Val Royeaux, the mingling of people became more and more coagulated.

A sizable crowd had gathered, obstructing the path to the docks. Upon your arrival in Val Royeaux a few days prior, there had been little activity here. Presumably, these docks saw minimal traffic apart from occasional smaller ships and fishermen, considering the main docks were closer to the opulent heart of Val Royeaux. However, now it seemed like some type of large event was taking place. People of all ages, many in tattered clothing and soot-covered faces, pressed together, seemingly awaiting something.

Weather-worn planks creaked underfoot, and the air carried hints of fish and salt rather than the usual fragrances of perfumes and spices. It was a humbler scene, removed from the grandeur and pristine facades that defined the city’s renowned thoroughfares.

The ship destined to ferry you back to Ferelden gently bobbed in the harbour, its sails neatly furled and ready. It’s hull prominently displayed the unmistakable sigil of the Inquisition—a new addition.

“Maker’s breath,” Varric whistled, eyeing the crowd warily. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves an audience.”

“Fantastic,” you muttered under your breath. “Exactly what we needed.”

Before you could further voice your concern, an Inquisition scout, recognisable by the crest on her armour, broke through the crowd. “My laird Herald!” she called out, breathless from running. She then collapsed into a kneel before your feet.

“What is the meaning of this?” Cassandra commanded.

“Seeker. The crowd—they’re here to see the Herald. They’ve heard tales of the Herald of Andraste and came to see if they’re true. They seek proof.”

“They have not gathered to harm us?”

“They’re not here to bring harm to the Herald or the Inquisition. They’ve heard the tales and rumours about your deeds and the Chantry’s denouncement, and they seek proof. The Breach is a mystery to them, spoken of as if a fictitious tale. They want to see for themselves if the Herald of Andraste truly exists.”

Varric chuckled dryly. “Well, they’re in for a treat then.”

“What do they hope to achieve by seeing me?” you asked.

“Hope,” Solas interjected quietly. “They seek hope in troubled times. You represent that to them, whether you embrace it or not.”

Cassandra glanced around; her face was, as usual, utterly serious. “We cannot ignore them. They are here to see you, Andraste’s Herald.”

You pulled a spare piece of fabric from your pouch, opting to wrap it around your cursed hand. Cassandra’s hand pressed down on it instead.

“No. Do not hide it.”

Her words were firm, and you could see the conviction in her eyes. With a deep breath, you let the fabric fall back into your pouch, revealing the green glow of the Anchor emblazoned on your hand.

Word had spread far and wide of the miraculous powers you possessed, such as the ability to close Fade rifts and withstand the energy of the Breach itself. To these people, you were a symbol of salvation in a world torn apart by chaos and despair.

To you, you were a fraud.

“Openly holding out their arms to a heretic whom the Chantry has denounced. They must be desperate,” you murmured, restraining the urge to scratch the phantom itch irritating the mark.

“Please,” Cassandra’s tone softened, begging. Not something often seen on her, of how little you knew her. It was odd. “Whether you believe it or not, they do. They need something—someone to believe in. They need hope. And right now, you are that hope. They are hurting. Ignoring them would only crush their spirits.”

You looked out at the crowd again, their faces expectant and hopeful. Some kneeled in prayer, while others made nimble steps to reach you, only held back by the inquisition soldiers standing nearby, ready to dock alongside you.

“I suppose you haven’t given me much of a choice. This is what you’ve wanted from the beginning, after all. Though perhaps your propaganda parade has spread further than anticipated.”

“We do not have a place to argue.”

“No, you don’t. Now, what do you expect me to do? I’m not making a speech.”

“They do not need to hear your voice, only see you. We should not tarry either. The Chantry may see this as a threat,” Cassandra replied, her tone brooking no argument.

“All they see is a hand. Show it to them. Give a wave or something, just to show you still have it. You’ll be fine,” Varric suggested, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by the situation.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable attention that would come with revealing the Anchor. “Very well.”

The scout looked relieved and turned back to the crowd, raising a hand for attention. “Make way! Make way for the Herald of Andraste!”

Pushing forward, you extended your hand towards the crowd slyly, allowing the green glow to dance on display, only to please Cassandra. Her grip on your arm tightened slightly, urging you forward as the crowd parted reluctantly. Their eyes fixed on you with a mix of awe, scepticism, and desperation. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers as they caught sight of the mark, some gasping in awe or perhaps fear. The sea of faces blurred together. Some reached out to touch you, their fingers brushing against your robes as if seeking a blessing. Whispers of ‘Herald of Andraste’ fluttered through the air in response.

“Make way!” Cassandra called out, her voice firm and commanding. She held onto you like you would make a run for it at any moment. Her intuition was correct. If she did not hold you as such, you would have apparated away like a scared dodo bird. But that would have unknown effects on her—effects that easily go awry.

Scanning the crowd, you noted the hopeful and reverent faces looking up at you, burning them to your mind. “I don’t see anyone but common folk,” you whispered under your breath.

“Anyone with power would not risk being seen by the Chantry,” Cassandra explained. “They would rather support you from the shadows, if they hold any strong belief of you at all.”

“Excluding Grand Enchantress Vivienne?”

“Indeed. She holds what many do not.”

Finally, you reached the edge of the crowd and looked back at Cassandra. “Satisfied?”

She nodded, her expression softer. “Thank you. I know this was difficult for you.”

“All I did was walk. Let’s just board the ship,” you said, moving towards the gangplank with hurried purpose. “I tire of Orlais.”

Chapter Text

Orlais did not retract her nails from you just yet, for the ship did not immediately depart.

A ship crew member approached you with a concerned expression; his brow furrowed deeply. “We have some mechanical issues,” he informed you. “The ship won’t be able to depart as scheduled.”

An hour before the ship was scheduled to depart, a new passenger arrived.

“Greetings, dear,” Vivienne greeted. She stood below the gangplank, smiling politely. Suitcases were piled behind her, held by inquisition soldiers and a few unbranded elves. “Room for another?”

“You’re coming along?”

“Indeed. I thought it might be useful to have a more experienced mage on this journey. Besides, I’m sure you’ll find my company enlightening,” she replied smoothly.

“So you’re why we have yet to depart? I wasn’t aware you held more sway over the captain than the Inquisition,” you said, not liking the implications of such a revelation.

“Who do you think is contracting the ship?”

“Well then, welcome aboard, Lady Vivienne. Make yourself at home.”

“I will try.”

Vivienne ascended the gangplank with graceful poise, her gaze sweeping over the ship. Though she quickly quelled any sign of distaste, it was clear she found the vessel lacking.

“Are you sure you’d want to stay in Haven?” you asked, helping lift the suitcases onto the ship. “Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable in Val Royeaux? We can converse through pigeons.”

“You almost sound upset at my presence.”

“Never, Lady Vivienne. Haven is so much unlike Val Royeaux. I only worry for your comfort.”

“Aren’t you charming? There is no power without a bit of pain. Come, darling. Why don’t you show me to my room?”

As you showed Vivienne around, the wooden planks beneath your feet creaked softly with each step. The scent of the sea permeated the air, mingling with the faint, musty odour of the ship’s ageing timbers.

You guided her through narrow corridors, past bustling crew members who hurried to and fro, attending to the ship’s standing issues.

“Your reputation precedes you,” you said. “I’m curious; what made you decide to join the Inquisition?”

“Necessity and opportunity, darling. The world is in chaos, and those with power must act to restore order. Besides, I find your Inquisition intriguing—a chance to shape events and steer them towards a beneficial outcome.”

The ship was modest in size, with only a few actual rooms for passengers. The rest of the crew and lesser-ranked individuals were relegated to cramped bunks in shared quarters. Sera had already claimed the last available room, leaving you with limited options.

To maintain the illusion of hospitality and respect for Vivienne, you led her down the narrow hallway, passing the smaller rooms until you reached your own quarters.

“Your quarters, Lady Vivienne,” you said, pushing open the door and stepping aside to let her enter first. The room was the grandest on the ship, relatively speaking, with a larger bed, a small writing desk, and a porthole offering a view of the choppy sea outside.

Vivienne stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over the modest furnishings with a critical eye. “Thank you, darling. You’ve been most accommodating.”

Wishing to impress her, you subtly rearranged the room with a flick of your wand; the bedding changed and straightened, the pillows fluffed, and a small bouquet of flowers appeared on the bedside table.

“There,” you said, stepping back to assess the slight change. “I hope this suits you better.”

She observed the changes with a raised eyebrow. “You needn’t have done that, dear. But I appreciate the effort.” Then she moved to the porthole, peering out at the waves crashing against the ship’s hull. “Travelling by sea is hardly my favourite, but I suppose it cannot be helped. Now, about you. You’re a mage, but you don’t seem like one.”

“How so?”

“I can’t feel your magic. It’s as if you’re cloaked from my perception. Or,” her voice dipped as an expression of scepticism crossed her face. “You’re actively hiding it.”

You stiffened slightly but kept your tone neutral. “I’ve been told my magic is different.”

“Different, indeed,” Vivienne mused. “And from outside Ferelden, no less. Such origins might make your leadership more likely to fail.”

“I’m only the face—or hand.” You bristled at her words but kept your composure. “I’ll prove my worth to whoever, just as I will to you.”

Vivienne’s smile was enigmatic. “We shall see, darling. We shall see. But you’ve never been to a Circle, have you?”

“That’s the second time I’ve been asked that, yet I still don’t know what it means.”

“No, I imagine not. A Circle is the proper education mages receive. Though you do not seem to be completely lacking in training. Were you self-taught?”

“I received education, just not in Thedas.” Though most of what you knew was self-taught, technically, considering you didn’t spend many years in school, nor was anyone alive to teach you your particular form of magic. The Keepers, even after all you’d done for them, hadn’t wished to help you strengthen your magic—even in death, they wanted to hide the magic you shared.

Vivienne nodded, pleased. “Mystery surrounds your origin. Mystery is good. It keeps people intrigued, and your secrets close.” She paused. “In my own experience, nothing is more deadly to a young mage than a lack of knowledge. Which makes the current state of things… precarious. What do you imagine will happen if the Circles are not restored? Do you foresee the Dalish taking us all under their wing?”

“I’m not educated well enough on the subject to speak on it.” You felt as if you had whiplash. An uneducated wizard was generally no more dangerous than a bloodthirsty ant.

Vivienne, unperturbed by your uncertainty, continued. “Justinia’s death has shattered the balance of power in Thedas. If it is not restored quickly, countless lives will be lost. Mages, templars, and innocent people of all kinds now look to the Inquisition to decide their fate. For almost a thousand years, the world believed it was in the hands of the Maker. And now many believe you are the agent of His will. Whatever the truth is, that belief gives you power.”

“A belief they’ll consider deception in time. When they do, the Inquisition will lose many supporters.”

“Defectors occasionally need weeding out. But I suppose we’ll see how many we’ll lose. You will learn, in time, that there are more ways than one to unite an order.” She spared a small smile, yet it was undoubtably sharp and witty. “I’ve stolen enough of your time, my dear. Don’t let me keep you.”

She closed the door behind you, leaving you wondering where you were going to sleep now.

Later, as the ship cut through the waves and the day began to wane, you found yourself standing at the edge of the ship, hands gripping the wooden railing as you gazed out into the vast expanse of the river, which somewhere east branched out into a sea.

The water was dark, an inky black that seemed to stretch on forever, merging seamlessly with the night sky. It was easy to envision the depths engulfing someone entirely, their existence swiftly erased by currents that relentlessly sought to permeate every inch of skin, weighing down the body until it merged seamlessly with the ocean. The salt-tinged breeze carried whispers of distant memories, tugging at the edges of your mind, but you pushed them aside, focusing instead on the horizon where the sea met the sky. There was a certain beauty to the darkness, much like the allure of the unknown. The depths could conceal anything—a lurking monster biding its time, ready to strike when least expected. Yet, no one could ever truly know, for the darkness shrouded all secrets, masking any threats that might lie beneath the surface.

Footsteps muffled against the deck’s wooden planks approached. Cassandra’s voice floated softly over your shoulder. “I have always found the sea at night both eerie and fascinating. It is so quiet on the surface, but beneath...”

“Is a world of mysteries,” you mused.

Silence settled between you, broken only by the waves crashing against the hull of the ship.

A question that had been nagging at you finally surfaced. “How is the Inquisition paying for everything?”

Cassandra glanced at you, her expression contemplative. “We have a few benefactors who believe in our cause. But they are not without their challenges. They have many expectations.”

“What sort of expectations?”

“Some wish to influence our decisions; others seek personal gain; and a few genuinely want to help. It’s a delicate balance to maintain, especially with resources being as scarce as they are. While we are on the topic,” she continued, her tone lowering. “Watch the Treasury carefully. With that Sera present…”

“Are you distrustful of everyone?”

“In times like these, it is wise to be cautious. I wouldn’t put it past her. She is… unpredictable.”

“Very well,” you conceded. “If you’re so concerned, I’ll place an enchantment on it. Even if it’s stolen from us, it won’t ever be broken into. How does that sound?”

Cassandra nodded near approvingly. “Thank you. It is better to be safe than sorry.”

She took her leave some time later, leaving you to continue staring longingly out into the expansive blackness. All light was leeched from your vision. Only the moon’s light shone above, guiding your eyes down the ship’s side.

The water below was black. Darker than black. It was the void.

Before you could react, your body plunged into the icy embrace of the river. The sensation of water enveloping you was overwhelming—cold, insistent, invading every orifice. Yet, strangely, you felt no fear. Instead, there was a serene acceptance, a quiet surrender to the depths that wished to swallow you whole.

Under the surface, everything was muted and tranquil. The sounds of the world above were muffled, just distant echoes in the water. You felt weightless, suspended in a world where time seemed to stretch infinitely. The water embraced you like a lover, cradling you in its cool embrace, and for a moment, you found yourself liking it better down here than in the realm above.

Above the surface, the world waged its wars and battles, but here, under the water, there was only peace. The gentle sway of seaweed, the faint glimmer of distant fish under the moon’s gaze—all of it added to the surreal calmness of the marine world.

Salt burned your eyes, forcing them to close. Without your hearing sense, sight, or smell, you could feel yourself floating freely, feeling the currents gently guide you. It was a sensation of freedom unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. And for a fleeting moment, you forgot about the struggles and uncertainties of your waking life. Here, beneath the surface, there was only the soothing rhythm of the water.

But just as suddenly as you were pulled into the water, you felt a tug—a familiar sensation that you were being called back. Reluctantly, you opened your eyes, seeing the faint outline of the ship’s hull above you, beckoning you to return.

A figure emerged from the depths, approaching you with slow, deliberate movements. It was a ghostly apparition, its features obscured by the murky water. It may as well have been a mermaid from the way it drew closer, wading through the water as if you were one with it.

“Lost,” the figure whispered, its voice echoing in your mind. As it drew closer, you could make out its eyes—deep, hollow voids. “You are lost.”

You tried to speak, but no sound emerged. The water pressed in, heavy and suffocating. The figure reached out, its hand cold and clammy against your skin. You felt a pull—an irresistible force dragging you deeper into the abyss.

“Embrace the darkness,” the figure urged. “It is where you belong.”

You struggled against the pull, but your strength waned. The darkness was all-consuming—a relentless force that threatened to swallow you whole. The figure’s grip tightened, and you felt yourself slipping further into the void.

“Embrace it,” the figure repeated, its voice a haunting whisper. “Embrace the darkness, and you will find peace.”

You were abruptly forced awake by a violent fit of coughing, your chest heaving as if you’d just been pulled from the depths of the sea. The taste of saltwater burned your throat and nostrils as your eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly against the restraint around your throat. Air struggled to pass through your system as more and more water spilt from your lips.

Wide-eyed and disoriented, you finally managed to free yourself from your hammock, your limbs tangling in the coarse fabric before collapsing to the floorboards with a thud. Your hand slapped against a puddle of water, no doubt the water that had just come from your lungs.

The sound of your motions echoed through the cramped quarters, waking the strangers around you from their own slumbers.

“What’s going on?” One of the ship’s crew members muttered, their voice thick with sleep.

You felt your skin. So many days spent on the road and now in the ocean, it was dry, rubbed raw by the cold, salty winds. The only area that seemed to have been dunked underwater was the front of your shirt and the corners of your eyes.

“Are you alright?” someone asked. Their voice sounded far away, muffled by the water bathing your eardrums.

“I’m fine,” you managed to choke out between lingering coughs, suddenly aware of the palm hitting your back as the last remains of water released from your lungs.

Slowly, you pushed yourself upright, steadying yourself against the swaying of the ship. A bright green burned its image in your retinas—the band you’d wound around your left hand had come askew, revealing the mark. You’d bound it so as not to alert the people in the bunk of the ship to your presence and to ensure it did not keep them awake with its blinding light.

You glanced out of the small porthole, watching the sun rise from the horizon. A brand new day.

As the sun rose from below the horizon, its rays painted the sky in hues of pink and gold. You watched from the quiet solitude of the ship’s deck, from the moment the first light breached the sky until it hung high above. Unable to fall back asleep after your dream-nightmare, you spent a long time contemplating jumping off the deck to see if any part of your dream had actually happened—that there was someone below the surface watching you as you currently watched your hazy reflection.

When you arrived at the dining area, Vivienne was already seated at an elegantly set table, sipping from a porcelain cup.

“Come sit. We have much to discuss.” She patted the table, beckoning your legs to tumble into the appropriate chair. “I trust you slept well?”

“As well as can be expected. Did you prepare all this?”

“Of course, darling. A touch of elegance is necessary in every circumstance. Even ones so drab,” Vivienne replied with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

You settled into your seat, eyeing the array of food laid out before you. The table was adorned with basic French cuisine: croissants, pain au chocolat, fresh fruits such as a range of berries and grapes, and a steaming pot of coffee. It was a stark contrast to the meagre rations you had grown accustomed to while on the dirt roads across Ferelden and Orlais.

“I am curious. Why were you at the Conclave?” she asked, twirling a small silver spoon in a cup of tea.

Your own twirled itself, spinning with the hand of invisible threads of magic. Vivienne spared it an indifferent look.

“My memories about the events have been taken. I remember nothing.”

“I trust you do not remember arriving in Thedas either. Or why?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I have a feeling I came here against my will.”

She raised a well-groomed brow, sipping at her tea. “Whatever the case may be, you know so little of this world, yet you’ve already been erected as a formidable leader.”

“I’m not a leader.”

“Yet you are treated like one.”

“It didn’t take much effort. I only had to fall out of the sky.”

The conversation slowed down, filled only by the stirring of tea and the noises outside the dining room.

“Can you tell me more about the Fade?” you asked after a moment of contemplation.

Vivienne brushed you off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “The Fade is a waste of time, darling. Focus your energies on more practical pursuits.”

After finishing breakfast, you left the dining area to track down Sera. She’d quickly proven to be a nuisance, especially to Vivienne, who’d asked you nicely to have a chat with the elf. While it otherwise wouldn’t have been your business, you found yourself agreeing with the Enchantress, as if she’d charmed you.

You found Sera on the deck, perched on the railing with one leg swinging freely as she hummed a tune to herself. She glanced over as you approached, scrunching her face.

“You smell... posh,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Had breakfast with Lady Fancy-pants, didn’t you? Ugh, her perfumes could choke a nug.”

“I did,” you confirmed, leaning against the railing next to her. “But we have other matters to discuss.” You adjusted the band that covered the mark on your hand, ensuring it remained hidden from view. “She actually asked me to speak with you.”

“What’s the old ice queen want now?”

“She’s concerned about your antics and how they may reflect on our group as a whole,” you explained.

Sera snorted, swinging her leg more vigorously. “She can stick her concerns up her arse. I do what I want.”

To say the conversation went down nicely would be an understatement. You struggled with this role of leadership, feeling out of your depth when it came to quelling differences among your companions. You didn’t want to lose Sera or the Red Jennies, not before they’d proven their worth at least, but Vivienne had forced the need to display a unified front, especially when the eyes of the world would soon be upon you. But negotiating these tensions was beyond your capability. You were no diplomat, no seasoned leader skilled in the art of balancing the needs of others with your own.

You sighed, realising this conversation was going nowhere productive. “Just... try not to get into too much trouble, okay?”

Sera gave you a lopsided grin. “No promises, bossy-boss.”

You didn’t know it at the time, but it was a good thing you’d given your room to Vivienne and didn’t have a set bed. Otherwise, Sera’s gift may have declared the end to her partnership with you as swiftly as it had begun.

Leaving Sera to her own devices, you set off to find Solas. He would likely be either in the ship’s library or on the deck, enjoying the sea breeze. You found him in the library, seated at a table cluttered with books, with a thick tome open in front of him. He looked up at your approach.

“Ah, there you are.” You nodded briefly in greeting, eying the surroundings. The walls were adorned with maps and nautical charts, their edges curling slightly due to the salty air. The two bookshelves had bars across them, as keeping books on a ship wasn’t the greatest of ideas. “You weren’t at breakfast. Vivienne prepared quite the feast—or, I guess her servants did,” you said, words wading into nothing at the realisation of who exactly those servants were. There were many differences between this place and your home, but they shared some similarities in an almost uncanny way.

“Many would prefer not to put themselves in the Imperial Enchanter’s line of sight. Nor would she appreciate my presence, I suspect,” he mused, closing his book. It was a different one from the one he’d had on the carriage earlier that day. “You’ve been quite taken by her. I imagine she’s quite pleased with how quickly things are moving in her favour.”

You settled into a wooden chair. “I find her position interesting, don’t you? An esteemed Enchanter openly known in a non-magical court. It’s amazing, really, even in times like these.” Times like these where mages’ heads were expected to be on pikes, and their bodies burned on stakes. It seems the templars didn’t hold as much power as had been told. “I haven’t heard anything of the sort happening in years.”

Merlin had been the last, and undoubtably the most well-known by those with magic and those without. He was the last, not because wizards didn’t care for non-magic politics but rather because they were barred from meddling. There were the occasional wizards that involved themselves in the politics of muggle rulers, but their meddling held little impact on the wizarding world as a whole. Merlin, however, was a hero who accomplished so much, often without being asked.

Many aspired to be him, magical or not. Even the muggles knew of him, though they thought of him as a myth, one that inspired hope through their deeds and courage, among other figures like Robin Hood and Mulan. His stories were told and retold, each generation resurrecting his image and upholding his legacy, but at the same time, forgetting what he stood for and ignoring the warnings that his portrait would often recount.

It’s a tragedy that all that Merlin fought for—to unite wizards and muggles—ultimately came to nothing. Despite his efforts and serving as the embodiment of hope, the wizarding world reverted to its old ways very quickly after he disappeared.

Vivienne wasn’t exactly Merlin. Fiona was also a Grand Enchantress, which, while the title flew over your head, suggested she held some power before becoming the leader of the rebel mages. When Merlin became King Arthur’s advisor, the world was scared of magic and very well aware of it, like it is in this current world state.

Unlike yourself, Solas failed to see the allure in Vivienne’s accomplishments. “Do not mistake her outward appearance as a symbol of acceptance. Her high position doesn’t make her any less feared than other mages. The nobles still give her a wide berth and hide their scowls lest she curse them for merely insulting her.”

“Fear they’ll hide when they’re in need of her magic. I don’t doubt she’s aware of how they feel. Suppose it’s a power trip,” you said, distracted by the sounds of footsteps echoing outside the library’s open door. Crew members were passing by, their conversations barely hushed. You closed the door with a wave of your hand.

Solas made no attempt to voice his curiosity. Not yet. “Without a doubt. Many people fear you due to your magic as well.”

You shrugged. That was nothing new. “Anything misunderstood will always be feared.”

People feared what they couldn’t control and what they couldn’t predict. It was an innate reaction to the unknown, a defence mechanism to keep themselves safe from perceived threats. You had seen it countless times: fear driving people to irrational decisions, pushing them to shun or even attack what they didn’t understand. It was a cycle that seemed almost impossible to break, and yet, here you were, caught in the middle of it.

“Your dreams are becoming a reality, or they appear to be,” Solas said, inviting a new topic into the conversation out of nowhere. He did that often, engaging in pleasantries to steer conversations into deeper territories, led by his curiosity.

“I awoke with my lungs full of saltwater. It was more than an illusion.” The burning in your throat remained to this hour, failing to be soothed despite the breakfast. Unfortunately, you didn’t have the means to brew a Pepperup potion. Perhaps you’ll take a walk to the kitchens to see if they have peppermint and honey—a feudal method of soothing an aching throat. “Should I ask how you know about my dreams?”

Solas considered his words carefully before responding. “Word carries quickly, particularly when someone such as yourself is involved. I have observed similar occurrences before. It’s not uncommon for dreams to bleed into reality when the connection to the Fade is strong.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’ve cast magic in my sleep before. Never to that degree, but alas, it shouldn’t happen again.” To ensure you weren’t looked at like a loose cannon, you’d ought to set enchantments. Maybe you will apparate back to Haven and sleep there tonight so no one sees your magic act out again. Running away like you're fleeing from a Hungarian Horntail. It would be pointless.

This is why you never lived so close to civilisation.

“Never magic like this, I suspect,” Solas quipped, speaking as if he knew the answer.

“No, don’t tell me. It’s the… The Fade?” you asked in a farce of wonder.

“You don’t fail to grasp the concept swiftly. The Fade is not a place free of dreams and spirits. They can reach into your mind, plucking memories and emotions from the depths. Oftentimes, what we encounter in that realm may seep into the waking world.”

Fear gnawed at the edges of your thoughts like a rabid dog. “I don’t understand. Are you saying my dreams are somehow becoming real? That the Fade is copying my dreams?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Solas confirmed calmly. “When people dream, they go to the Fade, mentally. It’s a place where the veil between the physical world and the realm of spirits is thin. Your presence in the Fade, even when dreaming, can affect your physical form. It’s not impossible that your magic, intertwined with the influence of the Fade, is the cause of these manifestations. It draws upon our subconscious, weaving illusions that feel more real than reality itself, allowing for instances similar to this to occur. While your dream may have felt real, it was not in the most explicit sense.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve gone mad. Dreams aren’t meant to be open viewing.” When we dream, we’re meant to enter a world entirely our own. Dreams are sanctuaries of the mind, where our thoughts roam freely and our imaginations paint landscapes untouched by the hands of outside influences.

You thought over the spoken words, the puzzle pieces slowly falling into place. If what he was saying was accurate, the Fade wasn’t just a place you dreamed about; it was a realm where your thoughts and fears could become real. If your fears or desires were strong enough, they could shape the Fade, which could then impact your waking life. It was a delicate balance, one that required careful navigation to avoid the dangers that lurked within.

Amid that, an idea began to form. With such power came the need to manipulate it, control it, and reframe it as your own. Ever since your arrival in this time or world or planet or whatever, the Breach, or more specifically, the Fade, has been a constant looming presence. It was everywhere—tethered to your hand, possessing your dreams, entangled in your very soul. Perhaps it was the answer you needed after all, and not just a tool to help you find the answer.

“I imagine these dreams are not what you typically experience,” he asked.

Aside from the adverse waking effects, the dreams were basically lucid dreaming, excluding being aware of being asleep. Pre-lucid dreaming, if a term were to be given. Regardless, lucid dreaming was not a new concept. It had been an established concept for millennia.

“I don’t often have them, no. Not in recent years.”

He held that piece of information in his mind for a moment. “In spite of everything, this means your consciousness is becoming more attuned to the Fade. It’s a sign of growing connection, but also potential vulnerability.”

“I’m beginning to reconsider your offer to mentor me.”

“As well as that may be, it is far too late now. You will continue to experience these dreams. While they cannot harm your physical body, your spiritual sense will bear the weight over time.”

“Fantastic.”

“While events while dreaming in the Fade may entirely be restrained within your mind, only connected to the Fade in the briefest of ways, their implications may extend beyond the physical realm. I am also concerned about how the events came to be. Entities may have been attracted to your presence in the dreaming. Did you have a pursuer in your dream?”

“Are you asking if they were of the demonic sort?”

“If a demon infiltrated your dreams, it would be known unto all.”

“Because I’d be possessed? An abomination.” It was an awful word, bordering on derogatory, used to further alienate mages. It stripped them of their humanity and cast them as something less than people, a term laden with stigma and fear.

“And you’d be killed on the spot.”

“You’d make no move to separate me from the demon?” you asked.

“Once your soul has been corrupted, the effort of reversing the possession heavily outweighs the damage a possession can cause.”

“So there is a way, just no one cares to do it?”

In your world, in modern times, believed demonic possessions were treated by those with religious or spiritual beliefs in a humane way, or a way that didn’t end in the unnecessary death of the believed-possessed.

However, in medieval times, the treatment of those believed to be demon-possessed was far more brutal and less understanding. The approach was heavily influenced by a mix of superstition, fear, and a lack of medical knowledge. Ultimately, it was the same as what was happening here: a lack of understanding and care.

Possibly, as you’ve yet to meet a possessed being. ‘Demons’, yes, though not the Abrahamic sort. Maybe the pouch of salt you kept on you was doing you wonders after all.

“Indeed,” Solas agreed. “As I was saying, you mentioned awaking with water in your lungs. That suggests you dreamt that you were underwater. Were you pushed overboard?”

“No. I threw myself into the sea.”

“I see. To what end?” He probed indiscreetly.

“It was a dream. I wasn’t in my right mind,” you brushed him off. “Please tell me there’s a way to block these ‘entities’ from spying on me in my dreams.”

“Of course. One needs only to strengthen their mind or severe their connection to the Fade completely, but I imagine that will not be enough in your case.” He nodded to himself. “Perhaps we can now pick up where we left off with your training. Unless you believe you can convince the Imperial Enchantress to help you in your endeavours.”

“I did ask her, but she said the Fade was a wasted effort.” You shrugged, then backtracked. “Oh, I didn’t ask because I’d rather her help over yours, only because I was curious of her opinion. Many mages don’t seem interested in the Fade.” You initially didn’t either, but now it seemed like you were forced to dive into it lest it swallow you whole.

“Circles do not fail to teach their wards to fear anything remotely related to the Fade, including their own magic. They may walk alongside the Fade, using it’s influence, but they will never be open to traversing it without an unbiased mind.”

“You say that like Circles are a bad thing.”

“Circles serve a purpose, yes, but one that restricts rather than nurtures. Children are separated from their families and brought into the Circles, where they’re imposed with limitations on magic, keeping them within a controlled environment. The Circles teach mages to fear their own potential, rather than to understand and harness it. They confine mages to a narrow path, discouraging any exploration beyond their strict boundaries.”

Of course. What could you have expected with something founded by non-magic users specifically for those with magic?

“I can’t imagine many mages would freely stand for that.”

“It is either Circles or death.”

“And if they revolt?”

“Any means of doing so are swiftly crushed before they can arise. The Circles are designed to maintain control and prevent any disruption to the status quo. The fear of retribution keeps most in line.” Solas’s gaze turned distant. “Rebellions are rare and often short-lived, quelled by the force of those who uphold the law, including fellow mages.”

“How am I only now learning about this?”

“Possibly because there is no alternate known. Those who escape Circles live in hiding and restless fear. But you didn’t go without education. How are Circles different from your own schooling?”

The conversation swerved your way; you’d basically sensed it coming. “From what I’ve just heard? Basically the opposite. Freedom is encouraged. There was no fear instilled in us about magic itself, only about using it recklessly or for personal gain. Fearing our magic, especially as children, can be disastrous. Many of the schools were founded to be safe havens, not glorified prisons.”

While the Wizarding World had regressed a few centuries in many of its ideals, it remained insistent on ensuring children didn’t hide their magic. Obscurials could destroy the world, but that was learned after many trials and tribulations. Thedas would soon learn what happened when mages were restrained. It was only a matter of time before the penny dropped.

“I’m not going to say I’ve never been struck with the fear of being possessed by demonic spirits, especially as the troublemaker I was as a child,” you began, reminiscing of that life that was so long ago now. “But as I came into my magic, they were immediately rendered empty threats. Whether those who told them knew they were lying, I’m not sure.”

“This was before your magic manifested, not after?”

“Yes. I was a late bloomer. Once my magic manifested at the ripe age of fifteen, I never met a non-magical person ever again—Muggles, they’re called. Until now, of course.”

He furrowed his brows. “Not one at all? You were locked away then, with others like you? Circles typically lock their mages away within the towers until they graduate.”

“Well, that’s awfully grim,” you said, wincing. While Hogwarts was huge, being trapped in it sounded awful. Very few ghosts were tethered to the castle, and those who were would wail constantly about their restrictions. “No, I was never locked away. There aren’t many ways to restrain a wizard, after all. After I left school—I never actually graduated—I went to live in the Highlands, away from civilisation. There was no reason to converse with muggles. I was entirely free to do as I wish, even if it was for the worse.”

Solas remained quiet, deep in thought.

“The Wizarding World is separate from the non-Wizarding World,” you added for clarity at his wondering gaze. “The latter don’t know of the former. It’s best to keep it that way for a multitude of reasons.”

“Wholly, in every aspect of it?”

“With magic, there’s no need for the little inventions muggles make,” you said, not truly believing what you were saying. But that was the law, most unfortunately, and while you rarely followed it, some things were resolute. “When the whole world knew about magic, it didn’t exactly go down well. Kind of like how it is here with the persecutions, the religion-fueled agenda. I have to say though, I’m surprised the Chantry allows mages to be educated.”

“I fail to understand how magic could be kept a secret, especially on such a large scale.”

You waved your hand aimlessly. “Magic makes anything possible. And where I’m from, the Fade is unheard of.”

“But the Veil?”

“Separates life and death. Demons and spirits are home to the latter.” You spared a smile. “Funny how that is. Circles teach about demons and possessions, but my school dismissed such things as god-fearing superstition. But I suppose there’s always truth in a lie. I’m most certainly unprepared for demons here, but that comes with the territory.”

“Territory, such as due to you not being from here. You once said you believed you travelled through the Breach. In what way?” he asked, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as if scrutinising every detail.

“It’s speculation, really. One moment I was in my home, and the next I was here. I don’t have enough information, or memory, to theorise just yet.” You stood from the seat, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. “As much as I appreciate your mentorship, I think now might not be the best time.”

The ship tilted sharply, causing the floor to tilt beneath you. You gripped the arms of your chair tightly, your nails digging into the wood as you fought to keep your balance. Though the chair was firmly nailed to the floor, its immobility did little to ease the unsettling shift. You leant into the chair’s back, waiting for the ship to level out.

“You haven’t had the opportunity to practice since we left Val Royeaux,” Solas said after the ship returned to a meagre bob along the waves.

“It’s not just that,” you admitted reluctantly. “Practicing out here in the middle of the ocean—I only worry that it could be dangerous. If something were to happen…”

So many things could go wrong, and so many lives could be taken by a small mistake. Your magic wasn’t unlimited, nor could it be restrained if it managed to spill overboard. While the possibilities of something going wrong were near non-existent, it was still possible. Water had the power to take everyone. Once taken, people could vanish without a trace, never to be seen again, for they would spend eternity in the ocean’s endless stomach.

“Is that your true concern, or is there something else troubling you?” he asked. “Are you afraid of losing control?”

“Another time, Solas,” you said dismissively.

He bowed his head just an inch. “As you wish, Herald.”

He soon departed the library, taking his book with him, leaving you the only soul in the room. Outside the porthole, the sun was setting. The faint sound of the sea and wind filters through the walls. The ship’s wooden planks creaked softly as someone approached.

“He ought to show you more respect, my dear. You are the Herald, after all.” Vivienne said, swaying into view. She’d placed on a dark silver coat with a high collar, making her appear taller. Unlike the other Orlesians, Vivienne seemed to have at least some fashion sense, although it was still distinctly French.

“He’s doing me a service. And I don’t think my magically-festered hand means I should be treated above everyone else.”

She took the seat Solas had left. “If those you wish to earn support from see how poorly you’re willing to be treated, then they’ll have more reason to see you as a fraud. You may as well stick to the façade and make use of it.”

“Exploiting fear doesn’t produce unlimited power.”

Vivienne laughed, a light, almost musical sound that seemed to be as calculated as it was genuine. “Oh, my dear Herald, you sound as if you truly did fall from the sky. You must understand that the world of politics is a game of appearances and perceptions. The more you are perceived as weak or ineffectual, the less likely others will rally around your cause. Power is as much about perception as it is about actual strength.”

You looked out at the porthole, lost in how the sun began casting long shadows on the water’s surface. This was how your dream felt. “Politics aren’t my forte.”

“Yes, that is clear. Now then, why don’t you join me for tea? We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

The long-awaited return to Haven arrived with little fanfare. With a council meeting scheduled an hour before sunset to discuss the Inquisition’s next steps, you took the opportunity to make your way through the familiar, snow-covered paths, using the time to address some loose ends as a way to keep yourself occupied and distracted.

After a brief exchange with the gate guards, you made your way to the main hall, where Vivienne awaited you for more tea and more conversation. The two of you soon found yourselves in a heated discussion about the Circles. Vivienne argued for their necessity and structure, while you countered with the injustices they imposed on mages.

Once the argument had simmered down, you decided to attend to some housekeeping matters. You handed over the resources you’d gathered to the quartermaster, Threnn, who thanked you curtly and promised to put them to good use.

With the evening drawing in, you sought out Solas, knowing he would be in his usual spot, standing outside his cabin. The cool air of the evening had begun to settle in, and the shadows lengthened as the sun dipped below the horizon.

He watched you climb the stairs, coming from the local tavern, where Sera had situated herself cleanly. Solas seemed contemplative as you approached.

“Herald,” he greeted with a slight nod. If he was caught off-guard by your seeking him out so quickly, he didn’t show it.

You returned the greeting. “I hope you don’t mind, but I need to ask something of you.”

“Of course. What can I do for you?”

“I want you to teach me the common tongue,” you stated plainly, your gaze unwavering.

Solas seemed taken aback for a moment. “You- me? You are seeking out my help?”

“You’re already mentoring me with the Fade. Unless you don’t want to teach me.”

He cleared the surprise from his face, as if it never truly belonged there. Indeed, he never really seemed surprised by much. “No. I was only curious why you would prefer me over someone else.”

“I wouldn’t want to bring in another party.”

“I did not expect you to ask me this,” he admitted. “Have you considered speaking to Varric?” Solas suggested. “One can assume he is more eloquent and well-versed in the common tongue.”

“I suspect he’d have a few select colourful words for me if I asked him of that. Besides, he seems busy with his own writing. I don’t wish to bother him further.

“Do I not seem busy to you?”

You hesitated, then decided to be honest. “Well, you’ve mentioned spending most of your time in the Fade. I presumed that meant you weren’t doing anything productive. Other than sleeping, you just seem to… stand around. It’s just an observation.”

Solas straightened, his expression tightening. “You underestimate the simplicity of entering the Fade. It is not mere idleness. Entering the Fade requires focus, concentration, and careful navigation. Few can do so as visibly as I can every time I close my eyes. I tread realms that most can only dream of.”

“I thought mages had to be asleep to enter the Fade.”

Solas recomposed himself. “A figure of speech. With the amount of concentration and effort it takes, a mage may as well be awake when dreaming. But let us not get sidetracked. If you wish to learn, I will teach you.”

“I apologise. I didn’t mean to imply... I truly do appreciate your willingness to help me.”

“It is quite all right,” Solas replied, his tone clipped. “Herald.”

Without a further word, he pushed open the door to his temporary cabin. The hearth was already fired, warming the cabin and filling it with the almost sweet scent of burning pine. The cabin was similar to your own: one open room, a bed, a desk, a chair, no personal belongings, unless hid behind an invisibility charm.

Solas apparently lived a nomadic life before the Inquisition, wandering from one place to another without much thought in both the waking and dreaming worlds. Yet, even for a mage of his skill, sustaining oneself without any possessions seemed improbable.

He moved gracefully across the room, his movements fluid as he settled into the chair beside the desk. He gestured for you to take a seat opposite him.

“It’s quite sparse in here,” you pondered. “Do you prefer to travel light, or are you hiding your belongings somewhere? Maybe under the floorboards?”

Solas regarded you thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “Possessions can tie one down, anchor them to a single place or idea. In my travels, I find freedom in simplicity.”

In other words, all he needed was in the Fade—at least that was the theory, constructed purely by how often he waffled on about the Fade.

“I can relate, in a way. Aside from my wand, I carry little else. It keeps me nimble. Though I can’t imagine carrying a stave everywhere.” You nodded at his staff to clarify what you were referring to.

“Dexterity is a rare quality in these times. It allows one to adapt swiftly to changing circumstances, to move with the currents of fate rather than against them.” His gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary before turning to the desk, where he’d retrieved a roll of parchment. “Shall we begin with the basics?”

With careful strokes, he meticulously wrote down the alphabet. Since you were already fluent in the spoken language, learning to read it came easily, especially given the strong resemblance of the runes to Elder Futhark, an ancient runic alphabet you were deeply familiar with, as it had been commonly used in the Great Britain Wizarding World, dating back to its days as Albion.

However, the similarities soon became a hindrance. You often found yourself confusing the Thedas runes with Elder Futhark; the distinctions between the two scripts proved more complex than anticipated. Each rune seemed to blur together, and the familiar shapes now felt alien and deceptive.

In the midst of your lesson, there was a knock on the cabin door. You stood to answer it.

“Herald. Here you are,” Cullen said, nodding to himself in confirmation. “I’ve come to escort you to the Chantry.”

You quickly bid your goodbye and followed Cullen out into the cool evening air. As you walked side by side, Cullen began to explain his unexpected visit. “I went to your cabin first, but you weren’t there. I searched all over Haven before realising I should check here. It seems you’ve had a busy past few days.”

“I apologise for the trouble. Am I late for the council meeting?”

“No,” Cullen assured you with a slight smile. “Actually, I wanted to speak with you before the meeting.”

You looked at him curiously as he continued. “We’ve received a number of recruits. Locals from Haven and some pilgrims. None made quite the entrance you did.”

“I tend to do that- accidentally, of course. I didn’t intend to.”

“I’d be concerned if you did,” Cullen remarked with a slight chuckle as both of you began to walk towards the Chantry.

The path to the Chantry was lined with uneven cobblestones covered in a light sheet of snow. As you walked, the sun cast long shadows from the tall buildings that flanked the narrow streets of Haven. The air was crisp with the scent of wood smoke and freshly baked bread. Your stomach rumbled in response; you’d been busy all day, you’d forgotten to eat.

“I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall myself,” Cullen continued, his voice thoughtful. “I was there during the mage uprising. I saw firsthand the devastation it caused. Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the templars to join her cause. Now it seems we face something far worse.”

You glanced at Cullen, intrigued. “What can you tell me about the mage-templar rebellion?”

Cullen nodded, gathering his thoughts. “How much do you already know?”

“I know the basics—an act of terrorism, a multi-year rebellion, and so on,” you listed. “I also understand that fear and distrust of magic run deep among those without it. They shouldn’t be trusted to make decisions about it. And I know about the Circles. I have no desire to see them revived, even partially.”

An uncomfortable look crossed Cullen’s face. “I won’t deny the abuses that occurred in the Circles. They were indeed harsh and cruel, but they also represented a necessary, albeit flawed, attempt to manage the threat of uncontrolled magic.”

You could sense that Cullen was already aware of your inclination to side with the mages, but he seemed reluctant to let the matter go. “The Chantry lost control of both templars and mages. Now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition could act when the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be part of that. There remains so much we can do to bring order.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” you observed, impressed by his conviction.

“I know what happens when order is lost and action comes too late. There’s still a lot of work ahead,” Cullen added, his gaze shifting towards the imposing figure of the Chantry ahead. Cassandra and Vivienne waited out front for you, occupied in their own conversation.

As you approached the Chantry, Cullen’s gaze shifted to the imposing structure ahead. Cassandra and Vivienne were already waiting out front, engaged in their own conversation.

Inside, the council was divided: half of the members voted to approach the mages in Redcliffe, believing their power could aid the Inquisition. The other half insisted on speaking to the templars at Therinfal Redoubt, hoping to regain their support.

What everyone seemed to agree on was your status as a mage and how it had become a point of contention. Concerns that your involvement might be skewed by personal bias were expressed, which may potentially jeopardise everything the Inquisition had worked to build. There was an uncomfortable sense of mistrust and unease towards the mages, fuelled by the irrational fear of the mages’ apparently inherent uncontrollable nature.

After the meeting, you departed the Chantry, only to be stopped by a man clad in armour, bearing insignia unfamiliar to you.

“Excuse me,” he said, looking lost. “I had a message for the Inquisition. But I was having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”

“Who are you?”

“Cremisius Aclassi, with the Bull’s Chargers. Mercenary company. We worked mostly out of Orlais and Nevarra. We got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offered the information free of charge. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us in action. We’re the best you’ll find.”

Adding it to your growing to-do list, you bid him goodbye and departed back to your cabin, trudging through the thick snow of a dawdling winter.

You stood in the ruins of the old temple, staring up at the swirling, green rift that tore the sky apart. The Breach loomed above you, dominating the horizon; a monstrous wound in the fabric of reality threatening to unravel the world and universe in one pull. This scene felt oddly familiar, but you couldn’t place why.

As you gazed at the Breach, you took a step forward, your feet moving of their own accord. The air was thick with magic; each breath you took felt like it was charged with electricity, making your skin tingle and your hair stand on end. As you moved closer, the details of the Breach became clearer. The edges of the rift shimmered and shifted, as if the sky itself were trying to heal around the wound. Despite the chaos, there was something strangely beautiful about it, like a terrible storm viewed from a safe distance.

But you weren’t at a safe distance. You were right there, drawn to the Breach by an unseen force. The closer you got, the more you could feel its power. It resonated with something deep inside you, calling to you in a way you couldn’t quite understand. Your hand moved almost on its own, reaching out towards the swirling green light.

As your fingers neared the Breach, you felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Memories of another time, another place, flickered through your mind. You remembered the corrupted ancient magic in the caverns under Hogwarts, the way it had looked as you absorbed it. The dark, blood-red magic had felt alive, sentient, and here you were again, facing something similar yet different. This magic—the Breach’s magic—was green, but it carried the same weight, the same sense of overwhelming power that could turn the world around with one snap of the fingers.

Your hand made contact with the edge of the Breach, and for a moment, everything stopped. The sky seemed to hold its breath. Then, slowly, the Breach began to dismantle. It was as if your touch had unlatched it from the sky, causing it to unravel. The green light flowed towards you, drawn into your body in a way that felt both natural and utterly wrong. The energy coursed through you, filling you with a power that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

You tried to pull away, but you were rooted to the spot. The Breach continued to pour its magic into you, and you felt yourself changing, the energy reshaping you from the inside out. It was too much, too overwhelming, and you wanted to scream, to stop it, but you couldn’t. The power was consuming you, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. Again.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. You were left standing there, alone, the Breach now nothing more than a memory. The sky above was clear, the chaos gone, but you felt different; it changed in a way you couldn’t quite comprehend. You looked at your hand, still outstretched, and wondered what had just happened.

Caged within your body, the magic wormed, unhappy with its new prison. It churned beneath your skin, a restless presence that beat against your rib cage at a pace quicker than your own heart would ever beat again.

You awoke with a start, the echoes of that power still reverberating within you. As you came to, the feeling of the stolen, caged magic persisted, causing your limbs to tremble with the feeling of a living presence beneath your skin.

A week later, back in the Hinterlands, east of the Crossroads, you and your companions stumbled upon an intriguing structure.

“I’m not familiar with this,” Solas said, observing the bronze sphere that sat on a pedestal.

“It looks like an armillary sphere, or a celestial globe. Maybe a spherical astrolabe that’s been heavily simplified,” you explained. The design had a more medieval quality to it. The patina growing around the sphere spoke of its antiquity. The unfamiliarity of it to your companions hinted either it was local to the Hinterlands, unique to Thedas as a whole, or perhaps it was far older than their education touched upon. Astrology was an important subject, and a device such as this should not have been so easily ignored. “Armillary spheres are used to demonstrate the movement of stars and planets around Earth.”

“What soil?” Varric asked, looking confused.

“The planet we stand on. Perhaps you know it as Terra or Mundus? Orbis?” You gave him an odd look, not sure how to explain something that was quite possibly out of their frame of understanding. “Never mind that. Spherical astrolabes were used to navigate the night sky, map constellations, track time, the whole shebang all at once. This, however, seems to depict a shape, not the sun or the planet,” you explained, circling the sphere. It displayed only one shape—a constellation, most likely one in the shape of a knife.

“Judex,” Solas said, observing the outline closely. “Or the ‘Sword of Mercy’, as it is commonly known. It represents a constellation tied to mercy.”

“Judgement?” You translated. ‘Judex’ was Latin for judge.

“A form of, yes. Many believe it symbolises the balance of fairness and retribution,” Solas elaborated. “It may be linked to the enforcement of moral order.”

As you examined the astrarium, you noticed a mechanism that seemed to require interaction. The device let out a mechanical groan as you pushed at it. It was a puzzle, and despite your efforts, it was clear you’d failed to solve it immediately. It became apparent that solving it required understanding a Eulerian trail—a path that connects every node exactly once.

Once connected correctly, there was a click, and beams of magical light shot out from the sphere’s pedestal, illuminating the surroundings.

“That’s not supposed to happen.” Trying not to get burned by the unfamiliar magic, you stepped back from the strange device that may or may not explode at any second. Beams of magic or otherwise anything didn’t appear for no due reason. “Mechanical magic? That’s rarely made for no reason.”

“Hmm. Strange,” Solas added unhelpfully. “It appears this is the true purpose of the device.”

When the light made no attempt at hurting you or summoning robotic sentinels from the ground or wherever, you summoned your journal and took to jotting down the constellation with a pencil you’d transfigured from a stick. You wrote the corresponding Romanised version of ‘Judex’.

“Any idea where it’s directing us?” Varric asked, looking at the beams of light with interest.

Most astrological devices, such as armillary spheres, astronomical clocks, planetarium projectors, celestial globes, planispheres, and astrolabes, all shared one thing: they depicted multiple constellations. There wasn’t much of a point otherwise.

“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say there are others like it. This sphere depicts only one constellation. If there are others, they likely depict different constellations. How many major constellations do you know of?” you asked.

Solas observed the bronze sphere thoughtfully as he answered, “There are many. But if I had to give a number, there are eighteen, depending on which ethos you’re referring to.”

“Eighteen?” you mused, tapping your pencil against your journal. “That’s quite a few. We should keep an eye out for more of these devices as we explore. They could be part of a larger puzzle.”

“You seem quite knowledgeable about such things. How did you come to learn of these devices?” Solas scrutinised you closely, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“My studies covered many astrological devices and their uses.” You pointed to the sphere. “However, no studies of mine covered this. I don’t even know what to call it.”

Before the day was over, there were more fascinating discoveries to be made.

You walked through a dimly lit cave, your footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls. The air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of mineral-rich earth. As you ventured deeper, your eyes were drawn to a peculiar glow emanating from the rocks around you. It was sickly red, the colour of fresh blood.

You kneeled to examine the source of the glow. “I’ve never seen it manifest or grow on inanimate objects before,” you said in awe, wary of getting too close to it but having the urge to touch it.

“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,” Varric advised, sounding sick. “Lyrium can be dangerous. Prolonged exposure or contact can lead to severe side effects. Madness included.”

“This is lyrium?”

“What did you think it was?”

“Corrupted magic.” Specifically of the ancient kind. A second look revealed it didn’t seem as much like ancient magic as it initially did. It was physical and had a distinct cold aura that cooled the air surrounding it as if it were ice. The glow pulsated rhythmically like a beating heart. It was alive.

First and foremost, ancient magic permeated everything and was everywhere. It lacked a clear form and could not be actively controlled or summoned by an ordinary modern wizard. Your closest confidant once shared that ancient magic was named so because it defied a specific definition. Although it was primitive, it was inherent and could manifest in unpredictable ways. This is why most of the wizarding world—humans and goblins alike—believe it doesn’t exist; the term ‘ancient magic’ holds no real meaning for them. For centuries, ancient magic had been kept hidden and had never been properly identified, if historical accounts are accurate. It was also imperceptible and intangible to ordinary wizards.

Magic typically originates from within a person’s own being, meaning external forces have little impact on it. Similarly, magic couldn’t be amplified by outside influences. However, ancient magic was an exception—it went beyond conventional limits. It was limitless and capable of almost anything. Yet it often acted independently, as it was usually the residual magic of another living being—magic that should not have been exposed.

Magic depended on a host to operate. Wands became mere sticks when their owners died, and invisibility cloaks made from demiguise hair quickly lost their effectiveness. Ancient magic was somewhat different; it didn’t always vanish when its host perished. Instead, it could endure, seek out a new host, take on a new role, or serve a new entity, remaining active until it ultimately ceased to exist.

For centuries, the repository beneath Hogwarts Castle contained ancient magic—magic that had become corrupted when Ranrok stole it. He tainted it with his meddling, and after his death, it was released into the defenceless world. To prevent it from potentially wreaking havoc, you absorbed it into your own body, where it has remained ever since. Although it is stored within you, that doesn’t mean you have complete control over it. It is the most sentient form of magic and had been linked to a different ‘host’ before you.

When Ranrok began breaching the repositories across Scotland—repositories crafted by Bragbor and Morganach—it triggered the corruption of ancient magic. This corruption emerged from the disruption and misuse of the magic within, spreading through the earth and infecting the natural world and its magical inhabitants. As a result, wildlife and even a few wizards exhibited altered behaviour under the influence of this tainted magic. The corruption only affected living beings, clinging to creatures and, potentially, humans, but it never materialized on non-sentient objects. It seemed to only bond with living beings, or more accurately, souls; otherwise, it dissipated into the winds.

This was why Morganach created the repositories—to study the magic in a controlled state, preventing it from fading away or reuniting with its original source.

Despite their own magic being distinct from all forms of wizard magic, the goblins wanted to harness the corrupted ancient magic, manipulate it to their advantage, and become nearly invincible unless confronted with extreme measures. It is why Ranrok went after it, so he’d come out on top of the goblin rebellions.

The goblins found a way to imbue goblin-wrought silver collars with corrupted ancient magic, allowing them to control any beast or human to whom the collars were affixed. The exact method remained a mystery, though the collars functioned similarly to a permanent Imperio Curse. Considering ancient magic was the only magic you’d known to block the Unforgivables, it seemed that theory held considerable weight.

Without knowing the exact nature of red lyrium, it was understandable that you initially mistook it for corrupted ancient magic. Both forms shared an eerie, red, stone-like appearance that had an external glowing aura. They both sang too. A strange, low whispering song.

But ultimately, they were not the same.

Solas stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. “It is indeed corrupted. Tainted.” He paused, taking in the scene before him. “Its effects can be destructive not only to the physical world but also to those who come into contact with it.”

A shiver ran down your spine as a green flash crossed your vision. “It truly is corrupted. How?”

“The exact nature of its corruption is not clear. It is tainted, but the precise nature of its influence has never quite been understood.”

Backing away as if the lyrium would bite you, you made your way out of the cave as quickly as possible. The others followed as quickly, Varric coming up by your back, taking on a sickly pallor.

“Are you well?” you asked him, feeling how he looked.

“I’d be content if I never saw lyrium again, red or otherwise,” Varric replied, his voice sounding weary.

As you continued on, the image of the red lyrium lingered in your mind, refusing to fade. Something about it seemed to beckon you back, an unsettling pull that you couldn’t quite shake.

Sometime past noon, you reached Redcliffe Village. As you approached the gates, a rift loomed just before them, its energies swirling ominously in the air. A soldier ran past your group, shouting, “Watch out, traveller! The Veil’s ripped open, and Maker-knows-what could come out! Turn back! We can’t open the gates until the threat has passed!”

You and your party engaged in a fierce battle against the demons emerging from the rift. In some areas, things seemed to move faster than possible or suddenly slower for no rhyme or reason. Finally, you managed to close the rift.

“What… was that?” you asked, bewildered.

Solas responded thoughtfully, “That rift altered the flow of time around itself. That is… unexpected.”

“I’d have to agree.”

The soldier, overwhelmed with relief that they had not become dinner, shouted, “Maker have mercy! It’s over? Open the gates!”

The gates opened, and your group walked through. An Inquisition scout greeted you from within. “We’ve spread word that the Inquisition was coming. But you should know no one here was expecting us.”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona asked for our arrival,” you said.

“If she did, she hasn’t told anyone,” the scout replied. “We’ve arranged use of the tavern for the negotiations.”

Inside the tavern, you met Fiona, who revealed that mages had pledged to the Tevinter Imperium. Magister Alexius, a man whose dress sense was worse than the Orlesians, if that was even possible, introduced himself and explained that he had rescued the mages from templar attacks and planned to train them for the Imperium’s legion.

Following the note given secretly by Alexius’ son, Felix, to the Redcliffe Chantry, your companions remarked on the dubious nature of the Tevinters, their comments bordering on gratuitous.

“Good, you’re finally here! Now help me close this, would you?” The only living soul inside shouted, spotting you immediately as though he’d been expecting your arrival. He gestured towards a rift gaping nearby in midair, as if it were an unwelcome housewarming gift from him to you.

With little more effort, the rift closed.

“Fascinating! How does that work exactly? You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.” He approached, making hand movements as if to prove his point.

“And who are you?” you asked. ”I was expecting Felix to be here.”

“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?” He introduced himself with a flourish. Minrathous was the capital of the Tevinter Imperium. “I’m sure Felix is on his way. He was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father.”

“You’re betraying your mentor because…?”

“Alexius was my mentor. Meaning not any longer, not for some time,” Dorian clarified. “Look, you must know there’s danger. That should be obvious even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming all the rebel mages out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

A thread of hope.

“Time magic… How?” you asked, sounding more desperate than initially wanting to.

“That is fascinating, if true… and almost certainly dangerous,” Solas interjected, sounding disinterested and/or in disbelief.

In the wizarding world, as of the late 19th century, time travel wasn’t an unheard-of concept, though it was poorly understood. By the late 1890s, research on the subject was scant, barely making a ripple, and the practical uses of time magic were largely confined to theory, at least to the public. The Ministry, naturally, knew more than they were ever willing to reveal.

During your time at Hogwarts, you had a professor who’d been struck by time itself. The details surrounding the event were a closely guarded secret for a very long time. As a former Unspeakable, she had access to knowledge and experiences that others could only dream of—information considered so valuable that it could incite others to go to great lengths—unforgivable lengths—to obtain it.

You, through unspeakable means, were not a stranger to time travel. After all, perhaps that was why you were here, especially considering recent developments.

Dorian sighed loudly. “Did you see the rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unravelling the world,” he explained. “I know what I’m talking about. I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it? Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“He didn’t do it for them,” a voice said, revealing Felix as he approached. He nodded briefly in greeting. “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves ‘Venatori’. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

“An awful amount of effort just to get to me,” you mused.

The lengths people would go to get something someone else owned would never cease to amaze you. It seemed you were always the one holding that thing others desired. Whether it was knowledge, power, or something you otherwise didn’t know the existence of, there was always someone who wanted it, someone who would do nearly anything to take it from you.

No matter where you went, there was always a need for what you had, a desire in others that left you wondering why the universe had seen fit to place you in this position time and time again. It had happened more times than you could count, and only once had you found yourself on the other side of that desire.

“They’re obsessed with you, but I don’t know why. Perhaps because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?” Felix speculated, eying your hand where the Anchor was hidden behind the glove you’d bought from a vendor. “You can close the rifts. Maybe there’s a connection? Or they see you as a threat? If the Venatori are behind those rifts, or the Breach in the sky, they’re even worse than I thought.”

When you finally left the Chantry, night had already taken hold. It was getting late, so it was decided that camp would be made an hour outside Redcliffe. Cassandra deemed it unwise to stay any closer due to the risk of encountering Alexius and the mages, as well as potential abominations that might be lurking. The camp was set up with practiced efficiency; tents were pitched, a fire was lit, and everyone settled in for the night.

“Before we make our return to Haven, we should consider investigating the strange behaviour of the wildlife in the Hinterlands,” Cassandra suggested after she stopped a few metres from the camp, having led you away to chat. “Reports have not been updated for some time.”

“That would be another fortnight of waiting. Why can’t we make a move now?”

Cassandra shook her head hard enough that her amour rattled. She truly did sleep in it sometimes. “We cannot at this time. We don’t have the manpower to take Redcliffe Castle, not when it is in the hands of a magister. Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It has repelled thousands of assaults. There is no point in risking our lives.”

“The Breach hasn’t exactly given us unlimited time.”

“The Herald is correct,” Solas said, approaching the two of you. “We may not have time. The Breach will not wait for deliberation.”

Cassandra sighed deeply. “We must consider returning to Haven. We will know what to do when we have more information.”

“Where is the Earl of Redcliffe? No doubt he’d appreciate getting his castle back, especially when it’s been overtaken by mages,” you mused, words falling on sarcasm.

“After he was displaced, Arl Teagan rode straight for Denerim to petition the Crown for help,” Cassandra explained. Denerim was the capital of Ferelden, placed somewhere on the east coast. “He will not want our assistance once the Ferelden army lays siege to his castle. Not when the forces will be arriving anytime soon.”

“Ah, then we don’t need to go to Alexius. We can wait until he’s dealt with.”

“If they succeed. And then who’s to say what they’ll do to the Tevinter Magister?” Solas asked.

“They’ll kill him? Without trial?”

“Alexius is a powerful mage. With the Templars disjointed, Ferelden isn’t well equipped to hold him for long. It’s unlikely he’ll be held longer than needed.”

Without a doubt, Alexius held the information you needed, most definitely time-related. You needed him both alive and in your care; otherwise,  all your leads would become nullified. Bringing back the dead was a feat harder than catching lightning in a bottle, defying the very fabric of reality itself. Not to mention the risk of being condemned to Azkaban for eternity.

“You’re right,” you said decisively. “I’d like to have a little chat with Alexius, so I say it’s best to get to him before anyone else, ideally as soon as possible. Because we can’t go in through the front, we need another way inside,” you pondered. Then a lightbulb lit in your mind, and you caught Solas’ eye. “Surely you can find something in the Fade? A secret passage in the tombs, or a sally port. Maybe there’s an entrance under the moat. There’s always at least one secret entrance into a castle.”

He deliberated for a moment, then nodded. “It is possible.”

Scotland was known for its history and the countless castles that dotted its landscape. These fortresses, built to withstand invasions and assert power, had withstood the ravages of time, despite the crumbled walls and lingering souls. During your spare time in school, you devoted many hours to exploring the remnants, letting your imagination run wild with visions of their former grandeur. Some of the castles had been home to ghosts, with whom you somewhat enjoyed conversing.

In your explorations, you uncovered secret passages, hidden chambers, and long-forgotten treasures—though you were cautious of touching them, lest they bring misfortune upon you and the world. Narrow, winding staircases led to concealed rooms beneath the castles, while hidden tunnels snaked away from the fortresses and subterranean vaults lay hidden beneath the thrones of fallen kingdoms. These passages were often cleverly disguised, hidden behind false walls, secret bookshelves, or beneath trapdoors, but you had the intuition to uncover the majority of them.

You had come across relics of bygone eras: faded tapestries, rusted armour, broken swords, and chests filled with forgotten riches. Some of these castles were said to be cursed, and though you had respected the warnings and left the treasures undisturbed, the allure of their secrets never fully faded.

There had only been one close call. A wizard who had foreseen your arrival centuries before had set a powerful enchantment, trapping you inside the walls and preventing you from disapparating. Despite this, your adventurous spirit and the challenge of exploring hidden and forgotten fragments of time never quite left you.

Cassandra cleared her throat loudly. “If we are able to find another way, we still do not have the manpower to take the castle. It is a death sentence.”

Memories of taking out whole camps of poachers, dark wizards, and goblins with armour made of corrupted magic came to mind. You were a student back then, but with careful movements and patience, you typically always came out on top unscathed. Typically being the key word. But you were here today, and whatever happened, you’d rise tomorrow.

Cassandra continued, “Perhaps Leliana will know of a way. We should send a raven. But we will still not be able to act without reinforcements.”

“How many do you suspect we’ll need? There are Inquisition soldiers scattered around the Hinterlands, correct?” you asked.

“Scouts and small patrols. But it may take some time to round them up.”

Despite what was being said, you don’t actually need any manpower, just a clean line of sight to Alexius, and then anything he commands would be yours to control. The more manpower, the harder your job would be, as everyone would be getting in each other’s way.

You considered your next words carefully. You lacked information, and one wrong move with Alexius may result in the death of many. “What does being indentured to a magister entail?”

Cassandra appeared as if she didn’t know the answer or what it fully entailed. Instead, it was Solas who answered. “Glorified slavery with a promise of potential freedom. The indentured work until they are bare bone, and often do not see the end to their servitude.”

“They’re not bound to the will of a magister by magic?”

“In name only.”

“And they will not face any consequence if they break their loyalty to him?”

“Are you proposing we turn the mages to our side?” Cassandra asked in disbelief.

“I suggest offering the mages a helping hand—an alliance,” you proposed. “Whether the mages wish to help us, is their choice. But sitting around will help no one.”

“You hold high expectations for the free mages,” Solas said. “It is doubtful they’d wish to help in the change of hands of who holds their chains. They may see the Inquisition as no different from Alexius.”

“I only suggest an alliance. Fiona went out of her way to sway us to her cause. As far as we know, she never approached Alexius or anyone from Tevinter, perhaps for good reason. Whatever time magic Alexius manipulated reversed any agency she possessed. But for what reason? I can’t, in good conscience, allow them to be as they are, not when Alexius clearly holds no regard for them.”

“It is too risky.” Cassandra shook her head, then crossed her arms over her chest, taking on an authoritative stance. “There is no knowing how the mages will act or if we can even get through the fort. It was made with sieges in mind.”

Whatever reply or refute you had in mind was interrupted when a figure appeared out of the dense trees.

“Fortunately, you’ll have help,” Dorian announced, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace as Cassandra immediately drew her sword.

“What are you doing here?” Cassandra demanded, her voice as sharp as her blade.

“Well, I was taking a harmless night stroll when I saw your little camp here glittering brightly for all to see. You really must work on your defences. I walked right on through!”

Perhaps he was right; you ought to start enchanting the camp. The next person who strolled through may not be as earnest as the one before you.

“Are you here to help or berate us?” you asked.

“I can’t do both? I’ll have you know I’m quite the multitasker.” He laughed lightly. “You’ll never get past Alexius’ magic without my help. So if you’re going after him, I’m coming along.”

Along with his humour, he brought a well-crafted plan and crucial knowledge needed to infiltrate the castle without setting off the wards Alexius had set in place. The information came from Felix, who, despite his close relationship with his father, seemed determined to support any effort to oppose him. Why Felix held such differing views from his father was a mystery to you. In truth, you couldn’t fully grasp how a child could turn against their parent so easily, especially their father. You would do anything and everything for yours.

As the Inquisition was becoming more of a cohesive group which could not be led by your decisions alone, it seemed only prudent to gather the advisors’ opinions on the matter of Alexius and his time-travelling ability. However, making the fortnight-long journey to and from Haven seemed like a terrible idea, and would waste precious time.

You arrived in Haven not one hour later. The cold mountain air was a shock to your system, so different from the warm, humid air of the Hinterlands. The town was mostly quiet, with only a few townspeople walking the perimeter.

As luck would have it, Josephine was still at her desk in her office, surrounded by piles of correspondence.

Half asleep, she sat up abruptly when the door opened, her eyes widening in surprise as she saw you. “Herald! I wasn’t aware you had returned.” She stood quickly at the desk. “Did something happen?”

“No, everyone’s fine. But I need to gather the inner circle. There’s something important we need to discuss.”

“Of course. I’ll send word immediately.”

A half-hour later, the advisors were gathered around the war table, though Cassandra’s absence was noticeable.

“My spies can gather the information we need and find a way inside. It may take some time, but it will be thorough,” Leliana suggested after you finished recounting a simplified version of events. They didn’t yet know you’d already arrived in Redcliffe, as there was no way you’d logically be back in time.

“Haven is a week’s travel from Redcliffe. We don’t have the luxury of time. The Breach is a threat that cannot wait.”

“I understand the urgency, but we must be cautious.”

The discussion continued, but you barely heard it. The advisors debated the best course of action, but your mind was elsewhere, already a week ahead of their preparations. You had sought out their help because they were your, and by extension, the Inquisition’s advisors. Making decisions on your own wasn’t ideal; the Inquisition relied on collective guidance rather than singular authority, particularly yours. And among everyone, you had the least to lose.

As the meeting concluded, the advisors dispersed back to their beds, or in Josephine’s case, her desk. Leliana lingered, her eyes studying you with a depth that made you unnaturally uneasy. It was oddly reminiscent of an owl’s unyielding gaze.

“There is one other matter,” Leliana began, her tone serious. “Several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished. I sent word to those in Orlais, but they have also disappeared. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even consider the idea that they’re involved in all this, but the timing is… curious.”

“Grey Wardens?” you repeated. “I’m not familiar with them.”

“They’re an ancient order that has existed to fight darkspawn invasions since the First Blight, thousands of years ago,” Leliana explained, her gaze steady on you. “They have faded since those glory days but haven’t disappeared entirely. Ordinarily, their order is neutral in political affairs, but they… appear in strange places. The others have disregarded my suspicion, but I cannot ignore it. Two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. If you have the opportunity, please seek him out. Perhaps he can put my mind at ease.”

You nodded, taking in this new information. “Okay. I’ll look for this Grey Warden.”

“There is another matter, Herald,” she called when you were about to depart. You’d been gone for too long. “I received reports concerning your identity. It appears you’ve been to Val Royeaux once before.”

“That’s certainly news to me.”

“I was told someone matching your description was seen in the Circle of Magi in Val Royeaux. The validity of these reports are questionable at best.”

“What on earth would I be doing there?”

“A question many ask. How long you were there, is difficult to determine. Reports show you left Orlais a week before the Conclave.”

A week. That would have given you enough time to get to Haven naturally and in time for the Conclave.

With this new information, it became even more crucial that you speak with Fiona as soon as possible. Waiting for Inquisition forces was no longer an option, especially with the truth so tantalisingly close.

“According to Grand Enchanter Fiona, we’ve met before. I just don’t know how,” you revealed, feeling it was for the best to tell the truth to the Spymaster.

Your mind raced, trying to piece together the missing memories and the mess of coincidences. The timing, the circumstances—it all pointed to a disturbing possibility, one you certainly had the means of conducting. Everything remotely disastrous seemed to be occurring at the same time, with you in the middle of it all—and not for the first time.

“Am I going to be put in shackles again?”

“Shackles won’t aid you in fixing the Breach,” Leliana responded, her tone softer now. “And it would not send a good message if people saw their Herald of Andraste in chains.”

At her bidding, you left the Chantry, searching for an empty space where you could apparate back to the Hinterlands without attracting suspicion. Finding a secluded corner behind the Chantry, you took a deep breath and focused on your bedroll currently sitting abandoned in the Hinterlands. With the familiar rush of air and the brief sensation of being pulled through a tight space, you found yourself inside your tent with a soft pop that would have otherwise been silent if not for your exhaustion. Without any other measures needed, you collapsed back into your bedroll. The moment your head hit the cloud-like pillow, your eyes closed, and sleep claimed you.

The world shifted around you, and suddenly, you were standing in the middle of Redcliffe Village. The air felt thick, and everything was unnervingly silent. A shack loomed ahead, sitting in the centre of the village by the docks. Its looming presence felt oddly compelling, as if it had been waiting for you. Without much regard for little else, you walked towards it, your feet moving of their own accord.

The shack door creaked as you pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit interior. Shelves lined the walls, filled with skulls that seemed to watch you as you stepped inside. Each skull had crystals implanted in the eye sockets, making them glow with a pale green light. You couldn’t muster the willpower to stop your legs from moving deeper into the room.

Your gaze was drawn to one skull in particular, its crystal eyes shining brighter than the others. Without knowing why, and apparently lacking basic etiquette, you reached out and picked it up. The smooth bone felt cold in your hands, and as you brought the skull closer to your face, the light from its eyes intensified, filling your vision to a blinding degree. The world around you began to blur, the edges of reality slipping away as you stared into the glowing sockets, unable to look away.

The glow in the skull’s eyes shifted, the pale green light darkening into a deep, blood red. The crimson light seemed to pulse, drawing you in, overwhelming your senses until there was nothing else but that blinding, blood-red hue.

With a sudden jolt, you awoke, disoriented and startled to find you were not in the comfort of your transfigured luxurious furs. Instead, the ground beneath you was cold and uneven, and you were standing on what felt like shards of glass, their sharp edges cutting into your bare feet. The air was thick with a musty scent, tinged with the acrid smell of damp earth and something metallic.

As your senses sharpened, it became clear that you were back in the red lyrium cave. The cavern walls were dimly lit by the eerie glow of the corrupted crystals. What had once seemed like a faintly intriguing light now overwhelmed to your senses, yet irresistible and impossible to ignore all at the same time.

You couldn’t fathom how you’d ended up here. Sleep still clung to you, blurring the line between wakefulness and a dream. Usually, when you realised you were dreaming, you’d wake up immediately. This time, however, that was yet to happen.

Despite your better judgement and purely for research purposes, you chose to seal the cave from the outside. Varric had voiced his concerns to a worrying extent, and you felt it was the least you could do to prevent anyone from accidentally wandering in and getting hurt.

Raising your wand, the stone walls shifted under your command. The rocks at the entrance began to move, covering the cave’s maw. The unnatural process caused some crumbling throughout the cave, and you feared for a moment that it might collapse entirely. When it did not, your efforts continued, guiding the stone to seal the entrance completely. The final boulder slid into place with a heavy thud, sealing the cave and the odd magic within away from prying eyes.

The cave was now effectively hidden, its secrets locked away for only you to unearth. All in the name of research.

Chapter Text

Arriving at the Redcliffe Castle with your party in tow, Alexius stood to greet you as your arrival was announced. Felix stood behind his father, a careful mask of composure on his face, no indication of the betrayal that was about to unfold.

If it would unfold.

“The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them. So, what shall you offer in exchange?” Alexius asked, lounging on the stolen throne, overlooking you as if you were an insignificant worm.

“I’d much rather discuss your time magic,” you said.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

“They know everything, father,” Felix interjected.

The betrayal cut deep. Alexius, a man with an air of arrogance and power, now seemed to radiate a different kind of menace. His once-proud posture faltered as the realisation of his son’s treachery settled in. Alexius’s face twisted into a scowl.

“Your son is concerned that you’re involved in something terrible,” you said.

“So speaks the thief.” Alexius snapped, then stood from the throne, beginning to descend the stairs towards you. “Do you know what you are? You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark—a gift you don’t even understand—and think you’re in control? You’re nothing but a mistake.”

“If I’m a mistake, what exactly was the Breach supposed to accomplish?”

“It was to be a triumphant moment for the Elder One, for this world!”

Felix stepped forward. “Father, listen to yourself! Do you know what you sound like?”

Dorian walked out from behind a pillar, sauntering into the main part of the room as swiftly as he joined in on the conversation. “He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be.”

“Dorian. I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes,” Alexius proclaimed. “Soon he will become a god. He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.”

“Stop it, father. Give up the Venatori. Let the southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home,” Felix pleaded.

“No! It’s the only way, Felix. He can save you!”

“Save me?”

“There is a way,” Alexius said quietly, his voice betraying a moment of doubt. “The Elder One promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple…”

“I’m going to die. You need to accept that,” Felix said, his tone resigned.

Acceptance of death was a hard pill to swallow. You knew that feeling all too well—the crushing inevitability that could not be denied. It was the grim realisation that no matter the strength of one’s resolve or the fervour of one’s spirit, there were moments when fate’s decree was final and unalterable. The Fates were merciless, indifferent to the shattered hopes and dreams they left in their wake. They offered no mercy, no opportunity for redemption. Death, too, was merciless, but even more insidious in his trickery.

Sensing the turn of power and the fact that his son had betrayed him for good, Alexius’ expression shifted into anger. “Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this thief’s life!”

At his command, the agents surged forward. Dorian joined the fray, his magic crackling through the air as he fought alongside you.

When the last Venatori dropped—having cut his own throat after, for whatever reason, slaying his own brethren—Alexius cried out. “You… are a mistake! You never should have existed!” He then held up an amulet of some kind. It rose from his palm, as if from the void.

“No!” Dorian shouted, attempting to hit Alexius with magic.

The magister stumbled, and some kind of rift or portal opened up in the room over you and seemed to swallow you whole within a split second.

With what felt like you’d apparated, you were dropped into waist-high water that revealed itself to be a flooded dungeon. The walls were choked with thick tendrils of red lyrium.

“Blood of the Elder One!” The door slammed open, and two Venatori stumbled in.

Soon enough, they were dead.

Dorian observed the surroundings with fascination. “Displacement? Interesting! It’s probably not what Alexius intended. The rift must have moved us… to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy? Let’s see. If we’re still in the castle, it isn’t... Oh! Of course! It’s not simply where—it’s when!” Dorian realised with an ease you could not relate to. “Alexius used the amulet as a focus. It moved us through time!”

With a quick swish and flick of your wand, your waterlogged robes were dry and smelling faintly of fruit. “The amulet, that’s what he used?”

“I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have thought there’d be many time travelling devices floating around.”

“How are we here if we were just moved through time? We were just in the throne room.”

“Yes, an excellent question,” Dorian agreed, nodding. “What’s a little time travel without ripping apart the fabric of time and space in the process?”

You tried to piece together the situation. Time travel, while complicated, was something you had encountered in theory before. The idea of moving through time has always involved significant risks and unpredictable consequences.

It seemed you understood that more than he thought you did, for he reiterated in simpler terms. “I believe his original plan was to remove you from time completely. If that happened, you would never have been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes or mangled the Elder One’s plan. I think your surprise in the castle hall made him reckless. He tossed us into the rift before he was ready. I countered it, the magic went wild, and here we are, in a different room altogether. Make sense? Good. Let’s get moving.”

You and Dorian pushed forward, entering the cells of the dungeon. As you travelled through the ruined corridor, the blood splattered on the walls, and the pervasive red lyrium created a horrifying display. The air was thick with the stench of decay and the singing presence of the lyrium.

Eventually, you reached the lower cells, where the sight that greeted you was both heart-wrenching and grim. Fiona was half-engulfed by the red lyrium, as if it were trying to swallow her whole. It grew on her like she was a mineral deposit, growing in long shards. The low-humming song resounding in the room made her words difficult to concentrate on.

She warned that Alexius served one known as the ‘Elder One’, who was extremely powerful and dangerous. She suggested finding the amulet Alexius used to send you here was your only hope. If it still existed, it might allow you to reopen the rift at the same spot, though it was uncertain and could be dangerous.

“If red lyrium is an infection... Maker, why is it coming out of the walls?” Dorian wondered aloud when the room Fiona was tethered to no longer loomed in your peripheral. Red lyrium lined the walls as if part of the infrastructure. The overabundance of the strange material caused a sickening feeling to fill your stomach.

You moved further through the ruined cells, collecting your companions one by one. Each rescue was a grim task; the sight of them seemingly infused in red lyrium, to a lesser degree than Fiona whose body had been encased in it, was both distressing and repulsive. The corrupting substance glowed eerily through their eyes and mouths. The red lyrium seeped from behind their teeth, seeming to damage their vocal cords and make their speech hoarse. You averted your gaze as best as you could while working to free them. The sight would be one you’d remember for some time.

As you stepped into the courtyard, the sight was disconcerting. The roof had collapsed, leaving the space exposed to a sky glowing green, with enormous masses of energy hanging suspended in the air. It was as if the Breach had migrated here and expanded, its unnatural form governing the skies. If this was the scene trapped between buildings, you could only imagine how it looked from a clearer view outside.

Ascending the stairs, you came across a rift, which you successfully closed before moving on to another. After sealing that rift as well, finally found the entrance to the throne room. A barred door with more red lyrium covering the frame.

“You’ve got to love what Alexius has done with the place,” Varric said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“The magister’s grown paranoid. He’s barricaded himself in there and will not come out,” Solas observed, his tone analytical.

“What became of Felix? Does anyone know?” Dorian asked.

“I saw him the once,” Varric rasped. “Alexius kept him alive, but the boy was not well. The red lyrium… it twisted him. He’s more creature than man now.”

Dorian’s face crumbled at the news of his friend’s fate. “Maker’s breath... We have to end this. We have to find Alexius and that amulet.” He crouched to pick up a red lyrium shard from a nearby corpse. “What in Andraste’s name is this? It looks like red lyrium…”

As if already knowing the answer, he approached the massive door at the end of the room. The red lyrium shard seemed to fit perfectly into a slot in the door’s frame, as though it were meant to be there. “Maker’s breath! Where did Alexius find this? How did he even move it here?”

“Can the door be opened?” you asked.

“Perhaps, but it looks quite strong. How desperate and paranoid must he be? His servants must have a way through. He has to eat. Let’s look around.”

You tried using Alohomora on the door, but it remained stubbornly shut.

“You do realise it’s not going to budge by pointing at it, don’t you?” he asked.

You turned to your lyrium-corrupted companions. They gazed at you with red in their eyes, looking at you with an expression you recognised from a time long past. It was a familiar stare. You’d seen that look before in the eyes of someone you loved very dearly. It was a look you had seen too often, one that seemed to haunt you—a curse that followed you everywhere you went.

“Well then?” Dorian asked, bringing you back to the present—a present that should never be.

Without a word, you clasped a hand around his shoulder blade. Then, with a single thought, you opened your eyes to see the throne room.

Dorian crashed into you, surprised by the unexpected shift in scenery. When a moment passed and he made no move to vomit on you, you pushed him away.

“What in Andraste’s name did you just do?” he asked, steadying himself.

“I got us through the door without the treasure hunt. Look, there’s our man.”

Alexius was standing near the throne. A crouched figure kneeled beside him.

“A warning will do nicely next time, if you please,” Dorian muttered.

“I knew you would appear again,” Alexius said, hearing your approaching footsteps. “Not that it would be now. But I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My final failure.” He chuckled, sounding to tear from his dry throat. “The irony that you should appear now, of all the possibilities.”

“Hand over the amulet,” you ordered.

“There is no point,” Alexius said, his voice tittering on the brink of madness. “The Fade itself is at the Elder One’s command! What power can stop that? All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought? Ruin and death. There is nothing else. The Elder One comes: for me, for you, for us all. We’ve both failed! Accept your death, as I have!”

Dorian’s eyes widened as he noticed Felix on the floor beside Alexius. “That’s Felix? Maker’s breath, Alexius, what have you done?”

“He would have died, Dorian!” Alexius insisted, desperation in his voice. “I saved him.”

“He looks half dead!”

Felix lay motionless on the ground, his skin pallid and gaunt. The life in his eyes had dimmed, leaving behind a hollow shell that seemed barely alive. Whatever Alexius had done had left Felix in a state that was far from recovery. He looked like he had been drained of everything that once made him whole—a mere echo of his former self.

Yet, he was still breathing. In every practical sense, Felix was alive. It was clear why Alexius had acted as he did—driven by the certainty of the Elder One’s promises.

A part of you recognised that he had some semblance of goodness buried deep within the corrupt magister. He’d been trying to help his son—to stop Fate from crushing its cruel hand against them. His actions, however misguided, were motivated by a love so rarely seen. Many would do the same thing if given the means.

As Dorian approached Felix, you raised your wand to your hand. A look of pure equanimity overcame Alexius’ face as he peered up at your wand. He made no attempt to stop you as you uttered the incantation.

“Accio amulet.”

Right as the amulet revealed itself from the jaded magister’s torn robes, he shot into action, lunging forward to grab onto the flying amulet.

“No!” he yelled as it landed in your awaiting palm, heating it like the jewel was a living organ.

Immediately, he lashed out, throwing sporadic green magic at you. Dorian stepped in, his magic crackling to life as he defended you against Alexius’s attacks. With a final, powerful blast, Dorian struck Alexius down, ending the magister’s life.

As quickly as it began, it ended.

Just as it seemed the battle might reach a stalemate, a loud crash echoed through the chamber. The heavy doors at the end of the room were flung open, and Dorian’s bemoaned, “No more demons.”

But the sound of clanking metal and hurried footsteps revealed it was not demons but your other companions who had managed to find their way inside.

Dorian, panting heavily, dropped to his knees beside Alexius’s lifeless body. The abruptness of death was stark; a life could be taken in an instant, but the feeling of loss lingered like a shadow, lasting far longer than the fleeting moment of demise.

He glanced over at Felix, who remained still on the floor, seemingly oblivious to the death of his father and the chaos that had just unfolded. Felix’s expression was vacant—his eyes held a haunting stare, as though he were detached from the world around him and barely holding on by a stretched thread.

“He wanted to die, didn’t he?” Dorian murmured, tearing his eyes from what once was Felix. “All those lies he told himself, the justifications... He lost Felix long ago and didn’t even notice. Oh, Alexius… The amulet, you have it?”

You handed it to him carefully. The loss was immediate; the warmth it had been pulsing into your hand ceased.

He examined the amulet. “This is the same amulet he used before. I think it’s the same one we made in Minrathous. That’s a relief. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and I should be able to reopen the rift.”

A demonic screech echoed through the castle, followed by the roar of a dragon.

“The Elder One,” Cassandra said, her voice ever so flat.

“We’ll hold the outer door.” Without so much as a nod, Solas turned his back and walked towards the door. “When they get past us, it will be your turn.”

The doors to the throne room, previously shut tight, creaked and groaned under the strain of the forces outside. With a thunderous crash, they burst open. Demons and lyrium-addled monsters surged into the chamber like a relentless tide, their forms distorted and grotesque. The floor was soon littered with the bodies of your friends who had been left outside; their lifeless forms almost formed into the blood-soaked ground.

Finally, with a resounding burst of magical energy, the spell was completed. The rift began to tear open once more, casting a bright light into the room.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian said, landing gracefully in the present.

Alexius, defeated once more, fell to his knees. As he did, ropes materialised out of thin air and wrapped themselves around his limbs under your control. “You won. There’s no point extending the charade,” he admitted, then turned his head to Felix, despite the robes restricting his movements. “Felix…”

“It’s going to be all right, Father,” Felix reassured him.

“You will die.”

“Everyone dies,” Felix replied calmly, already accepting his own fate.

The handful of Inquisition soldiers you’d managed to collect led Alexius away.

Dorian sighed with relief. “Well, I’m glad that’s over with!”

As if that was the signal they were waiting for, Ferelden troops marched into the hall, drawing everyone’s attention. A man and woman followed behind, both dressed in what looked like medieval noble garb.

“Or not,” Dorian muttered.

“Grand Enchanter, we’d like to discuss your abuse of our hospitality,” the man said sternly, with no attempt at introductions.

“Your majesties,” Fiona greeted them, bowing slightly.

The woman’s voice was icy. “When we offered the mages sanctuary, we did not give them the right to drive the people from their homes.”

“King Alistair, Queen Anora, I assure you, we never intended…”

Anora interrupted her and said, “In light of your actions, good intentions are no longer enough.”

“You and your followers have worn out your welcome. Leave Ferelden, or we’ll be forced to make you leave,” Alistair continued.

This was why non-magic people and those with magic would never fully understand each other. The fear and distrust ran deep, especially when the latter wielded such power that the former would never understand. It seemed that no matter how hard mages tried to prove themselves, the fear of magic as a whole loomed large.

“The Inquisition is willing to take in the mages,” you suggested.

Cassandra caught your eye with a stern expression. “I know you are a mage, but consider how these rebels have acted. They must be conscripted, not coddled.”

“Where else will they go?” you asked, then nodded to Fiona. “Trust that this is an alliance. If you wish to decline or end our alliance, you may do so. I will not force your hand. But the Breach threatens all of Thedas and will not close itself. Any chance of success requires your full support.”

Fiona appeared sceptical. “It seems we have little choice but to accept whatever you offer.”

“It’s a generous offer. I doubt you’re going to get a better one from us,” Alistair said. No, doubtfully not.

“We accept,” Fiona sighed. She lowered her head, either in defeat or something else. “It would be madness not to. I will gather my people and ready them for the journey to Haven. The Breach will be closed. You will not regret giving us this chance.”

Finally done with the Redcliffe Fort, and now with the Free Mages support, you walked out of the fort with a deep-seated sense of triumph. However, this wasn’t a time for celebration or reflection. You were on a mission.

“So, where are we off to now, our dear leader?” Varric asked, having difficulties keeping pace with you judging by his heavy breathing.

You didn’t slow down. The urgency of your task drove you forward. “I’m looking for a shack.”

“One in particular, or will any do? There’s no shortage of shacks in Redcliffe,” he quipped, his tone light despite his breathlessness. “Of all places, though, I didn’t peg you as wanting to settle down here.”

“The shack by the docks.”

You soon found the cabin from your dream. The small wooden structure by the water was exactly as you’d envisioned it. Weathered, unassuming, yet there was an unsettling pull to it. Without hesitation, you approached the door, pulling out your wand.

“Alohomora,” you murmured, and the iron bolt unlocked with a snap.

Cassandra appeared behind you, her presence as much a shadow as a companion. “You’re trespassing.”

“I think you’ll want to see this.”

Ensured by your intuition, you pushed the door inward, stepping inside. The dim light revealed rows of skulls lined up on shelves, just as they had appeared in your dream. The only thing not like your dream was how the skulls had glowed. Now, the eerie light that had filled their eye sockets in your vision was absent. You reached out to one of them, feeling only the faintest trace of magic, nearly imperceptible.

“Naturally, you choose the shack with the skulls,” Varric complained.

You ignored him, your eyes catching onto a book opened on the desk, situated between more skulls. Picking it up, you frowned at the unfamiliar script. The letters were of the common tongue, but written at an advanced level that you could not yet decipher. You handed the note to Solas’ awaiting palm.

“These skulls are those of the Tranquil,” he said after scanning the page. “I had wondered what had become of them when the mages rebelled. What a tragic waste.”

Cassandra, standing by the doorway, as she’d seemed hesitant to trespass, shook her head with a look of regret. “I had wondered where they had gone. Never would I have thought…”

“Those were Tranquil skulls?” Varric’s usual swagger faltered. “I figured they fled the rebel mages. Poor bastards.”

“It appears Alexius was conducting some type of experiment on them,” Solas explained. “He targeted the Tranquil who were abandoned by the mages.”

You looked around the room, just knowing something was missing. “Is anyone going to tell me what a Tranquil is?”

Varric and Cassandra exchanged uneasy glances, but it was Solas who spoke. “The Rite of Tranquillity is a procedure where a mage’s connection to the Fade is severed. It’s often performed on those who cannot control their magic. If a mage even dares to think outside the strict teachings of the Circles, they risk being made Tranquil.”

“How does it work?”

“The details are not public knowledge. The Circles have kept the specifics hidden. But it is known that the process involves damaging the soul, perhaps irreparably.”

“So, they enter a vegetative state?” you asked. “Their body is alive, but they’re no longer conscious. A fate worse than death.”

“Yes,” Solas confirmed, his tone sombre.

Magic and the soul, while not the same thing, were intrinsically connected—without one, the other could not truly thrive. The Rite of Tranquillity endorsed by the Circles compared to the Dementor’s Kiss, a punishment endorsed by the Ministry of Magic, was unavoidable. Both stripped their victims of their essence, leaving them mere shells of their former selves. Just as wizards could not live without their magic, mages in Thedas seemed to lose a vital part of their soul, leaving them hollow, emotionless, and devoid of will.

But what took that soul, you wondered. The MOM used dark creatures, borderline evil, demonic beings—what did the Circles use?

You asked about as much, finding the words displaying themselves harsher on your tongue than intended.

For something so normal and easily accepted in society, they were hesitant to answer.

“The process is shrouded in secrecy, but spirits, likely demons, are involved,” Solas speculated.

“It was a necessary sacrifice for the greater good,” Cassandra countered. “With the Rite, dangerous mages are spared from execution. They lead productive, peaceful lives without the fear of demonic possession.”

“‘Productive’—they don’t have a soul! Their lives are meaningless.”

“You misunderstand. The Tranquil's souls are not removed. It’s not perfect, but it’s the system that’s in place. The Circles believe it is a necessary measure to keep magic from becoming a threat. They are given a chance to live without being a danger to themselves or others.”

“A system that preys on the vulnerable is not a system,” you said with contempt. “It’s merely a prison masked as order. If someone commits a crime, they should face proper punishment, whether it be imprisonment or death. The Rite of Tranquillity isn’t about preventing harm—it’s about control, enacted through draconian measures. It’s not pre-emptive justice; it’s a method of subjugation. You might as well drop the pretence and burn every mage at the stake.”

Cassandra’s expression hardened. “There are many who would argue that the Rite. Perhaps you don’t understand because you are not from here.”

“That is where you’re wrong,” you said curtly. “This system of control and suppression is one my own society uses. And that is why I’m not blind to the faults. It’s a common affliction for those in power to justify their methods as necessary for order, but it often comes at the cost of basic human dignity and freedom. But where’s the line? At what point does preventing harm become perpetuating suffering?” Very rarely was it about safety; instead, it was about maintaining power through fear and repression.

A heavy silence fell over the room as the weight of your words settled in. It was a silence that seemed to stretch, pressing down on everyone with an uncomfortable truth.

You had never cared much for civil issues (a bitter pill to swallow, but you couldn’t be the saviour in every story, if one at all), preferring to focus on your own tasks and responsibilities. Yet perhaps this oversight led you to this very situation. Maybe this was your karma—to be faced with a system that mirrored the failings of your own time and lift more than a finger to do something about it. What troubled you equally was the apparent indifference to the suffering wrought by such systems in both worlds. History did tend to repeat itself, after all.

“What was Alexius trying to do?” you asked, shifting the focus back to an issue you could solve. It was for the best that you’d taken Alexius into your care. He had a lot to answer to.

Solas examined the book again. “The notes are vague, but it appears he was using them to create something called an ‘ocularum’. A magical device that allows one to see hidden shards of some kind, attempting to harness their power for unknown purposes.”

With the little you knew of him, you could only imagine what Alexius had intended to do with such a device.

“We should inform the Inquisition about this, nor can we leave the skulls here,” you declared, your voice firm. “We’ll take them with us. Perhaps we can find a way to lay them to rest properly.”

Burying them may not align with their own funeral practices, but you didn’t exactly have the means of hearing out their final wishes. It was the least you could do to allow them some semblance of peace.

“I can’t believe you actually went through with it,” Cassandra said, her voice low but with barely contained anger. “You’ve put us all at risk by recruiting those mages. Do you not know the danger? They could turn into abominations!”

Except for the two of you, the camp was quiet. Varric and Dorian (who had decided to tag along to your group after complaining once more about the inadequacy of your protective enchantments) had made themselves scarce when Cassandra stormed up to you in the middle of dinner preparations. The moonlight cast long shadows across the tents of the Hinterlands, barely brighter than the many campfires in the distance.

“They’re- we’re not monsters. We can control ourselves without anyone else’s intervention. We made our decision for a reason.” You met her gaze steadily, though you felt the sting of her words. “I made a decision based on what’s best for them and the Inquisition, not fears. There’s more to this than just the risks. You saw me as an equal. If you believe that, you should accept my decision just as I accept yours.”

“This isn’t just about accepting decisions. This is about ensuring the safety of everyone involved.”

“And I’m telling you that I believe in the mages’ ability to control themselves. Non-magic people shouldn’t make decisions about magic—especially when they don’t understand it fully. You’re not a mage; you don’t understand us or them, and yet you’re making judgments as if you do.”

The words hung in the air, a heavy silence settling over you both.

Cassandra gave a terse nod, her face still set in a scowl. “Very well. We’ll discuss this further when we return to Haven.”

With steam practically blowing out of your ears, you departed the camp, your footsteps crunching against the gravel path. The Free Mages’ camp lay a short walking distance behind your own, visible by the hued flames peeking through the trees. The night air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, mingling with the faint smell of smoke.

The tents were arranged in a dishevelled but functional manner, a far cry from the small, orderly camp you had left behind. A few mages bustled about, preparing for the night, their expressions tired and weary of your sudden presence.

Upon enquiry, you were directed to a nondescript tent towards the centre of the camp, where Fiona was seated at a small table, her posture slouched and eyes focused on a piece of parchment in front of her.

You cleared your throat to get her attention.

“Herald of Andraste,” Fiona greeted with a subdued tone, looking up from the table. Her eyes held a deep sadness, a shadow of the burden she appeared to carry when in the Redcliffe fort, when she was imprisoned by Alexius. If anything, she appeared more downcast, regardless of how hard she hid the look.

“I hope there has been no trouble with your wards.” You took the seat across from her, as standing would have made it seem like you were asserting dominance or rank over her. You wanted to meet her as nothing but an equal. This was an alliance, not a dictatorship.

“There are doubts among the mages about whether the Inquisition will truly help us. They’ve seen promises made before, only to be broken.”

That was only natural. “I can see how they might feel that way. But we need your help. The Breach remains a significant threat. We need all the help we can get.”

“We will help. We all have a stake in this, and we understand the necessity of our cooperation. The mages are ready to do whatever it takes to assist the Inquisition in that regard.” Fiona’s eyes met yours. “I appreciate your trust in us. Many would not have given us this chance after what has transpired these past years.”

You leant forward, your voice low and earnest. “I believe in second chances, Grand Enchanter. And I believe in the power of magic when it is wielded responsibly. We’re stronger together than divided.”

Fiona’s expression softened slightly. The lines of stress on her face seemed to ease just a little. She appeared to be middle-aged, or in her 40s, as middle-aged for an elf was not the same for a human, magical or otherwise.

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to broach the topic that had been weighing on your mind. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” you began, your heart beating a smidge quicker at the promise of answers. “I wanted to ask—have we met before yesterday? In Val Royeaux.”

Fiona appeared taken off guard, as if she’d been expecting something entirely different. Her eyes widened slightly before she composed herself. “Yes, we have,” she said slowly. “It was a brief encounter in the Chantry in Val Royeaux.”

“I was in the Chantry?”

Her expression grew troubled. “You do not remember?”

“My memories have been erased. I’m not entirely sure how. I woke up with no recollection of who I am or how I got here. The mark on my hand seems to be the only clue to my past,” you said. “I’d hoped you’d have answers.”

“You truly don’t remember?” Her eyes widened. “You were made to go through the Rite of Tranquillity.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. “I beg your pardon? I was made Tranquil?”

“Yes,” Fiona confirmed. “When we met, you bore the mark of Tranquillity. Yet you still possessed your magic and emotions—an impossibility I had never encountered before. That is why our paths crossed.”

You struggled to process her words. The implications of having undergone the Rite, of something you couldn’t remember one ounce of, were verging on overwhelming—it was possibly the most overwhelmed you’d been in a long time.

“When I realised what had happened, I warned you to keep pretending to be Tranquil. I feared what the Chantry might do if they discovered the Rite had failed,” Fiona continued.

“I didn’t know,” you said quietly. You unconsciously reached up to touch your forehead, finding only wind-chafed skin.

“The Rite should not affect memory. But to erase one’s memories so completely… it is unusual. You went through the Rite more than once, which likely has affected your memory more severely than usual.”

More than once, she’d said, certain. Given the first time did not work, and you were not connected to the Fade, it likely never severed completely. Otherwise, you would likely be one of Alexius’ ocularum experiments.

“I fear my memory loss is unrelated,” you said. “How is that possible? I thought the Rite of Tranquillity…” You couldn’t find the right words. None of this made sense.

“That is what is believed,” Fiona said, her voice low. “By all accounts, it shouldn’t be possible. The Rite is irreversible. But there have been... rumours... of a reversal.” She hesitated, uncomfortable. “I don’t know much else, nor will I say more on the topic.”

The fragments of your past seemed even more elusive now, tangled in a web of uncertainties and half-truths.

“Do you know why I was under arrest and held in the prisons before the Chantry in Val Royeaux?”

Fiona shook her head. “I don’t know the specifics. But given your powerful magic, I assume it was in some way related. Why they did not kill you on the spot… I am unaware.”

You could think of a few reasons—fear, intrigue, or something else entirely.

“It was Lord Seeker Lucius Corin who ordered you to be made Tranquil.”

You should seek out the Seekers of Truth for... the truth. The irony was a slap in the face. He didn’t seem to care when the Inquisition addressed the Chantry at Val Royeaux, but if you escaped a prison sentence, you would have covered your tracks.

“Is there anything else I should know?” you asked, trying to grasp the extent of your loss.

“I’m afraid we did not have much else to talk about.”

“What about…” You hesitated. “Did I give you anything? An item of some sort, or perhaps a box?”

Fiona appeared to be truly puzzled. “You did not give me anything. The Chantry likely took all of your belongings when you were imprisoned.”

It was a cruel twist of fate at the most inopportune time. You had lost something important, right as you were on the verge of a long-awaited discovery. It was unlikely you would have given this specific item to her willingly. If you were condemned to the prisons of Val Royeaux, imaginably, you would have considered turning it over, hoping that relinquishing it might remove the temptation to use it. But if you landed in prison, it was for a good reason and all the more reason to give up. The bigger question was not how you’d found yourself in prison, rather why you’d left it.

Alexius wasn’t the only one with an artefact that could manipulate time. In your case, however, you hadn’t known—hadn’t remembered—getting yours working. You’d spent so long finding it, only to learn it was a dud.

But now it was somewhere in Val Royeaux, or possibly lost elsewhere in Thedas, drifting aimlessly. You hoped no one would figure out how to use it before you could.

“I see.” You sighed, the weight of the conversation settling heavily on your shoulders. “Thank you for telling me,” you said finally, standing up. “I appreciate it.”

You nodded in return and left the tent, the cool night air greeting you as you stepped back into the darkness. The stars above seemed distant, indifferent to the trials you faced. Fates be damned; the path you walked was shaped by choices, some of which led you far from where you, and others, had intended for you to be.

Chapter Text

The next day, by the time the group settled down for camp that evening, your earlier frustration had faded into a more reflective mood. The anger you had felt was misplaced; your companions were not at fault. Blaming them for things outside their control would only serve to create unnecessary friction, driving a wedge between you when you needed unity the most.

You found yourself sitting with Cassandra, the night air cool and crisp around the flickering campfire. The conversation turned to the pressing issue of the Templars.

“What are we going to do about the Templars?” you asked. “Will we be recruiting them?”

Cassandra’s response was immediate and resolute. “No. Now that we have the mages, there’s no way either side would agree to work alongside each other.”

“What, then, will we do about the mage-templar rebellion? The Inquisition doesn’t have the means of ending it on our own.”

“That is not our duty. We have enough to contend with without taking on the responsibility of resolving the rebellion,” she replied, tone firm. Cassandra wasn’t one to shirk responsibility, but the topic of mages always seemed to bring out an edge in her, as if they were an exception to her usual sense of duty.

“Well, we can’t just ignore it. Wasn’t the Inquisition initially formed in response to the mage-templar rebellion?” you pressed.

“Yes,” Cassandra acknowledged, her expression tight. “The Inquisition was created as a backup plan to address the crisis between mages and templars if the Chantry’s efforts failed. However, our primary focus now must be the Breach. Once we’ve dealt with that, we can consider our next steps.”

“You don’t believe we will survive?” you asked. “Where’s your faith, Cassandra?”

In your world, the Templars of old were ruthless zealots, crusaders who waged war in the name of faith but often for reasons far less noble. History had shown you the damage such fervour could cause, and it seemed a little different here in Thedas. The Templars, with their blind loyalty to the Chantry and their heavy-handed approach to mages, reminded you all too much of those ancient draconian crusaders.

“And where are the Templars currently holed up?” you asked, hoping to gather as much information as you could.

Cassandra hesitated, then finally relented. “Therinfal Redoubt,” she said, her voice resigned. When you asked her to point it out on the map, she shook her head. “Seeking them out is a wasted effort,” she added, as if trying to dissuade you from pursuing the matter further.

“It’s not a wasted effort if it helps us find a way to end the conflict,” you argued. “You wanted to speak with Lucius in the first place. Don’t you wish to anymore?”

“I did. At the very least, I wanted to understand his reasoning. But it is too late now.”

“Then let me go. I can speak to him,” you offered.

Cassandra scoffed at the idea. “The Templars and mages will never cooperate. It’s unlikely both leaders would agree to speak on good terms. Neither will come to the same understanding. It would be a wasted effort.”

She was right. You could attempt to change either leader’s minds to cooperate, but it would only be a matter of time before someone who disliked the cooperation stepped up, then you’d need to change their mind too, and then again when they’re subsequently replaced, then again and again and again until the cycle ran its course and the wheel could no longer turn. Stopping one conflict would only delay the inevitable rise of another.

But your true goal wasn’t about brokering peace between the templars and mages. Truthfully, there wasn’t much need to care for joining both forces. People loved war, particularly people sitting in high chairs with bigger coffers to fill, and stopping one war would mean only delaying the inevitable. Your true goal was to merely speak to the Seeker Lucius. He knew something of your past, whether it be your missing memories or your magical nullification as a Tranquil.

As it had been with Alexius, then Fiona. How long will this chain of false leads continue on? Would it ever end? How long even was it?

“I don’t care about that as much as speaking to Lucius about my past,” you admitted, hoping Cassandra would understand.

“What do you mean?”

You hesitated. Revealing the truth could be dangerous. If you were arrested—by Cassandra’s old superior, no less—sharing that information would not bode well. You couldn’t afford to lose her trust now, not when you were so close to finding out the truth.

“I just need to know more about what happened to me. Lucius apparently has the answers,” you said, carefully sidestepping the full truth. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

The decision had been made—if Cassandra wouldn’t help you locate the Templars, someone else would, or they’d help you locate it yourself.

You pulled out the map you had momentarily stolen from the Haven Chantry. It had been of some use these past couple of months, despite your inability to read it fully.

Attempting to apparate to Therinfal Redoubt without solid information was futile. Wizards could apparate to places they had never been before, as long as they had a clear mental image of the destination (e.g., through an illustration) and its approximate location, neither of which you had. You knew the approximate location of the fort, but it was otherwise a mystery, hidden deep within the unfamiliar wilderness of the Brecilian Forest. The thought of blindly teleporting into the unknown, risking materialising inside a tree trunk or a rock, was enough to make you dismiss the idea entirely.

No, you needed more. The Fade offered mages the chance to explore realms they had never encountered before. Through its depths, you could locate Therinfal Redoubt and gain a comprehensive understanding of it, making it possible to safely apparate there. The convergence of such abilities opened up boundless possibilities for what could be achieved with their combined use. You could explore all of Thedas without depleting any resources.

Only one question remained: how could you utilise the Fade effectively for this purpose?

Varric was the first person who came to mind, and it didn’t take long to find him. When you approached, he glanced up from his writing. Without much preamble, you asked him to show you where the Therinfal Redoubt was on the map.

Setting aside his quill, he traced his finger along the parchment until it stopped at an illustration of a dense forest. “Right here,” he said, tapping the map with a rough fingertip. “The Brecilian Forest. It’s a massive stretch of woodland in southeastern Ferelden. Not exactly the most welcoming place, but if the Templars are hiding, it’s a good spot for whatever they’re up to.”

You studied the map closely, taking in the details. The forest was vast, sprawling across a significant portion of the land. It was no wonder the Templars had chosen it for their stronghold—remote, dense, and difficult to navigate. On horseback, the travel would roughly take a fortnight. Precious time that couldn’t be wasted.

Next, you sought out Solas, knowing he’d have more insight into specific details. The elf was seated by the fire, his eyes closed as if in meditation. As you approached slowly, he opened them, giving you a nod of acknowledgment.

“Solas,” you returned the greeting. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. What is it you require?”

You settled beside him, feeling the warmth of the fire against your skin. “What makes you think I want something from you?”

“People rarely seek me out for idle conversation. But please, prove me wrong.”

A challenge. You weren’t one to back down from a challenge, and you certainly didn’t want to prove him right, or to be predictable. “Okay, let’s talk then…” Your voice trailed off, suddenly having nothing to say, that short spurt of confidence sizzling into nothing.

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the crackling of the fire. You glanced at Solas, his calm demeanour betraying nothing, as if he were content to wait as long as it took, however long that may be.

Before the Breach, before whenever your stolen memories were cut off, you didn’t really talk to many people, as there was no reason to. Varric’s observation about your social skills being lacking was accurate, but he didn’t realise that during your school years, you were actually quite the social butterfly. After school, your life had been entirely self-sufficient; you cultivated your own produce for food and potions, maintained quite the greenhouse, cared for various beasts, and had a seemingly endless flock of chickens running around. All in all, your social skills weren’t inept, just enfeebled.

And really, what would you say? You knew nothing of elves in this time. The world you found yourself in was vastly different from the one you remembered. Even the simplest topics felt like a minefield, where one wrong step could expose how little you understood about this world—or worse, reveal something you weren’t ready to share. Your ignorance would be annoying, if not offensive.

On the other hand, it wasn’t like he had much to talk about either. It was always Fade this, Fade that with him, and the Fade was a topic you were more than happy with ignoring, but recent events had made that very difficult.

You must have deliberated for too long, as Solas took initiative. “You spoke to Grand Enchanter Fiona. I hope the conversation went well.”

“Oh, yes, it did. Absolutely…”

“And you received whatever answers you were looking for?”

Of being forced to go through the Rite of Tranquillity, which had seemed so similar to a Dementor’s Kiss? Those weren’t the answers you were looking for, that’s for sure.

“To some extent, yes,” you said, choosing not to say exactly what she’d revealed to you. You were already looked at oddly for your strange, nearly overpowered magic. You didn’t need any more accusations that you were anything more or less than human.

Solas let out a small, somewhat disappointed sigh. “In that case, what is the true reason behind why you sought me out tonight, Herald?”

“Actually, I was curious about the origins of the Fade. How was it created, do you know?”

It appeared that was the wrong thing to ask, given his expression. Strange, considering the Fade was his favourite topic. “Asking if it was created implies a linearity that no report suggests the Fade possesses. The Fade simply is a reflection of dreams and thoughts existing parallel to our world.”

“Everything has to come from somewhere.”

The Fade, with all its power and how a third of the population could access that power, was not something that could simply exist. It was unnatural, and it gave people unnatural power.

“To ask where it comes from is like asking where thoughts come from or where light goes when it fades,” Solas replied disapprovingly, as if you were a child being taught a lesson you’d received far too many times previously. “It is part of the natural order, not something that was created or made. It has always been, and it always will, in some shape or form.”

The closest comparable thing to the Fade was the afterlife; both places where demons and spirits roamed (to an extent), and both were separated from the world of the living with the same old Veil. But it wasn’t just that—everyone dreamed in the Fade—you dreamed in the Fade and whatever you dreamed had an impact on your physical form. It was no simple afterlife or limbo.

“But the Fade is still something ‘other’, a separate realm with its own name. It’s shrouded in mystery, and we know so little about it beyond the fact that it is where magic originates…” you guessed, trying to piece together the fragments of knowledge you had.

An unfamiliar flicker crossed his face, only to be quickly masked by his usual stoic demeanour. “You are not entirely wrong, but not entirely correct either. The Fade is indeed complex and ever-changing. But it is as much a part of this world as the ground beneath our feet or the air we breathe. It is not separate, merely… different. Separated.”

A thought struck you, unbidden and unsettling: if the Fade could be influenced by those who dreamed within it, what would that mean for those who possessed the knowledge and power to shape it? Could they, in turn, reshape the world itself? And if so, what kind of consequences would that bring? The thought of such power was intoxicating, yet terrifying. It was a power that could create or destroy, heal or harm, depending on the will of the one who wielded it.

You voiced a fragment of these questions, having no power to stop them from slipping out.

Solas’ eyes narrowed slightly. “It is a realm of immense power, but it is also a place of great danger. To attempt to shape it, to bend it to one’s will, is to risk losing oneself in its depths. Many have tried, and few have succeeded without paying a terrible price.”

His words were a warning, but they also hinted at possibilities, at secrets hidden within the Fade that could change everything if only they could be unlocked. It was tempting—too tempting, perhaps. You felt a pull, a desire to know more, a knowing that you had the means of learning more than most.

“But it is possible?”

“In spirit, as in dreams, only.”

You shivered slightly, but not from the cold. No, your robes were enchanted to protect from the harshest of weather. Despite that, the warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill that crept into your bones.

“I know you did not approach to talk about the Fade,” he said. “What is it you truly wanted from me?”

“I intended to ask how a mage controls their dreams. Of course, you answered me unknowingly.”

He looked taken aback. “I see. You wish to learn the art of actively dreaming in the Fade. It’s not an easy skill to master. But it can be invaluable for a mage. May I ask why you seek this knowledge? Have you experienced more of those dreams?”

You hesitated, weighing how much to reveal. “There’s… information I need. Information that I believe can only be found through the Fade.”

“You seek to use the Fade as a means of exploration. To find places or knowledge beyond your physical reach. It is a dangerous pursuit. The Fade is not just a landscape of thought and memory—it is a realm where spirits dwell, some benign, others not. To find your way through it purposefully requires not only skill, but an understanding of the risks involved. And the will to confront what you may find. The Fade can reveal truths that are difficult to face, and once seen, they cannot be unseen.”

“So no different than a nightmare,” you joked.

“It can be,” Solas agreed as if it were nothing. “But it’s also a place of great beauty, if you know where to look.”

“Is there a method to control what you see in dreams?” you asked, intrigued. “Can you direct them or focus on specific elements?”

Solas tilted his head slightly, considering your question. “The ability to control dreams is a skill that requires a deep connection to the Fade. It is not something easily mastered. For most, dreams are shaped by their subconscious and the influences of the Fade, rather than by deliberate intent.”

“But surely there must be a way to learn it. I’ve heard you describe places in great detail. How do you manage that?”

“The detailed visions come from a combination of extensive practice and natural aptitude. One must spend a great deal of time in the Fade to develop this skill, becoming familiar with its nuances and learning to focus one’s mind amidst its chaos.” He adjusted his position slightly. “While it is not impossible, it would be difficult for someone so unfamiliar with it, such as yourself,” he said, a challenge in his tone.

“We’ll see.”

As the conversation waned, Solas’s gaze turned thoughtful, and he shifted slightly, as if weighing his words. “There is something else I’ve been meaning to discuss,” he began carefully. “Regarding the experiences you and Dorian had with the time magic. I’ve been curious about what you saw.”

You stiffened, your mind immediately retreating from the topic. The memories of those visions were disorienting and troubling. “A dark future. One worth doing whatever is needed to stop it before it comes into fruition.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but you cut him off before he could say anything more.

“We should discuss it later with the rest of the Inquisition,” you said, standing up quickly. You had no desire to rummage through those unsettling memories any further.

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked away from the fire.

When you finally settled into your tent that night, you couldn’t get to bed soon enough. After eating dinner quickly and taking a refreshing dip in the river, you settled into bed with a single, focused thought: Therinfal Redoubt. As you closed your eyes, you pictured a forest—tall, ancient trees with their gnarled roots tangling through the earth, the air thick with the scent of moss and damp leaves. You chanted the name in your mind, Therinfal Redoubt, Therinfal Redoubt, willing the image to take root in your subconscious.

Slowly, your thoughts began to blur, the chant merging with the darkness behind your eyelids as you drifted off. The world around you faded, replaced by the hazy, indistinct sensations of… something else. Indiscernible. A totally different world, where you almost were a different person, being, or creature.

You found yourself standing in a dense forest. The trees towered above, their branches forming a thick canopy that allowed only slivers of moonlight to filter through. The ground beneath your feet was soft, covered in a thick layer of leaves that crunched softly with each step you took. The air was cool, almost damp, and carried the distant sound of rustling leaves and the occasional call of a nightbird.

You wandered through the forest, letting your surroundings unfold naturally around you. The trees seemed to shift as you moved, their shapes warping in that strange, dreamlike way where nothing stayed quite the same from one moment to the next. You walked for what felt like hours, the scenery changing subtly yet always staying within the bounds of that all-consuming woodland.

But then something shifted. The forest became too still, too silent, as if it were holding its breath. A sense of unease began to creep in, tickling the edge of your awareness like the tips of wet leaves on exposed flesh. The foliage beneath your feet no longer crunched as they should have, and the trees no longer whispered along the wind. Everything felt too deliberate, too real.

A whisper threaded through the silence, a strange, disembodied voice that sent a shiver down your spine. “Therinfal Redoubt.” The words seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, carried by an unnatural breeze that blew straight down from the skies.

Awareness flooded back like opened floodgates, and with it, a strange, weightless sensation. The realisation was like a jolt of electricity through your veins. You stood still, taking in your surroundings with new eyes. The details sharpened, the forest becoming more defined, more perceptible. Cool air blew against your skin as the faint rustle of leaves intensified as if they were right beside you.

But with that awareness came a familiar sensation: you could feel yourself waking up. Beyond the dream, your physical body was beginning to stir, becoming aware of the furs you lay on, the distinct crackle of the campfire nearby. Panic flared through you—your hand in great green sparks—if you woke up now, you’d lose the connection.

To stabilise the dream, you placed your focus on the trees around you, anchoring yourself to them. You reached out and touched the rough bark of a nearby tree, feeling its texture beneath your fingertips. The cool, solid reality of it grounded you, pulling you deeper into the dream. The blurred details of the bark sharpened into focus, and soon the sure scent of freshly unearthed dirt and fresh rain itched your nostrils. The forest seemed to breathe with you, its presence wrapping around you like a cloak.

Your cloak, you then realised, was a swarm of butterflies. A kaleidoscope of colour that danced around you, their wings alight with colour in the otherwise dark forest.

You reached out to touch one in childlike wonder, but it eluded your grasp, teasing you with a high-pitched giggle.

In a moment of distraction, you accidentally inhaled one of the butterflies. It passed through you, but moments later, it emerged from your glowing green hand, intact and fluttering as if nothing had happened.

“Why is my hand glowing?” asked the freshly eaten butterfly. It had no hand to glow, but its wing did take on a strange green colour.

“Why is your hand glowing?” you repeated, staring at your hand. An odd splattering of green magic spluttered out of it like an overfilled pot put on full boil.

A voice interrupted the sudden cooking scene—a grating, dry sound that made you turn.

“Mmm, lepidoptera. Yum-yum,” the face of the man in the tree let out a belch. When he did so, half-digested butterflies flew out of his mouth, forming from his bright white teeth.

“How are you eating?” you asked, though the face was quickly smothered by a fresh wave of butterflies. They smothered him with their innocent, delicate wings.

“This is exhausting!” shouted another voice, belonging to what you could only assume was the tree’s second cousin-in-law. This voice, too, was soon buried under a swarm of butterflies, their size growing rapidly as they bit away at the bark. “This is exhausting!” the tree continued to shout. “This is exhausting!”

In an instant, the tiny insects transformed into monstrous, man-eating butterflies. Their once delicate forms now loomed large, with a predatory aura sewn into their wings. You knew instinctively that these butterflies were no ordinary insects—they were menacing, hungry, and ready to eat you like they did the tree men. Nothing about them yelled ‘Man-Eating Butterflies!’, but you knew in that way that you just knew without prior knowledge. An intuition that bordered on sixth sense.

With that came a sudden, halting thought. Man-eating butterflies weren’t real—they couldn’t be. If they were, you hadn’t learnt about them. But surely you’d learn of them at some point.

A voice came to mind, as did the face. It was Solas, his disembodied head floating just above eye level to your left, tilted at an angle. His eyebrows were flipped and arched in a peculiar way. His third eye, located on his very pointy chin, was wide open, glowing a vivid purple.

He was repeating two things at once. The first was a chant of “Fade this, Fade that” on a droning and monotonous loop. The second was a repeated reminder of what he had said… earlier at… some point, on… someday. “It would be difficult for someone such as yourself.” His voices were distant and detached.

Suddenly ticklish, you waved your hand at the swarming butterflies who’d begun fluttering frenetically as if scared by the floating head. Startled by your gesture, a few transformed into sparrows. The birds sang a sharp “chi, chi, chi” staccato as they flitted about, pecking at the remaining butterflies. The air swirled as their dance enveloped you in a cocoon of feathers and dirt.

The butterflies, sparrows, and disembodied faces seemed to dissolve as your awareness sharpened. The scene around you cleared. For the second time that night, you suddenly became fully aware that you were dreaming. The realisation was like a cold splash of water, and you had the distinct feeling that your physical body jolted.

You turned your attention to your hand, which glowed as it often did. As you focused on the glow, you gradually found the balance between being ‘awake’ within the dream and remaining physically asleep. It was only natural, given that you were dreaming in the Fade, for this to help stabilise your dream self. The dream world around you steadied, the haziness receding as you pinched yourself. You felt a fleeting sting, then nothing—no lingering pain, no sense of physical pressure, only the eerie tranquillity of the dream world.

The odd dream creatures were gone, leaving only the distant, peaceful chirping of songbirds. Assuming it was morning and that your physical body was hearing these sounds, you took a deep breath and refocused. Through many trials and tribulations, your dream was now under your control.

You began to explore the dreamscape, wandering through the dense forest with a sense of familiarity and nostalgia. You had always enjoyed forests, finding solace among their towering trees. By the end of your schooling, you had explored the whole of the Forbidden Forest. It had been your escape, your refuge from Fate’s cruel hand. You would venture out every night, watching the mooncalves dance in the moonlight and the owls swooping silently through the trees as they hunted. You recalled how the creatures of the forest, from the tiniest insects to the largest beasts, went about their nightly rituals under the glowing moon. The denizens of the forest had always been easier to be around. They didn’t give you odd looks or question your presence. They were unaware of your past deeds and the people you’d hurt. They were simply creatures of the forest; their world was about survival and without judgement.

By the end of your schooling, the forest had become more of a home than the school ever felt. It was a place where you could be yourself.

You had built your cabin far from the Forbidden Forest, in a location distant from your old school, but close enough so that you could still catch glimpses of the forest and its magical inhabitants on the rare occasions you ventured outside the invisible perimeter. Despite its name, the Forbidden Forest remained a comforting presence, always within reach, even if only in your memories.

Now, as you walked, you thought you saw one of those mooncalves off in the distance. But it had trotted away before you could truly admire it. Looking up, you saw the full moon high above. In this dream state, the trees seemed alive, their branches reaching out to shield the moon, keeping its light for themselves. With your insistence—as this was your dream and yours only—the branches moved, granting you light that wasn’t the Fade’s mould-like influence.

A flicker of light caught your eye in the distance.

“Finally,” you said. You’d been walking for some time now. The thought of flying through the forest hadn’t come to mind until now. In dreams, you could do just about anything.

You hurried through the underbrush towards the light, pushing aside the dense foliage that began to duplicate and creep towards you like some demonic form of Devil’s Snare. The anticipation of finding Therinfal Redoubt drove you forward.

You finally reached the edge of the forest and emerged into a clearing. Before you stood a grand fortress, but as you drew closer, it became clear that this was not at all what you’d been anticipating. The architecture was familiar, but not the rugged, expected fortress of Therinfal Redoubt. Instead, the castle bore striking resemblances to the ancient castle you had once called home.

A brilliant beam of light erupted from the heart of Hogwarts, shooting up into the sky, slicing through the dark night like a wound, as the castle crumbled and split in two. The sudden explosion of light was blinding, and the castle seemed to disintegrate before your very eyes. In stark contrast, a green beam of light emerged alongside the red, painting the night sky a muted grey, leeching all colour from the dreamscape as everything in sight seemed to stretch and warp.

With a start, you awoke, disoriented and groggy. The morning light filtered through the tent’s fabric. You had slept through the whole night.

Under the canopy of the night sky, the night was cool, the air crisp with the scent of pine and earth. Around the fire, the group settled into their nightly routine. Without meaning to, you sought out Solas, who sat towards a quieter spot near the edge of the camp, away from the others’ conversations. The subject of time travel came up once more, and despite your initial hesitation, you found yourself drawn into a discussion, reluctantly answering the questions that arose. In many ways, you were the most knowledgeable person on the subject, and you were eager to share what you knew.

“I don’t know about you, but time-travel is an established concept from where I hail from. Not a well-researched one, and definitely not safe to be handling, but an established one nonetheless. It’s real, even if you deny its existence,” you said after Solas expressed doubts almost immediately.

“That is a bold claim. From my observations and experiences, tampering with time is fraught with danger and typically leads to unexpected consequences.”

“I said I wasn’t from Thedas, but it’s more than that,” you began, your voice steady despite the weight of the truth you were about to reveal. “I’m not from this time.”

He appeared not surprised by that revelation. “And that is why you took Dorian’s word for fact,” he surmised.

You nodded. To illuminate the area, you conjured a torch and set it alight. No question was asked just where the torch came from, but your companions were used to the unexplainable. “I’ve studied time extensively. The idea of time travel, its implications, and its risks are barely documented. I may not have experienced it firsthand, but the theoretical knowledge I have is significant.”

You might never return to your old home or save your father. You didn’t know where your artefact was or where you were in time. You were coming to terms with the fact that your chances of going back were slipping away. Although a thread of refusal hung firm, withstanding to the insistent tugging of fate’s grabby hands.

Solas narrowed his eyes, his expression thoughtful yet still guarded. “It appears my belief that you were ignorant was simply my own. I found it strange a talented mage such as yourself was so oblivious to the world around you. Now it makes sense. You sought the amulet to save your father, did you not?”

You hesitated, feeling the weight of the reasons that had driven you to such dangerous pursuits. There were so many ways you could correct him: because you made mistakes that you wished to undo, because you wasted precious time chasing after impossible dreams, because you feared the loss of the only person who had ever truly understood you.

You pushed down the emotions that threatened to rise to the surface. “Yes, that’s right. I foolishly thought I could reverse my father’s affliction,” you finally settled on, the truth tasting bitter on your tongue.

“That is not so different from what Alexius attempted.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, that is something Alexius and I relate to. But I wouldn’t have sacrificed others for it. That’s where he and I differ. He was willing to risk lives, to bend time in ways that unravelled the world. That’s not something I could ever accept. I wanted to save my father, not create more suffering in the process.”

“That is where your path diverges from Alexius. His desperation led him to darkness, but you have a line you wouldn’t cross.”

“Desperation doesn’t excuse cruelty.”

Solas studied you in silence for a moment, his eyes searching your face as if trying to see through the mask you wore. Yet, there was something in his eyes—a hint of curiosity mixed with something else like empathy, as if he recognised the burden you carried but chose not to comment on it directly.

Finally, he spoke softly. “Will you be going back to your own time?”

“I won’t be going anywhere until the Breach is sealed and this,” you lifted your hand with the mark glowing faintly in the firelight, “is dealt with. I can’t, in good conscience, leave things unfinished here.” At least as long as you have the amulet, you could make up for any lost time. An ideal situation. If only you knew when you were.

“A noble sentiment. Many would take the first chance they are given. But what if you were to find yourself tempted to turn back time to before you even received the anchor? Will you fall to your temptations?”

“And be the only one who reminisces on the riveting journeys we’ve shared? Never. The idea may have crossed my mind, but it doesn’t escape me that just because I can return to any point in time, that would not mean this timeline would cease to exist. Somewhere. Maybe, possibly. Who’s to say? Time can be so tricky. And that would not resolve the Elder One issue, either.”

Your memories were still lost, like fragments of a puzzle scattered beyond your reach. Whoever the Elder One was, they were behind it—you were sure of it. Simply turning back time wouldn’t resolve any current issues.

“How exactly does one traverse through time safely?” he asked.

“That is something I don’t know. I assume it’s a dangerous process,” you said, thinking carefully about how to frame your explanation. “In theory, time travel involves creating a stable bridge between different points in time. Any disruption or mistake can cause ripples that might alter the past or the future in unpredictable ways.

“Similarly, it’s difficult to say what my actions will do,” you continued, your voice thoughtful as you watched the fire’s play of light and shadow. “Without a doubt, meddling with time will result in unprecedented consequences. If I turned back time to before I received the anchor, I may still have the anchor, but there’ll be an alternate version of me without it. I’ve never twisted time before. There’s no saying what will happen. Alexius, with all his time meddling, was unable to remove me from time, despite it being his one task.

“Not to mention, figuring out how to use this amulet,” you continued, shifting the conversation slightly. “Won’t be easy. No doubt there’ll be many trials and tribulations. Best to do that when there isn’t an unknown big bad waiting for the perfect time to step into the spotlight.”

“If you are indeed from the future,” Solas began, his tone contemplative. “It raises troubling questions. If the Fade no longer exists in that time, then some catastrophic event must have occurred—something far worse than what we face now. The Elder One’s actions could very well lead to such an outcome, unravelling the very fabric of reality as we know it.”

“I never said I was from the future,” you clarified. “It’s more likely this is the future.”

Solas’s brow furrowed. “No, that is impossible. The Fade, among other things, would suggest that your world cannot simply be the past of Thedas. What I’ve seen of this world does not align with such a claim. It is a common flaw among humans to underestimate how poorly they document their own history.”

You sighed, understanding why it sounded odd. “It might seem strange, but there are reasons for my belief. For one, this world is markedly different from mine—geography, magic, even the climate. The discrepancies are too significant to ignore. Magic and history here are different—so different. If I were from the future, I should know some of this, but there’s so much missing and unknown.”

On the map you’d taken, the lower section depicted a terrain blanketed in snow. Maps typically don’t account for seasonal weather changes, which suggests that region is perpetually covered in snow. This implied it was located either at the North or South Pole. Given that the terrain was shown as the southernmost part of Thedas, it indicated that Thedas was in the Southern Hemisphere.

While North and South are human-made constructs, other evidence supported the idea that you were indeed in the Southern Hemisphere. Observations of the direction of shadows and the Coriolis Effect confirmed this.

In the Northern Hemisphere, the only land that remains cold year-round is Greenland, which did not match the terrain of Thedas. In contrast, in the Southern Hemisphere, no land is directly connected to Antarctica. Even during the era of the supercontinent Pangaea, there was no landmass at either pole.

Thedas simply didn’t align with what you knew of the world’s past, including the time of Pangaea. However, when it came to the future, much remained open to interpretation.

Of course, a simpler explanation for the discrepancies across time might be that you were on a different planet altogether. Oftentimes, the moon’s size fluctuated; the bigger size looking almost too big. But being on a different planet was a staggering idea to consider. At least time travel was an established concept. Travelling between planets and worlds was strictly reserved for gods and featured only in myth. You’d be mad if you gave it further thought.

As for why things seemed to have regressed in the future, it could be attributed to an apocalyptic event of some kind. Many cultures believed in a cyclical pattern where the world is destroyed and then remade. For instance, Hinduism speaks of Yugas; Buddhism describes similar phases of creation and dissolution; Jainism portrays an endless cycle of creation, preservation, and destruction; the Mayan culture envisioned similar cycles; Norse mythology foretells Ragnarök; Zoroastrianism anticipates a purification of the world by fire, followed by renewal; and the Mesoamerican cultures, including Aztec mythology, also foresee their own epochs. All held weight in their own regard. It was difficult to accept that a planet so old would have such primitive civilisations, especially when considering that ancient cultures often seemed to possess knowledge beyond their presumed time.

“That hardly supports your view,” Solas said, remaining difficult to sway. “You said so yourself that you desired to travel to the past. Perhaps you received your wish.”

“You thought time travel was impossible, now you think you know enough to understand it well? Even I know very little, and I’ve experienced it.”

“There is a difference between theoretical understanding and practical experience.”

“If I did travel by my own means, then I went too far back. And if the passage of time got distorted, the direction could have been affected as well,” you said, pushing to prove your point. “This era is unrecognisable compared to what I know. I’ve never heard of an Empress Celene, or a Ferelden, Orlais, Thedas as a whole. It makes more sense that I’m in the future, not the past.”

“Similarly, your accounts do not align with the history of Thedas.”

“The month of August in my world is named after an Emperor who lived around two thousand years ago,” you said. That was where the similarities ended.

Solas’s brows furrowed slightly as he considered this. “I see. The month of August, for Thedas, is named after an epithet of Andraste.”

“And the origin of that name?” You didn’t let him give an excuse. “Andraste is the name of a goddess who was worshipped in my homeland. It’s curious that such a name would be used here as well, and with similar reverence.”

Solas’s gaze sharpened, and he looked thoughtful for a moment. “It is a peculiar coincidence,” he admitted, his tone contemplative. “However, it is worth considering that the nature of time and reality may not be as straightforward as you think. Without concrete evidence, your claim remains intriguing, nevertheless unproven.”

The topic of lyrium and the future from Alexius’ amulet was touched upon. The conversation turned your thoughts inward.

You lamented over the missed opportunity to enquire about lyrium while you were in the future. Your focus had been consumed by other concerns, especially the striking red-hued eyes of your companions. You had been too preoccupied with not meeting their gaze, with avoiding the unsettling feeling they’d stirred in you. The chance to ask about something as crucial as lyrium had slipped through your fingers.

You joined Dorian by the fire, where he was absorbed in a game of cards with Blackwall. The burly warrior was a recent addition to the Inquisition, recruited by Leliana’s suggestion. Both men held cards in their hands and were sizing each other up as they dealt such cards.

You hesitated, not entirely sure how to broach the subject that had been weighing on your mind. Dorian hadn’t been in your company for long, and though his wit and charm had quickly made him a familiar presence, you weren’t yet certain how much you could ask of him. But gaining his opinion and wisdom on the Fade would help immensely.

You cleared your throat to announce your presence, and Dorian looked up. “Ah, the fabled Herald joins us,” he said.

“Thought I’d see what all the fuss is about,” you replied. “Mind if I join you?”

Dorian looked up, his grin widening as he motioned for you to sit. “Of course. Always room for one more.”

You took the tree stump between them. The fire nearby crackled, sending a wave of warmth across your face as you settled in.

“I was actually hoping you could help me with something,” you began, glancing at Dorian. “The Fade… It’s still so unfamiliar to me, and I thought-”

Before you could finish, Dorian cut you off with a laugh. “You came to me to discuss the Fade? Maker, I should have expected this. But first, let’s not be so dreary. How about a game of Wicked Grace? It’ll loosen you up.”

“I’ve never played before.”

“That’s precisely why you should play,” Dorian said, shuffling the deck with practiced ease. “How else are you going to improve?”

“Don’t worry about it, Herald. You’ll fit right in with Dorian,” Blackwall said.

Dorian shot him a glare. “I’ll have you know I’m quite good when I want to be. I am a master of this game. It’s only the company that tends to drag me down.”

You wearily took the cards Dorian dealt you. They felt foreign in your hands, the suits and symbols as mysterious as the game itself.

You played a few rounds, trying to make sense of the cards in your hand and the flow of the game. The suits and symbols were unfamiliar, and you quickly realised that Wicked Grace was less about the cards themselves and more about reading the other players. The rules of Wicked Grace were slippery, often more suggestion than law, and the art of cheating without being caught was how one got the upper hand. Half the fun was bending the rules to your advantage—something you weren’t quite adept at yet.

After the first few rounds, Varric joined, integrating into the game far easier than you had. With Varric’s guiding hand, you quickly learned most of the tricks of the trade—whether you wanted to or not. He pointed out subtle tells in the other players, hinted at when to bluff, and even showed you how to palm an extra card when no one was looking.

As the night wore on and the pile of cards in your hand grew increasingly mismatched, you found yourself content to sit back and watch the others, your earlier request to Dorian still lingering in your mind, but now less urgent. The Fade and the Templars could wait. For now, you were here, in this moment, and that was enough.

The day broke with a muted sky, the dawn’s light struggling to penetrate the dense canopy of the forest. After a night spent in vain pursuit of a dream that refused to manifest, you awoke feeling frustrated and weary. You had spent hours attempting to reach Therinfal Redoubt through your dreams, but each time you ended up wandering the familiar yet unhelpful terrain of the Forbidden Forest instead.

Dorian indulged in your earlier request, sharing his thoughts on the Fade. He offered little helpful insights that were more philosophical than practical. Most of what he said you already knew from Solas. While his knowledge was impressive, ultimately, it didn’t provide the concrete answers you were hoping for.

That night, you attempted once again to dream of Therinfal Redoubt. As you drifted off, you focused intently on picturing the fortress and chanting its name in your mind, hoping that this time you would succeed. However, as you began to dream, you soon found yourself once again in the familiar confines of the Forbidden Forest, not the Brecilian Forest you had hoped to explore.

With ease, you willed yourself awake.

Frustrated, you left your tent to walk around, hoping the cool night air might help clear your mind. The camp was quiet, save for the occasional crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of night creatures. You made your way to the river nearby, kneeling to fill your water flask. The water was clear but brackish, with a faint metallic taste that suggested it wasn’t safe to drink immediately. You murmured a simple purification spell under your breath, watching as the water shimmered briefly, the impurities vanishing in a soft ripple.

As you stood up, you noticed Solas. He’d been sitting quietly nearby, his gaze fixed on the stars above. You hadn’t noticed him at first, his stillness blending him into the night.

“Merlin. You scared me, Solas.”

“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright. I just… I didn’t expect anyone else to be up at this hour.”

“Nor did I,” he replied.

You hesitated for a moment, then moved to sit beside him on the fallen log. The bark was rough against your palms, grounding you in the physical world.

“I often find solace in the quiet of the night, when the Veil is at its thinnest,” he began wistfully, not turning to look at you.

The night had always held a certain kind of magic unlike ordinary magic, a liminal space where the impossible seemed just within reach, or where the impossible could reach through the darkness and snatch you up.

Solas shifted his gaze from the heavens to focus on you. The moonlight cast only a faint glow, making it difficult for you to see his expression clearly. “Your dreams trouble you still?” he asked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, sipping at the cold liquid in your flask.

“Perhaps you’d like to share your troubles? I may be able to offer some insight.”

“I don’t wish to burden you.”

“Dreams can be a window to truths we’d rather not face,” Solas said softly. “Or to memories we’ve tried to bury.”

You nodded, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.

“My dreams have been dragging me back to this forest I used to spend time in,” you began. “I thought it would lead me to somewhere else, but instead, it always takes me back to a place I thought I’d left behind.”

Solas’s eyes remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable from the shadows. “This forest was a place of refuge for you, I gather.”

“It was my sanctuary, of sorts. But now, it feels like it’s become a barrier to moving forward. Every time I try to reach for something new, it pulls me back.”

“It is not uncommon for places of comfort to become symbols of something greater in our dreams,” Solas remarked. “The forest represents something you once valued greatly. It is natural that it would persist in your subconscious as you grapple with your current reality.”

“I understand that on a rational level, but it’s frustrating. I need to focus on the present, on solving the Breach and dealing with the Anchor. I can’t afford to be stuck in the past.”

Through the darkness, you thought you saw a flicker of something in his eye. His tone was hard when he spoke. “The past is not something to be discarded so easily. Without it, there is nothing to learn. One who cannot remember the past is condemned to repeat it.” His voice took on a philosophical edge as he finished speaking.

“So said George Santayana. Wait, how did you-” Your enquiry was interrupted as a sharp bird’s call cut through the forest. Your head twisted around to the sound but found nothing.

The sharp sparrow’s call echoed again, louder this time, and the song seemed to fill the air. You stood from the log to find where the birds were, but as you did, the world around you began to shift. The familiar outlines of the forest were wrenched away as your eyes opened to a blinding green light. A sharp stabbing pain erupted in your left hand, jolting you fully awake. You fumbled in the confines of your tent, trying to calm the pain with magic, but your spells offered little relief.

With the remnants of the dream still clinging to you, you staggered out of your tent. The night was still quiet, but the once-muted sounds of the forest had become more pronounced. You retraced your way back towards the river, a little hurried with only Lumos guiding your way.

Reaching the river, Solas was nowhere to be seen. The expanse was quiet and empty aside from a deer-like animal drinking. It looked up as you approached, then quickly shot off into the dense trees a moment later.

You knelt by the riverbank, lowering your flask to the murky water, but paused as water sloshed out. You didn’t necessarily need to manually fill your flask; Aguamenti was a charm every skilled wizard knew, but it wasn’t without its limits—the water had to come from a source. But that wasn’t the issue here. The water in your flask was already filled, though you hadn’t had the chance to fill it up for some time now, before heading to bed.

“Enough of this,” you muttered to yourself, sounding half-mad.

The Fade held a power that could be harnessed in various ways, whether for good or ill (like filling your flask or your lungs), but what you truly wished to achieve with it remained elusive. It simply wouldn’t conform to your intentions.

Frustrated, you decided to take matters into your own hands. The nights of lucid dreams bordering on nightmares had made you more determined. With nothing but the appropriate location of Therinfal Redoubt and a vague idea of the Brecilian Forest (the vague idea being a forest, which in no world would be suitable), you could not safely apparate to the fort. But the past few nights of lucid dreams bordering on nightmares had made you a little impatient.

Theoretically, with the Fade anchored to your soul through your hand, your ‘mind’ should have access to what the fort looked like—you’d just been trying to find it in your dreams, and your dreams had never been the most well-behaved part of you. It was worth trying. If you ended up splinching yourself, then at least that was reversible, and you could say you tried.

You had hesitated before, partly due to the challenge of Solas’s scepticism that you couldn’t lucid dream and your own stubborn desire to prove him wrong. The idea of using the Fade as a conduit was risky, but if it could bridge the gap between your current reality and the fortress you sought, it was worth the attempt.

Closing your eyes, you concentrated on the location. A fleeting image of a forest crossed your mind unprompted, and you latched onto it. You felt the familiar tug of apparition as you vanished from the riverbank. When you opened your eyes, you indeed found yourself standing amidst the dense trees of a forest, but a different one to the one that had surrounded the river you’d just been by. While the forest was as eerily quiet as most forests where humans did not traverse, this one had a different smell to it, like a light salty breeze.

You began walking, navigating through the trees as if you knew the area, and taking note of your surroundings. After about a half hour of trekking through the forest, you noticed a glimmer of light filtering through the trees, much like the lights you had seen in your dreams.

A part of you hoped- no, fervently wished that Hogwarts would appear beyond the tree line, as it had in previous dreams. Perhaps your previous attempts of apparating home were unsuccessful because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Maybe these past couple months had been some sort of nightmare that you’d just woken from. Maybe you were still asleep, and if you could just hold on to that hope a little longer, you’d wake up in your own bed and exit your room to find your father and most cherished confidant waiting for you. Perhaps this had all been a test, a hazy ruse crafted by Death himself—he had a crude penchant for tricks, after all.

Your feet quickened with anticipation, your heart pounding with hope that perhaps all this had been a strange dream and that beyond the trees would be-

Hogwarts, to your disappointment, did not materialise. Instead, you found yourself staring at an unfamiliar fort. It was Therinfal Redoubt, the very location you had been searching so hard for. And you’d found it, against all odds.

It was too late at night to demand a meeting with the Lord Seeker. With a final glance at the fort, you concentrated once more on the feeling of apparition, and the forest dissolved around you. At least now, you had the knowledge of where Therinfal Redoubt was located and that any travel you could make there could be done safely.

Chapter Text

The day had been long, filled with the usual tasks of travel—making camp, ensuring supplies were in order, and preparing for the journey ahead. But you had something else in mind, something more pressing.

As the group settled into their evening routines, you excused yourself, feigning a need for solitude. “I’ll be back in an hour, maybe less,” you promised, offering a casual smile. The others nodded, and soon you were walking away from the camp, the sounds of conversation and the crackling fire growing faint behind you.

Once you were far enough away, you found a secluded spot in the dense brushwood, took a deep breath, and focused on your destination. The image of the fort was clear in your mind from the night before; its tall stone walls and the surrounding dense forest seared into your memory. You closed your eyes, feeling the familiar sensation of being pulled through a tight, narrow space, and then, with a sharp twist, you were gone.

When you opened your eyes, you found yourself standing in the shadow of Therinfal Redoubt. The fort loomed large before you, sitting atop a hill. There was only a faint sign of the Breach here, covered mostly by gloomy skies. For a moment, you simply stood there, taking it all in—the heavy air, the silence that pressed in from all sides.

Steeling yourself, you entered the fort. Numerous nobles pestered the nearby stoic templars with trivial matters, almost amusing in their insignificance. The templars, once perceived as all-powerful and untouchable, seemed weighed down by petty concerns, not by killing mages or sticking mages’ heads on pikes. Their reputation, it appeared, did not precede them. You hoped the same would not be true for you—for once, it might be able to help you.

Two templars stood guard at the main gate, barring anyone from going on through. They eyed you warily as you drew closer.

“I need to speak with Seeker Lucius,” you requested, keeping your tone firm but polite. “It’s urgent.”

Other than the letter Cullen initially received, you had no noble backing, no letters of introduction, just your presence and the covered mark on your hand. Your particular persuasive ‘touch’ would be dangerous to use, particularly while surrounded by so many mage-poachers.

The templars exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable beneath their helmets. The one on the left spoke, his voice gruff and dismissive. “The Lord Seeker isn’t seeing anyone. Turn back now.”

“This truly is a matter of great importance. Perhaps we could come to some arrangement?”

“And who might you be to demand an audience with the Lord Seeker?” the other asked.

“I’m a representative of the Inquisition,” you replied, carefully choosing your words. “I have information that the Lord Seeker needs to hear immediately. And I’m alone; I pose no threat.”

Behind the templars, another approached.

Standing to the side, the herald cleared his throat, straightening into demand. “I present Knight-Templar Ser Delrin Barris, second son of Bann Jevrin Barris of Ferelden. Ser Barris, may I be so honoured to present…?”

Ser Barris was a tall, broad-shouldered man who wore the Templar armour with ease. The details of his plate were well maintained despite the rigours of battle, with few scratches displayed. You recognised him immediately—he was the one who had challenged Lord Seeker Lucius at Val Royeaux, questioning his own leader’s actions. You were half surprised to see Barris had survived being dragged through the mud of whatever sty a man like the Lord Seeker rolled in.

Barris ignored the templar’s herald and instead approached you head-on. “I’m the one who sent word to Cullen. I did not expect your arrival so quickly and without anyone accompanying you. The Lord Seeker’s actions make no sense. He promised to restore the Order’s honour, then marched us here to wait? Templars should know their duty, even when held from it.”

“You wish to stand with the Inquisition against the Breach?” you asked.

He nodded firmly. “Win over the Lord Seeker, and every able-bodied knight will help the Inquisition seal the Breach.”

Easier done than said. You certainly had the means of winning the Lord Seeker over, but whether the rest of the templars will follow your demands will purely be up to their own will. They weren’t your concern anyway.

Barris led you through and into the fortress, where numerous templars stood around, their armour clinking softly. Inside a chamber, he stopped by a table cluttered with papers, scrolls, and books.

“Knight-Captain?” he called out as a man, flanked by two templars, entered the chamber.

“You were expecting the Lord Seeker. He sent me to die for you,” Knight-Captain Denam said, his voice cold. As his gaze settled on you, he chuckled. An odd sound, and one that didn’t sound very pleasant. “This is the grand alliance the Inquisition offers?”

“Where’s the Lord Seeker?” you asked, feeling your wand materialise in your palm.

“Be ready,” Denam replied curtly. “The Lord Seeker had a plan, but the Herald ruined it by arriving with purpose. It sowed too much dissent. The Elder One is coming. No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!”

As Denam finished speaking, chaos erupted—one templar struck another, beginning the fight. Templars who had red-magic auras surrounding their being barged in the room, their eyes glowing with that same blood red. It was an awfully familiar quirk—one that spoke of corruption, typically of the magical sort—yet you’d never seen a non-magical being possess them. It should have been impossible, yet it was becoming awfully common.

“Maker’s breath!” Barris exclaimed as he fought against the corrupted knight. His sword clashed fiercely with Denam’s, but it was clear the man had lost more than just his reason. “Knight-Captain! What have you done?”

“I tried to make us stronger! But time has run out. We must test the Herald! The Lord Seeker will see you now! It’s your fault!” Denam accused you. “He wants you, not us! Now we’re all gifts for the Elder One!” he shouted, his voice cracking with what could have been despair, twisted by madness and fear.

Whatever hold the Lord Seeker—or the Elder One—had on him was breaking, but not enough. His willpower faltered, but the madness had already taken deep root. It was too late to save him. You could see it in his eyes: a man too far gone, consumed by forces far beyond his understanding. As Barris pushed him back, it was you who delivered the final blow, ending his suffering with a swift flick of your wand. A flash of green light erupted from its tip, the spell striking true. The Lord Seeker crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his torment finally over.

“What’s the Lord Seeker done to them?” Barris wondered through heavy breaths as the last templar fell. He crouched to pick up the knight-captain’s keys. “I would question the Lord Seeker about this ‘Elder One’. Templars serve the Maker and the Light of Andraste. I’ve never heard of an Elder One before the knight-captain began ranting.”

“Whoever the Elder One is, they have their fingers in quite a few pots,” you mused. The Elder One seemed to be everywhere, yet no one knew who or what it was. They were becoming a recurring theme, and not in a way that boded well. “We need to find the Lord Seeker,” you said, your voice low and urgent. “He’s at the centre of this, and I suspect he has answers we desperately need.”

Barris nodded as he joined your side. “Agreed. We’ll need to move quickly. The longer we wait, the more templars might fall to… whatever this is.”

Barris led the way through the winding corridors of Therinfal Redoubt, the eerie silence broken only by the occasional distant scream or clash of metal. As you climbed higher into the fortress, the signs of corruption became more apparent. Red crystals jutted out from walls and floors, pulsing with an eerie, sickly light. In the courtyard, more corrupted templars stood guard, attacking on sight. Barris and yourself continued up the stairs and towards the main hall.

“I would know you!” A voice rang out. “Show me what you are!”

You stopped to turn to Barris. “Was that the Lord Seeker?”

He shook his head. “Where? I didn’t hear him.”

Lucius’s voice called out again. “The Herald of Andraste! It’s time we became better acquainted! Come. Show me what kind of hero you really are. What do you think to accomplish? What will you become?”

“You truly don’t hear him?” you asked Barris again, but he denied hearing anything.

The only alternative was that you were hearing the voice; never a good sign. Alternatively, it may truly be Lucius. Only very advanced Legilimens could speak directly into the minds of others, but as you couldn’t see him, this had to be something else entirely—perhaps connected to the red lyrium that infested the fort and many of the templars who seemed to work as a hivemind.

Atop the staircase, before the large doors, Lucius stood with his back to you.

Before he could do anything—flee, or, in Alexius’ case, unearth some ancient artefact that would displace you in time and place—you directed your wand to Lucius’ head. It was time to drop the pretence and get the answers you’d been hunting for these past months. You held no respect for the Lord Seeker, nor did he for you, considering he’d sentenced you to be magically enervated.

“I need answers, Lucius,” you said carefully. This was the only warning you would give. “Answers that only you can provide.”

He turned, landing his hard gaze on you, giving you the one key needed to unlock his thoughts.

“Legilimens.”

In a split second, you were inside his mind.

Typically, when using Legilimency, the user would be flooded with a torrent of memories, intentions, and long-buried secrets that the targeted mind desperately sought to conceal. It was invasive and utterly overwhelming, often an unpleasant experience. One could easily get lost in the new thoughts and way of seeing the world.

But with Lucius, you saw nothing but quick, fleeting flashes that were too quick to grab onto, alongside a crippling tide of want. It was as though the very cells in his mind were thick with it, suffocating and oppressive, filling every corner with an insatiable desire to have, to become, to consume. There were no coherent thoughts, no tangible memories—just an all-consuming need to want, want, want.

There was no room for anything else in the mind, no trace of the man’s thoughts or memories. He was a hollow shell, filled only with a bottomless craving to become something else. This wasn’t how Legilimency should be, where you might encounter resistance, a wall of thoughts and memories that needed to be scaled. This was different. It was as if you had come across that stone wall only to slam your head into it repeatedly a few thousand times, the stone breaking you instead of allowing any passage. The wall wouldn’t unveil, no matter how hard you tried; it was not a magical wall. Once closed, it was closed for good.

It felt like a cold hand wrapped around the back of your neck, and a second later, you were wrenched from the mind.

The backlash hit you hard, forcing you to stagger, clutching your forehead as the crushing pain pulsed through your skull. The sudden, fully developed migraine that followed was a crushing agony that made it hard to see, let alone think.

Before you could regain your balance, Lucius—or more likely, the embodiment of greed—reached out and grabbed your collar, pulling you against his chest in a move that was anything but gentle.

“What did you hope to find?” he sneered, breathing down your neck. His grip on your shoulder blades was crushing, as if he were trying to push through them and crush the bone. “Did you think you could steal from me? Take what is mine?”

“Lord Seeker!” Barris called, ascending the last step.

The throbbing in your head was too intense to form a coherent response, nor did you have time to before your vision filled with an overwhelming green light. Then you and Lucius, and everything else in existence, disappeared.

Your eyes tore open to a dimly lit area, surrounded by bodies frozen in positions of agony—eerily reminiscent of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Everything was bathed in an unsettling green haze. In the distance, two silhouettes stood, barely visible. As you walked towards them, their shapes became clearer—it was Josephine and Cullen. Suddenly, Leliana appeared besides you.

“Is this shape useful? Will it let me know you? Everything tells me about you. So will this: watch,” she said, her voice cold as she drew a dagger and pressed it to Cullen’s throat.

You felt a chill run down your spine. “What exactly are you? Some type of shapeshifter?”

Leliana’s form twisted, her voice now a dark echo of your own. “What are you?!”

This wasn’t Leliana. The figure before you was something else entirely—a being of unfathomable power and origins. It took a moment for you to process what you were seeing, but it soon became clear. This was a demon, though you couldn’t immediately discern which one.

Before you could react, she slit Cullen’s throat, and he fell to the ground, leaving you stunned as Leliana vanished into the mist. Josephine stepped forward, the same knife in hand, laughing wildly. “Being you will be far more interesting than being the Lord Seeker,” she said, disappearing only to reappear behind you. She whispered in your air, “Do you know what the Inquisition can become? You’ll see.” You spun around, but she was gone again. She spoke from the shadows, “When I’m done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I will be you.”

“This Elder One thinks he can become a god?” you asked, the realisation settling in. Of course that was his goal. “I should have known. The greed of man is one of the oldest sins of time. The desire for power, for divinity—some things never change.”

Josephine chortled again, a cruel sound so unlike her normal coy chuckle. “He knows. He was there.” She appeared before you once more. “Glory is coming. And the Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the right way.”

She turned and walked away, her figure fading into the shadows. Your feet moved on their own, and you found Cullen standing behind you, but something was off—terribly off.

“I am not your toy!” Cullen’s voice was a growl, twisted and hoarse. “I am Envy, and I will know you! Tell me, ‘Herald’, in your mind.” Without warning, he stabbed a shadowy copy of you. The mimic collapsed with a gasp, and Cullen’s voice grew more insistent. “Tell me what you feel! Tell me what you see.”

Desperate to escape this nightmare, you entered a nearby doorway and found yourself staring at a familiar scene—yourself in shackles, with Cassandra standing over you.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.” Cassandra’s voice was accusatory, full of anger. “Do you deny it? Do you dare deny your crime? Our one chance to make peace between the mages and the templars, and now it’s over! You think me a fool? Explain this.”

You didn’t respond, you couldn’t find the strength. Instead, you pressed forward, stepping through the illusion as if it were a memory already lived. The next room took shape around you. Bookshelves lined every wall, sagging under the many books you’d collected over the years. The smell of old paper clung to the air, mingling with the faint scent of damp stone. A homely scent, thought whether it was welcoming or not, time would tell.

You recognised it now; it was your old home, a small cabin nestled within the Scottish Highlands. A place that had once been your refuge.

You’d built the cabin yourself, with nothing but an idea and magic at your disposal. Each stone you had painstakingly placed with your magic, taken directly from the earth. They always had a chill to them, despite the enchantments you’d cast to keep the place warm. The air inside was still, smothering in its emptiness, as if the cabin itself had long since given up waiting for your return. The hearth in the north wall, which had once roared with life and heat, now lay dormant, its blackened stones collecting dust.

In front of the hearth, your father was sitting in a chair with his back to you. The scene was disturbingly still, as if time itself had frozen. Before you could make sense of it, a figure stood from being crouched in front of the man. The figure was a mimic of yourself. It slowly stood, its movements fluid and unnatural, turning to face you with a cruel smile and shining red eyes.

“Look at me,” Envy said, its voice a dark echo of your own. “Do you see me? I am what you once were. Driven by desire. You were once consumed by the same hunger.”

The words stirred something within you that you had tried to bury long ago. The mimic stepped closer, its form shifting subtly as the green magic twisted around it.

“You used to be like this,” it said, its voice low and mocking. “Hungry for power, driven by desire. You thought you could control it and bend it to your will. But look at you now. You are still that same worm, hiding behind a mask.”

“No,” you denied it—yourself.

“Even in your quest for redemption, you’re still tainted by the same desires that once drove you. You tried to bury it, to pretend it was gone, but it’s always been a part of you. Even now, you seek power. The mark on your hand, the alliances you forge—all tools to increase your influence. You may tell yourself it’s for a noble cause, but deep down, you know the truth.”

“No. Stop that,” you repeated, clutching your aching skull. Your eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out your own voice, but it only grew louder, more insistent.

Envy’s voice boomed, echoing around you. “You think you can be free of me? Free of what you once were? I am a part of you, always waiting, always watching. And I will become you. I was your past! I will be your future!”

Before you could react, a different voice interrupted—soft and comforting. “You’re hurting, helpless, hasty. What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?”

“What are you? Get out! This is my place!” The demon’s responding voice was a hiss.

Using the distraction, you hurried out of the room, not sparing a look back. The new room you entered was filled with objects and furniture hanging from the ceiling. The door slammed shut behind you, and when you tried to open it, it was locked.

“Wait,” a voice whispered.

You turned back around, seeing nothing. Cautiously, you stepped further into the room. Something was in here with you—not Envy or yourself.

A pale blond boy or young man with an oversized patchwork hat suddenly appeared behind you. He was standing on the ceiling, as if he were a bat.

“Envy is hurting you,” he said softly, his voice echoing as his body disappeared within the blink of an eye. “Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help. You, not Envy.”

You searched the room for him. “Who are you? I’ve seen you before… Haven’t I?”

“I’ve been watching,” he replied, his voice distant. “I’m Cole.” He reappeared, now on the ceiling. “We’re inside you. Or I am. You’re always inside you.”

A shriek echoed from outside the room, making you take a step back towards Cole.

“I was watching. I watch. Every templar knew when you arrived,” he continued, unfazed by the monstrous noises. “They were impressed, but not like the Lord Seeker. The Lord Seeker… Envy wants to be you. It twisted the commanders, forced their fury, their fight. They’re red inside. Anyway, you’re frozen; Envy is trying to take your face. I heard it and reached out, and then in, and then I was here.” His words tumbled out in a rhythm that was both childlike and deeply unsettling, as if he were recounting a distant memory but lived in the moment all at once.

You stared at him, your mind racing, trying to piece together what he was. He was both familiar and foreign, like a whisper from a forgotten dream.

“Okay then, Cole,” you started, feeling as if you had no other choice in the matter. “If you really want to help, how do I get out?”

“It’s your head. I hoped you’d know how to stop it,” he said, looking at you ingenuously.

“Well, I don’t.”

Occlumency might have been your first line of defence, a way to block or repel a mental assault. But you hadn’t been prepared for this—Envy had already ensnared your mind. Occlumency could only prevent a Legilimency attack. Once the intrusion was successful, it was too late for such defences. In theory, a skilled Occlumens might be able to push a Legilimens out, but that required being in the right state of mind, and while you were in your own mind, you were not in the right part of it. The demon was the one pushing you inside your head, pushing you further and further away; it had the upper hand.

You underestimated demons and their dangers, perhaps to a fatal degree. Maybe the warnings from your teachers and the nuns in your youth were right—that a demon could indeed seize control of your mind and body.

Cole’s voice cut through your thoughts. “All of this is Envy: people, places, power. If you keep going, Envy stretches. It takes strength to make more. Being one person is hard. Being many, too many, more and more, and Envy breaks down, you break out. I hope that helps. It’s more than sitting here waiting to lose your face,” he replied simply before abruptly running out of the room. “This way.”

Having no choice, you followed after him. Within the blink of an eye, he was gone again, as if his purpose had only been to lead you astray.

You found yourself in a narrow corridor. The walls were rough, unpolished, and the dim light made the shadows seem alive, shifting and twisting with each step you took. Eventually, the corridor opened into a larger space—Haven’s jail cells beneath the Chantry.

“Thoughts are loud here,” Cole’s voice echoed in your mind, soft yet insistent. “Make them louder. Think of water.”

Before you could grasp the reason behind such a request, Envy’s voice crept out from the shadows. “That thing can’t help you. I will see more!”

You were pushed forward into the next room as the demon’s laughter echoed around you. A blinding flash revealed Cassandra and Chancellor Roderic standing over a table with your bloodied corpse. Envy taunted you about betrayal and ruin. This cycle repeated; each new room presented another fragment of your past or a twisted prophecy of the future. Envy’s laughter was like an infection; it followed you everywhere, and the longer it remained without removal, the louder and more taunting it became. Seemingly with no end, the scenes continued: you saw Roderic condemning you, a once peaceful village in ruins, Mother Giselle being executed on your/Envy’s decree. Jevrin Barris pleading for the lives of his children who Envy sentenced to death. Each step felt like wading through thick mud, Envy’s influence trying to drag you down. But you persevered, Cole’s words echoing in your thoughts.

Entering a new room, the darkness was almost ever-consuming.

“It’s dark, but it isn’t real,” Cole’s voice echoed softly. He’d accompanied you in spirit only; his voice was more visible than his body. “Think of sparks. Keep going up. You’re more you there than you are Envy, and that tires it out.”

You moved forward again, guided solely by Cole’s reassuring voice.

At some point, though time had lost all meaning, you found yourself in a chamber that was dark, cold, and uninviting, much like a dungeon. The stone walls were damp, the air heavy with an almost suffocating stillness. But this wasn’t just any dungeon; there was something eerily familiar about it, something that tugged at the edges of your memory.

At the centre of the chamber, illuminated by a faint, ethereal glow, stood a mirror. It was impossibly tall, its height disappearing into the shadows above, as if it had no end. The mirror’s gold frame was intricately detailed, with faint traces of white wisps of light swirling around it. As you approached, the chill in the air seemed to intensify, as if the mirror itself was exuding a cold breeze like a glacier.

This wasn’t the first time you had encountered this mirror. A certain room had housed it during your years at the school, and you had first stumbled upon it seemingly at the right time when you needed it most. You hadn’t been looking for it, but the castle had hand delivered it to you. You’d been drawn to it like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the allure of what it showed you. It had provided you with closure you’d very much needed, but in exchange, it had taken so much away from you. It had reflected the most secret, unattainable longings of your heart, and you’d been powerless to look away. Hours to days to months had passed with you sitting before it, entranced by the visions that played out on its rippling surface. Very little else mattered.

The inscription on the mirror’s regal frame, ‘Erised’, had once puzzled you, but now its meaning was obvious. It was simply ‘Desire’ spelt backwards—a detail you had overlooked, too absorbed in what the mirror showed to care about deciphering anything that existed beyond it. At the time, you had been convinced the mirror revealed the future, and the past seemed irrelevant to you. Being engrossed by the possibilities of the future made you lose your grasp on the present.

Yet here it was again, standing before you in this twisted imitation of reality, conjured by the demon’s manipulation and theft of your memories. It was ironic how it had found its way back to you, still mocking you with the same misery. A shiver ran down your spine at the sight of its towering form, but despite yourself, you stepped closer, compelled to peer into the shimmering surface once again.

As you approached, the dark chamber around you seemed to fade away, leaving only you and the mirror. You saw yourself reflected there, but not as you were now. This version of you was different—stronger, more confident, with a life free of the burdens that had weighed you down for so long. You saw yourself surrounded by loved ones, friends who were long gone, their faces filled with nothing but respect. The image was painfully beautiful, a tantalising glimpse of what could never be.

“Envy is using it to trap you, to make you forget. It’s regaining its power. You’re falling asleep,” a voice, eerily familiar and faint, echoed from the walls. “Think of water. Fill the room with it.”

Fill the room with water? That would cause many to drown and hurt you. The notion seemed both perilous and unfeasible. Not to mention, no sane person should heed disembodied voices.

Your attention returned to the mirror. The image on the surface had shifted, struggling to capture your true desires, as its magic lacked the authenticity or understanding of the original. It began to reflect more immediate wants—ones that may not have been yours but perhaps mirrored a different entity’s own intentions instead.

“Ah, there you are,” a voice murmured from behind you, pulling you from the shallow depths of the mirror. The voice was familiar, yet wrong, filled with an unsettling blend of what should have been familiarity but was nothing but malice.

“Professor?” you asked, the word slipping out before you could stop it. It was a force of habit. While you had referred to him as ‘father’ to your companions, he simply wasn’t, nor was he ever. It had merely been a convenient label to explain your close, dependent relationship without needing to go into detail. Anyone who knew the truth would find it strange, but that was only because they would not understand.

You were still as his hand reached out to caress your face. You leant into the touch, almost comforted and utterly at ease. The ring pressed against your cheek was warm, and there was a slight humming of magic coming from within it, as if it had a beating heart. It felt almost soothing, but then the ring dug deeper into your skin, its warmth turning into an unbearable sting.

“You’ve spent an epoch longing for what you cannot have,” he said, his voice barely resembling his own, though the distortion may have been due to the passage of time since you last heard it.

As the ring dug further into your cheek, realisation finally dawned on you. You should have known better. This was not your ‘father’ or Professor Fig—it was simply Envy who had stolen his face. The demon that had wormed its way into your mind, trying to break you from within and take over, had taken his face because it knew the ruse would work.

“With me, I can give you all that you desire,” Envy continued, locking its red-hued grey gaze onto yours. “All those dreams, all those wishes you desired… they can be yours. You just have to let me in.”

Its hand dug deeper into your cheek, the ring slicing into your skin and drawing glowing red blood that quickly stained your hands. You wrenched yourself away, but Envy pursued.

“You don’t want to give me what I desire,” you replied, your voice firm despite the gnawing unease. The mirror’s cold surface pressed against your back. “You know you can’t. You want to replace me, to take everything I am and make it yours.”

A smile tugged at the corners of its mouth, deepening the ageing lines on the face it had stolen. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I’ve decided that sharing your desires is more appealing than simply taking them from you.”

This demon thrived on deceit, on exploiting the deepest fears and desires of its victims. The mirror had been the same; by showing your innermost desires, it had consumed your time, attention, and energy. Envy and the mirror were one and the same, each feeding off your vulnerabilities to fulfil some malevolent force you were ignorant of.

But you weren’t about to let it succeed; Envy, Greed or Desire wouldn’t prevail. Not back then. Not now. Not ever again.

“We will have everything; our power will be unstoppable,” the demon continued, grasping you by the shoulder with a touch that should have otherwise been comforting.

“What of your loyalty to the Elder One?”

“The Elder One’s ambitions are but a stepping stone. His power is vast, but it is not limitless. Once I have consumed you, his schemes will crumble. We will reshape everything to our will. There will be nothing left to stand in our way.” Its response was hesitant and entirely fabricated.

You mirrored its gesture, grabbing it by the shoulders and drawing the false body close. You leant into the embrace, finding a perverse comfort in the touch. The navy robes, against which you pressed your face, seemed unnaturally vibrant, even as they were sullied with your blood. You allowed yourself to be swayed by the false sense of acceptance and ease the robes offered, as this would be the last time. For a brief moment, it felt as though you had finally achieved everything you had longed for—everything you had done had led up to this fleeting moment that barely matched the effort it took to reach it.

But all of this was an impossible feat. Only a fool would believe it, and you had been that fool.

“You’ve given up,” Envy said with satisfaction, its voice full of malicious giddy glee. “You’re surrendering to me, as you should have from the beginning.”

Your grip tightened, and with your face pressed against its cold, heartless chest, you said, “I’m afraid you can’t rid of me so easily, but I bid you good luck in your endeavours.”

As you clung to Envy, the room around you began to take form. You could feel and hear the chamber reshaping itself without even needing to look up. Furniture and clutter seemed to materialise out of thin air: overturned chairs, stacked crates, and scattered papers covered the floor, while old, dusty books flew off dark oak shelves, their pages flapping like wings. Shadows of creatures from the smallest insects to the largest beasts crept along the now-detailed stone walls, their forms shifting beneath floating candles that were formed by the wax that dripped from the newly defined ceiling. The chamber bore a striking resemblance to the Room of Requirement in its mutable state, when it lacked a definitive shape from an indecisive passerby. This was your doing; having finally recalled Cole’s advice, you’d focused on flooding the room with thoughts to stretch Envy’s influence thin and distract it, all while you held onto it tightly.

Still with your eyesight obstructed, you sensed Cole’s presence as he perched atop a towering statue of a hooded Morgan le Fay. “It’s frightened of you,” he said, his voice almost brimming with excitement.

It was Envy who wrenched itself away first, as if your touch had burned it. It glared up at Cole with a sneer. “Get out of-”

Seizing the opportunity, you lunged forward and grabbed Envy by the stolen robes again. With a force that felt like it came from your very core, you spun it around and drove both of you into the Mirror of Erised. The impact sent both of you crashing through the glass. Everything exploded into a blinding white light as the mirror shattered, the nightmare fracturing into a million pieces.

Debilitating pain crushed you from all sides as Therinfal Redoubt emerged from the blinding white light. Envy, its guise as the Lord Seeker falling away, let out a screech that echoed a banshee’s deafening wail of impending doom before Envy hurtled back through the doors and fled into the Great Hall. A barrier of green magic lingered in its wake, alongside a short bout of tinnitus.

“An Envy demon,” Barris sighed, coming to stand by your side, looking onward into the castle. “Maker. The real Lord Seeker is either caged or dead. And my captain knew. It’s the red lyrium, isn’t it? I knew that retched stuff was risky!” He shook his head. “They often give us new kinds of lyrium. Our commanders… some used the red stuff first to prove it was harmless. The knights would have been next. That demon turned our leaders so we couldn’t question when this started!”

“I hope you have a plan, Ser Barris,” you suggested tiredly. Being inside your own head overwhelmed by Envy’s control wasn’t as bad compared to the current throbbing in your skull. Now it made some sense why you couldn’t read into Lucius’ mind without your own being harmed. It was a wonder it worked in the first place.

Barris’ plan involved a fetch quest, with you gathering lyrium supplies and the others finding the remaining templars and lieutenants. When you inquired about the need for lyrium, you learned that templars ingested it quite frequently. Considering what you had witnessed in the distorted future through Alexius’ errant magical amulet, the notion of ingesting lyrium seemed fraught with danger, despite the templars’ long-standing reliance to ironically use magic to counter magic. However, upon reaching the lyrium supplies, you noted that it was distinct from the red lyrium you had seen in the future and the cave you had been investigating recently.

After hefting the crate, you apparated back into the Great Hall. Unfortunately, you materialised in the exact spot where a red templar had been standing. Your sudden appearance in that location inadvertently caused the red templar to be torn apart from the inside out. It was a rather grim side effect, and not one that could typically be undone. This was one reason why most wizards preferred to apparate a few metres above the ground. Fortunately, it was a corrupted templar, so you didn’t need to feel too bad.

Barris, watching you clean off the blood with a wave of your wand, thanked you wearily for retrieving the lyrium so promptly. While the blood was physically gone, you would need a long bath after this.

“I’ve never seen magic quite like yours before,” he said after a pause, his eyes wide as he stared at the spot where his corrupted fellow templar had engaged him in battle. “Is that how you always travel?”

“No, not usually. I simply miscalculated. It’s been a very long day, Ser Barris.”

He nodded grimly, still looking at you oddly. “Right. Well, let’s hope that was the last surprise for today. We need to distribute this lyrium to the templars immediately. It will help them resist the demon’s influence and fight more effectively.”

As he distributed the lyrium among the remaining templars, you couldn’t help but notice the eagerness with which they consumed it. Their eyes seemed to glow with renewed vigour, and you wondered about the long-term effects of such dependence.

“Will your companions be joining us anytime soon?” Barris asked you, eying the large front doors as if your companions were lost somewhere inside the fort and not on the other side of the country, possibly relaxing. “We may have enough time to gather them before Envy kills us all. We will need the extra hands.”

“Yeah, about that…” Considering how he’d just acted with your sudden appearance inside his old ally, you went with the excuse that you’d truly and stupidly travelled to the fort alone.

You gripped your wand tightly, wishing Solas was by your side. His expertise on demons would have been invaluable right now, especially when facing an Envy demon. As it stood, you were woefully unprepared for this confrontation.

“Ready yourselves,” Barris commanded, drawing his sword with a metallic ring.

Still nursing the migraine, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the battle ahead. With a nod to Barris, you pushed open the heavy doors and stepped out into the courtyard. He and the remaining templars fanned out around you, their lyrium-enhanced abilities creating a distinct aura of peculiar power.

The sight that greeted you was grotesque. The Envy demon was a simple, thin, pale figure, with the right number of fingers and toes, but with too many limbs and not a single eye. It's bleeding lips groaned open, revealing a gaping maw crowded with teeth. Quite simply, you’d never seen anything of the sort before, and keeping an eye on it was difficult as just looking at it burned your eyes. It was cornered against the far wall that bordered the face of the mountain, cornered like a rat with nowhere else to go.

“Stand firm,” Barris called out, his voice steady despite the eldritch horror before you. “Remember your training. Focus on the Chant.”

As you raised your wand, ready to cast, a familiar voice echoed in your mind. “I can help.”

Suddenly, Cole materialised beside you, appearing as you had appeared in the Great Hall. Perhaps he was closer to human than you’d initially thought. The templars startled, raising their swords, but you held up a hand to freeze them if necessary.

“Cole,” you breathed near silently. “I didn’t think you were real.”

“I heard the hurt,” he said simply, his eyes fixed on the writhing Envy demon. “It screams so loudly. Twisting, tearing, trying to be what it’s not. It wants a new face. Your face, but it failed.”

Barris looked between you and Cole, confusion evident on his face. “Who is this?”

“A friend,” you quickly said.

“I can help you fight it. Envy,” Cole said. His wide-brimmed hat shadowed his pale face and kept his features hidden.

“All help is appreciated.”

Barris raised his sword, the lyrium coursing through his veins giving him an otherworldly glow. “For the Order!” he cried, charging forward with his templars.

The battle was fierce. The Envy demon, despite its grotesque appearance, proved to be a formidable foe. It lashed out with a myriad of shifting appendages. The templars moved with precision, their magic-fueled strength and skill allowing them to stand their ground against the demon’s relentless onslaught. As the final blow landed, the Envy demon let out a horrific wail, its form disintegrating into a cloud of dark energy.

Barris sheathed his sword. “The demon is dead. Andraste be praised: she shielded you from its touch. We’ve numbers across Thedas, but we let this happen. Our officers either failed to see it or were complicit. The templars are ready to hear what the Inquisition needs of us.”

Barris’s faith in you was clear now, reinforced by the defeat of Envy. The bond you’d built with him through your shared struggle forged a trust that was more solid than you could have hoped for.

You glanced around at the templars, their faces weary but resolute. The battle was over, but the fight for peace was far from finished.

“The Breach is not our only problem,” you said firmly, taking a deep breath. “The Elder One is behind everything—the Breach, the red templars, Envy. This Elder One will see the world destroyed and remade in an image unrecognisable to its current form. It is all of our responsibilities to ensure that doesn’t come to pass.”

“The Elder One,” Barris repeated, his voice low and thoughtful. “We’ve heard whispers, but nothing concrete. What do you know of this threat?”

“The Elder One seeks to become a god,” you explained, your voice carrying across the courtyard. “He’ll use anything—demons, corrupted templars, even time magic—to achieve his goals.”

Look at you making speeches; Cassandra would be proud… probably. It was a role you had reluctantly stepped into, but with each challenge, you found yourself growing into it more comfortably (it did help that you were simply stating facts and had a backup plan if things fell through).

Still, this new alliance with the templars was a double-edged sword. If you were a seer, you’d see Cassandra wringing your neck. Recruiting the templars alongside the mages was possibly the worst decision you could ever make. You had no clear solution to prevent future discord between the two factions, though you had a few ideas that the others might not be thrilled about. There was the inherent belief that you were simply the face/hand of the Inquisition; it wasn’t your duty to resolve problems (despite the amount you continued to make). Otherwise, what else would the war council have to spend their plentiful time with?

You pulled Barris aside while the rest of the templars made to set forth to Haven. It would take them a fortnight, so that’s how long you had to figure out any course of action. “There’s something I think I should tell you. I’ve already recruited the free mages. They’re on our side now, and I will be ready to face whatever comes next. I hope you will too.”

Barris’s eyes widened, but his expression quickly settled into something passive. “I see. You certainly move quickly. I do agree it’s time the mage-templar rebellion began its end. It has gone on for too long.”

His response caught you off guard. You’d underestimated Barris, assuming he lacked the foresight and resolve necessary to tackle such a monumental issue. To your surprise, he was more perceptive and committed to resolving the conflict than you had anticipated. So you weren’t going to need to use an unforgiveable curse after all. He was certainly exceeding your expectations.

“I concur,” you said, slipping your wand back into your robes. “I hope we can both agree that it will be a grave disappointment to let this opportunity slip away.”

Barris returned with a nod. “We’ll make it our priority to end this conflict. It’s been dragging on for too long, and the time for resolution is now. If the mages are ready to stand with us, then we have a chance to forge a new path forward.”

Fantastic. Now all you’d need was to get Fiona’s word, and then all conflicts were sure to be severed before they could be formed.

“Will we be expecting your company on the road ahead, Herald?” Barris asked, using your misgiven title for the first time. He seemed to expect the answer before you gave it.

“No, I’ll make my own way. I think it’s best you tell your men about our agreement when I’m not around. There will surely be those who will not agree.”

“Understood. I’ll handle the situation with discretion. We’ve seen enough bloodshed. It’s time we focus on healing and rebuilding. Some of the templars may not take kindly to the idea of working alongside mages. But I’ll do my best to make them see reason. We can’t afford to be divided in the face of this threat.”

With your part in easing the rebellion partially completed for now, you turned your attention to a different task. With directions, you made your way to Lucius’ office, pulling out your wand as you kicked open the door. When no demons or cowering templars made themselves known, you entered at ease.

“Accio tranquillity,” you said, pointing vaguely towards the bookshelves. Tomes of all shapes and sizes filled the cases, although it was no grand library.

After a pause, there was a thud as a fluttering of books, letters, and strewn pages came flying at you. You redirected their trajectory into your pouch, where there was a concerning thud as the contents collided with each other and the other objects you’d thrown haphazardly in there.

As you turned to leave, you hesitated, then decided to take every book from the shelves. “Well, he won’t be needing them anymore,” you said to yourself, content with your new book collection. After all Lucius and Envy combined had done and put you through, this was the least they could do to repay you.

When you emerged from the office, Cole approached, as if appearing out of nowhere. “You helped. I helped you help,” he said. “The templars were hurting, but now they can start to heal. And you didn’t let Envy take your face.”

“Thank you for your help, Cole. I’m not sure I could have resisted Envy without you.”

He tilted his head to study you, revealing his pale, almost translucent eyes under the hat. They were surprisingly… lifeless. “You’re not as loud out here. Your thoughts are… muffled. Dull as the lighthouse shrouded in fog.”

“My thoughts?” you asked, retreating a step. No emotion passed the young man’s face as you did so. “Are you reading my mind?” You couldn’t feel him poking around, but Envy had used a method that you’d never seen before, but Envy was a demon.

First it was your dreams in the fade, then your memories with Envy, now your thoughts. Was privacy not a concept in Thedas?

Cole shook his head, his pale hair swaying beneath the brim of his hat. “Not reading. Hearing. The thoughts sing loudly, even when you try to silence them. But you’re learning to listen to other songs now.”

You tore your gaze from him and thought of a barrier to block any intrusion—a stone wall that surrounding your mind like it was a fortress. You focused on blanking out your thoughts, creating an impenetrable shield in your mind.

It seemed to work as Cole’s expression went blank. “I can’t hear you anymore,” he noted, a touch of surprise in his voice.

“I value my privacy,” you replied curtly, not allowing his surprise to crack the wall. You lifted your gaze, thereby giving him access into your mind if he were a mere Legilimens, but your defences stood firm.

“A wall between self and other. Strong walls. But they don’t keep everything out… or in. Be careful not to lock yourself in.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The thought of questioning Cole about his true nature felt both intrusive and unnecessary. He appeared human, spoke in a manner that was human, albeit slightly peculiar, and wielded magic similar to your own. Although he had materialised seemingly from nowhere, it wasn’t as if he had been invisible; it was more akin to teleportation, a concept you were told didn’t exist in Thedas.

“What are your plans for the future? Will you be returning to Haven?” you asked, grasping for a change in subject.

Cole’s pale eyes flickered, seeming to look through you rather than at you. “I want to help. The Inquisition helps people, or you do. Maybe I can do that too.”

“You’re welcome to join us at Haven if you’d like,” you offered, though part of you wondered if that was wise. Whatever Cole’s nature was, he helped you resist Envy, and his desire to help others seemed genuine.

He nodded eagerly. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Very well, I’ll see you at Haven then.”

With that, Cole vanished, leaving you alone in the now-empty fortress. You watched the sun lower in the sky, the fading light casting long shadows across the courtyard. After a passing moment of tranquilly, a sudden realisation hit you—you’d been gone longer than an hour.

Chapter Text

You emerged from the tree line as casual as can be, as if it were nothing, leaves crunching underfoot as you approached the camp. Cassandra stood at the centre, pacing back and forth, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“You’re back,” Cassandra said sharply, her eyes narrowing the second she saw you. “Where in the Maker’s name have you been? You have been gone for far too long. We were about to send out a search party.”

In response, you held up the limp body of a small, wild animal—some kind of hare, its fur matted and lifeless. “I was hunting,” you explained. Truthfully, you were hunting only for the last ten minutes, and ‘hunting’ was an exaggeration.

She stopped in her tracks, her eyebrows knitting together. “Hunting?” she echoed, unconvinced. “For that long?”

“The hare was… elusive.”

Varric snorted from where he sat near his tent, a large tome in his hands. “A full afternoon to catch something so small. You’re not losing your touch, are you?”

“It’ll be consumed in less than half the time it took to catch it,” Dorian quipped dryly, his voice laced with mockery. “I’d ask what the point was, but, well… why bother?” He lounged on a nearby log, casually adjusting the sleeve of his coat, looking bored as ever.

Blackwall sat close by, sharpening his sword in silence, but you could tell by the slight furrow in his brow that he wasn’t impressed by your meagre catch. Though he remained quiet—likely because he was still new to the group and didn’t know the dynamics—you could feel his unspoken ridicule.

In a matter of seconds, the campfire flared to life, the flames twice the size they’d been moments ago, greedily eating at the firewood you’d also fetched. You kept your gaze down and away from Cassandra’s, which you could feel boring into the back of your head. Setting the hare down besides the fire with a dull thud, you busied yourself with skinning the animal.

“You were gone for hours,” Cassandra interrupted, breaking through the small talk that had started around you, not letting you go so easily. “We had no idea what had happened to you.”

Her tone was sharper now, laced with anger. And if she knew the truth—that you’d been out dealing with Templars—she’d likely be even angrier. People didn’t usually object to your decisions, not like Cassandra did. She always pushed back, always questioned. And you weren’t sure if you could handle that right now, or ever.

You sighed, brushing off some dirt from your robes. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but I was fine. I just got a little… distracted, that’s all.”

Cassandra stared at you for a long moment, her eyes searching your face for something—the truth, or maybe an apology.

“Well,” she muttered after what felt like an eternity, turning away, “at least you’re safe.”

“You know,” Varric chimed in without missing a beat, or completely ignorant to the Seeker’s sourness. “You’ve got to be one of the luckiest people I’ve ever met. Not only have you survived Cassandra Pentaghast’s wrath, but you’ve made it through the woods on your lonesome as well? Whatever it is you’re doing to survive, keep it up. We might need that kind of luck in the future.”

You paused in your dinner preparations to offer a wry, almost cautious, smile. “There’s still plenty of time for that. I haven’t quite escaped her wrath yet.”

The next day, when you awoke to not only find Cassandra not at your throat but also giving you the cold shoulder, you were pleasantly surprised. She seemed back to her usual, stern self, a welcome change from the heated intensity of the previous night. It was a relief in some ways; her quiet disapproval was far easier to deal with than her fiery temper. At least she wasn’t looking ready to challenge your every breath.

It struck you as strange to be afraid of someone without magic. Younger you may have laughed at the very notion. Back then, your ego had been as grand as the spells you wielded, and the idea of fearing a non-magical opponent would have seemed laughable. Now, it was a different story.

The addition of Dorian and Blackwall to the group had put extra strain on the horses, who struggled under the increased weight. You’d been using your magic to help alleviate some of their burden, encouraging the horses to push through the challenging terrain with spells designed to lighten their load. The carriage was crowded, and despite your efforts to make it more comfortable, the space was just simply barely adequate for the number of people travelling within it. The cramped quarters inside the carriage made it hard for anyone to find real comfort; it felt like any inch of space had been filled with both emotional and physical clutter.

The front of the carriage was no better. You sat perched on the edge of the seat beside Dorian and Solas, the three of you packed together in a narrow space, practically elbow to elbow. Solas drove, his hands steady around the reins, his silence an almost constant companion. Dorian had insisted on sitting up front, complaining that the inside of the carriage was “too stuffy”. He’d made it clear he had no intention of actually taking the reins. Instead, he had settled into a more comfortable position, showing fleeting interest in the world outside before quickly retreating into an indifferent silence, as if the rustic surroundings were somehow beneath him.

To avoid constant contact with your companions, you had extended the front seat slightly with magic, giving everyone a little more breathing room. However, this had its drawbacks. With the carriage’s path winding along narrow dirt roads, branches continually whipped against you, their edges occasionally scratching your skin. It was a minor irritation at first, but the constant brush of foliage became more annoying with each passing mile.

Reading in the sunlight, despite the branches occasionally slapping at your face, was far better than trying to read in the cramped, dim interior of the carriage. You could barely breathe in there, let alone focus on words. But even out here, it wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. The sun beat down mercilessly, and sweat began to bead on your brow. You could feel it trickling down your neck, soaking into your robes. Said robes were enchanted to ease against such unbearable weather, but somehow there was a way.

You struggled with the text. Half the letters blurred together—familiar shapes but frustratingly elusive. With the context, you could piece together some idea of what was being said, although this was far from a pleasurable read.

Dorian, seated beside you with all the ease of someone who wasn’t getting scratched by every passing tree limb, glanced over your shoulder, peeking at what you were reading. “The Rite of Tranquillity? My, what an utterly dreary topic.”

You glanced up at him, then back at the page. “Do you know much about it?”

His expression shifted, a flicker of something like discomfort crossing his face before he waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, quite a bit. Enough to know it’s not something I’d care to spoil such a lovely day with. Don’t you agree? Really, must you read that of all things.”

You looked at him sideways. Lovely day? Between the dust, the cramped space, and the constant battering of branches, it was far from lovely.

You frowned, keeping your eyes on the page. “I’m not reading this for pleasure. It’s research.”

“Unless you’re planning on becoming a Tranquil yourself, which I do not advise you do, then I don’t see the point in dragging yourself through such tedious reading.” He paused, eyeing the book with a different look now. “And how did you get your hands on that particular book? It’s not exactly common reading material—rare, even, outside of certain circles.”

“I… found it,” you excused evasively. “What do you mean by ‘certain circles’?”

Dorian leant in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Circles that dabble in things best left alone. The kind that attracts unwanted attention from both sides of the Veil.”

“Like blood magic?”

“Now, now, let’s not rush to conclusions just because I’m from Tevinter,” Dorian replied smoothly, a playful glint in his eyes. His tone was light despite how others had treated the so-called dark subject. “Not everything sinister involves blood. There are many dangerous magics in this world, and not all of them are painted with the same brush. Some are far subtler… and often, far worse. Although, with the Inquisition becoming such an authority, southern mages may begin to taste a bit of the freedom Tevinter mages enjoy. Some forms of magic, once restricted, may become more common under the Inquisition’s watchful eye. All because you made one little choice.”

But that wasn’t the case, not entirely. The Inquisition hadn’t chosen magic as its sole path to power. You had made sure of that when you brought the Templars into the fold—accidentally, but also with the intent to maintain balance and, hopefully, to stop the rebellion. Maybe you had damned the mages already by inviting their age-old jailers into the mix.

And yet, a part of you still wondered: if you had the authority to sway the fate of both mages and Templars, could you also be the one to break the chains entirely? To give mages the freedom they have so long deserved? It was a decision that seemed too monumental for one person to make, especially when it wasn’t your world to shape. You hadn’t even bothered to change your own world, despite its suffering from similar issues, and now you were here, making world-changing choices for a world that didn’t belong to you.

The conversation settled into silence. You glanced at the horses, noticing their struggle. They were labouring under the weight; their movements were laboured and slow.

“Fortitudo equi,” you murmured under your breath, hesitating at the unfamiliar turn of phrase. The magic crackled faintly in the air, and you saw the horses begin to perk up. Their steps became a bit lighter, their breaths less laboured. The spell was one you’d recently invented—an adaptation of existing magic meant to ease the strain on a different animal.

You didn’t necessarily need to speak the magic word or think it to cast the spell. The words were more for children learning the spell, a way to put names to movements. Presumedly, wands sense the owner’s intent, reading their mind to help guide their magic. Considering you’d just made this spell, it was best to verbalise it lest you make a mistake and be out two horses.

Dorian, watching with mild interest, raised an eyebrow. “Must you narrate every move you make? I do appreciate the show, but is it really necessary?”

“I’m sorry, did I disturb you?” you asked as another branch brushed your shoulder. “If you’re not interested, you’re welcome to go back inside the carriage. I imagine your absence of company is quite the disparaging loss.”

“You flatter me, but I’m quite content here. You’ve turned out to be the most entertaining diversion I’ve had in days.”

“I’m here to serve,” you coldly derided, though you may have been telling the truth. All you seemingly did was work, and not entirely for your own benefit. “If you must know, the spell requires vocalisation. It’s still new, and I need focus to establish it.”

“Whatever the case is, your Tevene needs work.”

“My what?” you repeated, puzzled by the unfamiliar word.

“Tevene; the language of the Imperium,” Dorian clarified. “You’re not far from the mark, though I’d hardly say you’re proficient at the language. Your pronunciation is atrocious.” He paused, noting your blank expression. “Surely you’ve heard of it?”

“I’m not familiar with Tevene, but I do know Latin.”

Dorian threw his hands up in a theatrical gesture. “Latin? Never heard of her. Ah, but I know the dusty old Tevene language when I hear it. It is the language of magic, of power, of ancient wisdom. It carries the weight of centuries, steeped in the essence of Tevinter’s might and majesty.”

Dorian began speaking what sounded like gibberish, though there was something oddly familiar about it, like a puzzle piece that almost fit but didn’t quite complete the picture. As he continued, his words blended elements that resembled Latin but diverged into something more complex, a thick dialect or unique variation that eluded your understanding.

It took your mind a moment longer than it usually did to translate his words, or at least to get a sense of their meaning. When you finally did, it no longer sounded like broken Latin but rather a whole new language with a perceptible pattern.

You blinked, trying to parse the meaning of his words. There was no context to gather from what he’d said. “I’m not sure, but it sounds like you called me a pig-headed fool.”

“Close enough, but if I wanted to call you a fool, I’d do so in a language you understand. No, I merely recited a rather dull passage about proper etiquette in the Magisterium. Hardly the stuff of excitement, I assure you.”

Concern webbed your stomach as a realisation hit; Tevene might be an older form or a derivative of Latin. The similarities between Latin and Tevene were striking, yet the differences were undeniable. Latin was not the oldest language by any stretch. This might suggest that your theory of being in the future could be flawed. But the evidence against it was stronger, or so was to be believed.

“So, Tevene is considered a living language?” you asked.

“Living?” Dorian’s smile turned mocking. “Tevene is more of a scholarly pursuit nowadays, a relic of a bygone era. It is spoken with a certain… sophistication.”

Both Latin and Tevene, while familiar, were dying languages to the majority population. The scholarly few kept them alive, but to the broader world, they were remnants of the past. The former had endured in the world of magic as the universal tongue that all European-based wizards were taught. Every spell, every incantation, and every magical text was steeped in Latin, making it an essential part of magical education.

As you attempted to refocus on your reading, another branch whipped across your face, leaving a thin, stinging scratch. You hissed in frustration, finally snapping the book shut.

“That’s it,” you sneered, raising your hand. With a quick gesture and a muttered incantation, you cast a shield charm around the front of the carriage. The air shimmered faintly, not enough to disturb the visibility, and the next branch that would have struck you simply bounced off the invisible barrier.

Dorian glanced at the wand you tucked back into your robes. “I see you rather like that stick of yours.”

“It’s called a wand. I heard the Tevinters used them some centuries ago.”

“Oh, they most certainly did. But if you wish to impress any Tevinter, you wouldn’t parade about with something now considered archaic. No self-respecting mage uses a wand these days.”

You scoffed. “Your staff ages you, Dorian. If not for your uncouthness, I’d have thought you were centuries old.”

Merlin, you recalled, was often depicted by Muggles wielding a staff, though it was likely he had only used a wand—because what self-respecting wizard used a staff? You couldn’t hide your magic if you couldn’t hide your tool. Regardless, Merlin’s wand had never been found, which left room for all sorts of bizarre speculation.

Dorian preened, as if the idea of being centuries old was a compliment. “Because I’m just that knowledgeable. And, I must say, I’ve been told I look remarkably good for my age.”

“At least I can place my wand in my robes. Staves are so bulky; could you even hide one anywhere?”

“Oh, I can imagine you can hide your wand in a few places.”

“Are you trying to suggest something?”

His expression turned wicked. “You’re awfully uptight. How does that stick feel?”

“It feels like magic,” you snapped. “Pure, unadulterated magic. Something you might not be familiar with, given your reliance on that gaudy staff.” Not to mention mages tapped into the Fade, which, to you, wasn’t magic in the truest sense—just a tool to be wielded. But who were you to judge those who wished to wield magic?

Dorian feigned offence, placing a hand dramatically over said staff by his legs. “Gaudy? This staff is a masterpiece of Tevinter craftsmanship. It’s not just for show, you know.”

“What on earth could it possibly be for?”

“Well,” Dorian drawled. “It has its uses. For instance, it’s excellent for reaching those hard-to-get spots on one’s back. And in a pinch, it makes for a rather effective walking stick.”

“How practical. I’m sure that’s exactly what the ancient Tevinter magisters had in mind when they crafted it.”

“You’d be surprised at the ingenious uses those old magisters found for their staves.” He leant in, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “They commanded power with them. Changed worlds. In Tevinter, staves are still preferred over wands. The larger the staff, the more endowed a mage is perceived to be.”

“Endowed?”

“Magically,” he clarified, but the teasing smile on his face said otherwise.

“So it’s all for appearance, not actual power?”

He gave a smarmy look. “Oh, they’re one in the same; appearance is power. In this world, the impression of strength and capability often outweighs the actual substance. A grand staff implies a grand mage, whether or not the power is proportional. So, in a way, it’s all about maintaining an image. If you wield a staff that commands respect, people are more likely to assume you have the power to back it up. Appearances can be just as important as the magic itself. It’s a world where perception often dictates reality.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you said.

The idea of basing respect solely on the outward appearance of one’s magical instrument felt alien and somewhat superficial. True power and influence were earned through skill, knowledge, and the ability to enact change, rather than through mere symbolism. In the world you were familiar with, power was not so easily masked by appearances. Respect and authority in the magical community were less about the grandeur of one’s instrument and more about one’s achievements and reputation. For instance, particularly in the UK, a wizard’s power was not signified by the type of their wand, but by their deeds, their mastery of spells, and of course, their family name and purity of blood.

Dorian waved his hand. “Ah, so you value substance over show. How refreshing. But I suppose that makes sense for someone whose achievements are as modest as their opinions.”

Solas cleared his throat, interrupting the verbal sparring. “If you two are quite finished discussing the merits of your magical implements, perhaps we could focus on the path ahead?”

“Ah, Solas, I forgot you were there,” Dorian said, recovering quickly. “There’s no need for that. Surely you have an opinion on the matter. Wand or staff? Which do you prefer?”

Solas’s response was dry. “I prefer whatever tool best serves its purpose without unnecessary ostentation.”

“So, neither then?”

“There is wisdom in simplicity.”

Dorian leant back, his arm brushing against yours as he demanded more space. “Simplicity? How dreadfully boring. Where’s the flair, the panache? Magic should be a spectacle; a performance worthy of an audience.”

“Yes, because there’s nothing quite like a grand display of pyrotechnics,” you said. “I was always told sparks and loud sounds are more indicative of incompetence than skill.”

“A little flair never hurts anyone. Those ‘sparks and loud sounds’ as you so crudely put it, are the very essence of Tevinter’s magical prowess.”

“And I suppose you consider yourself a master of such a thing?”

“Naturally,” he said. “Though I must admit, your magic tricks are rather impressive. Crude, perhaps, but impressive.”

“I didn’t see you lifting a finger to help.”

Dorian went to retort when Solas interjected, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. “Perhaps, Dorian, you’d care to demonstrate your own mastery of such spells? I’m certain the mounts would appreciate the additional assistance.”

The Tevinter mage’s smirk faltered for a moment before he regained his composure. “I’ll have you know that in Tevinter, we have far more sophisticated methods of travel than relying on beasts of burden.”

“Indeed,” Solas agreed, though his voice held a sharp edge. “Tevinter appears to prefer not to burden animals when more refined means are available. Herald, in Tevinter, the notion of ‘burden’ is handled differently. Luxuries and conveniences often come at the expense of hands that have little choice in the matter. Their approach to travel and labour is less concerned with the well-being of beasts and more focused on ensuring that those who serve cannot so easily walk away.”

Dorian’s smile twisted into a grimace, though Solas’ face remained a mask of calm detachment, as if what he’d just said had been recited from a recipe.

Dorian’s eyes flashed with something strange—perhaps shame. “I won’t deny that Tevinter has its... flaws. But to paint the entire Imperium with such a broad brush is unfair. It’s not as simple as you make it sound, nor does change happen overnight, especially in a place as set in its ways. There’s history, tradition-”

“History and tradition often serve as convenient excuses for perpetuating injustice,” Solas interrupted, his tone still maddeningly calm.

You shifted slightly, the meaning behind their words becoming starkly clear. They weren’t merely about differing practices or attitudes; they hinted at something much darker. Slavery. You were lost in time, thrown into a world where murder and witchhunts were a normalcy; it was to be expected… But to encounter such a brutal concept so close to what you were beginning to realise was your ‘home’ was unsettling.

The concept was jarring, not just because of what it was, but because of how close it felt to home. The wizarding world had its own shadows. House elves, bound to lifelong servitude; magical creatures exploited for their powers; and societies where power dynamics allowed the subjugation of those deemed lesser. Regardless of how you may have acted back then, ignorant or inconsiderate, this matter was a little closer, more personal, and not something that could be so brazenly ignored.

Once again, you were approaching Solas for his assistance. He had mentioned before that people often came to him only when they needed something, not for the sake of conversation. Earlier in the evening, you’d tried to ease the situation by helping him with a minor task, hoping it might make your request feel less like an imposition. Even then, it had felt like asking for another favour too soon.

He accepted the letters with a nod, his expression unchanged. He didn’t question your motives or the timing of your request. Instead, he focused on the pages before him, the soft crackling of the distant campfire and the rustling leaves providing a gentle backdrop to the silence between you.

After scanning the letters, Solas looked up and asked, “Is this what you were reading earlier?” he inquired.

“No, that was something else. The book was easier to read. It used more formal, technical language, so it was easier to follow. But these letters have names and terms I don’t recognise.” You paused, choosing your next words, unwilling to reveal the truth about your raid on Lucius’ personal effects. “I got them from a templar cache. Thought they might hold something useful.”

Solas raised an eyebrow slightly but didn’t press for details. He simply continued to read, his gaze flicking over the pages with practiced ease.

For a moment, the only sound between you was the crackling of the distant fire. Then Solas looked up again, his expression thoughtful. “It has only been a matter of two weeks since you began learning the common tongue, yet you are quickly mastering it.”

“I have a decent tutor.”

“It has indeed only been two weeks,” he reaffirmed, almost as though he needed verification.

“I believe so,” you replied, noting how those two weeks had felt like an eternity. But with the end in sight—your plan to close the breach as soon as possible—you were eager to push through. “What’s your point?”

“It is unusual for someone to learn a language so quickly without the aid of a spirit of Learning,” Solas said plainly. “Such rapid acquisition of knowledge is not common.”

“Why must a spirit be depended upon for everything, or is that just what you believe?” you shot back, feeling a prick of annoyance. “I thought you were quite capable as you were, but I didn’t realise you have spirits doing all the heavy lifting for you.”

A little magic could help with learning a language, yes, but it wasn’t to be heavily relied upon. Translator-like charms and spells existed, but they didn’t work well for written text, and using them in polite company was frowned upon. Some groups, like merpeople, for instance, had their own strict codes and didn’t particularly appreciate the use of magic to understand their tongue. Casting one of those spells to interpret their tongue could very well result in a swift and unpleasant trip to the devouring depths.

He ignored the comment about his capabilities. “Not all learning is supplemented by spirits. However, in certain circles, it is common to seek their aid—perhaps to an exploitative degree. You’ve managed well without, despite your unconventional methods. Not many would have such luck.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it. I get by on skill, not spirit hand-holding.”

Solas offered a thin smile, but it was not kind by any means. “Of course. But beware; skill alone can become its own crutch if you lean on it too heavily. There is a difference between mastering a craft and merely assuming mastery.”

“Any more sagely advice for me, oh wise one?”

He paused, considering something. “Have you always learned languages so quickly?”

“Of course. But the more I do learn, the easier it becomes. Altogether, I know Latin, French,” you listed the rest. “Whatever tongue this is. Oh, I shan’t forget Gobbledygook, although with all the dialects, I’m hardly proficient in it.”

“Excuse me?” Solas raised an eyebrow, almost looking offended. “Gibberish?”

“Gobbledygook is the native goblin language, though I lament that wizards aren’t made privy to the proper term. Nevertheless, it’s perhaps the hardest language to learn.”

The truth was, learning Gobbledygook had been a necessity rather than a choice. Naturally, goblins left their most crucial information in their native tongue. To gain an edge, you had invested time and effort into deciphering their cryptic scribbles and murky plots. It wasn’t an easy task—Gobbledygook was notoriously complex, full of guttural sounds and convoluted grammar that defied most logical structure. Though you weren’t proficient by any means, your efforts had allowed you to uncover enough of their plans and understand them enough to stay a step ahead.

Solas tilted his head slightly, almost unnoticeably. “I’m unfamiliar with the nation.”

You took in his reaction, concluding that goblins mustn’t be known at all in Thedas. “Truly?” you asked. For what felt like the first time in ages, you were pleased. “Then you needn’t worry. Goblins are clever little things with bad attitudes. Beyond that, there’s nothing more worth knowing.”

“An interesting contradiction, given your own forthright disposition,” he said bluntly. “It seems you have a particular view of these goblins, and yet, you’ve taken the effort to learn their tongue.”

“I learned it out of necessity.”

“I see,” he simply replied before returning to the letters, his eyes scanning the text with practiced ease.

You watched Solas as he continued to peruse the letters, his brow furrowing slightly as he concentrated. The firelight danced across his features, casting shadows that accentuated the sharp angles of his face.

“These are quite detailed.” He broke you from your thoughts. “It appears you’ve seemingly stumbled upon strictly valuable information.”

“Do you find anything of interest?” you asked, eager for any insight he might provide.

Solas’s gaze remained steady as he read. “There are references to various templar operations, some of which I’m unfamiliar with. Names of individuals, locations of interest… and lyrium.” He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “It appears the templars have taken a keen interest in lyrium.”

The templars or the Elder One?

He continued, “They speak of increased shipments, new refinement processes, and…”

“Experiments,” you finished, able to read the word on the page. “What type, does it say?”

You weren’t certain of their exact route, but it was likely that Barris was still somewhere in the Brecilian Forest—an area too elusive for you to track him down and verify what you had discovered. It was unlikely he knew, but now you’d need to wait for him and the templars to survive the trek to Haven to get your answers.

Unless you could track him down by using the Fade… Your overreliance on the Fade, something that was more a tool than magic, was becoming concerning.

“It’s not entirely clear,” Solas said. “The templars ingest lyrium as part of their conditioning. It’s how they maintain their own magical abilities and enhance their resistance to other magics.”

You frowned. “The templars ingest lyrium for magic?” you echoed, feigning surprise at the revelation. “Quite greedy of them, don’t you think? Condemning mages, yet using magic themselves. Is there a demon for greed?”

“There are Desire demons that may manifest from greed,” Solas replied, not missing a beat. His answer surprised you, given Envy and Pride demons existed, explicitly similar to the Christian Seven Deadly Sins—but not Greed? Even in Buddhism, greed was one of the unwholesome roots. Greed seemed a significant one to be overlooked, or be shared with desire, which was likely lust. The greed of man was a powerful and consuming force. And other than pride, greed was the worst in some regard—Dante would disagree, but that wasn’t the point.

“The hypocrisy of it is not difficult to miss,” Solas continued. “They view lyrium as a tool to enhance their strength, just as they view magic as a threat to control. But the lines between the two are often blurred, and many refuse to see it.” He glanced back at the other letters. “There is more here, but it will take time to decipher fully. These templars, especially under the Lord Seeker, seem to be up to something far more dangerous than mere experiments with lyrium.”

Fortunately, that was no longer an issue.

That night, you quickly finished your part in preparing dinner and setting up the tents, the routine tasks of the evening done. The camp was settling into its usual rhythm, with the crackling of the fire and the low murmur of conversation. You glanced at the others, lingering a bit longer on Cassandra, as if testing her resolve. “I’m going for another walk,” you announced with an edge, almost daring her to object. But Cassandra remained silent, her gaze fixed on the fire, and no one else seemed inclined to stop you.

You took your leave, heading out from the camp. Once you were far enough away and out of sight, you focused your energy and apparated back to Therinfal Redoubt. The eastern coast was slightly darker than the Hinterlands were, likely due to the fort’s geographical position and the time of year, where the shadows grew longer and dusk fell more swiftly.

The fort was eerily silent and deserted, offering you the solitude you needed to snoop through its forgotten corners. Navigating through the dim corridors, you made your way through the rooms you hadn’t yet explored. The stone walls seemed to close in on you as you moved methodically through each chamber, searching for anything of interest or importance that you might have missed before.

As you approached a door you hadn’t noticed before, it creaked open, revealing a large office-like room cluttered with papers, half-broken furniture thrown around, and scrawling all over the walls. A closer look at the walls showed drawings of eyes marked in red dripping liquid. At the centre of the room, sat on the ovoid table was an ornate statue bust. It was of a woman whose likeness was marred by a dagger impaled through a piece of parchment and into her head.

You bent to peer at the letter, but a figure seemingly materialised from behind it, pale skin shining under your gold-lit wand.

“The Elder One wants her dead,” Cole said, his gaze fixed on the bust with a haunted expression. “Empress Celene. He hates her, haunts her, wants her dead, but hides why. He hid other things, too.”

“You’re still here,” you uttered, assessing that there was no immediate threat.

His pale eyes met yours right as a stone wall built itself around your mind. “I knew you’d come back,” he earnestly said. “It can get quite lonely here, all by oneself.”

“I’m used to being alone.”

“But it doesn’t mean you should be.”

Due to Alexius’ meddling, you’d been thrust into the future and knew firsthand that the Elder One would indeed succeed in his attempt on the Empress’s life. Now you’d been made privy to that information twice now.

“He wishes to kill her, and he succeeds…” you murmured to yourself as Cole disappeared again. “I really must meet this Empress Celene if I’m to stop her assassination attempt.”

The thought of playing a role in the fate of royalty, something you had once found irrelevant, was now pressing. Being tethered to Scotland, you’d paid little mind to the real world royalty and politics, more concerned with personal survival and immediate threats. The name of your own monarch felt like a distant memory. Was it still Queen Victoria, or had more time passed beyond your knowing? Of course, that world was so far separated from this one, it hardly mattered.

You grabbed the notes scattered around the room, trying to piece together their meaning. The words swirled on the page, still too tangled for you to fully decipher.

After stuffing the letters into your pouch, you went back to exploring the fort.

As you turned a corner, Cole’s warning voice echoed from the darkness. “Someone approaches. Don’t let him see you.”

You froze at the sudden information, but your reflexes were quicker. You covered yourself in the Disillusionment Charm. The sound of footsteps, distinct and deliberate, reached your ears. You glanced around, trying to locate the source. Just as you were about to turn back into the room, a figure emerged from the darkness ahead. It was a man—none you’d seen before, nor did he look much like an Elder One. He would have looked rather ordinary if not for the particularly familiar red glow to his armour.

“Cole,” you whispered under the mere whisp of your breath. The night was suddenly too quiet; your own heartbeat would alert the man. He was no goblin, yet how he’d managed to weave that corrupted magic into his armour, you didn’t want to know. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I did,” Cole’s replied, his voice even softer than yours.

As the man continued down the corridor, seemingly unaware of your presence, you prepared yourself. With a quick and practiced motion, you cast the Freezing Charm. The air around you shimmered with magical energy as you directed the spell towards the man.

The spell hit its mark, and the man’s movements abruptly ceased. He stood frozen in place. The red glow of his armour seemed to pulse faintly, as if fighting against your magical hold. He glared as you made your presence known.

“Well, well,” you hummed, circling him slowly. “What do we have here? A lone wolf, or are there more of you skulking about?”

He struggled in his hold as he spoke next, “You think this will hold me, mage? Your petty spells are nothing.”

“He’s the only one,” Cole informed.

You nodded. Whatever ability he had was certainly helpful, if not utterly intrusive. “Do you know who he is? No one good, I imagine.”

“He serves the Elder One. His name is Raleigh, Samson. He drinks red lyrium. It sings to him, changes him. He thinks it makes him stronger, but it’s destroying him from within.”

“He’s not another Envy demon, is he?”

Cole shook his head quickly. “He’s human… or he was. He’s more lyrium than he is human.”

You studied Samson’s face, observing the sickly, almost translucent pallor that marred his features. The corruption from red lyrium seemingly manifested as faint crimson veins etched beneath his skin.

“Destroying you, is it?” you mused aloud. “And yet you willingly serve this Elder One? Curious.”

“Release me,” Samson snarled, straining against the spell.

“No. I’d like to know more about the Elder One,” you replied, your tone resolute. You knew he wouldn’t willingly divulge any useful information, so you raised your wand, preparing to delve into his mind.

With the whispered incantation, you cast the spell and began to probe Samson’s thoughts. The world around dissolved as you entered his consciousness, sifting through his memories, thoughts and fears. Images flashed before your eyes—snapshots of dark rituals, fervent conversations, and a menacing figure commanding an army of beings of unknown nature.

You saw the Elder One himself, a twisted being seemingly constructed of corrupted magic. He was no ordinary human; he stood half as tall as a giant. Corypheus, his name whispered into your mind. You saw the information he’d shared with Samson: plans that were elaborate, intent that was unclear. He planned to march on Haven and look for-

Just as you were piecing together the final fragments, a sudden force expelled you from Samson’s mind. You blinked rapidly, refocusing on your surroundings. Before you stood Cole, who’d materialised from behind Samson, his arms wrapped tightly around the loyal servant’s throat, a dagger poised dangerously at his neck. The charm you’d placed on Samson had been broken, yet you somehow hadn’t realised.

“Cole?” You managed to murmur, your mind still reeling from the sudden shift in reality.

“He doesn’t have to die,” Cole said, reading your thoughts as easily as you had Samson’s. “But he doesn’t need to remember this.”

For a moment, you thought Cole was suggesting that you should be the one to erase Samson’s memories. The idea hadn’t crossed your mind, though it wasn’t unheard of. But no, Cole hadn’t dug a dormant memory or thought from your mind, as ascertained from his next words. “I can do it,” he said. “You should return to them. They need to know about this.”

Someone who could read minds could also alter them—it was common sense—a simple fact that you should have recognised in Cole earlier. His abilities were far more extensive than you had realised, and in many ways, he was more like you than you had given him credit for—could even hope for.

You hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at you. Despite Cole’s previous assistance with Envy, you didn’t truly know him, and suspicion lingered. You had little reason to trust that this wasn’t just another facade.

Yet, as you had just seen through Samson’s mind, Cole hadn’t appeared even once. It seemed unlikely that he was deceiving you now. Unless, of course, he’d acted ahead and removed any thought of him.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Cole claimed, and you fought the urge to rebuild the wall in your mind.

After a moment’s reluctant thought, you gave a nod. “Alright.” Even if this were all a charade, Corypheus would inevitably come to know of your existence sooner or later, if he wasn’t already aware.

Without wasting haste, you apparated right then and there. You landed inside your tent with a soft thud, the suddenness of the transition causing you to stumble slightly. The tent’s fabric caught around your flailing limbs, making your exit a bit clumsy as you fought to free yourself.

You quickly emerged from the tent, your sudden appearance startling those who’d crowded around the fire.

“Herald?!” Blackwall exclaimed, voice rising in shock. “We- er, we didn’t know you had returned.”

You took a deep breath, your heart still racing from the hurried departure.

“I apologise for the abrupt entrance,” you began, voice hoarser than it should be. “But I fear I have some very troubling news. Corypheus—the Elder One—plans to march on Haven. I saw it clearly. He’s preparing for an assault, and it’s swiftly arriving.”

A heavy silence fell over the group as your words sank in. Varric was the one to break the quiet with a low curse. “Corypheus? Well, shit.”

Chapter Text

The journey back to Haven continued the next day. Recent revelations left you with little choice but to inform your companions about the Inquisition’s recruitment of the templars—an arrangement that had seemed too easy, too clean. Cassandra’s lips tightened at the news, her displeasure unmistakable. It was clear she disapproved, and you could feel the weight of her disapproval in the air, so you kept your distance, avoiding her sharp glares as much as possible.

You hadn’t intended to sound cryptic, but there was no other way to convey what had happened at Therinfal Redoubt without sounding delusional. You had been there, in the thick of it, witnessing a chaotic spiral of events. But to your companions, it was impossible for you to have been present physically. They assumed you had merely ‘seen’ Therinfal—perhaps a vision of the future, a sign of what was to come.

“You’re sure it was him?” Varric asked, fidgeting with the edge of his crossbow. “Last I checked, Corypheus was dead. Done, over with.” There was hesitation in his tone, a reluctance to believe what he was hearing. “Hawke killed him. I was there.”

“I only heard his name, and something tells me that name isn’t too common,” you said.

As the day wore on, Cassandra had been unusually quiet. Her typically stern demeanour had softened in ways you hadn’t expected. You caught her glancing at you more than once when she thought you weren’t looking, her eyes a mixture of contemplation and concern. Finally, as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape, she broke her silence.

“Andraste spoke of the future, too,” she said softly, her voice carrying a gentleness you weren’t used to. “She was given visions. She foresaw the Maker’s return, led by His guiding hand. Many didn’t believe her at first, but she stayed steadfast.” She paused, as if weighing her next words carefully. “Perhaps you are not so different.”

You glanced at her, seeing the deep-rooted faith in her eyes. She saw it as divine insight, a blessing, and not the hard-earned knowledge from everything you’d learned along the way. Faith had not gifted you with this information, nor had a spirit or whatever other omnipotent being there was.

“You believe me,” you observed, though it wasn’t quite a question.

She nodded slowly. “We are not in the position to ignore such visions, no matter how impossible they may seem. It feels like a warning, just as Andraste’s did. We must be ready, as she was.”

“My prophecy hasn’t come into fruition yet,” you replied coolly. You didn’t need to speak of what was to come—you already knew. Corypheus was alive, and he was coming.

The truth felt too outlandish to be trusted.

But it was hard to convey that certainty when you stood surrounded by doubt, even from those closest to you. Dorian, at least, understood some of it. He, too, had glimpsed the future with Alexius’ amulet. Yet even he had his own reservations about what you had both seen, though you shared the knowledge that time wasn’t as linear as it seemed.

The once clear afternoon had shifted, thick clouds gathering like a cloak across the horizon. Their edges burned with a bruised purple, tinged with silver as the sunlight struggled to break through. You could almost feel the weight of the atmosphere pressing down on your shoulders.

“Looks like we’re in for a downpour,” Varric muttered, glancing up at the sky with a frown. Blackwall, walking not far behind, gave a grunt of agreement.

“Could be a bad one,” Blackwall added. “Best we set up cover soon.”

You wanted to tell them it wouldn’t rain and that you knew the skies wouldn’t open, but you kept your mouth shut. They already thought you were some kind of seer—there was no need to encourage it.

As evening settled in, you moved quietly around the outskirts of the camp, far enough away that the familiar sounds of crackling firewood and muted conversations faded into nothingness. The trees stood tall and imposing, their dark silhouettes blending into the shadows of dusk. The air here felt heavier and cooler, and with every step, the sense of isolation deepened. You couldn’t even see the camp anymore, the warmth of its light swallowed by the encroaching night.

You had chosen this distance deliberately. It wasn’t just to perform the enchantments in peace—it was to avoid Cassandra. She wasn’t angry anymore, not after the events of the past day. She now looked at you with a strange reverence, as though she expected some divine revelation to spring from your lips at any moment. You weren’t sure which was worse—her anger or her hope.

With a sharp breath, you refocused, your hands moving in practiced motions as you traced the invisible lines of magic around the camp’s perimeter. You weren’t just doing this to busy yourself or to avoid the weight of Cassandra’s expectations. You were putting up enchantments because something had changed. You could feel it—an undercurrent of danger threading through the air, tightening with each passing day. This world, so different from your own, was only now showing its true face. The threats you’d sensed before felt distant, almost abstract, but now they were close, pressing in from all sides.

The magic you wove was meant to keep whatever lurked in the darkness at bay. It formed a shield of protection, like a physical barrier, which forced you to move further from camp—past the stream—where your companions were less likely to stumble into it by accident. If they did, they’d be caught in its effects, and you’d have to go on a fetch quest to retrieve them. The rules of enchantments were rigid and unyielding; you couldn’t pick and choose who or what they affected. Luckily, you knew plenty of protective enchantments and had quite the selection to choose from, allowing you to tailor them to your specific needs.

You had just returned from Haven—a quick trip that took no more than ten minutes. You’d apparated there to ensure that nothing catastrophic had happened in the short time since you learned of Corypheus’ plans. He hadn’t arrived yet, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time. To prepare, you placed a subtle warning spell, something that would alert you if danger approached, though your thoughts were still with the small group of six who travelled with you. Haven had its soldiers, ex-templars, and mages—trained fighters who could hold their ground. But your companions? They were vulnerable out here, exposed to threats that crept closer with every step.

Unless Corypheus had your ability to cross the continent in a matter of seconds, it was unlikely he’d arrive at Haven before you did. Not to mention, you had taken not only the mages but the templars as well. You weren’t sure what other forces he commanded outside those two groups, nor did you have a name for the things he controlled that you’d seen through Samson’s eyes.

As you continued with the enchantments, the silence of the forest grew heavier. A twig snapped somewhere in the darkness, sending a shiver down your spine. You paused, the air around you feeling charged with a tension that was wholly unnatural. The evening was late, and through the dense canopy of trees, it was nearly pitch black. A ball of light floated above you, casting a dim glow that barely pierced the thick shadows, leaving the area ahead of you cloaked in darkness. You needed both hands for the enchantments, so the light was more of a guide than a beacon.

More sounds reached your ears—the crunching of leaves, the scurrying of small animals, the rustling of something larger moving through the underbrush, the-

You saw him then.

Cole stood just a few feet away, his presence sudden and unannounced. He didn’t make a sound, but you felt him before you saw him. Like a memory slipping into focus, he simply appeared, his wide, pale eyes staring intently at you, unreadable but piercing all the same.

You froze, heart skipping a beat. Though the shock of his sudden arrival jolted through you, it wasn’t confusion that followed. No, you knew exactly who he was and where he had come from. Therinfal Redoubt—he had been there, just as you had. But how had he tracked you here, to this exact place, in the middle of nowhere?

“Cole?” you managed, your voice steady despite the surprise still gripping you. “How did you...”

“I followed the threads,” Cole said, his voice a whisper that seemed to blend with the rustling leaves. “They’re tangled and twisted, but they led me here. To you.”

You lowered your hands, the half-formed enchantment dissipating into the air. Cole’s gaze flickered to where the magic had been, then back to your face.

“You’re trying to protect them,” he said, not a question but a statement. “But the danger isn’t out there. It’s already inside.”

“What do you mean?”

Cole tilted his head, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. “The mark on your hand. It’s growing, changing. Like a seed in soil, but the soil is you. Even if you bury the seed, it will find a way through the soil.”

You glanced down at your palm, where the anchor pulsed faintly. Did he have to be so dramatic? It typically didn’t mesh well with the cryptic remarks he was prone to.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised.

“I thought you’d return to Haven,” you began, changing the awkward subject. “But you followed me here. I presume it wasn’t on foot.” Frowning, you tried to reconcile how he had managed to track you down in such a secluded spot.

As if seeing something beyond them, Cole’s gaze drifted to the trees. “Not on foot, no. Oh,” he made a surprised sound. “I don’t want to go into the river. It’s too cold.”

He crossed over the barrier you hadn’t yet closed, nodding to himself.

“Will you be accompanying us?” you asked, thinking about how you’d get another horse to drag the overburdened waggon—or explain how you seemingly randomly came across one. Transfiguration wasn’t too much of a difficult procedure.

“Can I?” he asked, as if wanting your verbal confirmation.

“I don’t see why not. I suppose it’s time you meet everyone. I’ll sure they’ll love you.”

Cole’s gaze drifting to the side, likely where the camp was. You’d gotten disoriented, creating the barrier. “I can sit on top. Like a sparrow on a branch, but the branch moves. To safety, not into danger’s mouth.”

Just then, more sounds from the forest reached your ears. From your left, Solas emerged through the trees, his presence almost as sudden as Cole’s had been.

“I heard you speaking to someone,” Solas said, his tone casual yet inquisitive. “Was there an issue?”

You turned back to where Cole had been standing, only to find he was gone. A frown creased your brow as you scanned the area, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Instead of answering Solas, you decided to shift the focus. “Did you need something? I was just about to collect more firewood.”

Solas’s eyes followed the ball of light hovering above you, its weak glow casting faint shadows around. He made no comment on it. “I sensed a shift in the atmosphere and came to find you here. It appears you’re putting up shields to protect us while we rest. Why the sudden need for such precautions?”

“My so-called foretelling,” you said, hardening your gaze. “The Elder One has agents everywhere—Tevinter, the Venatori, the Templars. For someone like him to have so much command, I can only imagine how much power he wields. I’d say he has far deeper roots, and we’ve only just skimmed the surface.” You paused, noting the encroaching darkness of the forest. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have some extra protection. I don’t particularly like the idea of a bear mauling me in my sleep.”

“It seems your precautions are more than justified. Do you have concerns we’re being followed?”

You shrugged, the motion small and casual. “It’s possible, though I hope not. Better safe than sorry.”

Solas glanced around, taking in the distance you had placed between yourself and the camp while setting up the wards. “You’ve set these enchantments quite a distance from the camp. I assume you were trying to avoid having the others encumbered by your magic.”

“I didn’t think the others would appreciate being barred by a so-called mage, considering recent happenings.”

The distant sound of your companions’ voices was a faint echo. You could feel the enchantments settling into place—a subtle hum in the air.

“It is interesting,” Solas began, his tone carrying that familiar weight, the kind that signalled a long, well-thought-out theory or observation you weren’t sure you wanted to hear. You could tell by the way he spoke. “How your alleged ‘fortune-telling’ is being tied to your role as Andraste’s Herald. Even things that don’t seem directly connected. The Ocularum cabin, for example.”

“People will accept anything that reinforces their beliefs and ignore what doesn’t.” You sighed. “If I could see the future, I’d be a much happier person. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.” Any previous attempts of seeing into the future either ended with days wasted sitting before a mirror or a stomach ache from downing too much tea—neither ever gave you an accurate depiction of the future.

“The mind is often eager to find patterns and meaning, even where there may be none. It is a trait that has both aided and hindered progress throughout history. But your insights have proven valuable, regardless of their source.”

“Perhaps it’s less about seeing the future and more about understanding the present. The pieces are all there, if one knows how and where to look. The truth, unfortunately, is often stranger than fiction,” you mused wisely. “Or prophecy.”

“And yet, the truth you present is hard to believe. I fail to see how a letter sent to the Templars could have swayed them so drastically. You speak of Therinfal Redoubt as though you’ve seen it firsthand. Yet, you could not have been there. Unless you have somehow mastered the Fade and observed the dealings through it.”

“Somehow mastered?” you repeated with a bitter edge. “I’m honestly surprised you didn’t document the Templars’ proceedings, considering what a master of the Fade you are. It would have given us an advantage you otherwise did not provide.”

“Everyone is entitled to their privacy.”

With a final gesture, the camp enchantment sealed, a faint shimmer of power dissipating into the evening air. You hoped Cole was inside the radius when you closed the enchantment.

“I suppose now’s as good a time as any to reveal the truth,” you began, turning to give your attention to Solas fully. “It will only be a matter of time before the Templars arrive, and the truth will reveal itself. But it’ll be better if I show you. May I have your arm?”

Solas hesitated only briefly before extending his arm to you. You grasped it firmly, your grip steady.

“What are you planning to do?” he asked.

“You should have asked that before you gave your hand,” you replied with a wry smile. “We’re going on a little field trip. How about to Therinfal Redoubt? I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

With that, you thought of the abandoned fort. The familiar pulling sensation surged through you, a tightening in your chest as the world around you compressed. The air seemed to fold in on itself, the surroundings blurring into a whirlwind of colours and sounds. For a brief, disorienting moment, you felt the weight of Solas’s presence beside you, his grip on your arm a solid anchor in the chaos.

Then, as quickly as it began, the sensation ceased. The world snapped back into focus, and you found yourself standing in the cold, shadowed embrace of Therinfal. The fort loomed around you, its weathered stones and deserted halls now bathed in the soft glow of the fading light. The sudden change in surroundings with the extra presence left a slight ringing in your ears, but you quickly turned to Solas, checking to see if he had fared well.

“You all right?” you asked, freeing his arm. “Most people either vomit or lose a finger on their first go.”

Solas, to his credit, barely flinched. He stood there, as calm and composed as ever, though his eyes briefly scanned the environment as if taking stock of the new surroundings. “I appear to be intact,” he remarked dryly. “I was not quite expecting such an abrupt shift.”

“You’re taking it better than most. I’d have been worried if you weren’t.” He always seemed to be the most open-minded when it came to magic. That may be because he was a mage, or you hadn’t yet relied so heavily on Dorian or Vivienne for your magic needs.

Solas looked around, observing the abandoned fort with a mix of curiosity and scepticism. “This is truly Therinfal Redoubt?”

“Did I bore you to sleep, Solas? We’re here in the flesh, not in the Fade.” At least you thought you were awake. You pinched yourself as Solas turned his gaze to the ancient fort; the sharp pain flared in your arm, confirming that, yes, you were indeed awake. It was an odd thought, and there was no need for his doubt to unsettle you right now.

Regardless, he’d given you an idea. You continued, “Unless I somehow made us both dream of the same thing… Would that even be possible?” The idea lingered, stirring up thoughts you’d never considered before. He’d once mentioned that spirits could spy on dreams, so was it conceivable that living beings could share them too? You tried to picture it—the concept akin to astral projection; imagining people dreaming the same dream was already unsettling, but coupling it with the Fade made it even more disconcerting.

But naturally, something so dangerous like that would have surely been addressed. Solas seemed to dismiss the notion as too far-fetched to consider. Instead, he asked, “You can travel great distances in the blink of an eye?”

“Were you not conscious these past few minutes? Or maybe you lost something from the trip.”

You scanned his bald head, inspecting for any sign that he’d been splinched, looking for an odd swelling, a scar, something to indicate the trip hadn’t been perfect. Maybe the part of his brain that recognised pain had been scrambled in the process, which would explain why he didn’t seem fazed by the sharp, tearing sensation that usually followed apparating the first few times. Killing the one person who had some insight into the Anchor would be just your luck.

He didn’t seem to notice your scrutiny, continuing with his observations. “I can see why such a form of travel would be disorienting.”

“You get used to it after a while.” You shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Well, that’s apparating for you—a form of magical transportation. Instantaneous. You appear wherever you want to be, no matter the distance—within reason.”

He peered upwards, inspecting the sky, as if doubting the travel had truly been instant. “I have never heard of such magic.”

“I didn’t think you would.” Settling that he hadn’t gotten splinched, you made space between you. “But you, you can go anywhere in the Fade, right? Well, I can go there physically. Imagine being in the Fade and walking out, real as anything, into a fortress like this. You see places through the Fade, I step into them. While you like to explore the world in dreams, I enjoy physically seeing it. Our respective party tricks, if you will.”

The notion seemed to give him pause, his brow furrowing in thought as the two of you wandered Therinfal Redoubt. Every corner seemed to echo the footsteps of long-abandoned inhabitants, and yet, even as you scanned for danger, your mind kept wandering back to Samson. If there’d been trouble, Cole likely would have said something…

“This… apparating,” Solas began, keeping up with your pace. “It explains your impatience. Thus, you must have felt restrained by the limits of normal movement.” Solas tilted his head slightly. “How far can you travel?”

You considered for a moment. “The furthest I’ve gone in one go was nearly a thousand miles. I’ve never needed to travel further before, but I imagine it wouldn’t be too difficult, given I know where I’m going beforehand.”

“Miles?” Solas repeated, a puzzled look crossing his face.

You stopped, realising the unfamiliarity. “Oh, right. You probably don’t use miles here. What do you measure distances in?”

“In Thedas, leagues are used.”

“Ah, leagues, of course…” you echoed, thinking it over.

Leagues were a unit of distance used from ancient times, known since at least the Roman era. They varied considerably depending on the region and period—ranging from about three miles in England to closer to 3.5 miles in France and even longer in Spain. By the early modern period, it had become an imprecise measurement, with local variations making it notoriously unreliable. The last formal use in the UK was in the 19^th century, which explained why you weren’t entirely sure how many leagues equated to miles.

“Let’s say twenty thousand leagues… No, two hundred.” You glanced at Solas warily, worried you might be coming across as a blithering idiot. “Don’t quote me on that. I never really learned the exact conversion; leagues haven’t been used in Britain for quite some time.” You waved a hand dismissively. “It’s hard to say exactly. I could probably apparate to Val Royeaux right now if I wanted to, just to give you an idea.”

“That would indeed cover a considerable distance.” Solas nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “It is no wonder, then, that you find modern methods of travel frustrating.”

“After a while, ‘normal’ travel feels like crawling, but I know others would not be so calm with such magic. If I wasn’t Cassandra’s saint’s herald, I’d be seen as a threat, no doubt.”

As you moved through the empty fort, Solas began his barrage of questions. He’d taken a peculiar interest in leagues. He also inquired about the frequency of your apparating abilities, trying to gauge how often you could utilise such a profound magic and what limitations, if any, you faced. He was methodical, dissecting each aspect.

“It’s not something I use all the time,” you began. “I don’t just decide to apparate and hope for the best. It’s all about ‘destination, determination, deliberation’,” you recited, the phrase slipping out in English, as that was how it had been etched into your mind. “Three important principles. I have to visualise where I want to go, focus on it, and be absolutely sure. If any of those elements are off, well…”

Solas raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So, you must know of the place beforehand?”

“I need to have some understanding of where I’m going. It’s not like I can just ‘appear’ somewhere completely unfamiliar. Now that would be impossible.”

His next question was inevitable.

“Then how did you know what Therinfal Redoubt looked like? Unless you’ve been here before.” There was an accusation in his tone, though it was hidden behind a veneer of curiosity. If anyone else had been asking it, you might have needed to create a backup plan in case things went awry.

“Well, no, I hadn’t,” you admitted. “But the Fade is full of possibilities, no?”

“Then you first found Therinfal Redoubt in your dreams?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but you hesitated. Had you ever dreamt of this particular castle?

Instead, you said, “I just thought of the fort, latched onto the idea of it, and allowed it to lead me. I didn’t really know what it looked like; that may have led to some problems, but it worked out in the end, no bother.”

“You mean to say you trusted yourself to find a place you’d never seen?” He went to say something else, but cut himself off.

As you considered his question, a flicker of uncertainty passed through you. How had you even come to think of Therinfal Redoubt in the first place? You recalled Solas mentioning that dreaming in the Fade could allow you to reach places obscured in the physical world, although he had voiced considerable doubts about you succeeding. Indeed, you hadn’t discovered Therinfal in a dream; you had found it while awake but still drawing on the Fade’s essence. The boundaries between dream and reality blurred in your mind, likely influenced by the mark on your hand, which seemed to affect not just the one limb but your entire body and mind.

You shook off the thoughts and replied, “I trust my instincts, as you should my word. In fact, I thought you said instant travel didn’t exist,” you said after he settled into deep thought. “So, what is it then? Didn’t know or didn’t think to tell me?”

“It is true that instant travel exists, but not for humans. Not even if they were the most powerful of mages.”

“Then who can do it?” you asked, though you had a guess forming in your mind. You’d long since realised that elves in Thedas were not the same as the house elves from back home, but still, the idea felt connected. “Elves?”

Whatever reaction Solas had, it was well hidden behind his calm demeanour. “Spirits, perhaps,” he mused, “but even with them, it is not the same as teleportation. For them, the boundaries of time and space do not function as they do for us. Their movements in the Fade are instantaneous, but when they cross into the mortal world, they are bound by its rules. What you’ve done is... something else entirely.” He paused. “But that doesn’t explain how you know the Elder One’s true name, if that is even his name.”

“You’re doubting me again? After all you’ve seen?” You opened your mouth to lie, the familiar excuse of seeing it in a dream on the tip of your tongue, but something stopped you. This was Solas. Lying to him felt pointless. “Well, if you must know, I scrubbed through the thoughts of one of his henchmen and took all his secrets for my own. That’s how I know they’re planning to march on Haven—not because of some vision or divine guidance, but because I, for lack of better words, witnessed the plans—though, of course, after the fact. It’s quite the party trick.”

Solas blinked, clearly surprised. “You can read minds?”

“I can remove memories,” you reminded him. “The next logical step is reading minds, although it’s not as simple as the name suggests.”

His silence and stiffness in his posture, despite his neutral expression, betrayed unease. People often reacted this way when they found out you could read minds; it was an instinctive recoil, like they were trying to protect themselves. The irony, of course, was that their very reaction gave them away. The sudden tension, the stiffening of muscles, all of it was its own kind of mind reading—an involuntary confession that they were hiding something or, at the very least, uncomfortable with the idea of you prying. And really, who would? You wouldn’t be comfortable with someone having that kind of power over you either.

“Don’t worry,” you said slyly. “I’m not going to go fishing around in your mind. Unless, of course, you give me reason to.”

Solas raised an eyebrow, his expression sceptical. “And should I believe you are truly capable of such a feat?”

“Would you like a demonstration?”

His expression made it clear he was not keen on that idea. “And how often do you make use of this ability?”

“Only when necessary. It’s not exactly a pleasant experience, for me or the subject.”

You rubbed your temple absentmindedly. Aside from how invasive Legilimency was, the migraine it could leave you with served as a natural deterrent. While Samson’s mind hadn’t caused any adverse effects, the lingering pain from your encounter with Envy still throbbed like an echo through a very long tunnel. No amount of magic or remedies could ease it. Fortunately, it faded a bit more with each passing day.

“I would imagine not,” he said. “Such power must come at a cost.” He paused for a moment, his sharp eyes studying you, before shifting the conversation. “And why, then, did you seek out the Seekers of Truth? Were you hoping to gain their support?”

“I sought out Lucius for answers. But instead of him, I found an Envy demon in his place.” You exhaled, the weight of the memory still fresh. “Turns out the Templars are dealing with their own demons—literally and figuratively. Whatever hold the Red Templars have over them... Lucius was long gone by the time I got there.”

Solas studied you in silence, his gaze narrowing with understanding as the weight of your words settled between you both. “I suspect your pursuit of the Lord Seeker is more personal than a mere mission for the Inquisition. Would it perhaps have something to do with your Tranquillity? That, after all, was ordered on the Lord Seeker’s behalf, was it not?”

You felt a jolt of surprise run through you. “How do you know that? How do you know I went through the Rite?”

Solas remained calm, his tone soft, almost apologetic. “Grand Enchanter Fiona mentioned it in passing. Not directly, but enough for me to piece it together. And,” he added, a subtle glance towards you. “You were reading about Tranquillity yesterday. One can only wonder why.” As if it were an afterthought, he added. “The Grand Enchanter means well and did not intend to reveal your past, but I listen carefully to what people do not say.”

“Well, since you asked so politely,” you began, leaning back against the stone wall for support. “Yes, it was personal. And yes, it has everything to do with my Tranquillity. I want answers, and it seems I’m the only one with the power to get them.” There was a pause before you added, more carefully, “I suppose if we’re being candid, I should ask if you know anything about reversing the Rite?”

“The process is unprecedented, unheard of. But if you would like, I may be able to find something through the Fade.” He nodded, as though he’d do it even if you didn’t want him to. Nosy, maybe. “But one must ask: did you gain your abilities before or after the Rite was conducted on you?”

“Before,” you repeated, more harshly than you intended. “Why? You think the Rite gave me my magic?” The thought felt absurd, insulting even. Your abilities had always been yours. The Rite had stolen something from you, not given you anything in return.

He held up a hand in a placating gesture. “I meant no offence. I simply wondered if whatever reversed the Rite changed you in some way.”

Before you could respond, a flicker of movement caught your eye. You turned your head slightly, and there, in the shadowy corner of the room, stood Cole.

His pale gaze flickered between you and Solas, his voice soft, almost mournful. “Woken up in a strange world. Alone. Alone, like a memory no one remembers, but still there, lingering. Lost… like a shadow of what was supposed to be.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Cole,” you said, your tone softer, grateful for the distraction, even if it came packaged in intrusive and insightful vulnerability. Then you motioned to Solas. “Solas, this is Cole. He’s a friend. I met him here the other day.”

Solas offered a slight nod, his expression curious, though not shocked. “So this is the one who aided you in the Templar’s recruitment. With Envy too, no doubt.”

Cole tilted his head, as if offended on your behalf. “I helped, but it was their strength that brought the Templars together. They saw what was needed. I showed the way through darkness, helped light where it was needed.”

“Did everything go okay with Samson?” you asked.

“He was lost in his own anger, but now he’s at peace,” Cole replied, tone serious. He hid his eyes beneath his blond curls. “The craving is gone. For now, but it will come back.”

You turned back to Solas, who was watching Cole with an intensity that made you uneasy. You didn’t want to take back your offer to house Cole in the Inquisition, and he wasn’t that strange. “Were you awake this time to see it, Solas? Cole can also do the impossible: insta-travel. Maybe you don’t know everything after all.”

“Cole is not like you,” Solas stated slowly. “It seems that he is a spirit.”

The words struck you hard. A spirit. You may have considered Cole wasn’t human, but you had chosen to ignore it. In your mind, he was just like you—another person with abilities that were considered strange. But now, the truth was impossible to ignore. You took a step back, instinctively distancing yourself. “He looks awfully more lively than most spirits I’ve met.”

Ghosts were typically transparent, wispy forms that floated in and out of perception, often seen as shadows or faint glows. Even a particularly pesky poltergeist—an actual spirit of chaos—had a fairly solid appearance, yet he’d remained untouchable (both physically and indelibly). You had touched Cole before, and he’d felt solid and warm.

“The jester with the wild hair laughs, a sound like tinkling bells, but there’s a cold, sticky mess everywhere—it smells foul, and something’s crawling in your hair,” Cole said. “More mischief than malice. He made your project fly away, just as you flew him away. Why do they let him play?” he added, bringing a hand up to his oversized hat, which obscured any expression he may have had. “And why do they choose such terrible hats?” Then he reared a few steps back, either from a delayed reaction to the violent memory or because he saw the message you wrote on the wall. “I don’t think I’ll enjoy that.”

“Consider that your warning,” you told him.

Solas’ eyes narrowed. “The ‘spirit’ you are thinking of is a different type of spirit, though they share the same name. Some spirits are remnants of souls, tied to the mortal realm by unfinished business or strong emotions. Others, like Cole, are manifestations of thought and feeling, not bound by the same rules. The Chantry often confuses them and treats them as one and the same, warning not to interact with either. Cole is not like other spirits. He exists in a way that defies our understanding. But he is not human. He wanders freely, a spirit with a purpose. The danger comes when their purpose is misunderstood.” His expression turned serious. “And the fear of the unknown leads to misconceptions about what spirits truly are.”

Your chest tightened as a swirl of thoughts hit you. Cole had seemed… harmless before. But now, knowing he was a spirit—something born from the Fade itself—your instincts told you to be on guard. You thought back to the way Cole had appeared in your mind, so full-bodied and vivid, where you’d wondered if it was something like Occlumency, enhanced by Envy’s magic that allowed him to manifest in your mind alongside yourself. Now, it seemed he was like Envy. Spirits and demons were not so dissimilar, after all.

Cole’s eyes never left you, but he didn’t seem surprised by your shift in attitude. “Unchanging. I’m no more Envy than you are. I haven’t changed. I’m still me,” he whispered. “But why are you so different?”

“What does that even mean?” you shot back. “You might feel the same, but you’re not just another person. You’re a spirit; are you even alive?”

Solas stepped closer, empathising, but not with you. “Cole is still a person in his own right. His existence may be tied to the Fade, but that does not strip him of his essence. Spirits can be more than mere shadows; they can carry thoughts, feelings, even intentions. In many ways, they are more real than you’ve been led to believe.”

“You don’t recognise this place,” Cole murmured, his gaze distant, seemingly in another world far, far away. “It’s not the world you expected. You thought you’d understand, but everything is wrong, unfamiliar. Like a story with jumbled words you can’t finish.” He paused, then added softly, “It’s wrong, not empty. You found a piece of home, but it’s crumbled like the stone beneath your feet—lost to time, yet still lingering.”

Sensing your growing discomfort, Solas interrupted gently. “Cole.”

The spirit’s head tilted slightly, his eyes softening. He seemed to pull back, as if realising he’d gone too far. You could almost feel the echoes of memories you couldn’t quite grasp, fleeting and elusive like shadows in the dusk.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “This is all just a lot to take in. I didn’t mean to react so harshly, Cole. It’s just… where I’m from, spirits aren’t usually so… corporeal. Or helpful.”

“They floated through walls, so full of stories, yet so useless,” Cole replied, the life in his eyes fading away. “They didn’t bring comfort, just echoes of fears that wouldn’t let you rest. I won’t be like them. I want to help you, not haunt you.”

“You’re already one step ahead,” you quipped, trying to lighten the mood as Cole walked away, getting distracted by something shiny on the ground. You watched him, curiosity piqued, as he inspected it. “What’s more unbelievable?” you asked Solas. “Being able to read minds, or travelling instantly? Or is it more about who is doing it.”

“Neither are the abilities of a mage. They belong to a spirit.”

You blinked, startled by the admission. That was the last thing you expected to hear. “You think that I’m… what? I’m as flesh and blood as anyone. And I’m not exactly a ‘mage’ either; I’m a wizard—seemingly there’s a difference.”

“The way you removed memories, read thoughts and intent, disappeared at will… Your abilities defy what is known in this world. And spirits, especially powerful ones, can take shape of any form. If you are not one, then you’ve been touched by one or merged to one in a way that is not so easily graspable…” His voice trailed, searching for the right words, expression serious, probing, overwhelming.

“Not even for you?” you asked, surprised he’d admit such a thing—both the crackpot theory and him being unsure. “I think I’d know if I was a spirit.”

You glanced back at Cole. He resembled you, shared similar abilities, and spoke like a natural-born Legilimens who couldn’t help but perceive the feelings, memories, and thoughts of those around them. There was some merit to Solas’ theory, but it was firmly discarded by the fact that, aside from the Anchor, you were wholly disconnected from the Fade. And it would be best kept that way.

“If removing memories is a spirit thing, does that mean a spirit took my memories?”

“The fall you took likely caused damage,” Solas replied, his tone careful. “The impact may have affected your connection to the Fade, disrupting whatever flow of memory existed.”

“No, if that were the case, I could retrieve my memories. But it’s been months… I’ve tried to remember to pull them back, but it’s like grasping smoke. The harder I reach, the more they slip away.”

You watched Cole, who was now collecting things from the ground—rocks, it looked like. He picked one up and turned it over in his hands, as if searching for something within it.

Solas glanced over at him, a hint of concern in his expression. “His fascination with the mundane shows a desire to connect with the world around him. He seeks meaning, just as many do.”

“You’re wrong to think I’m a spirit. Unfortunately for us all, I’m just human,” you said dryly, feeling the weariness of the conversation settle in. “But one might argue that, in some way, we’re all spirits in the end, bound by the same essence.”

A flicker of doubt brushed against your mind as you said it, the weight of the Anchor on your hand a constant reminder of your strange connection to the Fade. While you may have been born human, made from two very human beings, perhaps the Anchor and all the magic had twisted you beyond what was ordinary.

But Corypheus… whatever he was, he certainly wasn’t ordinary.

Chapter Text

The last day of travel back to Haven was marked by an urgency you couldn’t ignore. Through your insistence—and the subtle aid of your magic—the group pressed on, managing to arrive a full day earlier than expected. As you journeyed, the sky grew darker, and heavy clouds loomed overhead, ominous but unwilling to break. They followed your party relentlessly, trailing like silent sentinels or wrathful gods, watching but never daring to descend and interact with the mortal world. Somehow, through sheer will and the faint touch of magic, you crossed the distance to Haven faster than anyone thought possible. The mages weren’t too far behind but would not arrive till some time.

Upon arrival, you were herded straight into the War Council.

“Both the mages and templars want the Breach closed,” you began, your voice cutting through the hushed conversations. The council was already gathered around the map table, and every eye turned to you as you spoke.

“They want it, but not for the same reasons,” Leliana stated. Aside from her words, there was no saying what she felt of the situation. “Both sides see closing the Breach as a victory, but neither trusts the other not to seize the advantage afterwards.”

“I don’t see what the problem is,” you lied. But the problem was clear, no matter where you looked. The Breach still tore the sky apart, mages and templars still distrusted one another, and even the Inquisition was held together by the thinnest threads of diplomacy. You felt it in every conversation, every sideways glance.

Cullen leant forward, his brow furrowed. “The templars and mages are both too volatile. This truce… It’s held by the barest of agreements. One wrong step, and we have a war on our hands. This is why we need to pick a side and stick to it.”

“That won’t happen until after the Breach is closed, if it ever does. Ser Barris gave me his word, and Fiona has not retracted her alliance,” you said, folding your arms, though even you had doubts. “When the templars arrive, they’ll be stationed outside Haven, in a rundown keep. Ser Barris has agreed to meet with Fiona to negotiate a truce. Whether both will agree… who can say?”

“It will never happen,” Cassandra cut in, her voice heavy with frustration. “Neither side will come to equal terms. Their distrust runs too deep. The templars still see the mages as a threat, and the mages…”

Leliana’s sharp gaze swept over the table, her fingers clasped behind her back. “They’ve both prepared for this moment. But so have the templars. If we don’t manage their forces correctly, we’ll have chaos on our hands.”

“I’ll see to the templars personally,” Cullen said firmly. “But we need to know that the mages won’t see this as an opportunity to strike at them.”

“They won’t,” you replied. “Fiona’s promised peace, and her people trust her. But that’s a matter for another time. Today, we close the Breach. Are the mages ready?”

There was a brief hesitation before Cullen answered, his posture tall and resolute. “The best of the mages are prepared. But be certain you are ready as well,” he added, locking eyes with you. “We can’t predict how the Breach will affect you.”

The walk to the Temple of Sacred Ashes felt both long and hurried, a strange limbo between dread and urgency. The further you ventured from Haven, the colder the air grew, as if the Breach was actively leeching warmth from the land itself. What had once been a distant tear in the sky now loomed ominously overhead, its massive form casting a sickly green glow across the ruined temple grounds.

Within the crumbling walls of the temple, mages stood on the ledges, watching the Breach with a mixture of awe and terror. They had never been this close before. You could feel the weight of their gaze, their fear palpable. This close, the raw power of the Breach felt like a living thing, humming in the air, sending waves of nausea through your body.

“I can hear… voices,” you said softly, the confession slipping from your lips before you had time to think, though your voice was muffled by the rumbling of the Breach. “But I can’t quite understand them.”

Hearing voices was nothing new for you; it came with the strange, volatile magic you carried. Usually, they were echoes—the last thoughts of those whose magic you’d taken. Most of the time, the voices were muddled, incoherent fragments of fading consciousness. The dying rarely had clear, focused thoughts. They clung to memories of loved ones and whispered prayers to forgotten gods, but seldom did they dwell on you, the one who had brought them to their demise.

Sometimes, when you neared ancient sources of magic, the voices were quieter—more elusive. They teased, faint whispers swirling at the edge of your senses, barely audible, almost part of the wind or the pulse of your own heartbeat. It was easy to ignore them once you knew how.

But this was different.

These voices were louder. Stronger. They didn’t drift away like distant echoes but overlapped, colliding with one another in an eerie chorus. You could hear them clearly—each distinct, with different tones, ages, emotions, and wisdom. There were many of them, each voice speaking over the other, as if they were all fighting to be heard at once.

They were chanting, calling out to you, but in a language you couldn’t grasp. Their words hummed through the air, pressing into your mind, beckoning you closer. Yet the meaning remained just out of reach, as if hidden behind an ancient wall, keeping you locked in confusion.

Solas stepped closer, his expression unreadable but his voice calm. “You hear echoes from the Fade,” he explained, his gaze fixed on the Breach. “The veil is thin here, weakened by the tear. Spirits, memories, and fragments of dreams—some of them are drawn to the rift and they speak. Most cannot be so easily understood.”

You turned to him, unsure whether his words comforted or unnerved you further. The voices were still there, whispering in fragmented phrases, disjointed and dissonant, as if the Breach itself was calling out to you.

“And the voices?” you asked, your voice barely audible as the weight of the moment pressed on you. “Whatever could they want?”

“Not all voices have purpose. Many are merely echoes. But some may seek to influence. To be wary is wise.”

You nodded, though the knot in your chest only tightened. There were many things you couldn’t understand about the Breach, about this world, and about the power that you held. But today, you were here to do what had to be done, voices or not.

“Let’s close the Breach.”

“Mages!” Cassandra called out, her voice commanding.

Solas, calm as ever, took the figurative reins. “Focus past the Herald! Let their will draw from you!”

The mages began channelling their power—something you could physically feel by the change in the air and the tightening of your skin. As you extended your hand towards the rift, that familiar yet unsettling sensation gripped you. It felt as if something was being drawn from your flesh, pulled out like a splinter lodged deep beneath the skin. It wasn’t just magic leaving you—it was more visceral, almost physical, like the blood in your veins.

Once, you had unknowingly wandered into a vampire’s den. You still remembered the bite, the sharp teeth sinking into your wrist, and the slow, steady pull of blood leaving your veins. There had been a moment of panic, a dizzying lightheadedness as the life was drained from you. It was a loss that you could feel not only in your body but in your mind. That same feeling was here, as if the Breach itself was the vampire leeching your lifeforce to sustain itself. It depended on you, and you’d willingly walked into its embrace.

Your hand tingled with the sensation—an uncomfortable draining, though you couldn’t quite say what was being taken. Magic, most likely, but it didn’t feel like the magic you knew. Your magic, or even the ancient power that whispered in the back of your mind, had never felt like this. This was different—magic of the Fade, perhaps; alien and unfamiliar, it slipped from your grasp as easily as it was taken.

Whatever it was, the Breach was taking it from you, and you couldn’t tell how much more it would demand before it was satisfied.

With a concentrated effort, you closed the rift with a burst of power. The explosion was deafening, the force shaking the ground beneath your feet. A stinging remained in your hand, and the Anchor, most unfortunately, was still there.

A hand grasped your shoulder, shaking you from your thoughts. Cassandra helped you stand, allowing your weight to settle on her.

“You did it,” she said softly, her voice filled with both pride and relief.

“It wasn’t just me.”

“No, but you were the one to see it through. We would not be here without you.”

In truth, without you, the Breach might never have existed in the first place. You had been the catalyst, the spark that ignited a chain of events leading to this moment. It was your actions, your choices, that had opened the door to this chaos, and it was now your responsibility to close it.

You lifted your chin, drawing in a steadying breath. “I just held up a hand.”

Haven was alive with celebration, the air thick with laughter and music, and people danced and cheered. You watched from a distance, lost in thought, the future settling heavy on your mind. The Breach was sealed, yet a lingering dread gnawed at you. Corypheus was still out there, somewhere, waiting for the time to strike.

“Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm. The Breach is sealed,” Cassandra informed you, not having left your side from the closing of the Breach. “We’ve received reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread.”

You frowned, staring at the dancers. Someone was singing a nice tune. “They shouldn’t be celebrating. They shouldn’t be here. Corypheus is still coming.”

Cassandra’s expression softened, but her resolve remained firm. “Everyone deserves a moment of respite. The immediate danger is gone. For some, so is the necessity of this alliance. This was a victory. One of the few in recent memory. With the Breach closed, that Inquisition will need a new focus.”

She offered to join you at the tavern, but you declined, knowing you had more work to do. Instead, you walked the perimeter of Haven, your fingers brushing against the cold stone of the outer walls. As you walked, you whispered the words of an enchantment, laying wards along the walls. Tomorrow, if Corypheus hadn’t come by then, you would turn your attention to strengthening the Chantry and the individual houses. The safety of Haven’s people depended on it. They had nowhere else to go.

The enchantments you placed required regular renewal. The wards woven into Haven’s defences were designed to repel external threats and fortify the walls, but they couldn’t turn away everyone. You couldn’t risk harming the non-mages within Haven—too much magic would destabilise the very ground beneath their feet, and they already walked a fine line between peace and panic. The wards were subtle, quiet barriers that would hopefully give you the time needed if the inevitable attack came.

Restless, you apparated to the mountain peaks overlooking the vast wilderness beyond Haven. The cold wind bit at your skin as you scanned the horizon for any sign of Corypheus or his armies. The skies rumbled, dark clouds swirling as if a storm was waiting to break. But there was nothing—no red-armoured soldiers, no dragon, just stifling silence.

When dawn broke, Corypheus had not come, but sleep had evaded you. Exhaustion weighed heavily on your eyes as the first light of morning crept over the horizon. The apothecary, Adan, after noticing your fatigue, offered you a vial of shimmering liquid.

“This should help you stay alert,” he said kindly, admiration gleaming in his eyes as he handed you the potion. He’d worn a similar look the previous night, where you’d observed him dancing among the other townspeople.

The potion worked too well. You became a blur of motion, darting from task to task around Haven. Your mind raced faster than you could control, unable to focus on one thing before leaping to the next. You helped repair fences, fortified watchtowers, and even tended to the wounded—yet none of it felt like enough. You could feel the pressure of impending doom looming, and every second wasted felt like a second too late. The workload mounted, and the sensation of being overwhelmed nipped at your heels.

Somehow, in the chaos of it all, you found yourself face to face with Solas.

He was standing over a table in the Chantry library, studying something. His gaze lifted as you stormed in, and with unnerving stillness, he observed you for a moment. “You appear restless,” he remarked, his voice cutting through the frantic whirl of your mind like a cool breeze.

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to pause, even though the restlessness still hummed beneath your skin. “Restless? Corypheus is still out there, and there’s so much work to be done. Everyone’s celebrating like it’s over, but it isn’t.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“Indeed,” Solas replied, his tone measured. “There remains a threat. But the Breach is sealed, and that is no small victory.”

He gestured to the table in front of him, where an unfurled scroll lay, lines and markings crisscrossing the surface. “Sit. You will burn yourself out at this pace.”

Reluctantly, you took the seat. “What are you looking at?” you asked, tracing your finger along the map’s edge.

“A map,” he answered simply, as if you were blind, his finger tracing over the markings. “I’ve been mapping the locations of the remaining Elven artefacts. They’re scattered across Thedas—some in places you may not expect. There is time yet before we must deal with them all.”

Through your journeys, a few had already been activated, seemingly hidden in the most random of places. You remembered one in particular—a fortress held by a cult who worshipped the rift in their stronghold, unaware that an elven artefact lay beneath their feet, something that could have protected them from the tear they prayed to.

“How many are there?” you asked.

“Too many to count. These artefacts were created long ago, during a time most have forgotten. I find them by chance, but many more likely remain, hidden or lost to time. The ones I have found are marked here.” He tapped the map, his finger pausing over one of the marked locations.

You were about to ask him more when the sound of approaching footsteps caught your ear, followed by a sing-song voice that set your nerves on edge.

“Herald?” The voice rang out, sweet and far too cheerful for your liking. It was Vivienne, searching for you. She hadn’t taken well to your admissions during the joint morning tea earlier. The conversation had revolved around mages, as it often did, but this time, the topic of Circles and the Rite of Tranquillity made a special appearance.

Instinctively, you tensed. You didn’t want to deal with more tasks, more demands. You could already hear her voice in your head, full of nagging disapproval. She’d want to complain about your decision to recruit both mages and templars, arguing it was a reckless gamble that could tear the Inquisition apart from the inside and so on and so forth. That was another reason why you had been so busy lately—an attempt to avoid such a confrontation.

You needed space—desperately. There was nowhere to hide in the small library, so without thinking, you reached for your magic, ready to apparate away.

The world twisted, folding in on itself for a brief moment, and then you landed somewhere far from Haven. The rush of cold air hit your face, clearing the restless fog from your mind as you regained your bearings.

But something wasn’t right. You blinked, then glanced to the side—and saw Solas standing beside you.

“Solas,” you started, still catching your breath. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It was my fault,” Solas interrupted, his voice tinged of self-deprecation. “I grabbed you without proper thought. Poor manners, I concede. But it seemed unwise to allow you to go alone.”

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “It’s best not to latch onto me when I apparate. I could lose focus, and one or both of us could lose something important—like a limb, or worse, an organ. Unfortunate accidents have happened to those who weren’t better prepared.”

Solas offered an apologetic smile, but his eyes remained curious. “So your magic comes with drawbacks after all.”

“Drawbacks for my loss of concentration, not my magic; never my magic.”

His eyes swept the unfamiliar surroundings. “A curious destination for such a sudden escape. Where have you brought us?”

Looking around, you recognised the place almost immediately. You’d been researching the ‘Astrariums’ for weeks now, trying to unlock the mystery of the ancient puzzles. This particular cave, hidden deep in the Hinterlands, had been one of the locations you’d meant to explore. “Remember those astrological puzzles?” you asked. “I’ve been solving them in my spare time. It appears once completed, they all lead here. I’ve been meaning to come here to check on a few things. But I’ll take you back to Haven,” you offered quickly, feeling a bit guilty for dragging him here. “I shouldn’t have-”

“There is no need to rush. I must admit, I am curious. Perhaps there is something to be learned here.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing at the mouth of the cave, which gaped like a dark secret waiting to be uncovered. The air felt thick with the weight of history, and you could sense something magical in the stillness around you. “If you’re sure,” you said slowly, feeling the pull of adventure stir within.

With no further objections, the two of you ventured deeper into the cave. A faint magical barrier shimmered before you—a protective ward placed by apostates, no doubt. Solas raised his hand, for he was without his staff, his magic making short work of the barrier as it disintegrated in a shower of sparks.

Deeper inside, a few apostates emerged, looking hostile and ready for battle. But instead of cutting them down, you opted for a gentler approach. With a flick of your wrist and a few murmured incantations, most crumpled to the ground in a deep sleep.

You ignored the chickens suddenly roaming the cave and walked towards a smaller offshoot of the cave. Inside, a large chest sat in the centre, its contents protected by layers of dust and time. You knelt and opened it, revealing a sword—its blade coiled like a serpent and its hilt shaped like a snake’s head. You examined it closely. The craftsmanship was impressive, but there was something unsettling about the weapon. The sword would fit perfectly in a particular common room. A sudden pang of sadness tightening in your chest at that thought. For a brief moment, you imagined it hanging in a place that no longer existed—at least, not for you.

“Are you not going to take it?” Solas asked as you placed the sword back in its resting place.

“I have little use for a sword, especially one this strange. Nor do I have the refinement for wielding such a thing. Unless you’d be willing to teach me?”

You glanced over at him, studying his expression. He was silent for a moment too long, his hesitation stretching just enough for doubt to creep into your mind. He seemed reluctant to answer, as if not wanting to outright refuse you. He had never held back his opinions before, especially when it came to your shortcomings. Yet now, when the question required only a simple yes or no, he hesitated.

He already spent enough time helping you manage the Anchor, teaching you how to navigate the ‘depths of the never-ending and fruitful’ Fade. Perhaps he was tired of investing his time in you. Perhaps he didn’t think you were worth the effort, not when you weren’t the most attentive student, prone to questioning his teachings rather than blindly accepting them.

The thought settled unpleasantly in your chest.

“Unless that is one of the few things you do not know?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. Your voice carried a teasing lilt, but there was little mirth behind it. “That would be a tragic revelation. I find it difficult to believe you lack expertise in anything.”

Solas exhaled softly, already growing tired of your needling. “One who walks among blades learns how to wield them.”

You blinked. That… was unexpected. You had never seen him wield anything but his staff, and even then, he appeared clumsy when doing so. But perhaps that was because staves were too bulky, too unwieldy compared to the elegance of a wand. Suppose you ought to pay more attention.

“You’ve had your fair share of sword fighting?” you asked, trying to keep the surprise from your voice.

He nodded, expression unreadable. There was no boastful pride in the admission, nor any lingering bitterness from past defeats. “But I do not think you will find much use in wielding one. Considering how adept you already are with magic, a blade would only slow you down.”

“I’ve yet to be given the chance,” you pointed out. “If nothing else, learning to wield a blade might help me understand those who do. Knowledge is power, is it not?”

Solas tilted his head slightly, regarding you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. But it passed too quickly to be sure. His gaze shifted briefly to the sword resting in the chest. “The Anchor already grants you a weapon far greater than anything you might find in a blade,” he said simply, wiping the last traces of whatever thought had crossed his mind from his expression. “You need no other weapon than what you already possess.”

You frowned slightly, shifting your weight. It was an answer, but not the one you had been expecting. And certainly not one that had much to do with you. It was the Anchor he was complimenting, not your own prowess. You weren’t sure if that was meant to be reassuring or unsettling.

Shaking off the lingering thoughts, you dusted off your hands and turned away. “Something like this is probably cursed anyway,” you muttered, stepping back to this cave’s entrance. “I don’t know about you, but I find the hunt far more enjoyable than the treasure itself. There’s something about the immaterial reward of discovery.” Your gaze flickered back to the chest one last time. The novelty of seizing a new possession, regardless of how grand, always faded sooner than expected. The thrill of finding them, or even the anticipation of the prospect, lingered far longer. “I suppose I’ll leave it for the next unfortunate soul to find. Let them be the one to deal with whatever hex is attached to it.”

“Very generous of you, Herald,” he remarked dryly.

As you turned to leave, a patch of elfroot caught your attention. Its vibrant green leaves stood out against the muted tones of the forest floor, snagging your attention. You kneeled down, brushing aside a few stray twigs and leaves, and gently began to gather the herb. Carefully, you loosened the soil around the base with your fingers, mindful not to damage the delicate roots. With a practiced motion, you plucked each stem from the damp earth and laid it gently into a small pouch, one by one, making sure to avoid bruising the tender leaves.

Elfroot, native to Thedas, was a staple in almost every healer’s kit, prized for its potent restorative properties. It could be ground into a paste for treating wounds or brewed into a tea to bolster the body’s natural defences. Even in small doses, it could accelerate healing, soothe inflammation, and ease pain—a versatile remedy, invaluable to both the battlefield and the infirmary. And yet, it was a plant both the magical and non-magical gifted used. You could not quite determine if the plant itself was magical either; it seemed like an ordinary plant.

As you finished gathering the elfroot, Solas asked, “What will you do now that the immediate danger has passed?”

His question caught you off guard, as if the thought of moving forward hadn’t even crossed your mind. “I haven’t had time to think about that,” you admitted. “I’ve been too focused on Corypheus, on stopping the next disaster.” Your voice trailed off for a moment as the enormity of everything hit you. “But I suppose after this, my attention would turn to going home. If I even can.” Your gaze dropped to your hand, to the mark that still pulsed faintly with energy. “Though first, I need to figure out how to get this thing off.”

Solas followed your gaze, his expression unreadable. “That is a question no one can yet answer. We do not know what caused the Anchor to appear in the first place. Until we understand that, it is impossible to know how to remove it.”

You nodded, not expecting a different answer.

With the cave fully explored, you finished securing everything before extending your arm. “If we’re finished here. Shall we?”

He took your forearm, his long fingers wrapping around it easily, and with a quick pulse of magic, the world blurred. You returned to Haven in an instant. The familiar surroundings of your cabin came into focus—the quiet warmth a stark contrast to the damp echoes of the cave you’d just left behind.

For a moment, the silence between you felt heavier than the air around you. You glanced at Solas, noticing how close he stood, closer than you’d expected. The world seemed to pause just for a heartbeat, as if the chaos pressing in from all sides had retreated, leaving a fragile calm in its wake.

Solas hadn’t let go of your hand—and, strangely, neither had you.

The moment lingered, stretching longer than felt comfortable. Something twisted inside your chest, a discomfort that had little to do with the dangers outside Haven’s walls yet everything to do with them. It wasn’t like you to feel this exposed, this unsettled. The air between you thickened, and suddenly, breathing felt like more effort than it should be.

You shifted your weight, trying to ground yourself, but your thoughts remained scattered—half here, half still caught in the cave. You hadn’t a single thought in your head; you’d apparated and abandoned your mind in the cave.

“Fun little treasure hunt, that was,” you said finally, breaking the silence with a weak attempt at levity. “We should do it again sometime.” The words came out clumsier than you’d intended, your heart thudding harder than it should over something so simple. You didn’t usually apparate with someone else or so often. “Thanks for… well, for being there.”

Solas inclined his head slightly. “Sometimes, escaping the weight of duty is necessary. Many lose themselves in obligation and forget what it means to simply be.” His words wrapped around you like a cloak, warm yet heavy with meaning.

You stepped back, creating space between you both as the allure of his presence settled uncomfortably in your thoughts. “Right,” you replied, trying to regain control. “Back to work, then?” The thought of more tasks awaiting you washed over you like cold water, dragging down any warmth that lingered.

The quiet stretched between you again, but this time it felt less charged, more familiar. Just as you were about to say something else—anything to break the lingering tension—the sounds outside shattered the stillness. Shouts, the unmistakable clash of steel, and something darkly familiar.

“What on earth-?”

Without thinking, you threw open the door and stepped outside, immediately hit by a wave of thick, acrid smoke. The Haven you knew was gone. The air was alive with the crackling of flames, and the sky churned with unnatural, angry clouds. Screams cut through the chaos, sharp and desperate, drowning in the roar of fire and the crash of collapsing buildings. All around you, Haven was being torn apart.

Demons, monstrous and grotesque, swarmed the streets, tearing through homes and people alike with ease. The earth shook as something enormous swooped overhead, and the thundering of wings sent a chill straight down your spine.

Your heart hammered in your chest, and for a brief moment, you stood frozen, overwhelmed. You’d anticipated chaos, but this… this was something else entirely. The sky itself had turned hostile, blackened as if some dark force had clawed its way into the heavens. Lightning cracked through the clouds, illuminating the destruction below in violent flashes, making it feel like the world was unravelling before your eyes.

Everywhere you looked, there was carnage. Screams from one side, demons from the other, and behind you, the deafening crash of something collapsing, shaking the ground beneath your feet. It was too much, all happening at once. Your mind raced, trying to grasp the scope of what you were witnessing. Villagers running, families huddling, unnatural creatures tearing everything in their wake apart.

Your eyes drew towards the outer walls of Haven, or what was left of them. The enchantments you’d placed—the ones meant to protect this place—had failed. The walls were crumbling, their defences shattered, and demons were pouring through the gates like a flood. You’d reinforced those wards yourself. They should have held. But now, as you squinted through the smoke, the cause revealed itself: faint, sickly glowing creeping over the stones like rot.

The magic hadn’t failed; rather, it had been undone. Twisted. Corrupted. Dark energy pulsed through the cracks in the walls, spreading like poison. This wasn’t natural. It was Corypheus. The Elder One had arrived, and you hadn’t been here. You’d left Haven when it needed you the most.

“We must act quickly,” Solas said, already summoning formless magic to his hands, for he was without his staff.

Demons—dozens of them—moved like a dark tide through the streets, tearing apart everything in their path. And high above, a massive shadow circled in the sky.

The beast let out a deafening roar as it swooped low, its massive wings sending gusts of wind that nearly knocked you off your feet. Flames erupted from its maw, setting fire to anything in its way, and the ground shook with every beat of its wings.

Solas stared up in disbelief. “That cannot be!”

“A dragon,” you muttered bitterly. “Of course he has a bloody dragon.” The beast was enormous, larger than any you’d seen before, nor did you recognise the breed. Not that it mattered. The thought of fighting it was futile.

Corypheus hadn’t come alone. You had taken his templars and mages, and now, in their place, he had brought something far worse. He had come with an army of demons, Venatori soldiers, and that monstrous dragon. The fight was over before it even began.

You sprinted through the streets, hurling spells at the demons nearest you. Each bolt of magic struck with precision, but for every demon you felled, two more seemed to take its place. The ground trembled beneath your feet as the dragon roared again, its fiery breath turning buildings to ash.

People screamed and fled in every direction. Some tried to fight; others simply ran, desperate to escape the destruction. The villagers who had once cheered for you were now scrambling for their lives; their faces pale with terror.

“Focus!” Solas’ voice rang out over the chaos, pulling you back to the present. His words grounded you, reminding you of what you had to do.

With a wave of your hand, you summoned a protective barrier, shielding a group of villagers trapped by a burning building. The energy in your hand pulsed, raw and barely contained, as you pushed through a nearby demon, reducing it to dust.

But it wasn’t enough. No matter how many spells you cast, the destruction continued. The dragon circled above, its roars echoing through the skies as it rained fire down on what was left of Haven.

As you cut down another demon, your eyes searched the sky, looking for Corypheus himself. This wasn’t a random attack. He was here, somewhere, watching, waiting.

And he was coming for you—or more accurately, what you possessed.

You guided the last of the townspeople into the Chantry, the heavy wooden doors closing behind you with a dull thud. The stone walls offered a momentary sense of safety, though the air was thick with fear. People huddled together in fearful silence, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the faces of the terrified refugees.

Interrupting the dense quiet, the front doors of the Chantry slammed open, the heavy wood crashing against the stone with a deafening bang. Chancellor Roderick limping through the entrance, supported by the Cole. The Chancellor’s usually proud and stern demeanour had vanished, replaced by a man barely able to stand, his face twisted with pain.

“Move! Keep going! The Chantry is your shelter!” he called out, urging the others to safety before collapsing. Cole gently helped him into a chair.

“He tried to stop a templar,” the spirit murmured quietly. His eyes, wide and sorrowful, watched Roderick intently, almost making you uneasy. “The blade went deep. He’s going to die.”

Roderick glanced at Cole and managed a wry smile. “What a charming boy.”

You hesitated, contemplating the possibility of healing Roderick. Healing magic was within your abilities, but you had never dealt with injuries like knife wounds before, as wizards wielded magic, not blades. Still, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

Just as the thought settled in your mind, Cole looked at you knowingly. “It’s too late. He has accepted his end. You will only delay what must come.”

Before you could answer, Cullen rushed over. “Herald!” he called, his breath ragged. “Our position is not good. That dragon has shattered the southern defences! We can’t hold out much longer at this rate.”

Cole, still by Roderick’s side, spoke up. “I’ve seen an Archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.”

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Cullen snapped. “It’s cleared a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven!”

Cole shook his head. “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

Cullen turned to you, his expression grim. “There are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

Death was all around them, pressing in from outside and creeping closer with every passing moment. The reality was inescapable. People often spoke of death as something distant, something they could fight against. But in moments like this, it felt like a shadow, already touching your shoulder, waiting for the right moment to claim its due.

“Haven will be buried,” you said.

“We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”

You nodded, resolve hardening in your chest. “Fire the trebuchets. If this is the end, let it be on our terms.”

Cole, cryptic as always even in these moments, added, “Yes, that. Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies.”

Roderick, his breathing laboured, managed to find his voice. “There is a path. You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage. As I have.” He struggled to his feet, Cole holding him like a pillar. “The people can escape. She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me so I could… tell you.”

He described how, by chance, he had walked the overgrown path, never intending to. But now, with so many dead at the Conclave, he was the only one who remembered it. He confessed his uncertainty, yet suggested that if this simple memory could save you, perhaps it wasn’t an accident. Perhaps you were meant for more.

Even in moments of possible death, they looked to you for answers.

“Then we will take that path,” you said. “But you must hurry. Gather those who can still walk. The snow will cover the track soon, and Corypheus will not be far behind.”

Cullen gave you a grim nod before rushing off to relay the command.

As everyone scrambled into action, you glanced back at the villagers, wondering if they had any inkling of what lay ahead. You had made your choice, but at what cost? Would they look back on this moment and remember you as the one who saved them from a far worse fate? Or would they see it as the moment you led them to their graves? Only time—and death—would tell.

“Well, I’m ready when you are. If we must die, let’s do it with style, shall we?” Dorian said, adjusting his robes with a nearly subtle shaking of the hand.

You turned to your companions, the people who had fought beside you through thick and thin—longer than you could have ever expected. “You all go with them,” you told them. “Help lead everyone to safety. I’ll handle the trebuchet.”

Cassandra, ever the stalwart, immediately objected. “You cannot expect us to leave you behind, not like this.”

“It’s too dangerous for all of us to go,” you replied calmly, meeting her gaze. “I can use my magic to fire it from a distance. There’s no need for all of us to stay behind.”

Varric hefted Bianca over his shoulder into a more comfortable position. “And what? Leave you here to play the lone hero? Where’s the fun in that? Can’t let you hog all the glory.”

“I’m only being practical. There’s no point in more dying needlessly.” You shot him a wry glance. “Besides, I’ve never needed anyone to help me with magic,” you countered, though it wasn’t entirely the truth. Memories of times when your spells had faltered under pressure flashed through your mind. “And I won’t start now. My magic will do more good here than anything you all can offer at this moment.”

“Now’s not the time for your self-sacrifice, Herald,” Cassandra insisted.

“I’m not being a martyr, Cassandra. I’m trying to be smart about this for once. If I can distract Corypheus, if I can get that trebuchet to fire from a distance, then maybe we can buy everyone enough time to escape. I need you to trust me, just this once.” You looked into her eyes, wishing in this moment that she could read your thoughts.

More objections followed, voices rising in protest. Every second slipping by felt like an eternity, and time was not on your side today.

Cassandra stepped even closer, nearing you until her breath fanned your frozen face. She looked as if she might throttle you out of sheer frustration at your apparent stupidity. “This isn’t your fight alone. We’ve all fought to be here, and we’re not leaving you behind.”

“No,” you said, voice firm but softer now, “but I can finish it alone. I’ll be fine,” you added, even though you weren’t sure of that at all. But you couldn’t let them see the uncertainty clawing at your chest. Not now. “The trebuchet is far from Haven. No one else needs to get caught in the crossfire.”

“Are you sure?” Solas asked. He’s been quiet thus far, observing the discussion, knowing that any words spoken would not sway your resolve.

You nodded, forcing a reassuring smile. “As sure as eggs are eggs.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might shout or draw her sword in defiance. Instead, she inhaled deeply, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “Then do what must be done,” she finally said, albeit reluctantly.

No one said or argued any further. Reluctantly, they turned and began to follow Cullen’s orders, disappearing further into the chantry halls. You watched them leave, your heart sinking deeper into your chest as their figures faded.

“Don’t worry,” Cole said, appearing behind you like a shadow made flesh. “They’re scared, but they’re strong.”

You turned to face him. The Chancellor had been carried away, but he was unlikely to go far.

“You’ll watch over them for me, won’t you?” you asked.

He nodded. “But you won’t have to wait long. You will come back for them,” he said, a gentle and serene certainty in his voice. “You’ll always find your way back.”

“And if they don’t want me back?” The question slipped out before you could stop it—a raw wound laid bare. It was pointless hiding it from Cole. “Even if they knew what I’ve done? What I will do?”

He tilted his head, a very human motion, as he was given free reign into your mind. “If they knew what you carry, they would understand. They will see you, not just what’s been done to you. You have fought for them, and they will fight for you in return.”

“I hope you’re right.”

You blinked, and he was on the other side of the hall, helping the last stragglers into the passageway.

Once the entry to the Chantry was emptied, you took a moment to gather your thoughts and steel your resolve. You couldn’t let doubt creep in now. You apparated a short distance, but not knowing the exact location of the trebuchet meant you had to continue on foot. The moment you landed, you broke into a run, heading for the last trebuchet at the far end of the battlefield. The wind whipped against your face, sharp and cold, but you pushed through, feet pounding against the snow-covered ground, the sound of your heartbeat louder than the storm around you.

The trebuchet loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the swirling storm clouds. The massive machine straight out of a history book stood resolute, its wooden frame creaking under the weight of the snow that had already begun to settle on it. As you neared it, you slowed, catching your breath as you approached the structure, doing the exact opposite of what you’d told your companions you would do. There was no safety in distance, not for what you intended. You placed a hand on the wooden frame, feeling the cold seep through your gloves. It was sturdy—a tool built for destruction. But to you, it was more than that. It was your bait.

You weren’t naive. Corypheus would arrive soon, his army of demons and that monstrous dragon not far behind. You’d taken his Templars, his mages—everything he thought was his. Now, he was coming for you.

You didn’t even bother setting up the trebuchet. It was a distraction, a decoy for what you truly intended. There was no point in firing it. Your magic would do more than any projectile could.

You glanced towards the sky, where the clouds churned dark and thick. Any moment now.

A low rumble echoed in the distance, growing louder by the second. The thunder rolled overhead, heavy and ominous, though there was no flash of lightning. The storm was building, dark clouds swallowing the sky, plunging the battlefield into even deeper shadow. Rain began to fall, first in slow, deliberate drops, then heavier, as if the heavens themselves were mourning what was about to unfold.

And then you saw it—the dragon.

It swooped down from the churning clouds, its enormous wings blotting out the pale slivers of moonlight. Its red eyes glowed like burning embers, and in that moment, it found you—locked onto you. A creature of primal fury, a living storm, more powerful than anything you’d ever faced. To it, you were nothing more than a speck, an insect, waiting to be crushed under its massive claws.

The ground erupted beneath you as the dragon’s attack slammed into the earth, the force of the explosion sending you flying backward. You hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, the impact knocking the wind from your lungs. For a moment, everything spun—mud, rain, fire—all a blur around you.

Scrambling to your feet, you searched frantically for your wand, your lifeline, but it was gone, lost somewhere in the chaos. Panic clawed at you as the dragon’s roar split the air, a deafening sound that rattled your very bones. You were exposed, vulnerable.

And then, through the smoke and flames, a figure emerged—Corypheus.

He was more monstrous than you remembered, towering and dark, radiating a perceptible aura of dark magic. His twisted form seemed to absorb the light around him, casting a shadow that chilled you to the core. The poorly veiled fear Samson had felt in his mind made perfect sense now, standing before this abomination in the flesh.

You forced yourself to stand, though every muscle screamed in protest. Just as you steadied yourself, the dragon loomed closer, its eyes glowing a hellish red, massive wings beating the air with enough force to stir the flames around you. And then you saw it—there was no collar, no visible restraint. Yet the creature obeyed Corypheus and followed his commands as if it were bound to him. A pit formed in your stomach as you realised what that meant.

Dragons were not meant to be controlled. They were the apex of the natural order, wild, free, and devastatingly powerful. To see one obeying a mortal was an affront to everything you knew. You’d seen something like this before—Ranrok’s control over the dragon that killed the Ministry member. That dragon had been shackled by a collar forged from goblin silver, imbued with the corrupted ancient magic Ranrok had weaponised. No dragon ever gave willing subservience. This was dark magic of the vilest kind—the forced submission of a creature that should never bow to anyone, least of all a mortal.

Goblin-wrought silver had the unique ability to absorb magic, including ancient magic. In fact, goblin silver was the only known substance capable of enduring the raw force of ancient magic without being destroyed, other than yourself, of course. How Ranrok was able to control the dragon through the collar was used by unknown methods.

To see such power misused—to see a being as majestic and untamed as a dragon bound by mortal greed—was a tragedy.

“Enough!” Corypheus’s voice boomed, snapping your focus back to him. He unleashed a wave of red energy that slammed into you; making you staggered under the force, barely keeping your balance.

“Pretender,” he snarled, his voice cold and seething. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.” He stepped forward, his glowing eyes boring into yours. “Know me, know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One! The will that is Corypheus! You will kneel.”

He raised his hand, and a red glow flared from the object he held. The moment the light touched you, the Anchor in your hand ignited with searing pain, the glow from it pulsing in time with Corypheus’s magic. Your breath hitched, and you clutched your hand, trying to suppress the scream building in your throat as the agony intensified.

“It is your fault, ‘Herald’,” Corypheus continued, voice low and filled with disdain. “You interrupted a ritual years in the making, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose.”

Another wave of pain shot through you, sharper and more intense this time. It felt as though the magic itself was being ripped from your veins, twisted and pulled by the spherical object in Corypheus’s hand. Each pulse of the Anchor felt like a white-hot knife slicing through your flesh, the magic within it burning you from the inside out.

He raised the orb higher, and for the first time, you got a clear look at it. The sphere was covered in intricate, writhing markings that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. The red glow that surrounded it sent a shiver through your spine. Instinctively, you knew—whatever this was—it was not something you could control. It was dangerous, deadly even. Taking it from him could destroy you—it looked to have half destroyed Corypheus, if not for the corrupted magic gleaning his unnaturally sized body. You couldn’t just touch possibly-cursed objects, possibly ones that hummed with dark, ancient energy that seemed to vibrate in the very air around you. This was no ordinary magic.

Against your will, your legs buckled beneath you, the pain in your hand intensifying as the Anchor pulsed. Clutching your hand, you tried to stave off the agony that surged through your body like wildfire.

“I don’t know how you survived,” Corypheus hissed, his voice thick with venom and disbelief. “But what marks you as ‘touched,’ what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens.”

The Anchor flared again, brighter, burning through your skin as if it were searing your soul. You collapsed onto the ground, your strength ebbing away. Corypheus loomed above, his face twisted with shards of lyrium—of corrupted ancient magic—as he watched you writhe in pain, the orb glowing menacingly in his hand.

He pointed the orb towards you, and you felt it—a pull. The Anchor on your hand flared in response, its green light swirling and mixing with the crimson energy pouring from Corypheus’s orb. But then, to your horror, another colour emerged—a shimmering blue, twisting through the magical current like a thread being spun in a dark loom.

It was your magic. He wasn’t just draining the Anchor’s power; he was pulling at your very essence, your own ancient magic mingling with the green and red energy. He was going to strip you of everything you had—your magic, the Anchor, and your very life.

Panic clawed at you with that revelation. You couldn’t let him take it—not your magic, not your power. Desperately, you tried to resist, to stop him, to fight back against the pull of the orb. But without your wand, without your full strength, you were trapped, helpless. Behind you, the dragon’s presence loomed, its breath hot and threatening.

“And you used the Anchor to undo my work!” Corypheus snarled, his rage building. “The gall!”

Drawing on the last bit of your strength, you redirected the energy within you, forcing the trebuchet to smash into Corypheus’s side. The impact was thunderous, but it splintered upon crashing against the magical barrier he conjured, barely making him falter.

Corypheus leered closer, unfazed by your desperate act. “Such a pitiful attempt at magic. Praise me, for I would end the silence that answers.”

He bent down and grabbed your arm with terrifying ease, lifting you off the ground as if you were weightless. The sudden pull sent shockwaves through your body, and you felt tendons in your left wrist, arm, and shoulder pop painfully. His grip on your left wrist was like iron, a vice threatening to shatter your bones with just a flick of his wrist.

He was too close, too overpowering, and any attempt to retaliate would be futile while he controlled your arm.

“I once breached the Fade in the name of another,” Corypheus began, his voice cold and relentless.

As he launched into his monologue, your focus drifted away from his words, your hearing filling with a low but deafening crackling. Above you, the thunder rolled ominously, matching the turmoil in your heart. The skies were dark, swirling with heavy clouds and rumbling as though waiting for a command. They churned restlessly, as if yearning to be set free. Something stirred within you—a deep, primal connection—and you instinctively lifted your free hand towards the sky.

Corypheus swung you in closer, his face, nearly three times your own, looming over you. “Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods—and it was empty.”

It felt as though the lightning were calling to you, a magnetic pull guiding your movements. The skies rumbled in response, echoing your own tumultuous emotions, but they lacked the power to act on their own. Energy crackled in the atmosphere, as if excited, as if waiting for this moment. As you reached towards the heavens, the lightning crackled down, a brilliant flash of gold and blue. But as it descended, it transformed into a vivid green, leaving a glowing trail.

You’d been aiming for Corypheus, hoping to strike him down with the force of nature at your fingertips, but just as the lightning surged, he flung you away. The energy coursed through your body, sending tremors of power radiating out from your fingertips, but the bolt missed him entirely. Instead, it struck the ground nearby, sending a shockwave through the earth.

You hit the ground hard, coughing as the impact knocked the air from your lungs. Dazed, you pushed yourself to your knees, barely able to see through the blur in your vision.

“Mortal,” Corypheus’s distorted voice boomed, his red form approaching, blurry through the haze of pain and confusion. “You dare wield stolen power—a power beyond your comprehension.”

The world around you seemed to shake and pulse with a bright, sickly green hue, as if the very air was poisoned with magic. Every inch of your body screamed in pain, the electricity still stinging your hand as though you’d grabbed a fistful of lightning.

The ground beneath you trembled; the aftershocks of the lightning strike and the avalanche it had triggered rippling through the earth. Your hand burned, the sting of the electricity surging through it. Corypheus’s voice sliced through the storm of sensations, dripping with disdain. “You have power that is not yours,” he declared, his eyes gleaming.

A bitter truth settled in your chest, the weight of it undeniable. “I’ve been told that before,” you muttered, the words clear, cutting through the haze of your thoughts.

“The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling.”

Behind him, the dragon stirred, looming ever closer, its massive form casting a dark shadow over you. Through the haze of pain, you forced your hand to unclench. There was still one last thing you had to do.

“So be it,” Corypheus said, his voice cold and resolute, like the final snap of a closing door. It was the tone of someone who had already moved on, who saw nothing left of value in what lay before him. “I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation—and god—it requires.”

Your eyes flickered towards the mountains in the distance. Beyond the snow-covered peaks, a signal flare shot into the sky, a bolt of fire cutting through the stormy clouds. The signal. Your chance for escape. But the cold realisation settled in—you had triggered the avalanche too soon. People were caught in the path of the destruction you had caused. A wave of guilt threatened to consume you.

“And you,” Corypheus’s voice pulled your focus back. His tone darkened, malice dripping from every word. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”

Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself to stand, though your legs felt like they could give way at any moment. “I won’t be the one dying,” you spat, the words carrying more conviction than you felt.

Green. Green everywhere. It flooded your vision, erupting from the sky, the ground, even the very air you breathed. Your left hand pulsed with the same vibrant hue, the Anchor flaring in time with the surging magic, but it was your right hand that held the power you needed. Everything else faded away as you channelled the darkest spell you’d ever learned, pulling on every ounce of strength you had left. With a practiced motion, you clenched your fist, drawing the energy into a tight, crackling ball of green light.

With a snap of your arm, you hurled the bolt forward, releasing it like a flash of raw, concentrated magic. It shot through the air, striking Corypheus squarely in the chest.

You watched, breathless, as the energy collided with him. His eyes twisted in shock, the madness briefly fading as the fury drained from his features. His body crumpled, lifeless, as if he had become nothing more than a shadow—dust, blown away by the wind.

But victory never lasted long. The dragon’s roar cut through the silence, a deafening sound that echoed across the valley. It was a sound so fierce it shook the very ground beneath your feet, nearly sending you sprawling.

You tried to run, to escape the inevitable, but your body betrayed you. The strength had been drained from your limbs; the energy you had wielded sapping your last reserves.

The ground shook violently as the avalanche came crashing down—an unstoppable force, triggered by the uncontrolled magic you had unleashed. You realised, too late, that you would never make it to the mine. You didn’t have the strength to escape on foot, and the icy wall of snow and debris was already closing in on you.

The dragon’s roar faded into the distance as the world went white. Snow and debris swept over you in a torrent, engulfing you in a suffocating, freezing blanket. Darkness closed in fast, and you barely had time to brace yourself before everything went still.

But even in that frozen stillness, there was a flicker of life within you, a stubborn ember refusing to be snuffed out. It served as a reminder that, no matter how hard you tried, fate always had different plans in store.

Chapter Text

For a moment, everything stopped. Your body was trapped beneath the crushing weight of the avalanche, immobilised by the rubble. No breath, no movement—just a suffocating stillness that seemed to stretch endlessly, as though the world itself had frozen over, buried in an unyielding frost. A cruel, biting winter, the kind that heralds a darker time, as if nature was holding its breath before the storm that would tear everything apart.

Then something shifted. A spark, barely noticeable at first, surged through your body, stirring you back to awareness. The stillness shattered as you gasped sharply, lungs filling with the sting of cold air and the sharp edge of debris. The feeling of life returned slowly to your limbs, though the memory of that stillness lingered like a shadow.

Latching onto the first thought, you apparated, the familiar pull of magic yanking you from beneath the avalanche to somewhere warmer. You stumbled, collapsing onto a cold stone floor as the chill seeped into every cell. Your face hit the rough surface with a bone-jarring thud, and though you tried, you couldn’t lift your head. Empty bottles of alcohol littered the floor around you, crunching under your weight, their shattered glass digging into your skin. But even that pain wasn’t enough to keep you awake.

Exhaustion hit hard. Before you could process what had just happened, sleep claimed you.

Time became meaningless as you drifted in and out of consciousness. Blurred dreams, fragmented and nonsensical, teased the edges of your mind, slipping away before you could grasp them. You tried not to think, to let the exhaustion pull you under, until suddenly, something clicked.

The crushing weight of the avalanche melted away, replaced by a cold, numbing quiet. The pressure on your chest eased, and the sensation of suffocation gave way to a strange ease. The icy shards beneath you seemed to dissolve, and you found yourself floating in an eerie calm. It wasn’t the avalanche anymore. The biting cold of the snow shifted to a soft, lapping chill against your skin.

When you opened your eyes, you were sitting at the edge of a wooden dock, with your feet dangling over it and into dark depths. Small fish nibbled at your toes, but your legs didn’t respond. They felt as though they were part of the water itself, frozen in place, though the water wasn’t solid. It didn’t feel like anything at all. Just a slight chill that crept into your bones, with a bit of tingling from where the fish nipped at your flesh.

Everything was quiet, and for the briefest moment, the quiet felt more real than anything else.

Behind you, voices murmured—familiar, distant, but too muddled to make out. You didn’t turn to look; you couldn’t turn at all. Instead, you stared down at the lake, your feet swishing gently with the ripples. It was peaceful, though you vaguely wondered if the nibbling at your toes were from a fish or perhaps one of the merfolk teasing from below, deliberating if the hassle was worth dragging a student under the hazy depths. But then you remembered: no, mermaids don’t often come to the surface. Then it could only be the Giant Squid.

As if in response to your thought, a massive eye emerged from beneath the water, appearing between your feet. It stared up at you, wide and unblinking, even as the sun blazed down on the scene, casting everything in harsh light that stung your eyes.

Unnerved, you turned your gaze to the horizon—or rather, where the horizon should have been. Beyond a narrow stretch of lake, the world dissolved into a thick, impenetrable fog. It was as though you were sitting on the edge of a flat world, and past a certain point, everything simply… stopped.

Though you couldn’t see it from where you sat, you knew there was a small hut behind you—the one with doors boarded up on all sides. Yet once you entered through one of those doors, the others seemed to vanish. A dark wizard had once used the shack as a hideout, luring students with sweets sold by the dock. His fate, however, had been less sweet—dragged away by the Ministry after a certain someone had tipped them off to his dealings. Behind the hut, the mountainside rose steeply, but like everything else beyond your immediate surroundings, it too faded into the swirling white fog.

The mist hung heavy, enveloping the world in a tight circle around you, much like the dense morning fog that clings to the London streets. It coiled around your senses, dulling your thoughts, making it all feel like a slow, languid dream that would never end.

The air was still, too. Not a whisper of wind disturbed the calm scene, and you felt as though you were suspended in time, a moment stolen from reality. You could almost imagine the soft sound of footsteps approaching through the mist, but it was merely the rhythmic lapping of water against the dock, refreshing the algae that crept down the dock, making the wood slimy and increasing the chances of slipping and breaking one’s neck. Shadows beyond the haze beckoned—a world just out of reach, where voices murmured secrets you couldn’t quite decipher and friends awaited something you could never deliver. On the further examination, the sounds were the faint echoes of children talking, though their words never quite reached your ears.

The lapping water against the dock grew louder, sending vibrations through the structure. Someone was truly approaching now, but you couldn’t will your frozen body to turn and see. A cold, creeping certainty settled over you. The dark wizard was back, and he was going to get his revenge because you’d sentenced him to a fate that should be yours.

But it wasn’t the dark wizard that emerged besides you. In your peripheral vision, a pair of feet appeared. Then, a familiar voice broke through the fog of your thoughts.

“Where are you?”

You looked up, surprised to find Solas standing beside you, his gaze steady and curious. For a moment, his presence felt too real, too vivid. You blinked, a twinge of longing hitting you. Perhaps you missed him more than you realised. After all, you didn’t think you’d ever see him—or anyone from the Inquisition—again. To you, they might as well have been dead. You couldn’t go back. Not after all that had happened.

“No ‘hello’? No ‘how do you do’?” you replied dryly, then continued without pause. “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”

Now having gained the ability to move your head, you twisted around to see where he’d come from. As you’d suspected, the hut stood at the edge of the short dock, its doors boarded up and a ‘Keep Out’ sign nailed to each visible side. The white haze swallowed the back end of it, making it seem longer than it was.

You tried to see beyond the white fog, but the world remained a blur. There was nothing there. Only you, the dock, the hut, and the lake swallowing your legs. You hadn’t quite expected what you’d find, but the answer was… nothing. You didn’t particularly want to know where you were; it was peaceful here. Peace rarely lasted long.

Solas stood for a moment, then, silently, he sat beside you on the dock. The ripples in the water didn’t change; your legs remained trapped beneath the surface, the numbness spreading through them. And yet, there was no fear, no urgency. Just an odd stillness, as if you were in Limbo.

You glanced at him, his calm gaze fixed on you, as if he were waiting for something. Without much thought, you asked, “Did you bring toast?”

“No,” he replied evenly, though a wooden plate appeared beside him as if summoned by your words. He handed it to you without a word.

You took the plate, staring down at the dry, bland-looking toast. After a moment, you muttered, “She prefers jam.”

Solas remained silent as you carefully placed the toast on the dock beside you. You didn’t toss it into the water, mindful of the Giant Squid’s particular tastes and dislike for soggy toast. It was once in your morning routine to leave offerings for the creature lurking just beneath the surface.

Glancing back down, you noticed the great eye beneath the water had disappeared.

A few yards away, you heard the soft patter of stones skipping across the surface of the lake. One, two, three—they disappeared into the fog, each perfectly timed skip fading into nothing. Someone—something—was disturbing the stillness of your sanctuary.

As you shifted to get a better look, a sudden coldness spread through the water around your feet. Icy, sharp, it crept up your legs with a chilling familiarity. You glanced down just in time to see a pale, water-wrinkled hand emerge from the depths, its fingers swollen and pruned from the cold, gripping your ankle with surprising strength. The nails dug into your skin, drawing blood, the red turning black as it mixed into the inky waters.

You tried to kick your leg free, but your body wouldn’t respond. The water held you, pulling at you, refusing to let go.

“They want to take me with them,” you said softly, your voice oddly flat. There was no fear, only a weary acceptance. “It’s what I deserve.”

His eyes flicked to the hand gripping your leg, but he didn’t move to help. “Why?”

You stared at the ghostly hand for a long moment before responding. “For everything. For failing. For letting them die. For-” Your throat tightened, and you couldn’t finish the sentence. “Because I killed them. Not on purpose, but what I did… it isn’t excusable. They hate me for it. Haven is dead because of me.”

He didn’t look away, his eyes holding you in place just as firmly as the hand beneath the water. “You believe they hate you?”

The water rippled more violently, and your eyes were torn from the hand to something further out. A small boat, barely visible, emerged through the haze. Onboard stood a shadowy, robed figure, its limbs long and unnaturally thin, its face hidden beneath a dark hood. The boat glided closer, moving silently across the water, though there was no wind or current to push it. The figure stood still, unmoving, its presence as cold and inevitable as the grave itself. Its black, shimmering robes were slightly transparent, and for a brief moment, you caught sight of the skeletal form beneath.

Your breath hitched as the boat neared. Aloud, you said, “He’s been waiting for me.”

Solas turned his gaze to the figure. He didn’t seem surprised, though a faint tension crept into his expression. He didn’t need to ask who “he” was. His gaze lingered on the dark figure in the boat, though he said nothing.

You didn’t feel any fear as the boat drifted closer. In the real world, you’d feared him—Death—as much as you feared spiders—well, maybe a little less. But here? Here it seemed like there was no room for fear. Death had always been a close companion, a silent observer to your darkest moments. He was inevitable, watching your every move with eyes like a patient hound stalking its prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Wherever you went, he loomed over your shoulder, ever-present, never in a hurry. He didn’t need to be. He would have your soul in the end.

The wrinkled hand on your leg tightened, but you barely noticed. The water was cold, numbing you to the touch. Somewhere in your chest, your heartbeat began to fade.

You looked back at Solas; your voice came out quiet. “Will you wait with me? I don’t think I want to be alone for this.”

He turned his eyes from the figure to you, his eyes not soft but searching. “Where are you?”

“The docks,” you said, though the words felt hollow. “By the Great Lake. It’s just… it’s just us here now. With him, but he doesn’t want you. Unless he does.”

“Did you make it to the mine shaft?”

“I made it to the mine… but not the mine shaft.” You hesitated, glancing towards the still boat, the skeletal figure unmoving. “I think I died first.”

Solas leant in slightly, distracting you from Death. “Herald. You are dreaming. You are alive. What remains of Haven is waiting for you to return.”

What remains of Haven. The words hit you like a blow, the guilt crashing in. You hadn’t waited for the signal, and now… now they were all gone, weren’t they? Swallowed by the avalanche you had brought down. How many had you killed? How many had you buried under that crushing weight?

Your eyes wandered back to the water, to the ripples widening around the boat. Death still hadn’t moved, as if something was barring him from wading closer. His hollow face watched you from a distance, motionless, patient as ever. He may be kept at bay, but he would wait for the moment when you finally plunged forward. He had all the time in the world.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” you murmured.

The hand gripping your ankle tightened, its icy touch seeping into your bones. Without warning, it yanked you off the dock with terrifying ease. The world tilted violently around you as you fell. Instinctively, you reached out for Solas, but he was further down the dock than you’d realised, your fingers grasping only at the swirling fog.

As you were pulled away from the dock, reality warped. You expected to be dragged beneath the water, but instead, the grip shifted. An invisible force moved to your throat, lifting you into the air. You were suspended, dangling above the now distant, tumultuous water, your coat tugged upward by something unseen.

Far below, the once calm river had turned into a mess of vivid, unnatural and out of place colours splattered atop the muddy surface. Grey, white, black, red, and green hands reached up and out from the water in pairs, with fingers spread wide—whether in worship or desperation, you couldn’t tell. They clawed at the air, beckoning you, their touch just out of reach.

The hand at your throat didn’t pull you under, but held you aloft, as if it were the only thing keeping you from plummeting into the swirling mess below. Your feet kicked out instinctively, but there was no resistance, no solid ground to push against. You dangled awkwardly, suspended by some magic no one could see, but you could inherently feel.

Above you on the ledge of the bridge you hung over stood Solas, peering down at you with an unreadable expression. He didn’t seem alarmed, though curiosity flickered in his gaze. It was strange. He didn’t belong here, not in the middle of this twisted version of the River Thames, its waters teeming with the grasping hands of what should have long since sunk to the bottom. And yet, here he was, witnessing what you instinctively knew was a memory. A memory of the late 19^th century in a London torn apart by chaos.

He didn’t offer his hand. He just stared down at you, waiting for you to plunge to your death. “What’s happening? Tell me.”

As the force holding you in the air wavered, you flung your arms up in desperation, futilely reaching for the ledge where Solas stood. Your magic was slipping, unravelling at the seams, and soon you would plunge into the sea of hands below. They clawed at the air, waiting to drag you into the dark, cold depths. “Do you not have eyes?” you shouted, your voice edged with panic. “I think it’s pretty clear what’s happening!”

His expression tightened, just barely. “This is not real. You know it’s not, but it is happening,” he repeated with maddening composure.

The grasping hands, the screaming, the stinking river, the thrashing wind under your legs, the cold clawing at your throat—it certainly all felt real. The pull of the invisible force holding you aloft was beginning to weaken. Any second now, you’d plunge into the hands below, and they would drag you under. That was real enough.

“Why are you here?” you demanded, not willing to entertain his suggestion. “Why now?”

His patience visible began to thin, as did the invisible grip on your coat. “I could not be there then, but I am here now. We are here in spirit only. You are trapped in your dream, and you need to break free. Unless you wish to join them.”

The hands below twisted and writhed, their fingers reaching up as if to grasp at your legs and pull you into the roiling depths.

“Then what do I do?” you asked.

“The sensations may be real, but this place? This moment? You are not truly here. You are trapped in a memory, one distorted by fear. You must see through that.”

His words cut through you like you’d plunged into cold water. But you hadn’t fallen—not yet. He wasn’t just part of the dream. He was actually there, watching your nightmare unfold. You blinked, trying to wrap your mind around it. How could that be possible? It had to be some trick—some part of your subconscious pulling at the only person you thought would care enough to intervene.

You shook your head, refusing to accept it. “No. You’re not real. This is just my mind playing tricks.”

“I am here,” he insisted, his voice calm but firm, as if he’d expected your disbelief. “You’re not imagining this.”

You stared at him, heart racing. Solas was in your dreams. With you. He had known, for Merlin knows how long, and said nothing. A fresh wave of anger swelled within you, pushing your legs to kick in the air harder.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You struggled against the wind thrashing you about, but the invisible hand tightened its grip. “Manipulating my dreams? How long have you been able to do this?”

“Now is not the place for this discussion,” he replied plainly. “You need to wake up.”

You scoffed, trying to ignore the icy tendrils crawling up your legs and arms, sinking into your bones. “It’s too cold. I think I might just hibernate instead. I’ll wake up when the weather is better.”

“If you don’t wake up, you’ll freeze to death.”

“One big problem with that,” you sneered up at him. The sun behind his head shone into your eyes, but you glared through it. “I can’t wake up; if I could, I would have. And I don’t think you want me to, because if I do, I’ll throttle you for doing this to me.”

Solas’s gaze darkened, as if you were the one refraining from helping. “You must wake up. Now.”

“This is my dream to control, and I don’t like your tone.”

As your deepest fears had always predicted, the magic holding you aloft released, and you plummeted. This wasn’t part of your memory—no, you never fell. You only watched the others fall. But now, the sea of hands in the Thames took their opportunity to wrap around you as freezing water slamming into your chest, though, mercifully, not into your throat—not yet.

A second later, you breached the surface, gasping, and found yourself back at the docks. This time, the castle loomed in view, distant and blurred through the mist. Scrambling to reach the dock, your limbs felt sluggish and frozen. The wood beneath your fingers was slippery with algae, and you knew—Death was behind you. Close, watching, waiting.

“Will you listen now?” Solas asked, his voice disembodied.

“Solas,” you called, choking on pond scum, struggling to pull yourself up the dock. Then he was there, standing calmly on the dock as if nothing had changed. Despite everything—your threat, your anger, the bone-chilling cold creeping through your limbs—he extended his hand towards you again, fingers hovering just out of reach, an offering you couldn’t refuse.

You didn’t hesitate. Your frozen fingers clasped around his, and he pulled you from the water with ease.

As you staggered onto the dock, breathless and shivering, your body felt heavy, weighed down by the icy water clinging to your clothes. Each breath burned in your chest, and the cold still gnawed at your bones. But you were out. You were free.

“You’re treading a fine line, Solas,” you rasped, struggling to find your voice. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“You’re not yet safe,” he answered, his words muddled by the filthy water in your ears. “I did what was necessary. You were lost, and time is not a luxury you have right now. If I hadn’t intervened-”

“I would’ve found my way out,” you cut him off, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it. You would have figured it out. Eventually.

Not wishing to argue, he said unconvincingly, “Perhaps. But that was not a risk I was willing to take. And neither should you.”

“I don’t need you saving me, Solas,” you muttered, glaring at him through bleary eyes. “But if you wish to help, show me where the Inquisition is,” you demanded, your voice scratchy from what had seemingly just happened. If it wasn’t real, why did it feel real? “I just need a picture of where they are. I assume you can do that, yes?”

His expression shifted, resigned but understanding, and with no gesture or magical words or anything at all, the docks blurred, the mist faded, and in its place, a large campsite materialised. The remnants of the Inquisition waited there, the fires casting flickering shadows across tents and over vague figures who huddled for warmth.

“Here,” he said softly, manipulating the dream as if it were a canvas, showing you the camp in precise detail.

You stared at the scene for a moment, taking it all in. This imagine was real, supposedly, or this was all a grand trick, but to what end? You didn’t have the imagination for this.

Regardless, it was possibly the last intact thread connecting you to the waking world. “I’ll get there,” you said, your teeth chattering violently. You stepped towards where a couple of townspeople huddled by a fire, roasting some sort of meat on a stick. They didn’t notice you as you kneeled besides them. “But first… I just need to warm up.”

The snow seeped into your robes where you kneeled, but you ignored the feeling as you leant in closer to the fire. You held out your hands, hoping to embrace the heat, but there was none. The cold clung to your skin like frost, your fingers stiff and bluish, the pulse in your neck sluggish beneath the snow covering your exposed flesh. Then the fire wasn’t real; none of this was real. It was just a trick of your mind.

“It’s just... so cold.” Your voice came out in a fragile breath as you cradled your neck, feeling how slowly your blood moved, like a frozen river in mid-winter, stagnant and lifeless; how your heart thudded faintly beneath your ribs, like it was struggling to beat at all.

A figure kneeled besides you. “Think of fire,” Solas said, his voice softer now, more urgent. He seemed concerned for once, if it was genuine. “It’s time to wake up, Herald.”

“Give me a moment.” Your voice was barely a whisper, your hands trembling, feeling like your hands had been frozen in blocks of ice. The cold had seeped in too deep, making it nearly impossible to move. Slowly, a tingling sensation spread through your limbs—pins and needles, a faint reminder of feeling returning.

Suddenly, the crackling of flames broke the stillness, and you turned to see one of the tents engulfed in fire. The flames licked hungrily at the fabric, sending sparks into the air like frantic fireflies. Yet the people surrounding it didn’t react. They sat motionless, staring into nothing as the fire devoured everything, their expressions blank as if trapped in a trance.

“Why aren’t they doing anything?” you gasped. You tried to stand, to shout, but the people around the tent didn’t react, like Death had taken their souls and left mere husks.

The tent’s fabric tore away, and the fire began to spread, consuming the ground beneath it. You felt a rush of heat against your skin, mingled with the biting cold that clung to you like a shroud. It was a surreal juxtaposition—warmth threatening to envelop you while the cold seeped into your very bones.

Solas didn’t even glance at the burning tent. His gaze stayed fixed on you, unfazed. “It’s not real,” he said firmly. “None of this is real. But if you don’t wake up, the fire you’re about to face will be.”

“What?”

The scene around you dissolved, and suddenly you found yourself back in the mine, but the campfire flickered in front of you, as if you’d collected it in your arms and brought it here.

“Think of fire,” he urged again.

“I can’t.” All that filled your mind and body was ice—frozen blood, frost in your veins, and the echo of death.

The warmth came slowly at first, faint at the edges of your frozen mind. Then it grew, swelling like a flame stoked too high. The fire spread, licking up around you. Real or not, you felt it. Heat surged through your veins, burning away the ice and chasing the numbness from your body, and suddenly, there was no cold, only warmth—searing, unbearable warmth.

“Focus on the fire,” Solas commanded, his voice cutting through the haze of heat. “Feel it. Picture it. Make it real.”

The flames crackled around you, their warmth enveloping your limbs. The mine blurred—the walls, the ground, the edges of reality wavering like a mirage. Smoke and ash filled your lungs with each breath, and the icy grip on your heart melted away, replaced by a relentless pounding. Your chest burned with life again.

Suddenly, your eyes snapped open. The room was bathed in a harsh orange glow. You lay on the floor, your cheek pressed painfully against the warmed wood, and watched as flames danced across the walls, climbing the beams, spreading towards where you had collapsed. The suffocating cold was gone, replaced by the heat of the blaze and adrenaline surging through your veins. Mesmerised, you peered into the flames like it was a crystal ball and a vision awaited you from within. The fire, it seemed, had very much been real.

But there was no time to dwell on the revelation. You scrambled to your feet, heart racing, your hands trembling as you tried to gather your thoughts. The door was blocked, the fire spreading faster than you could process, smoke filling your throat. The flames climbed higher, the blaze spreading faster than you could process. You had to get out. Now. But the door was blocked by the fire.

Without delaying any longer, you closed your eyes and focused on the image Solas had shown you—the Inquisition camp, the flickering campfires, the tents pitched in hasty rows, and the people apparently awaiting your return. You clung to that memory, that image, and with a final push, you felt the fire vanish and the heat replace with ice.

Cold air hit your face as you stumbled into the clearing. Loud voices and the smell of roasted meats greeted you as you crashed to your knees, disoriented. You knelt in the centre of the Inquisition’s camp, surrounded by the remnants of Haven, who didn’t appear very ghostlike.

The new senses enveloped you, grounding you in the present. Faces turned to you, a blend of surprise and relief.

“Herald!” someone called out, their voice cutting through the din. You recognised it—one of your closest allies. They reached you first, kneeling beside you, hands gripping your shoulders as if to anchor you back to reality. “We thought we lost you.”

You shook your head, pushing back the remnants of your ordeal. “I’m… I’m here. I’m back.”

The people around you stared, their faces filled with awe and shock. You had appeared out of nowhere, like a vision, as if the magic that brought you here had made you more than human in their eyes.

But you barely noticed them. Your heart still pounded, and your limbs ached from the cold that had gripped you for so long. You groaned, pushing yourself to your feet, smoke still lingering in your lungs from the fire that had consumed the room just moments ago. Every muscle ached, but you were alive. And now, back where you needed to be.

The Inquisition had found you. Or perhaps you had found them. Either way, it didn’t matter now. You were alive.

Death would have to wait, as would answers, for sleep claimed you a second later.

When you woke again, the familiar sounds of the camp came as a comfort, but something felt different. You blinked against the sunlight filtering through the tent. As awareness struggled to return, the commotion around you shifted. People rushed to your side, voices a blend of relief and concern. They fussed over you, their hands gentle yet insistent, checking your barely visible wounds.

Mother Giselle sat besides your cot, tending to you as the advisors argued about matters you deafened your ears to.

“You need rest,” she said, ushering you to lay back down.

“I need to speak to Solas,” you insisted, failing to push away the old woman’s helping hand.

Giselle shook her head gently, then smoothed a cloth over your forehead. It smelled faintly of herbs, though no herb you recognised. “He is tending to the wounded. You’ve been through a harrowing ordeal, Herald. You must regain your strength first.”

Reluctantly, you settled back onto the cot. When you shifted, you realised you were wearing different clothing. The remnants of your torn robes had been replaced by warm fabrics that scarcely mimicked clothing. The absence of enchantments made you aware how cold it could get up in these mountains, though you didn’t have your wand or the energy to weave new enchantments or change into something more comfortable.

The scene shifted once more, and soon you found yourself with all the advisors in your tent. They wasted no time planning the next moves. Haven had been destroyed, but not beyond repair—rarely things ever were.

“I’ll fix Haven,” you insisted, leaning against the tent post in an attempt to not look weak. “Give me one day, and I’ll have it rebuilt. It’ll be like nothing ever happened to it. I was thinking it needed some remodelling, drab as it was.” While it was now covered in snow, it could be unearthed and fixed… It could. Most things destroyed with magic could be repaired. Unless, of course, dark magic was behind the destruction, but you hadn’t used dark magic. Well, you hadn’t used it until after you destroyed Haven.

The council’s response was hesitant, with a hush falling over them.

“Herald…” Josephine spoke through the silence. She was sitting on a chair you’d summoned as an act of your good health. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. The lines on her face were deeper than you remembered, the weight of leadership evident in her weary gaze. “We knew Haven was too small for the Inquisition, but there was no other choice at the time. It was always meant to be temporary. We need a stronger base, better defences.”

“Corypheus destroyed Haven once easily; he can do it again just as. If we rebuild there, we’ll be sitting ducks,” Vivienne added, her posture poised and confident, seemingly the only one looking fine as usual. Her robes were immaculate; the same could not be said for your own.

“Corypheus is dead,” you said forcefully, but Vivienne all but dismissed that statement with a wave of the hand.

Josephine cleared her throat, regaining your attention. “People died in Haven. It would be cruel to make those who survive continue living there, surrounded by memories of their loved ones. We will take this as a sign to move on.”

“Haven has served its purpose, but we need to think about our future,” Cullen said. “The men, the soldiers… they deserve better than what Haven can offer now.”

Their words sank in like stones, and for a moment, you could only stare at them wordlessly. It was true—Haven had never been meant to be permanent. But the thought of abandoning it, of leaving behind what had once been a sanctuary, gnawed at you.

“Then where will we go?” you asked, desperation creeping into your tone.

“There are places…” Leliana began carefully, her expression contemplative. You could see the gears turning in her mind. “I have scouts searching for an appropriate location. But we need to be strategic. We can’t afford to take unnecessary risks.”

“Sitting here is a risk. I can add enchantments, fortify the walls,” you suggested, your mind racing with possibilities. You could already envision the barriers of magic, the defences that could keep them safe, in theory, if you could figure out how your original enchantments had been broken so easily.

Before you could suggest more ways to help, Cullen interrupted. “Haven is no longer liveable. That’s not an option we can consider given recent events.” He extended his hand, motioning to the flaps of the tent.

He led you out, and as you emerged into the camp, a wave of chatter washed over you. The bustle of normalcy enveloped you: people preparing for the next move, securing supplies, tending to the wounded. Despite what had only just consumed Haven, the people moved with a practiced ease, survivors of unmatched disasters, clinging to routine for some semblance of control.

But as you glanced around, something twisted in your gut. The air felt charged, thick with an unsettling energy. Your eyes darted towards the horizon, and that’s when you saw it—a bright green light flickering at the edge of your vision, like a beacon calling you to it.

“No.”

The ice returned to your veins, spreading through your body in a way that felt all too familiar. That vibrant green glow had no right to be there. You had closed the Breach—or at least, you thought you had, just a few days ago. Time had become a blur since you’d regained consciousness, but this... this couldn’t be happening again.

The light pulsed rhythmically, its energy crackling like silent thunder, arcs of green mingling with faint hints of blue and yellow. The tendrils of energy spiralled upwards, lacing the sky with new shades of unnatural green. Every instinct in you screamed danger. A second Breach had formed, and there was no doubt in your mind who was responsible.

It had always been a possibility that you might have been the one to open the original Breach. Whether it had been you or Corypheus was still unclear, but this—this monstrosity before you—you knew for certain that it was your doing. You’d felt yourself ripping it open with your bare hand; you’d known that by pulling down the lightning that had been brewing for days, it would do this. But you’d had no other choice, or did you? That had been the easiest way out, and you’d taken it with little hesitation.

And this, you ruminate, is why you don’t use wandless magic. Because shit like this happens.

“-and then we can strategize,” someone, probably Cullen or Cassandra, was saying, but the words were lost on you as you took a step closer to the glowing fissure. It looked so much like the original, only smaller and more twisted. The vine-like tendrils of energy reached hungrily towards the heavens, just as before, but this time, it felt worse—more malevolent, more dangerous.

You turned your back to the Breach, with dread pooling deep in your soul, as though the weight of the world itself was pressing down on you, and the heat from the Breach seemed to burn against the back of your skull like a second sun.

“Herald?” Josephine asked, noting your expression.

“When did it appear?” you asked. “How long has it been there?”

More questions piled up in your mind—questions about the Breach, about if they knew the magic that had caused it, but your thoughts were too tangled to make excuses for anything. Your head swam, and for a brief moment, you wondered if you could even comprehend it all right now. How could you justify this when even you didn’t understand?

“They believe Corypheus is still out there,” Leliana murmured low enough for only you to hear. “You believe he’s dead.”

“He’s dead,” you agreed sharply. This, you had no doubts on, unless you’d landed yourself in the middle of a brewing war you had no means of subjugating. “I saw him die. I killed him myself.”

She exchanged a glance with Josephine, and you could sense the uncertainty in the air, thick as suffocating smoke. No one here knew the truth—that you had caused this new Breach, that somehow, your own uncontrolled magic had ripped open the sky once again. They couldn’t know. They wouldn’t understand. Not them, hardly even yourself.

“Tell the people that Corypheus is dead,” Leliana instructed gently. “They’re looking to you for answers. Ease their fears.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could process her words, a voice from the crowd cut through the whispers of those who’d only just now noticed your presence.

“The Herald has walked out and survived the Breach twice now.”

A ripple of agreement spread through the gathered people. You could hear prayers whispered, your name spoken with a reverence that made your skin crawl. Never had it been spoken like that. It should have been a surprise they even knew it. You weren’t just the Herald anymore, if you had ever been it.

The crowd stilled, eyes turning to you with a new intensity, the murmurs fading as they absorbed the words.

You took a step forward when a townsman stumbled and collapsed to his knees. To his right, another followed suit, then another, until they were all kneeling before you, heads bowed in supplication.

The one you’d lunged forward to support leant into your hand, eyes widening with something that looked almost like hope. “Please,” he whispered, his voice trembling. With fear, or with some other wayward emotion? “Help us. You’re our only chance.”

“I’m not-” you started, but the words died in your throat. You gently pulled your hand away, as though burned by his touch.

The camp fell eerily silent. One by one, the remaining survivors of Haven bowed their heads, murmuring prayers as if in some solemn ritual, their voices rising into a haunting hymn in your name. They were honouring you, but it felt like a crushing weight, not a blessing. You stood frozen as the familiar murmur of warped faith grew louder, almost to a suffocating degree.

The sound enveloped you, thick with reverence and power. There were more survivors than you had expected—faces both familiar and unfamiliar.

For a moment, relief washed over you. Perhaps you hadn’t killed as many as you thought. But as your gaze flicked back to the glowing green light of the Breach, the relief curdled into a gnawing sense of dread.

Chapter Text

Exhaustion dragged at your limbs, but the healers had insisted you eat, nearly pressing the spoon into your hand. You weren’t hungry. Despite having been unconscious for three nights, the idea of food felt foreign, unnecessary. Yet here you were, lifting the spoon to your lips. The warm broth tasted bland; the flavour muted against your complete lack of appetite. Across from you sat Varric, alive and well, and for that you were grateful. Haven’s fall had been brutal, and seeing him safe stirred a warmth within you that the stew could never provide.

As you watched him talk, something else tugged at your thoughts—a gnawing unease that sat homely in the pit of your stomach. The events of the past days—the Breach, Haven’s destruction, the people looking to you as their saviour—felt unreal, like a dream you couldn’t wake from. The world had shifted beneath you, both figuratively and literally. Nothing was as it once was, and you couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was truly your doing. Had you really shaped these events, or were you simply being pulled along by forces beyond your control?

“I beg your pardon?” you excused, realising he’d asked you a question.

“I said I’m starting to think you’re untouchable,” he repeated, leaning back in his wooded chair. “Every time we think you’re in trouble, you just waltz back in like it’s just another stroll in the woods. And without a scratch, might I add. Maybe you really are the Maker’s favourite.”

“I’m your Maker’s favourite? Me, the impious hedge mage?” The thought was absurd, yet the idea of being anointed by some higher power was almost laughable.

“The Maker works in strange ways. There’s no denying that you were sent to us for some reason.”

“Sent for a benevolent reason, or something more malefic, you suppose?”

He shrugged casually, but there was something in his expression—a flicker of unease he couldn’t quite hide. “Honestly? I hope you’re the saint everyone’s making you out to be. But if you turned out to be the villain of this story… well, it wouldn’t surprise me either. You know how these things go—everything’s about perspective, right?” His tone was light, like a joke, but he was saying more truth than he possibly realised. He didn’t truly believe you were a bad person, not after all you had done and the sacrifices you had made. It was as though he was holding up a mirror with cracks, each fragment reflecting a different version of the story, shifting and reshaping depending on how the light hit it.

“I’m a saint now?” you asked, bemused, if not a little annoyed. Some had already toyed with the notion of you being the incarnation of Merlin—not because of your grand deeds, but simply because you possessed a rare magic that hadn’t been seen since Merlin and Morgan le Fay had wielded it.

“Close enough.”

“Sainthood usually happens after someone’s died,” you muttered bitterly. “And it wasn’t exactly divine intervention that gave me the Anchor. Corypheus was the one who did that, as we’ve recently learnt…”

“Doesn’t matter how you got it,” Varric said with a casual wave of his hand. “What matters is what you’ve done with it. Not everyone can survive falling from the Fade—or from the sky, for that matter. And you’ve done it… how many times?”

Multiple times, too many to count on both hands, but that wasn’t what he was asking.

You could still picture the Inquisition camp’s shocked faces after you had apparated into the middle of it, covered in ash and soot from the mine collapse, flames still chasing your heels. The bewildered looks, the muttered prayers as if you’d been sent by some divine force to protect them—it made you shift uncomfortably in your seat. Even now, you could feel their gazes, lingering, filled with silent hope or something close to reverence.

The camp was still a mess. Tents pitched in a rush, people huddled in nervous groups, wagons hastily packed and unpacked as they waited for the next move. They had no idea where they were headed, and neither did you. But they trusted you to lead them somewhere, anywhere.

If they weren’t careful, you might just lead them to Hell, if such a place existed. Not on purpose, of course, but that’s just the way the potion boils.

Varric continued, “It’s only a matter of time before they start saying your name before a meal. You know how these things go.”

“Just full of grand ideas, aren’t you,” you mused, picking at the broth-soaked bread in front of you. Half your mind wandered to whether you could transfigure it into something more appetising, though you refrained. You weren’t ungrateful for the food, but it felt wrong eating it when there were others who needed it more than you did. But you’d been without food since the fall of Haven, and that made those around you nervous.

“I’m just calling it how I see it.” He raised a hand. “They need someone to believe in. Might as well be you over some other poor fellow.”

You sighed, setting down the bread. “I’m no one’s saviour.”

“Try telling that to them.” He gestured towards the camp, where townsfolk and soldiers alike went about their business, occasionally glancing your way as if you carried the answers to all their troubles.

Divine intervention. You chewed that thought over along with your food, considering the implications. It was a comforting narrative for some, but fate often had a way of leading one to unexpected places. The Fates liked to play out their fancy little ideas for a chuckle or two. You had agency, though, and you were forging your path—whether it aligned with the whims of others or not. Sometimes you wished you could meet this ‘deity’ who kept tossing you into the deep end without warning.

“Just think,” he continued, his voice turning contemplative. “Historians will rewrite your story as that of a very pious mage. One who… oh, I don’t know, regularly visits Adraste’s temples, blesses the faithful, and leads the Inquisition to victory by divine inspiration alone.”

“It will make for a great bard’s tale, indeed,” you said plainly.

Varric had no difficulties finishing his food. The bowl rattled on the makeshift table as he stretched back in his chair, eyes drawn low as if exhausted. He contemplated something for a moment before speaking. “You know, I had my doubts back when you warned us about Corypheus coming to Haven. I didn’t want to believe it at first. I’m grateful you did, though. If you hadn’t given us a heads-up, well, let’s just say things would’ve ended a lot worse.”

“I just did what anyone else would’ve done.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said, leaning forward. “Most wouldn’t have risked so much for people they barely knew. So how did you know Corypheus was alive in the first place? Everyone thought he was. Hell, I thought he was.” He gave you a long look. “What kind of foresight are we talking here? How far do your abilities stretch?”

You paused mid-spoonful, the broth growing colder on your lips. “I’m not a seer. In fact, I’ve always loathed Divination.” Though it was more so the aftereffects. But in general, foresight was not a natural gift of yours, nor did it come easily, no matter how hard you tried. It was ironic that now you were being treated like a prophet. “I’m just very intuitive.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he replied, leaning forward now, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “You’ve put a lot of trust in this intuition of yours. And you’ve been… what’s the word? Uncannily right about a lot of things. Quite the intuition it has to be,” he whistled, sounding as though he didn’t buy it for a second. “So, let’s test it: what does your intuition say about Corypheus being dead for good? He survived death once, after all. Think he could pull it off again?”

Your spoon clattered back into the bowl as you placed it down. “I’m not a seer. But I do know he’s dead.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning on the table, still unconvinced. “You sound pretty sure. So no visions, no prophetic dreams guiding you? You just know?”

Hesitating, you chose the words carefully, balancing them on your tongue. There were so many things you could say, so many truths buried beneath lies. “I know what I know. And what I know is that Corypheus is dead. That’s all that matters. My ways are irrelevant.”

“Sure you don’t want to go with the ‘chosen by the Maker’ angle?” he teased, but there was a seriousness to his gaze, something probing. “People already believe you’re Andraste’s chosen. Why not the Maker’s too?”

You waved that implication off. “No seer abilities, no prophetic dreams, no divine gift. Just instincts and enough experience to last multiple lifetimes.”

Maybe you should get back into divination so that your lies feel less like lies and more like something that can be explained. If nothing else, it would certainly make these moments easier.

He yawned, getting ready to leave you to your own devices. “If you ever feel like making a few extra coins, I’m just saying… there are people who’d pay handsomely to have a glimpse into their future.”

You let out a small sigh, glancing down at the now-cold broth swirling in your bowl. You knew that better than anyone else. His words stirred up memories you’d rather leave buried. Memories of sitting in front of the Mirror of Erised for days on end, hoping for a glimpse into the future. You had been so desperate back then, clinging to the belief that it showed you something real. Something that could guide you, give you a sense of control over the world around you. It wasn’t just a reflection of your desires—it had felt like a promise. But promises made in mirrors are rarely kept.

The mirror had fed your desire and hope, showing you visions of a future that could be. But as time went on, you began to realise it wasn’t telling you the future at all. It was showing you what you wanted, twisting your desires into something that seemed achievable but was always out of reach. That false hope had driven you to make choices you couldn’t take back. Choices that still haunt you.

“Mirrors never show the whole picture,” you murmured, almost to yourself. They only show what’s in front of you, not around, not behind.

The words came out lighter than you felt. You were still a little lightheaded from your recent ordeal. The world around you seemed to sway slightly, as if the edges of your vision were blurred with exhaustion. Someone—a healer, perhaps—passed by and told you to get more rest, to go back to sleep. You shook your head, waving them off. “No,” you said, unable to keep the exhaustion from your voice. “I’ve slept enough.”

Standing to your feet, you tried to shake off the lingering grogginess. Your legs felt weak, but moving helped shake the weariness clinging to your bones. It wasn’t long before you caught sight of Solas, standing just beyond the crowd. The townspeople were going about their business, their murmurs and conversations a soft hum in the background. Solas had been watching you—his gaze steady, almost expectant—before he turned and walked off without a word.

You hesitated for a moment, then offered a quiet, “Excuse me,” to the few people around you. They didn’t seem to acknowledge it. Without waiting for any kind of response, you slipped through the gathering, weaving between carts and villagers, and followed Solas’ retreating figure.

The wind slapped at your face, your borrowed boots crunching over the uneven ground. Faint footsteps in the snow marked Solas’ path ahead, but the wind was already erasing them, the snow drifting to cover all trace of his presence. You kept following, the trail winding up towards the mountain peak that overlooked the valley below. From up here, the world seemed smaller, like a patchwork of jagged hills and ruins, dwarfed by the sheer vastness of the landscape. The air grew thinner as you climbed, and with each step, everything below felt more distant—almost ethereal.

Ahead, the faint crackle of a fire drew your attention. Solas stood there, alone, nursing a pale blue flame at the end of a gnarled stick embedded into the ground. He didn’t look up, his focus drawn entirely to the flickering light, its glow reflecting in his eyes. Beyond him, the sky stretched out endlessly, streaked with the sickly green glow of the distant, newly formed second Breach.

The sight of the Breach caught your breath. There was something wrong about it. More wrong than usual. The edges of the rift seemed jagged, like shattered glass, and the green light pulsed in a way that made your skin crawl. A sense of unreality clung to the scene, but you shook it off, focusing on Solas.

You hesitated, watching him in silence. There was something serene, almost fragile, about the quiet space around him, despite the chaos that had overtaken the world below. The noise of the Inquisition, the prayers of the people, the ever-present danger—they all felt far away here, as if the mountain had insulated you from it all.

Finally, you stepped closer, the wind tugging at your borrowed coat. Your voice, soft but clear, cut through the high mountain air. “Solas.”

He didn’t turn right away. His attention remained on the flame as it danced, twisting in the breeze. The faint warmth of it did little to ward off the cold that sank deep into your bones. You pulled the fabrics tighter, shivering. It struck you then how much you’d come to rely on your enchanted robes—how much easier life had been when weather and the elements were distant concerns. The coat you wore now, nothing more than cloth and wool, offered none of the magical protections you had grown accustomed to. You’d become over reliant on more than just enchantments, but on magic, on others, and on powers you hadn’t fully understood or earned.

“How long have you been spying on my dreams?” you asked sharply, the question carrying more accusation than you intended. But considering the circumstances, it was deserved. He’d seemed happy to ignore you, as though he hadn’t fully realised you’d trekked up the mountain to follow him.

Solas finally looked up, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something passed through his eyes. “It was not my intention to intrude,” he said quietly. “I sought not to invade your thoughts, but to ensure you did not succumb to your injuries. As you’ve learned, the Fade is where truths often reveal themselves. It often reveals more than intended.”

“Well, don’t do it again,” you snapped, irritation leaking through your tone. “I don’t need you probing around in my mind. Unless you’d like me to return the favour.”

Solas raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by your threat. “Your presence would not go unnoticed for long.”

“You think you’re that impenetrable? Everything breaks at some point.”

“I believe,” he said evenly, his tone dry, “that my defences are more than enough to keep an untrained mind from meddling.”

You dismissed his confidence with a wave of your hand. “I’ve faced demons and dragons—what makes you think I can’t crack a few walls?” You thought briefly of Legilimency, how it let you slip into another’s thoughts, traverse the subconscious. Travelling through the Fade to trifle through someone’s dreams couldn’t be all that different.

Solas turned towards you fully now, the blue flames flickering over his sharp features. “The orb Corypheus carried, the power he used against you. It is elven in origin. He used it to open the Breach. Unlocking its secrets must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. I do not yet know how Corypheus survived… nor am I certain how people will react when they learn of the orb’s true origin.”

“You know what it is?”

“They were foci,” Solas explained. “Used to channel ancient magicks. I have seen such things in the Fade, echoes of ancient times. Corypheus may think it is Tevinter, but his empire’s magic was built on the bones of my people. Knowing or not, he risked our alliance. I cannot allow it.”

Ancient magic again. It was like a curse that had chased you, haunting you at every turn. First in your pseudo-bloodline, in the Breach itself, and now with Corypheus. But you already knew that; the corruption covering his body had been as obvious as a festering wound.

“They used artefacts to channel ancient magic…” you repeated the words. That didn’t sound right, but nothing about this world was right. From your origins, elves weren’t allowed to use wands, much less use artefacts for magic. It had been the wizards who first wielded wands, who dictated how magic was channelled. And now, in this world, an artefact of unknown origin has been used to control something as volatile as ancient magic.

The more pressing issue being the ancient magicks part.

“I don’t understand how that would work,” you said. The topic was familiar—very familiar, naturally familiar, inborn familiar—but this particular fact seemed… unprecedented. “How can artefacts channel such magic? That seems rather dangerous. And thus it has, for Corypheus wielded one.”

Solas gave a flat look. “It is not so incomprehensible. Artefacts have always been capable of channelling magic, particularly those imbued with significant power.”

You frowned, mulling over the concept. Storing magic was the easiest thing to comprehend—it was something you did naturally, inborn, pulling energy from the world around you, channelling it, nurturing it, cloaking it so no other could touch it. Ranrok himself used goblin-wrought silver to store the ancient magic he stole. “Yes, that I understand. But to use it, control it, direct it with precision? That’s different. And ancient magic…” You trailed off, searching for the right words. “I’ve never heard of an artefact strong enough to channel ancient magic. Not like this.”

Ancient magic had no single form, but at the same time, any form. It was called ancient only because its true nature had been forgotten with time, its intricacies lost to history. It was as old as the world, yes, but also as young as the forces that shaped it now. It ebbed and flowed, unpredictable in its nature, and possessed a sentience that granted it a will of its own, as formidable as the raw power it wielded. To control it so easily seemed impossible.

You glanced down at your hands, remembering the moment when you had pulled lightning from the sky. You hadn’t wanted to—hadn’t even intended to—but the magic coursing through your veins had reached out on its own, tapping into the very essence of the world. It was as if the magic itself had sought to solve your problems, leaving you to simply deliver the final blow.

In your world, the ancient magic you wielded was different, almost alive, resisting manipulation, bending only to those who could match its force of will. But here in Thedas, the magic felt… skewed, as if the very fabric of it was woven differently. And yet, Corypheus’s orb had recognised it, drawing it from your body without touching your more mundane, modern magic. That had remained unaffected, untouched by his reach.

Solas’s eyes narrowed, his facade slipping to reveal a shrewd curiosity. “You speak of the subject as though you believe you know more.”

“I’m familiar with ancient magic. More familiar than most,” you replied, meeting his gaze evenly. “While you reference it in times past, I wield it myself. Not well, as you’ve seen.” You motioned past Solas towards the gaping wound in the sky, where you’d wielded power older than this world, something wild and unbound, and tore the heavens apart. “I used it to open that.”

He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he quickly masked it. The raw wound in the sky pulsed with volatile energy, an echo of the power that had torn it open.

“The Anchor… it would not be enough to create a second Breach,” he said, his eyes narrowing as if trying to solve a puzzle. “That much is clear. Whatever caused it, it was not you, not in the way you suspect.”

“It wasn’t the Anchor,” you agreed, swallowing hard. “But it was me. I used my right hand, and the Fade—it intervened. As if it wanted to be used.” As if it had a mind of its own.

Solas turned to you, his brow furrowing slightly, the flicker of the flame reflecting in his sharp eyes. He was listening, really listening.

“I have a rare ability to see traces of ancient magic and, in some cases, cast it.”

His reaction was immediate, disbelief colouring his tone. “Impossible.”

“Rare,” you corrected, “not impossible. As far as I’m aware, I’m the only one alive with this ability. The last people who shared it died centuries ago. Before them, many more centuries. It is an ability very few know about, for wizards have not been able to wield ancient magic in many millennia.”

There was a long silence as you both considered everything. Solas stood quietly, his eyes distant in thought. For once, it seemed he was at a loss for words. There was a sense of satisfaction in making him feel that way, a small bit of pride stirring within you. It wasn’t often that the Grandmaster of the Fade seemed unsettled or unsure of himself, but you had managed it.

You braced for the inevitable questions. He didn’t disappoint.

“Then you possess not only the Mark, but an artefact capable of regulating ancient magic. Then that is what Corypheus sought-?”

“No,” you cut him off sharply, your patience thinning. “All of my magic, be it my own or ‘stolen’, is within me—in my body, in my soul. I can’t rid myself of it, not without causing a little destruction in the process. However, Corypheus extracted some of the ancient magic I did have.” You glanced at your hands, the memory of that excruciating pain still fresh. “Ancient magic has different forms—it feels different here. But his orb recognised it and took it all the same. I think it removed more of my magic than that of the Anchor.”

It was troubling to think that the very thing that had seemingly granted you the Anchor—a curse that you’d spent the most of your time trying to remove—could not simply take it away. If the thing that had created it could not remove it, what could? Would you ever be free of its weight?

You didn’t voice these thoughts, for perhaps you already knew the answer.

“And yet the orb remains lost,” Solas asked, his brow furrowed as he leant slightly forward, his attention fixed on your answer. He looked like a storm gathering strength, poised to unleash the power of his convictions.

“Corypheus is dead,” you said absentmindedly, trying to quell the lingering fear gnawing at your mind. But it did little to ease your worry. The orb, and the power it held, were still a threat, even without him to wield it. There would always be those who wished for power that they did not deserve. “But it doesn’t mean the orb isn’t out there, waiting to be found. We must find it, and soon. If it remains lost, it will end up in the wrong hands again. I don’t know how my magic will react to others trying to use it, particularly through an artefact, but it won’t end well. Ancient magic can be… unpredictable. It doesn’t behave like other forms of magic. No doubt it had already been corrupted in his hold.” Dark magic corrupts ancient magic; it stands as an equal.

A knot twisted in your gut. You’d rarely spoken to anyone about these dangers, not even your closest allies back home. But Solas needed to understand the gravity of the situation. Ancient magic wasn’t just another tool to be wielded—it was alive in its own way, almost sentient, and it could be corrupted. It was a shared secret; the orb may be elven, but the magic it held was partially yours—or at least from your world. Ancient magic belonged to no one.

You glanced at Solas, gauging his reaction. He seemed deep in thought, absorbing the implications of what you’d revealed.

Something coiled tighter in your chest as you considered the potential consequences. Ancient magic can become corrupted if it’s introduced to too much other magic; it’s like mixing oil and water. It can also be warped if twisted from its original purpose. That purpose is hard to pin down, given that this magic originates from various sources. Most wizards can’t wield it on purpose; it acts on its own, almost like it has a mind of its own.

When you first took the ancient magic under Hogwarts into your body, it was already tainted. You’d fought to cleanse it, to reset it, and in doing so, you had learned to wield it with care. But that wasn’t something everyone could do, or ever want to.

“How did your kind come to possess this ability?” Solas asked, his tone painfully dry. If not for that, it might have sounded like an accusation.

“I don’t know.” You frowned, not particularly liking the way he framed the question. “Nor can I tell you how wizards lost the ability. It isn’t as widespread as it used to be. Very few can wield any form of ancient magic, much less perceive it. It just happens, even if many don’t know what it is.”

“And yet, you seem to understand it—to wield it at will. Unlike others who stumble into its power by accident.”

“I truly can’t tell you anything more,” you said, shaking your head. It was difficult not having answers to his questions—questions he seemed to expect you to know, especially when he almost always had an explanation for yours. “Even Merlin didn’t know, and he still warns of its loss to this day without a true explanation. His portrait, I mean. Not his actual self.”

He paused, seemingly confused about your ignorance of the root source of your magic. But it truly didn’t matter, nor had many asked that question. The fact of having magic was already a feat that made people better than the non-magical kind in the eyes of many. Unearthing the roots of the source was meaningless.

“Not everyone can use it consciously,” you explained, given you weren’t totally ignorant on the subject. “Even I can’t use it casually. Most wizards wouldn’t even recognise ancient magic if it slapped them in the face. It’s not something that’s taught. How can it be when it doesn’t have a strict form?”

“Your kind is fortunate, then,” he said. “Even with such limited understanding, you still hold the power that many could only dream of. Yet that power seems far beyond your control, unpredictable like a wild storm waiting to break. It may just as easily destroy you as serve you.”

His tone implied a truth you knew too well, one that haunted you. A truth that he, of all people, had witnessed.

You tightened your grip on the edge of your raggy cloak, remembering the day your magic had first manifested. The vision was still vivid: the bridge breaking, the screams echoing in your ears, the weight of lives lost resting heavily on your shoulders. He’d seen it all, and on purpose.

“It was that obvious, was it?” you muttered bitterly, scowling at his bluntness. “Yes, I lack control, but it comes with the territory. Ancient magic can’t be manipulated the same way as other magic. It resists exact control.” You shook your head, cooling the anger. Above, storm clouds gathered, floating closer and closer to the new Breach; no doubt due to your uncontrolled emotions, though they’d set on quicker than usual. A child could better hide their feelings. “I didn’t ask for this power; it manifested without warning. Nor did I have a proper mentor or some handbook to guide me. Hence why I rarely use it.”

“This is why you refrain from using wandless magic?”

You nodded to the Breach. “When I lose control, things like that happen.”

“It has happened before?”

“Somewhat,” you said with a bitter laugh. “But certainly not to this extent. I’ve never torn through the Veil, so there is no doubt the Anchor has enhanced my abilities. And if I opened this Breach.” You flung a hand towards the green monstrosity overlooking what remained of the Inquisition. “Perhaps I opened both.”

Solas’s expression softened, and he looked at you with a hint of regret. “I did not intend to imply that your lack of control was a personal failing or an affront to your existence,” he said, sounding genuine. “I spoke thoughtlessly. I did not mean to diminish your struggle or the burden you carry.”

“It’s fine,” you muttered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue. “I’m beginning to expect such doubts from you. But you don’t need to pity me.”

“I do not,” he replied earnestly. “But I must understand the depths of what we are confronting. This power you harbor is perilous, and if an adversary learned to manipulate even a fragment of it…” he trailed off, a storm brewing in his mind that mirrored the tumult above.

“I’ve known many who’ve wished to channel my magic through me.” You smiled sharply. “Let’s just say they were left with nothing but ash and regrets.”

“You assert such confidence, yet I suspect you do not understand the full extent of what you possess. The consequences you’ve endured may only be the beginning.”

You frowned, narrowing your eyes at his cryptic tone. “What do you mean by that?”

“Corypheus is not unique in his ambitions,” he stated plainly. “There are others like him, beings who would see your power as something to corrupt, control, or twist to their will; those who seek to use what you carry for their own purposes. Some would watch, wait, and strike when you are vulnerable. There are powers in this world that you have yet to meet. The Fade is vast, and in it dwell spirits—both benign and malevolent. You do not realise how many may already have their gaze upon you.”

Snow crept in through the crevices of your borrowed boots, chilling your feet and sending numbness up your legs. To bring back feeling in your legs, you readjusted your stance, though it must have come off as worry, for Solas placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Do not let fear consume you,” he advised.

“Fear isn’t much of a problem. I’ve got a pouch of salt that’s done well to ward away spirits.”

Solas tilted his head slightly, withdrawing his hand. “You believe common salt wards off spirits?” He gave you a look as if you’d just suggested the sky was green. “That is a strange remedy. It does not seem like it would hold any significant power. It is far more likely your disposition keeps many from approaching or revealing themselves to you.”

“My sharp wit is what keeps them at bay? It doesn’t stop you.”

“Someone has to brave the cold winds." The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, suggesting a quiet amusement.

As he said that, the wind howled, carrying with it the icy chill of a brewing storm. The Breach loomed above, a constant reminder of the pressing threat, yet here you were, wasting precious time in conversation. Solas always had something to question, something to deconstruct, to pick apart with that sharp mind of his.

“If I’m honest, I haven’t met many who know of ancient magic. It’s surprising—refreshing, even. Although I sense you have doubts,” you stated, your voice more resigned than angry. “But I used to think the same about the Fade. I saw it as a tool—one hastily handed to those without the right knowledge. I didn’t think of it as a force unto itself. But I’ve come to understand that now. You need to come to the same terms with my magic, Solas. It’s not something I can control, like a spell or a ritual. It just is. I shape it as best I can, but I’ll never truly master it. That is simply impossible.”

Solas hesitated, then sighed, a rare vulnerability softening his features. “You are right,” he admitted. “I was wrong to doubt the nature of your power. It is not like the magic I’ve encountered, and it was arrogant of me to assume it could be understood in the same way.”

You held his gaze, the weight of the conversation sinking in as a silence stretched between you. He seemed to contemplate something, his expression unreadable.

“I misspoke previously,” he said finally. “Foci are a means by which the elven gods once channelled their power. They are rare and dangerous, capable of shaping reality itself when in the hands of those who understand them.”

You frowned, curious despite yourself. “Elven gods… like Mythal?”

There was something strange about that name—a sense of familiarity that tugged at your mind, though you couldn’t place why. The meaning was just beyond your grasp.

He gave a brief nod. “Among others.”

“That’s some pretty heavy information,” you said, crossing your arms as you processed the sudden revelation. “Do you often find yourself ‘misspeaking’ when it comes to critically important matters like reality-shaping artefacts?”

“I did not know how you would react to such information,” he said carefully. “The truth can be hard to accept, especially when it contradicts long-held beliefs.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, feeling a prick of annoyance. It felt less like he had genuinely misspoken and more like he had withheld the information, calculating how you might react—whether you’d dismiss it, deny it, or even be overwhelmed by it.

Perhaps his qualms weren’t completely unwarranted. In Thedas, there seemed to be tangible, physical manifestations of divine power, or at least of what was said. Such direct evidence was typically absent in other places. Religion was more of an abstract concept—fluid, flexible, and easily moulded to fit whatever people wanted, needed, or were told to believe. Here, it was unsettling to think that objects or magic could prove something divine, a concept that was often left to faith and interpretation.

It was a curious thought, and one that bordered on unsettling.

Straightening your stance as if to deny the unease creeping into your thoughts, you forced a calmness into your tone. “It hardly challenges my frame of mind. I know of many tales where gods have misplaced their precious little artefacts, only to be found and abused by mortals. They should really know better than to leave them lying around. Though,” you added wryly, “this is my first time fetching one.” It was usually something designated for heroes in myth. As it turned out, this was your reality and not some fanciful myth where you played the dashing herculean hero.

The thought of going on a quest to find one of these foci felt oddly similar to embarking on your own quest for the Holy Grail. But that legend of Merlin and Arthur, like most legends, was a blend of truth and embellished fantasy.

“Would they be wanting their belongings back?” you asked. Their presence could complicate everything.

“One would hope they are beyond their own inclinations to have such wants.”

“You’re saying they don’t care about reclaiming their lost relics, or…?”

“I mean they are not in the position to do so,” he replied, choosing his words carefully.

Absence of gods. It was a truth that spanned worlds, not just this one. No matter the faith, no matter the pantheon, the pattern was always the same: gods whose names echoed through time, whose stories shaped civilizations, and yet they were absent. They weren't seen in modern times, not collectively, not undeniably. Many theologians theorised it was due to the arrogance of humans that made gods disinterested in the world they’d poured their essence into, but this was Thedas. The existence of the orbs were intriguing, if nothing else. But it was not Solas’ duty to educate you on his culture, so you dropped the subject.

Solas gave a thoughtful look before speaking. “I never thought to ask. Is your world as bound by beliefs as Thedas?”

“The wizarding world never had a Chantry or Circles,” you replied with distaste. “That should explain enough. What seems to be a common factor, though, is that magic is persecuted by the dominant faith. Hence the need for the magical and non-magical worlds to be separated.”

Witch purges didn’t seem as common here, but you still had fresh eyes when it came to Thedas. The fact that mages were even educated—and not drowned or burned—was surprising. Though the Rite of Tranquillity barely seemed a better alternative.

“If magic was hidden from the world, how could it be used to help those who need it?” Solas asked, frowning slightly, though not in confusion. “Say a sickness ravages a village, and a wizard who could cure it does nothing because they wish to remain hidden. Would they not bear responsibility for those deaths?”

You bristled slightly at his implication. “It’s not that simple. The Statute of Secrecy isn’t just about protecting wizards—it safeguards the entire magical world and prevents widespread panic. Wizards have been hunted before, and it left a deeper scar than most realise. Without that separation, it would be chaos.” Back in medieval times, wizards were superior but complacent—growing tired of being called on to solve every mundane issue. Now, in the present day, the balance between muggles and wizards is more even. Who’s to say what would happen if a war broke out in modern times? Maybe one already had, and you’d been too cut off from both worlds to even hear whispers of it.

“They fear what they cannot control,” Solas said quietly, but his words held a weight that suggested deeper meaning. “Yet hiding from that fear only reinforces it. Magic should not be something to be kept secret, wielded by a few in the shadows.”

“I’ve heard that before,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “Usually from wizard supremacists who think we should rule over the non-magicals, force them to accept magic, and kill them if they even think about refusing. Conquer instead of coexisting; a recipe for war. There always needs to be balance.”

Solas appeared to contemplate your words with authentic consideration. “A balance that is not easily maintained, it seems.”

“Hardly.” You shook your head, feeling a pressure building in your temples, a dull ache forming behind your eyes. A white haze edged at your vision, like the beginnings of a migraine. “I don’t want to argue, and I’m tired of arguing about what can and can’t be controlled.”

After a long pause, Solas shifted the conversation to a more practical matter. “Then let us not argue. The Inquisition will need a place of safety. There is a fortress high in the Frostback Mountains—a place called Skyhold.”

You listened intently as he described Skyhold. He spoke of it in high regard: Skyhold, a place of refuge and power, where the Inquisition could truly establish itself after all it had been through. The way he described it, with such certainty and hope, made it difficult not to be swayed by his vision.

“You will lead the Inquisition there,” he said with an intensity that left little room for doubt. “It will become our stronghold, a place where we can rally our forces and turn the tide against those who threaten Thedas.”

“Why tell me now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “The Inquisition has been camped in the middle of nowhere since I’ve been asleep. Why now, after everything?”

“Because,” he replied slowly, “the people need to believe in something, and they need a figure to rally behind. As Andraste’s herald, you embody hope. They may be hesitant to listen to me, but you can bridge that gap. They will listen to you without thought.”

“They’re not sheep. They have their own minds and inclinations.”

“Even when the truth of your origins was revealed—when they learned you were not truly Andraste’s Herald—they did not abandon you. On the contrary, despite knowing you are not divine, their belief in you remains steadfast. You once claimed they would turn away from the Inquisition when the truth came to light, yet here they stand—stronger and more devoted than ever. In their eyes, you are still Andraste’s chosen, regardless of your own doubts. As long as they believe in you, you are the leader they will follow.”

A leader? Of what, death? “Those who follow me tend to have bad luck,” you muttered. There was a knot in your chest as you shifted the conversation instead, glancing away. “Can you show it to me? This stronghold. Tonight, in my dreams.”

Solas’s brows lifted in mild surprise, but then he nodded slowly. “Of course.”

“But how does that even happen?” you asked quickly, uncomfortably. “You seeing my dreams? I thought only spirits could do that.”

“Dreams are not as private as many believe, especially for those who walk the Fade. Mages, particularly, are attuned to the realm beyond the Veil.”

You raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced by his vague response. “That doesn’t really explain how you do it.”

“It would entail you sleeping first, naturally,” he interrupted. “And then I would enter your dreams.”

“But how?”

“The process itself is not something you need to concern yourself with.”

“It feels like you’d be entering my thoughts. I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“Then you’d do well to ensure no outside force impedes on your mind.”

“Including you?”

He inclined his head, his strong jaw set in a calm, measured way. “Including myself. Entering someone’s mind is not easily done, and it is something even you could manage if you wished. The Dreaming is different. It is a shared space, but it is still yours. I would not know your thoughts or secrets unless you wanted them to be known.”

There was a sincerity in his tone that eased your wariness, though it didn’t banish it entirely.

“Just don’t go poking around,” you said sharply, your irritation still simmering beneath the surface.

“I have not thus far.”

“Only because you haven’t had the opportunity to. I presume you’ll jump at the first chance.”

He gave you a pointed look, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Take a look at your surroundings, Herald.”

You did as told, but nothing had changed. Beyond the horizon, your eyes latched onto the Breach looming over you both. It was still the same eyesore, pulsing with its sickly green light in rhythm with the faint beat of your heart. It cast green light on the land around you. “I suppose I should close that as soon as possible and before we leave for Skyhold. Though I’d like to see it first.”

“Why don’t I show it to you now?” he asked simply.

“We should probably focus on closing that first,” you said, nodding towards the tear as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Priorities, Solas. You know, small matters like preventing the world from unravelling. Again.”

He tilted his head slightly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Haven’t you realised?” His lips curled in a faint smile as he leant in closer and said, “This is a dream.”

The words hit you like ice water, and anger surged in an instant, seething and hot. You had told him—explicitly—not to meddle with your dreams. You had made it clear that your mind was not his playground. Before the fury could fully take root, before you could string together the tirade of threats forming in your mind, the world shifted.

“What do you-” The sentence remained unfinished as the dream suddenly snapped apart, the fabric of the world fraying like threads pulled too tight. Reality rushed in, the sensation of being wrenched violently from the dream leaving you breathless.

“-think you’re-” you blurted, sitting bolt upright in your tent, still mid-sentence as if the conversation had carried over. “-doing…?” The last word came out louder than intended, breaking through the stillness.

Your tentmate, bundled in their bedroll a few feet away, stirred but didn’t wake. They mumbled something incoherent, rolling over and settling back into the soft rhythm of sleep. You bit down on your tongue and shoved yourself up from the bedroll, your frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

The cool night air greeted you as you stepped outside. The camp was eerily quiet in the pre-dawn hours, the sky still cloaked in darkness. Faint crackles from dying campfires were the only sounds, accompanied by the occasional rustle of wind. Dawn would break soon. You half expected to see Solas lurking somewhere nearby, but he was nowhere to be found—likely hiding to escape the wrath he’d nursed. You were ready to throttle him for the violation, but part of you knew it was no use. He was always several steps ahead, even in dreams.

Looking up, you saw the sky was clear. No sign of the second Breach. The memory came rushing back. You’d been told to seal it, as closing it in your state would cause unnecessary strain. But you’d decided it was best to close it anyway. You remembered the surge of power you’d channelled to close it and the way you had nearly collapsed afterwards. You had sealed the second tear before passing out. It was always like that—opening the Breaches seemed effortless, but sealing them drained you to the point of unconsciousness.

Amidst the rubble, you hadn’t been able to find your wand. It and the orb were nowhere to be seen—most likely destroyed or swallowed by the Breach, just like Corypheus’ body, which could only have met a similar fate. All three had vanished without a trace.

Now, the camp was quiet, save for a few early risers and the occasional sentry making their rounds. You didn’t know where Solas had set up his tent, which was probably for the best. You weren’t sure what you would do if you found him. Anything and everything felt tempting at the minute.

A quiet voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Trouble sleeping?”

You turned to see Leliana approaching from the shadows, her steps soft but her eyes sharp, ever alert despite the hour. She was reminiscent of a wraith. She already had the hood and the soundless tread.

“I sleep too much,” you murmured softly, mindful of the resting camp. “My dreams are becoming my reality, and not in the good sense.”

She studied you for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’ve done a great deal these past few weeks. It’s no wonder your mind is restless. You’ve seemingly recruited both mages and templars at once, closed the first Breach, killed whatever creature Corypheus is, and survived it all.” Her tone was calm, but there was an edge of curiosity there. “And let’s not forget you survived the creation of both Breaches.”

Her words were gentle, but there was something behind them—a suspicion, perhaps, or something more speculative. You could feel her studying you in that way she did, as if piecing together a puzzle no one else could see. Maybe it was the way you’d wielded magic or the strange abilities that seemed to come so naturally to you. Whatever it was, she wasn’t ready to voice it yet, but you knew that when she did, it would be with the precision of a well-aimed arrow or a knife through the ribs to the heart in one shot.

“I suppose so,” you finally said, letting the silence stretch before answering. “I’ve always been busy, but nothing like this.”

“You carry the weight that others cannot,” she replied quietly, her eyes never leaving yours. “So that others do not. Don’t underestimate how taxing that can be.”

You hesitated, guilt knotting in your chest before you finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Leliana. About the Anchor. About what it’s turned out to be. I know you were hoping it was a sign from Andraste, a miracle. But it was the orb Corypheus carried that gave me this power, not the Maker.”

The war council had spent hours debating whether to reveal this truth or manipulate the narrative to strengthen the Inquisition’s influence. In the end, transparency won out—honesty, even at the cost of faith, was deemed more important than furthering public sway.

Haven’s townspeople hadn’t reacted strongly to the revelation. They didn’t appear shaken or outraged; in fact, they seemed indifferent. You suspected it wasn’t acceptance but rather denial. They refused to acknowledge that the divine intervention they had clung to wasn’t divine at all. Still, the truth had been laid bare. How they chose to deal with it was beyond your control or concern.

Leliana’s gaze softened, but there was no trace of disappointment or anger in her face. Part of being the spymaster, after all; being prepared for anything. “My faith remains, regardless of the origin of the Mark,” she said with quiet conviction. “Perhaps the orb was the tool, but I have faith in you. I believe there’s a reason you were chosen, even if it wasn’t by Andraste herself.”

A weight lifted from your chest, though it didn’t fully vanish. You nodded, appreciating her words more than you could express.

The conversation shifted after that. The wind was cool, and the fires scattered across the camp were beginning to burn low.

But soon, reality crept back in. Leliana’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before she turned her attention to the camp. “The sun will rise soon. We’ll need to decide quickly where to move next. We’re running out of time, and the Inquisition can’t afford to keep drifting. We need a more permanent solution. We’re also running low on supplies, and the soldiers are beginning to feel the strain.”

“The Inquisition doesn’t have to keep floating between places like this,” you offered, shifting the conversation. “Solas knows of a place where we can find refuge. I’d say it’s worth a look. He spoke of a place called Skyhold—a fortress, deep in the Frostback Mountains. If he’s right, it could provide the safety we need to regroup and plan our next move.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow slightly. “You trust his word on this?”

“He found it in the Fade,” you replied, recalling the vivid dream that felt so real. “He speaks of it with such certainty; there’s no doubt about his word. If anyone can navigate the Fade, it’s him.”

She inclined her head, her expression thoughtful. “His knowledge of the Fade has certainly given us insights that we wouldn’t otherwise possess. But still… we should be cautious. Even the Fade is not without its traps.”

“We don’t have many options left,” you pointed out.

She seemed to accept this, and her gaze softened just a fraction. She was tired, like everyone else was, but she was just better at hiding it. “Very well. I will speak with the others and prepare them for the journey ahead when they wake,” she stated, turning towards the heart of the camp. “We mustn’t forget—the Templars won’t yet know what has happened at Haven. Someone will need to track them down and alert them that the Inquisition is moving. I trust you don’t need my ravens for that?”

There was something almost knowing in her tone, as if she had already anticipated your answer before you spoke. That you wouldn’t be alerting Ser Barris by messenger bird. No, that wasn’t your style. You preferred handling things in person—quick, efficient, reliant.

“Easily done,” you replied with a wry smile. “But personally, I prefer owls. Not as smart, but certainly quieter. And I’ve never had an issue with them.” Though, to be fair, you had yet to successfully train an owl. You’d domesticated graphorns, thestrals, a damn pixie. But owls remained difficult to sway.

“Owls are wise, yes,” Leliana agreed, as though mildly entertained by your preference. “But ravens have been our allies in many tales,” she noted, her tone shifting to something more contemplative, as if recalling stories both ancient and familiar. “They’ve served us well throughout history.”

She lingered for a moment as though to offer more, but thought better of it. “I’ll leave you to it then,” she said softly, disappearing back into the shadows, her movements as soundless as a passing breeze.

Chapter Text

The journey to Skyhold had finally begun, though it felt delayed by a hundred burdens. You’d spent what seemed like an eternity in the healer’s tent, tethered to a cot as the Inquisition waited in limbo, stranded in the middle of nowhere with resources dwindling. Each day you’d lain unconscious had added to the burden on the Inquisition. While no one had spoken it aloud, it was there, simmering under the surface. You’d saved them only to damn them. But now that you were finally up, the ache from Haven’s fall seemed a trivial pain compared to the sharp guilt of having held the Inquisition back.

The first morning on the road brought a quiet unease that lingered in your thoughts. Solas had slipped into your dreams the previous night, tricking you into believing it was reality and lingering just long enough to bring up memories you would have left undisturbed. Even now, as you walked through snow that clung to your boots and froze your blood, the ghost of that encounter stayed with you, creating a nervous tension you couldn’t dispel. You’d tried to set the memory aside and focus on the journey itself, but it loomed, a stubborn reminder that tonight you would find him there again—at your request, no less.

To dispel the remnants of the night, you busied yourself, walking along the line of villagers and soldiers. You checked on the townspeople, offered reassurances, and tried to keep yourself grounded in the present. Anything to keep from thinking about the Fade and what it may offer.

As you moved through the rows of weary travellers, you spotted Cullen ahead, coordinating soldiers and assigning groups to hold different positions along the road. The Frostbacks stretched endlessly before you, harsh and unwelcoming, veiled in mist and snow. The path was steep and unforgiving, the cold seeping through the many layers of clothing, biting at every inch of exposed skin.

“The Frostbacks are unforgiving,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at you as you matched his pace. “We’ll need to keep everyone moving, or we’ll lose ground before we’ve gained it.”

“Your people seem capable of it,” you noted, watching the steady lines of soldiers following orders without question. They had no clear direction, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Cullen nodded, his jaw set. “They’ll have to be if we’re to reach Skyhold safely.” His gaze shifted to you for a moment, an unspoken expectation lingering there. You knew what he wanted—what all of them wanted: a leader. But the title felt heavy, like the staff in your hand. It didn’t feel yours. “They’ve faced worse and have risen stronger for it. It’s the hope that keeps them going, even in the face of despair.” He glanced at you, his expression turning serious. “And you, too. Your return has rekindled a spark among them.”

Ahead, the path climbed sharply into the mountains, the road almost swallowed by snow-dusted pines. Your hand tightened around the new staff, unused to its size and weight. In the aftermath of Haven’s destruction, your wand had shattered, leaving you limited in your spells. Until Skyhold could be reached and a replacement found (which was unlikely, given Dorian’s past comments), you had been given a staff. It was heavier than you liked, unwieldy compared to the elegance of your wand, but it was your only option for controlled casting now. The staff was bulky, better suited for long-range combat than the nimble, close-quarters precision. You had tried casting a simple repairing spell on a fallen tower, only to accidentally cause more damage, which delayed the Inquisition’s travel another day. Even simple spells felt slower, the weight of the staff making them clumsier than necessary. You kept it stored in your seemingly endless pouch, much to the horror of a few onlookers who’d watched your pouch swallow the staff in a second without the seams stretching or tearing. The sight of you digging around for it during a confrontation meant no quick-draw casting like you could with your wand—a disadvantage you were painfully aware of.

Despite the awkwardness of the staff, you relied on your wandless magic where possible, using small tricks to assist the townspeople. Mending torn cloaks, warming frozen limbs, and casting gentle gusts to steer the caravans on course had become second nature during the trek. The small spells were easy and instinctual, requiring little focus. But for anything more complex, the lack of a wand was a glaring weakness. It was why you left most of the heavy lifting to the others, much to your irritation.

Cassandra stayed by your side for most of the day, her silence oddly companionable. After a time, she glanced your way, her tone careful. “I have not said yet… Skyhold is a promising place for the Inquisition,” she said, glancing over at you. “It is strong and remote—a proper stronghold. More than that… it could become a symbol. For all of us.”

You looked at her, uncertain. “Maybe. But I’ve yet to see it myself. Let’s not get our hopes up. What are the odds a fortress big enough to fit the Inquisition would just be lying around, untouched?”

She allowed herself a small, rare smile. “Perhaps. But you might consider being a little more optimistic.” Her expression softened as she looked ahead. “Everyone here needs a chance to rest, to rebuild. Somewhere to start fresh. Somewhere… safe.”

You tried to picture it: a fortress high in the Frostbacks, hidden away from prying eyes, as cold and remote as the journey to reach it. It seemed fitting, given everything the Inquisition had been through.

But speculating about it was futile; you’d see it for yourself soon enough.

The afternoon wore on, the sun dipping low behind the mountains. By evening, the light was fading, and the path had grown treacherous underfoot. It was too dangerous to continue through the dark. When the order was given to set up camp, you were grateful for the rest.

As you passed groups of townspeople huddled under thick cloaks, their gazes lifted upward, pointing and whispering. You followed their looks to see that snowflakes drifted down, only to vanish as they touched an invisible barrier—the enchantment you’d woven to shield the camp from the harshest cold. For now, at least, the night would be a little less cold, though there wasn’t nearly enough firewood to keep the fires burning until dawn. A few groups had already ventured out to gather it, and you figured you’d add some heating enchantments to the tents later, if only to keep spirits high and make up for wasting so much time unconscious.

Just then, Josephine approached, her expression bright despite the biting cold. “It’s good to see you helping where you can,” she remarked with a warm smile. “It means a great deal to them—more than you might realise.”

You nodded, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she continued thoughtfully, “Many in Orlais and Ferelden are likely already talking about Inquisition titles and roles. Respect is often found in titles, especially the nobility, as I’m sure you know. If you were to take up a formal title, it would shape how they see you—and how they listen.” She hesitated, giving you a sidelong glance. “Many look to you as the Herald of Andraste. But perhaps we might consider something more… enduring. Something that holds meaning and weight even beyond the Chantry?”

“I’d rather people just use my actual name,” you replied with a sigh.

Josephine chuckled lightly, her gaze warm but thoughtful. “Perhaps, in time, something more fitting will come.”

“Like what?”

She smiled thoughtfully. “The Inquisitor, perhaps?”

Your face twisted with immediate displeasure at the title, and your thoughts drifted to the Inquisition from your own world’s history, a grim organisation that had used its power to carry out atrocities in the name of righteousness. The idea of bearing such a title felt like a betrayal of everything you stood for. This Thedas Inquisition, while well-meaning, was not without its flaws—and certainly, its role as a bastion of hope and order didn’t align with your desire to remain in the background. Merlin never became king, even though he certainly had the power to. He only advised the kings.

Josephine caught your reaction and gently pressed on. “You may not realise it, but you’re already a leader to them. They see you as a figure of strength, of hope. The name matters less than the meaning behind it. And in truth, who better to guide us than someone who knows the stakes so intimately?”

“I’m not interested in becoming the Inquisitor,” you said, firm.

Josephine gave a slight nod, accepting your answer without further argument. Her gaze shifted back to the camp, filled with huddled figures, some leaning against one another for warmth. “Would you speak to the people, perhaps?” she asked, her tone soft yet urging. “A few words from you would mean a great deal for morale.”

Nearby, soldiers, scouts, and townsfolk were doing their best to share what warmth they could. The snow had stopped piling on their coats, at least, but it was hard to ignore the weariness in their eyes.

“I don’t see how empty words would help right now,” you said, shaking your head. “If I can do anything for them, I’d rather it be something tangible.”

“Coming from you, they wouldn’t be just words,” Cullen said, approaching with the other War Council members in tow. “You’re a symbol to them. They need to see you taking charge—believing in what lies ahead.”

A murmur of agreement passed among them as Leliana gave you a measured look. “They’ve lost much. Seeing you offer even a small amount of hope would remind them of what we’re fighting for. That’s just as important as any enchantment you can conjure.”

You paused, casting another glance at the crowd as Josephine’s gaze softened, almost pleading. “Please. For them.”

Reluctantly, you turned back to her. “I’m not good at calming people with words,” you admitted. “I can’t talk my way out of… well, most things.” You gestured towards the crowd. “Why don’t you do it, Josephine? You’re good with words—they’d probably hear you better anyway.”

She looked surprised by the suggestion, but after a brief glance at the crowd and back at you, something seemed to click. Her expression softened, understanding. She nodded.

“Very well,” she replied, accepting with a quiet dignity. “I will.”

With that, you quickly excused yourself before a script for a speech was pushed into your hands. You moved past the assembled crowd to check on those further away from the centre of the camp. Sure enough, two people struggled with their tent, fighting to hold up the centre pole against the thrashing wind. Their hands shook from the cold as the canvas whipped about, threatening to tear from their grasp.

“Here, let me help,” you said, stepping forward.

They looked relieved as you approached and took hold of the pole and brought it into place. The canvas settled over the frame with a light shake. Your magic reached out, flaring at your fingertips as it drove the stakes into the ground, securing the tent in place with ease.

The villagers thanked you gratefully, and you offered them a small smile before moving along the rows of tents. As you turned a corner, you noticed a figure standing near the edge of the firelight, barely more than a silhouette. Cole, his pale form almost ghostly in the dark, watched the camp with a distant expression.

“Cole?” you called out softly, taking a few steps in his direction.

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, his face a mix of sorrow and something unfathomable. For a brief moment, he held your gaze, then faded backwards, drifting into the shadows without a sound. You sighed, knowing better than to follow him. Cole would reappear when he was ready, as he always did, and perhaps tonight wasn’t the night for questions—at least not from a reticent spirit.

Turning back to the main path, you found yourself near the healer’s tent, where a faint golden glow flickered from within. Drawn by the light, you pulled the flap aside and stepped inside to the familiar scent of unaccustomed herbs and poultices. You should probably study Thedas’ agriculture, given that you didn’t seem to be leaving it anytime soon. You had a green thumb, after all, and the greenhouse back home always offered respite. Here, there was no room for gardens—or the time to nurture them. Since learning of Corypheus, there’d been nothing but hurtles and the endless responsibility of matters outside your realm of possibilities, which left little room for anything else. Maybe, once you reached Skyhold, you’d find a few moments to yourself. Perhaps then you’d have the space to deal with your own scattered thoughts: the strange displacement of living in this world and, of course, the Anchor.

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the tent, but you soon spotted a familiar figure, head bent over one of the cots.

“So, this is where you’ve been all day,” you murmured.

Solas turned his head at the sound of your voice but continued his work, his hands steady as he set a splint on the soldier’s leg. “I trusted you could manage without me at your side for a day.”

“Some of us make do, however hard that may be.”

His gaze flicked up. “Were you in need of my assistance then?”

You shook your head, crossing the tent to where a small, frail figure lay in a cot across from him. “No, though I was beginning to wonder if you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.” You lowered yourself besides the child, a girl no older than eight. Her face was flushed with fever, and her breaths came slow and shallow, her frail body wrapped in a rough blanket too thin for this night’s chill.

He returned to his work, a soft glow illuminating his hands as he set about his next task. “She has been ill for several days,” he said quietly, nodding briefly in the girl’s direction. “A minor infection, but out here, even the smallest sickness can turn grave.”

Reaching for a cloth, you dipped it into the cool water nearby, pressing it gently to her forehead. She flinched briefly, a small grimace twisting her features before her breathing settled into a slower, more even rhythm. Her small form felt frail beneath your hand, the fever pulsing beneath her skin. “She’ll pull through,” you murmured, though the words felt hollow as you spoke them, as fragile as the girl’s fading breath.

She was without a family—no one had come for her since you’d arrived at camp. Her parents, her siblings, and whoever might have watched over her had been lost during the siege on Haven. The attack had destroyed Haven, and with it, anyone who would have remembered her. And now, even if she slipped away in the night, it would be as though she’d never been here. Corypheus had left another nameless victim, a fleeting life, soon forgotten. What was life worth if it was so easily erased, if the smallest lives—those without a place or anyone to claim them—could vanish into the night without a trace?

It was hard not to feel a pang of recognition, the quiet ache of lives too easily forgotten, swept away by time or circumstance. You’d seen it in your own world; maybe you’d even been the cause of it for the people you’d left behind, or those who’d left you behind.

The tent settled into a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional cough or shuffle from other cots as you kept watch over the child. Now and then, others drifted in, seeking help for cuts, bruises, or sore muscles from the trek. You healed the small wounds but left the more serious ailments to the potions, poultices, and other healers. You didn’t want to accidentally remove anyone’s bones while trying to heal them.

When the flow of people slowed, you rose, glancing around the tent. Its thin canvas walls barely held the cold at bay, and already, the night air was creeping in, biting at your fingers. With a quick spell, you imbued the fabric with a warming enchantment, reinforcing the walls to keep out the worst of the mountain chill. Slowly, the warmth spread, easing the icy grip of the evening—a welcome reprieve from the biting cold.

Solas looked over with a faint, approving nod. “A useful spell. It will certainly ease discomfort.”

“It’s not permanent,” you replied. “But it should keep the worst of the cold out for tonight.”

Permanent enchantments typically required etched runes and careful incantations, a process best done with a wand. But the temporary wards were better than nothing.

Satisfied, you adjusted the blanket around the child one last time, making sure she was as comfortable as you could manage, then stood and glanced back at Solas. “I’ll see you later tonight,” you said, a note of challenge in your tone. “Unless you’ve decided our plans have changed?”

Solas’s gaze met yours, steady and certain. “I am a man of my word,” he replied, inclining his head. “Until then.”

That night, despite working yourself to near-exhaustion, sleep did not come easily. There was still so much to be done, so many loose ends, and it seemed like each responsibility came rushing back the moment your head hit the rough, straw-filled pillow. Unlike the enchanted comforts of your own travel cot, this setup left much to be desired—why? Because you couldn’t enchant them as such. The cot, stiff and itchy, was possibly the reason you struggled to fall asleep that night. You tossed and turned, finding each long-healed bruise and injury sting as you shifted, searching fruitlessly for comfort.

Despite yourself, you were still simmering from your last encounter with an intruder in your dreams. Solas had intruded, inserting himself into a part of you where he didn’t belong. Half-finished questions, strange, vivid details from that encounter—they all stirred again, circling in your mind. You had no say in when or how he appeared. That lack of control was more bothersome than anything else.

But it wasn’t just thoughts of what might happen that kept you up. It was also the things you tried not to think about—the memories you kept buried, tucked far enough away that even you rarely dared to revisit them. They threatened to surface, pulling at you as though they demanded to be remembered. They were there, all too easy for any intruder to uncover, to blatantly lay bare before you. You tried to push them down, willing your mind to silence itself, but the memories were insistent, stirring beneath the surface, demanding more and more attention the more you fought against them.

You might just have to remove your memories yourself—maybe store them in jars or let them fade with the winds. Then, you wouldn’t have to bear the weight of remembering and wouldn’t have to hold yourself accountable. But if you let go of your past, how could you ever learn from your mistakes?

Eventually, sleep came fitfully and with the awareness that when you did slip away, it would not be into the sanctuary of your own mind.

When you finally drifted into a deeper sleep, you found yourself in the courtyard of your old school. The castle loomed against a star-strewn sky, its towers stretched high above, and the crisp air held the chill of distant memories. You sat on the edge of the wishing well, and there was a soft sound of trickling water steady behind you. Despite it being the dead of night and well past your curfew that you rarely followed, you knew someone would soon join you. Somehow, you were sure of it—as sure as the sky was midnight blue and the stars were green.

Sitting on the edge of the well, you glanced around, and strange fragments of memories drifted into view, each as familiar as it was foreign. These memories didn’t feel like your own, yet they emerged with a force as vivid as dreams. Shadows of people moved through the courtyard—figures you couldn’t name, voices carrying words that echoed in the air. It felt as though you were glimpsing the life of a stranger. These weren’t the memories you wanted to revisit. Why now? You didn’t want to dream of this place—not tonight.

Yet Hogwarts clung to you, vivid and unyielding, as if it had woven itself into the fabric of your dream. You were merely a spectator, dragged back into the past despite every part of you resisting it.

You tried to will the dream to shift, to conjure something else. But the well remained, the castle stood tall, and the air felt charged with energy—echoes of everything that had transpired here. A part of you knew this was no ordinary dream. Something was pulling you back into this familiar place for a reason. You just couldn’t place it.

Time moved strangely here, moments stretching into minutes, minutes into hours. Or perhaps only seconds had passed. Then, without a sound, a tall figure appeared at your side as if he’d always been there.

You blinked, the memories in your mind scattering like fallen leaves. The figure’s features were unmistakable—the sharp cheekbones, the pointed ears, the pale moonlight reflecting off his skin like silver, and the ravening look of curious intent in his eyes.

“Solas,” you said, more in recognition than greeting.

He glanced around, his sharp eyes scanning the courtyard, taking in the ancient stones and grand architecture with interest. “I don’t recognise this place,” he remarked. “The stonework is intricate. It speaks of an era of craftsmanship we don’t often see in Thedas. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“I’m from a different time, remember?” you said, leaning back slightly on the well’s edge. “Seemingly a different world altogether.”

Solas nodded, though his gaze lingered on the castle. “I know very little of your world. Even less of your past.”

It was an odd admission from him. He had never shown much interest in your world before. His focus had always been on the past, rarely on the present and on the Fade and the struggles within Thedas. Now, there was a new edge to his voice, a hunger for knowledge that wasn’t there before.

“You never asked,” you stated.

His attention finally shifted to you, those deep eyes narrowing and sending a shiver down your spine. “Perhaps it is time I did. I find myself more interested now.”

You held his gaze for a moment, caught off guard by his focus. What exactly was he hoping to find? If that answer was held in his expression, you weren’t able to catch it before he turned, his gaze now on the well where you sat. His eyes drifted to the two statues that flanked it, and he lingered on the one directly to your right.

“A griffon?” he asked, his tone surprisingly reverent.

You barely glanced at it, not wanting to be here. You remembered the statue springing to life once, animated by a student’s errant spell. The hippogriff had snatched a first-year in its stone mouth, wings flapping as if trying to take flight—though they remained as heavy and earthbound as the stone itself. Fortunately, the underclassman only suffered a concussion.

“It’s a hippogriff,” you corrected.

He nodded, moving around the courtyard with renewed interest, his gaze now shifting to the high walls and the mountains looming beyond, the Scottish Highlands stretched out.

Scepticism crept into your tone when you asked, “What changed? Your interest. You never struck me as someone who’d take much interest in this.”

He paused by the thestral. “I’m beginning to understand that there is more to your world than I first assumed.”

The greatest difference between your worlds, you supposed, lay in the presence of the Fade—and the fact that your world seemed to lack one. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what he meant; for someone so deeply tied to the Fade, a world entirely without it might seem as empty as a sky without stars, stripped of that mysterious, enchanting power he held so close to his heart.

You got up and joined him as he studied the griffon statue, his fingers lightly grazing the stone wings, frozen mid-curl.

“That’s the griffon. See the tail—it’s of a lion,” you explained. “Hippogriffs have the hindquarters of a horse rather than a lion. They’re more majestic, while griffons are more likely to attack anything that moves. They make for awful companions.”

“They’re not extinct?” he asked, his tone curious and somehow wistful.

“Not that I know of.”

Silence lingered, with only the faint rustle of the wind between the statues.

“What do you want to know?” you asked, not sure what to expect; not sure if he genuinely cared or if there was something else.

He motioned to the courtyard, drawing your attention away from the hum of energy that seemed to linger around him. “Tell me of this place. This is where you studied, correct? What stories linger within its walls?”

“Hogwarts. The best in the world,” you recited, almost by instinct, repeating the words you’d once believed without question. They felt hollow now, like an old uniform you’d outgrown. Was Hogwarts really the best? Or were you simply reciting the lines you were taught to believe?

You shook your head, pushing the thoughts aside. Summoning pieces of those memories, you began explaining Hogwarts to Solas in broad strokes, skipping specifics but sharing the feeling of it—a place full of magic, mystery, and expectations, yet tinged with secrecy and isolation.

“Are there others like it in your world?” he asked, his eyes now on the clock tower. Iron bars were drawn down over its entrance, and beyond the bars was a thick white haze—not something that should be there. Yet, through the haze, you could still hear the rhythmic swing of the giant clock.

“Of course,” you replied. “Wizardkind can be found all over the world, each in their own pockets of the universe. But they mostly keep to themselves. Wizardkind doesn’t get along with Mugglekind, and vice versa. Most wizards look down on Muggles as though they were less than human. When Muggles knew of wizards, there was no peace. Imagine templars—worldwide, with a kill-on-sight policy. It’s no wonder wizards mistrust them. But there’s no denying that, aside from magic, we’re one and the same.”

“Such prejudices are predictable,” he seemingly agreed.

You frowned, watching his face, but he gave nothing else away.

You gestured towards the haze beyond the bars. “That mist… It was there on the docks. Do you know what it is?”

He gave a slight nod. “A barrier of sorts—your mind’s way of shielding certain memories from view. I wonder why, of all places, your mind would obscure a school you think of so highly.”

“I left school years ago. I’m not expected to remember it all.”

“And yet what you do remember—those details are perfectly clear.”

“Maybe that’s the Fade’s influence,” you replied, brushing off the prickling doubt.

The silence returned, and you sensed something in the air shift, as if the courtyard itself was listening.

“What made this school so exceptional?” he asked, peering up at the clock tower, where the light behind the clock face illuminated the courtyard alongside the moon. The soft chimes began to ring out, and with each note, they seemed to echo through your bones.

The chimes wove into a faint, ghostly tune. It was a melody you barely remembered, something you hadn’t heard in years. You hadn’t conjured it.

A flicker of a smile crossed your face, though it was tinged with sadness. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “Maybe it was… maybe it was because I wanted it to be. Or maybe it was just where I thought I belonged.”

Hogwarts had once been a sanctuary, a place where you’d felt, for a time, that you’d found somewhere to fit. But now? Now, it felt like a shadow of what you’d needed it to be, just another piece of the past that didn’t fit as it once had.

Solas’s gaze lingered on the clock tower, the bars lifting slowly as if pulled by an unseen hand. The white haze beyond began to thin, and you felt him pushing, urging your memory to lift its own veil. He stepped closer to the bars, and as he did, they lifted fully. Beyond them, the haze continued to clear, revealing more of the clock tower.

“Why are you here?” you asked, not quite knowing why you were having this conversation, and here of all places. Loitering in your old school, and as an adult, was a little odd.

Something tickled the edge of your mind, reminding you about something you couldn’t quite remember.

Solas paused, glancing back at you, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he sidestepped the question. “What did you study here? What knowledge does this place impart?”

“Magic, of course. Spells and potions, history and the knowledge of magical creatures,” you said, your tone growing detached. “The secrets of a world that barely touched the one I’m in now.” You gave him a searching look, feeling the currents of the dream beginning to shift, pulling at the edges of your mind. This conversation—it wasn’t about your schooling. You weren’t here to relive your past. You hadn’t chosen to dream of this place tonight—someone had led you here.

“We’re not here for me,” you said.

With that realisation, the dream’s borders rippled, as if acknowledging the truth. You focused, willing Hogwarts to fade like mist, to let the spires and stones dissolve into nothingness. In their place, the grey cliffs and wild sea of a lonely island took shape, harsh and windswept. The memory formed, carrying you away from Scotland to a place far colder and more isolated, where dark waves crashed against distant rocks and a biting wind stirred the mist across the horizon.

The island sprawled beneath you as it had that day—an endless stretch of rocky cliffs, water surrounding you in every direction. Only the occasional shape—a drifting boat or a distant creature—broke the still, dark expanse.

Solas observed the changes with an impassive expression, his eyes taking in the island’s barren cliffs and rough shoreline. Not a trace of surprise showed in his face as the scene shifted. You glanced at him, half expecting a reaction, but none came.

Feeling a sudden urge to throw him off balance, quite literally, you imagined a lake suddenly tearing through the earth, swelling beneath his feet, water rushing up to engulf him. But, as if anticipating your intent, he merely stepped back, gracefully avoiding the rising water.

“You’ve learned to manipulate your dreams well,” he observed, unruffled. “Almost as if it comes naturally to you.”

The compliment felt more like an observation than praise. “I’ve had practice,” you replied curtly.

The wind picked up, a chill biting through the fog, and you looked out across the water, feeling the weight of memories here. It wasn’t just the island or its haunting isolation—it was what you’d come here to find.

“Do you know this place well?” he asked.

“This was the last place I visited before I woke in chains,” you murmured, staring at the cold, windswept cliffs stretching out around you. “I never got to say goodbye to him. My father, Fig.”

It had been Envy, in Fig’s form, that had given you closure. In a twisted reprieve, it gave you a final, bitter parting. All of it had been an illusion, and yet somehow, Envy had offered the farewell you’d needed but could never have had. Fig had been lost to you long before you’d woken in Thedas—he’d been out of reach even before you left. The separation had only lengthened in a way you couldn’t reverse. You’d been separated for too long—returning to Fig would have been futile, and that truth still lingered bitterly.

Solas watched you in contemplative silence before he spoke; his voice softened in respect for the memory. “Loss is a wound that never fully heals,” he said, a rare gentleness in his tone. “But it is a mark of one who has truly loved.”

The wind howled around you, as if in agreement, stirring up spray from the waves that crashed against the rocks below.

A huff of dry laughter escaped you, lightening the sombre air. “Well, we could stand here reminiscing all day, but I seem to remember we’re not here for me. You were supposed to show me Skyhold.”

Solas straightened, faintly surprised, as though he hadn’t expected you to regain your bearings so quickly. His eyes narrowed, unreadable. “And perhaps you could satisfy my curiosity first,” he said. “Explain why, of all places, you thought of this island.”

You looked away from him, back to the rocky cliffs and the churning waters below. “Not sure what’s worse: my memories or the fact you’re this invested in them.”

This island was no random place—it held deep, buried secrets, ones hidden where no one else would dare look. You glanced up, noticing the birds circling high overhead, their cries piercing through the chill wind as they rode the updrafts.

Solas observed the scene, then shifted his gaze back to you. “This was where you sought the artefact, was it not? A curious place to stow something so powerful.”

“Are you sure you can’t read my mind?” You smirked, though the look was tempered by the realisation of how easily he’d put the pieces together. “Yes, this is where I uncovered it. The Ministry never figured out how it worked, nor did I—not even with my access to ancient magic.”

A faint frown traced Solas’ brow. “Show me,” he said, voice softer now, with the faintest edge of caution.

You shot him a look, one of restrained irritation. “You know I don’t have it.”

He gestured around the dream. “We are in the Fade. Try to imagine it.”

Reluctantly, you closed your eyes, calling up the image. A heavy coldness appeared in your hand, and when you looked down, the artefact rested in your palm: a small hexagonal object, forged of dark goblin-metal. It was small enough to fit in one hand, though its smooth sides were edged like knives, making it difficult to hold. The metal gleamed in the dream’s muted light, an unnatural sheen that seemed to pulse as though it were alive.

Solas leant in to study it, his gaze narrowing with interest but not with recognition. “It bears little resemblance to Alexius’ work,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Indeed,” you agreed. “Alexius and Dorian created theirs to bend time through sheer Fade magic, a focused manipulation of energies. But this…” You turned the artefact over, feeling its sharp weight pressing into your skin. “It’s far older. I don’t know who created it, only who buried it.”

“Who would bury it here?” Solas asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and caution.

“Someone who knew it well enough to keep it hidden where no one else would dare look,” you replied, pointing to a craggy outcrop of rock nearby. “There’s no documented record of anyone activating it. Doubtful the one who buried it even knew it could work, but they went to great lengths to keep it concealed. It was stolen from the Ministry. I tracked it here, through wards and layers of enchantment buried deep within the stone.”

“A challenging find,” he said thoughtfully. “Though clearly not beyond your reach.”

You nodded, unable to summon the pride he seemed to expect. Yes, you had found it, but at a steep cost. You’d crossed boundaries you hadn’t meant to, used tactics you hadn’t wanted to… or maybe you did.

You looked down at the artefact, feeling the guilt mirror in its smooth sides.

Solas continued, his tone contemplative. “If it was so simple for you to uncover it the first time, then you should have little trouble finding it again. Your finding the artefact and arriving in Thedas shortly after is no coincidence. The artefact needs to be found before it proves itself a danger, regardless of whether it is why you are here.”

“It would seem so,” you replied, the weight of the artefact pressing even harder against your palm until you felt the sting of heat, small pinpricks of pain blooming under your skin. “I’m working on it, but I don’t have much to go on.”

You had been imprisoned in Val Royeaux, or so Fiona and Leliana reported—that was likely where you should look. But snooping around a French-adjacent city, full of posturing and pageantry, would do you no favours, especially given the Inquisition’s tense relationship with the Orlesian Empire.

You should have focused on the artefact sooner. But dealing with Corypheus had demanded everything you had—and the astrarium puzzles, as intriguing as they were, had proven to be just a clever distraction and a complete waste of time. All those hours spent twisting dials and constellations into place, and yet none of it had brought you closer to real answers.

“How did you find it the first time?” Solas pressed, as if piecing together his own plan. “Surely those methods could be of use again.”

You turned away, unwilling to elaborate too much. “It’s different now. Let’s just say I had the help of a guide at the time.”

“A guide—your father, I presume?”

“No. By the time I learned of the artefact, he was in no state to assist.”

Even if he were in the state to assist, it’s debatable whether or not he’d help or approve, even if it was for his own betterment.

“And what did you hope to achieve with it?” Solas asked.

For a moment, you hesitated, but there was no evading his question. “I hoped to change things,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, yet failing to be muted by the winds. “To prevent… a decline that he was powerless to stop.” You caught yourself, unwilling to say more. You weren’t about to explain, even to Solas, that Fig’s ailment was not from illness, nor from age, but something else entirely. Something you couldn’t bear to revisit, especially now that you had lost the only thing that could have ever helped.

Solas’ gaze didn’t waver, though he spoke with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Reversing time cannot change all things, no matter how well-intentioned. Illnesses, losses—such things are only ever delayed, not prevented. To delay the inevitable is often the best that magic can offer. Your labours would have brought you more harm than good.”

“I wasn’t trying to prevent illness. I never said he was sick. His affliction was… manufactured.” You glanced back, feeling the heavy weight of your admission. “As it turned out, my efforts were pointless. I spent so long searching for a way to undo what was happening to him, and now here I am—so far away from him it hardly matters anymore.”

As the quiet deepened, a cool wind picked up, tugging at your robes, and the distant crash of waves grew louder, echoing against the cliffside. Above, the shrieking of the birds grew piercing, and though you tried to ignore the weight of his gaze, Solas’ presence still weighed on you, like an unwanted shadow. His gaze wasn’t just on the scenery but on you, dissecting every detail with that unnerving, unblinking scrutiny of his.

After a long pause, you crossed your arms and, in an attempt to break the silence, asked, “Will you show me Skyhold now?”

He nodded. “Very well.”

The scene around you shifted once more, but this time it was not by your will. The soft ground beneath your feet hardened, and before you, carved into the mountainside, appeared a fortress—rugged, imposing, and far from the grand castles of your memories. Skyhold. You knew the place instantly, though it felt smaller than you had imagined. The walls were worn by time, the towers less formidable, almost humble in their construction.

Peering over the battlements where green grass bloomed and trees blossomed—even in the dead of winter, high in the mountains—you could see you stood just above the gatehouse. Behind the fortress, the mountain range stretched skyward, like guardians flanking the fort, offering a natural defence.

“This is Skyhold?” you asked, crossing your arms and turning to Solas, who didn’t seem concerned with presenting the fortress in all its glory. “I expected more. Is this really the best you could come up with?”

Solas raised a brow at the reaction. “Judging something by its surface is unwise. Skyhold’s true strength lies beyond its worn stones and crumbling walls.” He briefly nodded to the crumbling stone of the two closest towers. “Some qualities endure beyond grandeur.”

Outwardly, you showed disinterest in the fortress, though, deep down, you felt something else entirely. It wasn’t that you disliked the place; in fact, you found it rather charming in its own way. But it had certainly seen better days. Compared to the other fortresses you’d explored across Scotland, Skyhold paled in comparison; it felt like a relic from a rougher time, untouched by the advancements of your world. Yet, it held potential.

“It’ll do, I suppose.” You set off through one of the towers, which led you across a bridge towards what must be the main building. “Perhaps, with some work, it could be restored to a fragment of its former glory.”

You blinked, and the setting changed. The hand you’d extended towards a door handle met only air, grasping at nothing. You were no longer outside but now inside a grand, empty room with tall walls. Ahead, a large chair sat in the centre, though reaching it would be no simple task. The stone walls were partly crumbled, wood panelling lay scattered like abandoned firewood, broken furniture lay in heaps, and the stained glass behind the chair had shattered, spilling coloured light fragments across the floor.

Solas stopped besides you as you took in the ruins of a fallen chandelier. “Already thinking of the long term? A departure from your earlier insistence on leaving the Inquisition’s troubles behind at the first opportunity.”

“With a plan, expansion could be managed in a day,” you replied confidently. Whatever destruction had ravaged this place felt more like the toll of nature’s relentless hand than any siege. “Provided I know what I’m doing first.”

A chuckle slipped from him, mocking yet not entirely. “Then Skyhold is likely to remain as it is.”

You left the hall and went out through the front doors. This time, the scene held steady for you to freely explore—it was not pulled out from under your feet with ease that bordered on arrogance. You now stood on the front steps, overlooking the majority of the deserted fortress.

“It’s certainly quite the find,” you mused.

The fortress loomed ahead, its crumbling stones whispering of both purpose and decay, and you felt a strange draw to it—almost as though it was asking you to bring it to life again. Solas turned his attention to the view beyond the fortress walls, where the mountains stretched into the horizon, their peaks shrouded in mist. The air was thinner here, the cold sharper, nipping at your skin as if you stood at the edge of the world itself. You crossed your arms, feeling the weight of your resolve weakening just a little. Skyhold was all you’d planned to see. But now that you’d found it—and with Solas here besides you—you weren’t quite ready to let this dream end. Not with all the questions still on your mind.

“I never used to dream like this,” you said, beginning to descend the staircase. At the bottom lay a type of clearing, scattered with broken carriages and other abandoned, forgotten relics. “My dreams… they never felt this real. Here, I can feel the Fade’s presence, even sense that we’re being watched.” You paused at the bottom of the staircase, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. “It’s like the spirits are always just out of sight.”

“How did dreams feel, then, in a world so… unanchored from the Fade?”

You shrugged, absently following a broken stone path winding deeper into the ruins. The path led to another, narrower set of stairs, each step cracking with age. “Not like this. Our dreams were… different,” you said, beginning to descend, Solas’s quiet footsteps soft behind you. “They were fragments, like pieces stitched together, shifting, slipping away. I’ve never walked through one like this. Not until… now, I guess.”

“Truly? You’ve never known dreams to feel substantial? An existence severed from the Fade,” he murmured, as if the thought left him baffled. “What a peculiar place that must be. To live without the Fade’s influence, without the mingling of dreams and spirits… It must be remarkably quiet. Dreams bound only by memory and thought, untouched by the Fade’s reach… I cannot imagine it. The Fade, little more than a distant, forgotten current.”

You continued along the path, approaching a gatehouse with a heavy, iron gate drawn down, much like in your memory of the clock tower. But here, the gate began to rise as you neared, the metal creaking with age, granting you entry.

Solas tilted his head, almost as if testing the boundaries of his strange idea. “In Thedas, the Fade is woven into the world, an ever-present bridge to the immaterial. Even in silence, it is felt. But a world as you describe… it would lack that connection, that endless web influencing dreams and shaping visions. Like a melody never heard.”

He spoke further of the Fade, his words fading into the background as you paused midway in the gatehouse to peer down a false floor that covered a deep pit below. A shiver ran down your spine as you stared into the void below, a trap set for anyone who might cross it unaware. A morbid thought struck you, and you imagined what might happen if it were to fail. People caught off guard, simply going about their lives, could be swallowed by the ground itself—a platform, or a bridge, shattering and scattering innocents who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As that thought settled, the grate began rattling beneath your feet, as if your mind’s touch had triggered it to open. But then, just as quickly, it stopped, held back by an unseen restraint that blocked it from lifting all the way.

“What would happen if we were to fall while in the Fade?” you asked, looking over your shoulder at Solas, who was frowning.

“You would be injured, just as in the waking world. Pain, injury—such things would affect you here, as real as any wound you might receive outside of this dream.”

“Well, the death trap needs to go. I doubt it can hold much weight considering the corrosion.” With that, you hurried along the gatehouse floor, moving quickly towards the drawbridge that stretched open ahead, leading to a bridge beyond. You glanced at the long drop below. “I’ve fallen from the sky far too many times to know there’s always an opportunity to fall to one’s death. It’s as if I’m cursed, but I can’t think of anyone creative enough to give me such a curse.”

The bridge felt cold underfoot, and a thin layer of frost covered it. Beyond it, snow-capped mountains loomed on every side, their peaks jagged against the sky.

Solas’ voice rose against the wind, sounding almost wistful. “I wonder, did you ever find it lonely without the Fade’s presence?”

You turned. “Sorry?”

“A life in complete silence, with nothing beyond your own thoughts,” he said, tone turning mournful. “A world that does not echo back, that does not respond… It would feel empty, almost as if you were sealed away from everything else.”

You drew yourself up, bristling at the suggestion. “You think it was lonely because we didn’t have spirits intruding in our sleeping minds? I’d say it’s peace, Solas. My world wasn’t ‘lonely.’ But I can see why it might seem dull to you. Magic is a constant undercurrent in Thedas, and your connection to the Fade colours everything you do.”

“I cannot imagine the quiet of it all, true. The Fade brings meaning and connection, even in solitude. Perhaps you cannot understand what I mean. You have not experienced the wonders of the Fade as I have.”

“Maybe. But that goes for you, too—you don’t understand my world because you’ve never known it. Maybe you’d find it lacking, but that doesn’t mean it was. There’s so much you don’t know.”

“There is much I want to know,” he said, surprisingly sincere.

You hesitated, feeling the weight of the invitation but unwilling to step into the vulnerability of sharing, especially here, in this space where thoughts could easily go array. Still, after a moment, you nodded. “Sure, because you asked so nicely. I’ll tell you, just not now.”

He inclined his head, understanding. Turning back to the horizon, he was silent for a long while. You watched him walk further down the bridge, his hands clasped behind his back. Absentmindedly, you ran your fingers along the cracking stone wall, feeling a strange, faint nostalgia stir within you. It was impossible, of course, yet the feeling felt so real as if it were your own.

Eventually, Solas returned to the topic that had sparked his curiosity in the first place. “And these dreams of yours… Were they silent, then? A place of stillness?”

“Quiet, maybe,” you said, letting your gaze drift down the steep drop of the mountain. Below, a frozen lake stretched, glistening faintly under the sunlight. You thought of anything but the bridge under your feet shaking and crumbling. It was as though some force within you could make that happen with the same ease as taking a breath, so you tread with extra care. “But dreams were never the safest of places for me to begin with. And now, I’m walking through them.”

“We are here in spirit,” he corrected. “Though the spirit can affect the flesh in ways you’d be wise not to underestimate.”

You raised an eyebrow, scepticism lacing your tone. “You leave food for the giant man-eating spiders. Is there anything else we should worry about?”

His lips curled into a faint, almost demeaning smile. “Only the usual dangers that come with the dreamscape. Shadows taking tangible forms, forgotten memories breathing life into doubts, and, of course, the deepest fears one can manifest. But we have each other’s company, at least.”

“Is that meant to comfort or scare me?”

He tilted his head, the faintest spark of mischief in his gaze. “Which would you prefer?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but paused, thinking back to the last time he’d appeared in your dreams. He had forced you to relive a memory you had long buried, pulling you through scenes you had hoped to never revisit, pushing you head first into them. The cold, the fear, the helplessness—you could still feel it, lingering at the edges of your consciousness like a dark, storming cloud.

“I didn’t appreciate it when you invaded my dreams last time, Solas,” you said, your voice firmer now. Behind you, one of the crumbling stones dislodged and hit the ground, shattering. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”

He nodded, unruffled by your tone. “I was trying to help you become aware. You were caught in a deep sleep, slipping into the dangers of your own unconsciousness. Had I not intervened, the cold could have taken you.”

“You could have just woken me up.”

A slight shake of his head. “And risk shattering your mind in the process? No. The Fade is treacherous for those unfamiliar with its ways. I chose the lesser evil.”

He wasn’t just meddling for his own sake, then. But that didn’t absolve him, not fully.

“Maybe there was a different way to help,” you said, grasping for an alternative, as if you could turn back time.

“It was not I who made you relive those events. Whatever stories those events tell, they lie heavy on your mind. My presence alone would not have driven your dreams to them.”

Accepting that, for you had no other choice, you stepped back from the bridge, turning back towards Skyhold’s courtyard. Broken remnants and scattered debris littered the grounds, signalling move-in day would not be as simple as intended. Following one path that wound around the courtyard, you took in the scale of the place. Cullen’s reports hinted at a steadily growing army. With more soldiers enlisting and more refugees finding solace in the Inquisition every week, the size would soon present itself as an issue. And that was not including the Free Mages and Templars—both would not play house with each other, if they even accepted the truce you hoped to present in the first place. One could only hope Skyhold would hold everyone, which at this point seemed to be half a country.

Shielding your eyes, you glanced up at the main building. Beside it, the sun shone harsh shadows over its walls and blurred your vision with tiny dark spots.

“What do you think of Skyhold now that you’ve seen more of it?” Solas asked with an inquisitive edge.

“It could be better. But you tried helping; that’s what counts,” you said, setting off towards the main building. “Cassandra hopes this will be the Inquisition’s final home. If they’re forced to keep moving around, that’ll erode morale. Hope can only last so long on the move.”

You went to ascend the staircase but was forced to gather your footing when stone was replaced with snow. Solas had shifted the scene again.

The change was nearly like apparating, though softer on the stomach, yet dizzying enough that you almost lost your balance. You took a steadying breath, feeling the disorientation pass as the new view settled around you. Solas had clearly crafted this vantage point to showcase Skyhold’s full grandeur—the sweeping architecture, towering walls, and the natural fortress it created. It almost felt as if he was trying to convince you of its potential.

“Are you trying to impress me?” you asked, one eyebrow raised. “Showing Skyhold’s good sides and how easily you can move us around in the Fade like this?”

“Is that such a difficult task? I imagine you haven’t seen much else to compare.”

You waved the comment off but turned to take in the view. From this height, atop a mountain some distance from the fort, you could see the entire expanse of Skyhold, nestled comfortably between the peaks. Overall, it stood proud and dominating. Tactically, it was nearly flawless—a place few could reach, let alone attack. It seemed almost too good to be true.

And yet, something didn’t sit right. Why had it been abandoned? Perhaps a natural disaster had forced its occupants away, or maybe a siege had driven them out. But a siege would have been incredibly difficult in such a place, especially for anyone seeking treasure or provisions. Resources were an issue here; the Frostback Mountains weren’t exactly teeming with farmland, and the lake was likely frozen much of the year. A place this remote would have required either steady, distant allies or an incredible self-sufficiency that most would struggle to maintain. As skilled as Josephine was, managing the needs of the Inquisition in a place like this would drive anyone mad.

Your gaze drifted down to the bridge you had crossed only minutes ago, its sturdy stone still bearing signs of the harsh climate. Solas, perceptive as ever, must have noticed your pointed attention.

“You’re troubled,” he said, as if he were pointing out the obvious.

“And I suppose you’d like to know why?” you asked, almost daring him to prod.

“Only if you’re inclined to share.”

Kneeling, you let your hands rest on the cold stone edge, staring out over the rugged mountain range. It really did feel like you were here in the flesh. The snow stung your palms, and the wind howled past, biting into your skin, as real and raw as any waking world. This dream space held none of the usual softness, and the memory that had surfaced was as sharp as the rocks you’d grabbed a fistful of.

“It was a mistake. One I didn’t even fully understand until it was too late,” you murmured, recalling the accident that had reshaped your life. “You saw what happened back there on the bridge; I can’t excuse it, no matter how accidental it was. But that… that person is not who I am now, nor am I looking for your sympathy.” Now was not the time for pity or sob stories. What’s done is done.

And yet, Solas’s quiet patience and his steady, nonjudgmental presence coaxed out words you hadn’t meant to reveal. Perhaps you did want to explain your actions after all—to him, of all people. “Magic like mine…” you started, the weight of the admission settling around you. “It wasn’t something I could control at first. Ancient magic has a will of its own. It channels itself through you, whether you want it to or not. At least, that’s how it was for me.”

He nodded as though he could ever understand.

“We don’t all get a choice when it comes to controlling it. So I’m curious about these Foci you mentioned,” you said, glancing up at him. “How did Corypheus manage to wield such power?”

“You’re thinking of how it could be used, perhaps by your hand,” he noted disapprovingly. “A Foci isn’t a simple tool—it’s a conduit that amplifies magic to lethal levels. Its power would likely kill you—being a vessel is one thing, but channelling the Foci’s concentrated energy would be too much, even for someone like you, mortal as you are.”

“Perhaps,” you conceded, though you doubted that or outright disagreed. “But I’m not just any vessel—I’m a repository of ancient magic in my own right. Not to mention the orb didn’t kill Corypheus, but my magic did.”

Solas’s mouth tightened ever so slightly. “A repository. How did that come to be?”

“It’s a long story.”

He remained quiet for a moment, but his curiosity won out. “Then perhaps you’ll at least share what such magic can do. What are its capabilities?”

Exhaling, you rose to your feet, feeling a chill from the snow you’d knelt in. “The better question is what can it not do. I imagine it can do almost anything, but I can’t control it, not fully. As you saw at the bridge… that was the first time I’d used it. The Ministry thought I was an Obscurial; they’d never seen such magic before.”

He blinked, his expression shifting as if trying to interpret the term. The concept didn’t seem to translate well.

“Obscurials. It’s what wizards become when we repress our magic. It becomes its own separate entity; slowly poisoning the soul; a threat to everyone, even the host themself. It’s why we cannot live without magic. Of course, back then, I didn’t have any magic to repress, so the Ministry’s next thought was that I was some sort of dark wizard. If you haven’t quite yet gathered, they like the easy solution.”

“A tragic paradox indeed, to be both bound to power and endangered by it. Magic, when repressed or twisted, can warp the essence of its being—changing its form entirely. The result is a transformation driven by a rejection of one’s true nature. For spirits, such denial turns them into demons, beings who embody the very thing they sought to suppress.”

You bristled, familiar with this implication. “I’m not a spirit. Obscurials don’t exist anymore, particularly due to the Statue of Secrecy, nor were they common in the first place. And by your logic, every dark wizard would become a demon, which certainly is not the case.” Yes, dark magic could affect both body and soul, tainting them with its influence, but that didn’t mean they were on the same level as Thedas/Fade demons. Darkness might leave its mark—draining vitality, warping the spirit, even leaving a touch of malevolence on the caster. But wizards don’t lose their entire identity to the dark arts, not unless they want to.

Magic, and the world in general, wasn’t bound to some simple dichotomy of good and evil, light and dark. That would suggest only extremes existed, with no place for anything between them.

Wizards weren’t spirits, and Obscurials weren’t demons. Whatever Solas thought your worlds had in common was a case of grasping for answers where there were none—seeking out connections in fragments and shadows.

He inclined his head in a rare gesture of concession. “That is true. But the similarities remain notable. It would seem the magic in your world and that in Thedas share certain underpinnings, perhaps even origins.” A barely perceptible smile graced his lips. “More similarities than I had initially believed.”

Your brows furrowed, wondering if he referred to more than he was letting on.

As if to underscore his point, the world around you began to change, the landscape blurring and shifting beneath your feet. Haven unfolded around you as though nothing had happened, its once-familiar sights painfully clear and unchanged. Besides you, Solas walked in silence, watching you with that particular, measured expression he always wore when he was gauging something unknown.

You allowed the dream to continue, letting yourself settle into the warmth of the illusion. Haven should have been gone, buried beneath snow and ruin, but the chantry’s walls stood whole, unscarred. As you walked together, you became aware that you were descending into the lower levels of the chantry, the familiar stone walls leading you deeper, until you arrived at the dungeons—where you had once been held.

Solas spoke, breaking the silence. “I sat beside you while you slept, studying the Anchor.”

“How long could it possibly take to look at a mark on my hand?”

“A magical mark of unknown origin, tied to a breach in the Veil? Longer than you might think,” he replied evenly. “I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

“She’s like that with everyone.”

“Yes.” He chuckled softly, almost fondly.

The scene shifted, the Chantry walls melting away to reveal an open sky. Haven lay sprawled beneath you, whole yet eerily suspended in time. Above, two tears in the sky glared down with the same destructive beauty that had first marked the beginning of everything. The first Breach loomed farther away at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, while a second tear was closer where Corypheus had fallen to your hand.

Haven should have been buried beneath ruin; there should have been no chantry, no Breach—but here they were, as vivid as any waking memory. Both Breaches should not exist simultaneously, let alone be present before you now. And yet, here they were.

Solas set off towards the front gate. “You were never going to wake up. How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade? Even with the Breach above us, I couldn’t sense your magic. I didn’t believe you were a mage. How wrong I was.” He considered you thoughtfully, as though reassessing everything he knew now—that you could control ancient magic, a power that shouldn’t even exist in this world, and certainly not without an artefact to channel it.

He took a few steps away, eyes fixed on either Breach in the sky. The sky rippled with energy that felt wrong, heavy with magic that seemed to stretch beyond its bounds, like an echo of a curse that refused to fade. Two Breaches defied reason; they clashed against natural order, against everything magic was known to be.

“I told myself, just one more attempt to seal the rifts.” He paused, his gaze distant. “I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand, ready to flee. And then…” An image flashed to mind—the first rift you had closed, the moment of quiet as the rift had sealed shut, leaving only faint, shimmering embers in the air. Somehow, you saw it through not your own perspective but Solas’.

He turned to face you. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he murmured, something like reverence in his tone.

'And you, it seems, are the key to understanding why,' Fig once told you. Always the damn key.

“You sealed it with a simple movement… and at that moment, I felt the world itself change.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really, just like that?”

“Exactly like that,” he said, a quiet awe lingering in his voice. “To this day… You possess magic beyond recognition. Not even the ancient civilisations understood magic such as yours. It defies categorisation, surpassing everything I’ve ever witnessed. It is inconceivable that a being of your kind—human though you may be—would wield such unparalleled potency.”

“You really do have a way with words, don’t you?” you mused. “But you don’t exactly fit into my original definition of an elf, either.”

He tilted his head. “And what, precisely, was your definition?”

You hesitated. The elves of Thedas and house-elves from the UK were so different; they were like different species. Comparing them seemed almost unjust.

“Let’s just say you’re… far more interesting.”

“An unexpected perspective. And here I thought I was merely tolerable company.”

“Not at all.”

“I am honoured, though I wonder how your definition has shifted.”

You stepped closer to him, the wind rustling your robes as it carried the faint scent of burning wood and echoes of laughter from long-forgotten celebrations. “Well, I suppose you’re not so unbearable when you’re not brooding. I’ve learned that you’re full of surprises, and it’s not just your charm. Far more than just the serious scholar I first met.”

He paused, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, without a word, the scene blurred, and suddenly, the air between you both seemed cooler and distant. The warmth of the moment was gone, replaced by a more restrained atmosphere.

No longer were you standing in front of the Chantry, but near the trebuchet beside the second Breach. The edge of the Breach, partially covered in snow from the avalanche, loomed close, but it didn’t hurt you. This was a dream, after all. You looked down, the pit in your stomach tightening as you recognised where the snow and debris buried the beginnings of the Breach. That was where the avalanche had hit, where you’d been knocked down.

Distracting yourself, you turned toward where you’d struck Corypheus. But he was gone, as was his dragon. Only the eerily silent ruins remained.

“Is this real?” you murmured, or perhaps only thought it. The previous settings he’d showcased hadn’t been too disorientating or debilitating, but there was something different about being faced with this one. Even the sight of an untouched Haven had been less unsettling. But of course, there were many things here that could test even the strongest will.

“That’s a matter of debate,” Solas answered as you stepped closer to the spot where Corypheus had suspended you before you brought down the sky. “Some parts are merely echoes, reflections. Others…” he trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

When you’d sealed the second breach—the one you’d inadvertently created—it had closed almost as swiftly as it had opened. You hadn’t taken the time to deliberate, for there was no time to hesitate. It had to be closed before your guilt and self-recrimination deepened. You opened it, and you closed it. That was all. There was no time to give much thought to the rest, to the clearing where it had happened. The dark magic, the avalanche that crushed you, the brush with death… it all blurred together. Perhaps it was fortunate that you’d passed out in the moment the breach sealed, for if you hadn’t, the weight of it all might have caught up with you, and you’d have to confront it then in the waking world. But here, in the Fade, if you didn’t wish to confront them, you could have woken up. You had the luxury of escape.

Wake up.

Far beyond your fading consciousness, you felt your physical body stir. You would have indulged in the feeling, pushing to flee this dream that had quickly turned into a nightmare, but you stopped yourself.

Turning, your eyes caught Solas, his attention fixed on the final trebuchet. It stood in its full form, untouched, unbroken—unspoilt by your hand. He stared into the space where the snow had been melted by the Breach, leaving behind a strange, hollow ditch. The look lingered, his gaze shadowed.

“When Corypheus fell and you did not return, I tried searching for you in the Fade,” he said quietly, his voice rough, as though he spoke against some inner resistance.

You turned towards him sharply, your full attention now on him. “Tried to find me?”

“You were beyond my reach. Your magic, the Anchor, your very being, not even the faintest trace remained—all of it lost. And when I found you, you were on the brink of death. I suspect you knew that, too.”

A shadowy, robed figure holding a shining scythe flashed in your mind. You quickly looked away, your neck aching from the sharp movement. Having your fears and memories laid bare felt like an open wound—festering, raw, and vulnerable, worse than the mark of the Anchor itself. “Everyone fears death, in some form or another.”

Now, in your semi-conscious state, you didn’t much fear Death or his beast. The dream had been like a fleeting nightmare that lost its potency in the light of day. Dreams could warp reality; they could magnify trivial fears—turning harmless butterflies into monsters that could tear you apart from the inside out. But once you awoke, embarrassment could creep in at the absurdity of it all. Your fear of Death was like that—nothing but a byproduct of a strange dream, a trick of the mind that faded with the dawn.

“I could not sense your presence,” he admitted, his eyes searching your face. “It was as though your very self was obscured.”

Something cold prickled over your skin. “The avalanche hit hard,” you replied, half to yourself, following the memory in your mind. The bruises had long since faded; thanks to the townspeople’s potions, salves, and the Free Mages’ healing spells, you hadn’t felt the pain for some time. “I didn’t dream of anything until I was strong enough to…” You hesitated, glancing at him. “I suppose I would have perished if you hadn’t intervened.”

“Then you understand why I acted as I did. Had I not intervened, I could not have guaranteed your survival. I had no intention of leaving that to chance.”

A wry smile tugged at your lips. “So, you were concerned for my well-being?”

He held your gaze, pausing before answering. “Hope is scarce, and you hold a great deal of it. And I felt it was my responsibility to ensure that it remained unbroken and for you to return to us. Without you, the Inquisition would lose more than just a leader.”

“I didn’t realise I was so essential,” you replied lightly, a little gobsmacked. “But Corypheus is dead. There are rifts all over Southern Thedas; the Inquisition doesn’t need me.”

“You do not know for sure Corypheus’ fate. He disappeared as you did.”

A puff of mist released from you. “There’s no way he could have survived.”

There was no fighting your statement. You faced the second Breach again—your Breach. This was the same rift you had once closed—back before you had ever heard of Skyhold, before the Inquisition had even set off to find a new base. You remembered the strange quiet that had settled over Haven afterwards and the sense of calm that came with knowing you had contained it… temporarily.

“If anyone asks,” you murmured, keeping your focus on what you’d created, feeding it with your attention. “Tell them I made it to the mine shaft. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. More than they already have.” You looked at him pointedly, hoping he understood what you meant—that he was the only one who knew the truth, that you hadn’t made it to safety before the avalanche.

“What would those be?”

“Just…” You hesitated, masking your thoughts with a casual wave of your hand. “You know how rumours spread. The fewer questions, the better.”

Solas gave a slight nod. “Very well. But I would not have spoken of it, for even I do not fully understand how you managed to free yourself from the avalanche’s grasp.”

You gave a slight shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I’ve escaped worse.”

Chapter Text

The remainder of the journey to Skyhold was long and bitter, despite being a measly two days. The cold bit rabidly at your skin as the wind howled through the mountains. The group trudged onward, led by Solas, who walked at a steady pace, using his staff as a cane. His staff thudded in rhythm against the frozen ground, his exposed toes peeking out from his simple shoes. Miraculously, they had not yet turned purple from frostbite, an ode to some quiet magic keeping him warm, or perhaps a tolerance for discomfort.

After days of steady practice, you had finally gathered the courage to cast bigger spells with your bulky staff. Carriages had been conjured for the civilians, which were pulled by the horses and other strange mounts Dennet had provided. There weren’t many carriages, and conjuring more was pointless without any horses to haul them. The soldiers and council members remained on foot, walking along the perimeter and checking up on anyone lagging behind. Your boots crunched through the snow, which had thickened considerably as the altitude rose. A constant wind swept through the mountain pass, biting into your exposed skin, but nothing a few well-placed warming spells couldn’t handle. Still, each step felt heavier than the last.

The monotony of the trek was broken when Leiliana’s scouts reported bandits somewhere off the road. They had been hiding out in an abandoned tower that overlooked the path where the Inquisition was marching towards, a perfect vantage point for an ambush. It was only a matter of time before they spotted the procession below, so a small group was sent ahead to deal with them.

You made your way up the mountainside towards the tower. The bandits, unaware they had been spotted, moved about the tower’s crumbling remains, unaware of the terror about to unfold.

As you closed in, Vivienne cast frost spells that froze two bandits in place, ice spreading over them. Dorian followed with a wave of fire that scattered the remaining bandits. Cassandra and Blackwall charged forward, their steel clashing against the few bandits brave enough to engage them in close combat. The sound of blades meeting echoed through the mountainside, mingling with the dying cries of the defeated. You stood back, staff in hand, ready to support with a spell if needed, though your companions seemed to be handling the situation well enough.

The battle didn’t last long. By the end of it, only a few survivors remained. They lay beaten and bloodied, clutching their wounds and slipping into unconsciousness. You stood over the last of them, watching him struggle to breathe in the freezing air, and an idea began to form.

The others wouldn’t understand, and there was no point in alarming them. Turning toward your companions, you gave a small nod toward the Inquisition.

“Head back to the others,” you directed like the leader many mistakenly believed you should be. “I’ll finish up here; there shouldn’t be too many left behind.”

Vivienne gave you a curious look, her groomed brow arching in silent question. But she said nothing, likely assuming you had some wild reason for wanting to stay behind. Dorian shrugged, indifferent, and followed her.

“One should stay behind with you. There may be more bandits lying in wait,” Cassandra cautioned.

“I can handle a few bandits on my own,” you replied, waving her off. “Besides, I could use a minute alone anyway. Nothing dangerous left here.”

“Very well,” she replied, casting a final look at the scattered remains of the battle. She turned and made her way down the mountainside, with Blackwall following close behind.

You waited until they were all out of sight before kneeling besides the unconscious bandits. Without witnesses, you slipped a small vial of healing potion from your pack and tipped a few drops into one of their mouths. His eyes fluttered open, clouded with pain and confusion from the brief nap.

With a controlled motion of your hand, you began the spell. The man’s body rippled and shifted, his limbs contorting as bones cracked and muscles reformed. Within moments, the dazed man had transformed into a sturdy chestnut horse, breath misting the cold air as it blinked, docile and unaware of its former life.

“Much better,” you murmured, reaching out to stroke the horse’s mane. At your easing, the horse stood on unsteady legs as if it were a foal. With a second wave of your hand, a harness appeared around its neck, reins draped neatly in your grip. It munched pleasingly at the apple you presented it with.

A few minutes later, a dozen horses now stood before you. The transformations were flawless (aside from one unfortunate accident where a tail appeared where it shouldn’t have, but wandless magic could never be perfect). There was no sign of their original lives, no sign of your meddling—except for one particular, new factor.

Every one of the horses’ eyes was a bright, unnatural green that pulsed faintly. Undoubtedly, the eyes were a sign of the strange Fade magic that lingered within you and now within the horses. Your magic typically transferred over, thus how the transfigurations held for long periods or even permanently, but it didn’t usually leave a physical effect like this. Magic itself did not leave a trace.

With a sigh, you swung yourself up onto one of the horses, holding the reins of the half-dozen others. There was nothing you could do about the eyes, although it was unlikely anyone would notice the faint glow.

The horses followed your lead easily, drawn by the faint scent of food in your pouch. Despite technically being ‘born’ just moments ago, these fully grown horses behaved as if they were well-trained, calm, and obedient under your control. This was because their human sides wouldn’t know or remember a thing, unless they were unusually intelligent.

Despite how macabre it seemed, it was far better than killing them outright.

As you rejoined the group, which were overseeing the stragglers, Vivienne cast a sharp, appraising glance over the horses. “Where did you find them?” she asked.

“Abandoned in the tower. The bandits won’t miss them,” you mused, handing over the reins of a sleek black stallion.

The horses took to their new masters with ease, behaving as though they’d been saddled and reined their entire lives, despite the fact they’d been anthropomorphic not one hour ago.

“They appear remarkably well-fed.” Vivienne reached out to examine the stallion’s flank, inspecting for signs of wear and tear from a life spent running wild. “A fine addition to the Inquisition’s ranks. It appears your dawdling wasn’t a waste after all.” She nodded approvingly, glancing over at the straggling townspeople who were struggling to keep pace with the rest of the Inquisition, now at the tail end of the procession. “Now that you’re here, you can deal with the little demon problem.”

You eyed your surroundings for any signs of terror. Nothing; no such thing was seen but exhaustion and hunger. Resources were running out.

“I was gone for ten minutes,” you said, handing the last apple from your pouch to the stallion. It was a beautiful horse; far more elegant and peaceful in this form. “How did you manage to attract a demon in that time?”

“It was not I who attracted this demon,” she replied, arching a brow as she turned her gaze pointedly to the others.

“There is no ‘demon,’” Solas interjected, shaking his head. “Vivienne has rather taken offence to Cole for reasons none but her can fathom.”

As he said that, your eyes found Cole, who was helping one of the struggling townspeople to their feet, offering words that, by their softened expression, were somehow easing their pain. Despite likely knowing he was the centre of a heated discussion, he kept his attention on the frail, shivering man, entirely unfazed.

“Has Cole offended you, Vivienne?” you asked.

“Darling, this thing is not a stray puppy you can make into a pet. It has no business being here.”

Solas gave a pointed look. “Wouldn’t you say the same of an apostate?”

Vivienne’s expression didn’t shift, her look blank and unreadable. After a moment, Cassandra spoke up. “I wondered if Cole was perhaps a mage, given his unusual abilities. He reminds me somewhat of your abilities,” she added, nodding in your direction.

You resisted a grimace. Cassandra bringing up your peculiar abilities around Vivienne was an invitation for disaster. If Vivienne suspected for a moment that you might be demonic in nature, she’d put you down without hesitation. Supposedly. She’d given the impression she’d do the same to a mage with uncontrollable, wayward magic, so a demon wasn’t too far different comparatively.

Solas cut in with an unruffled calm. “His abilities are not those of a mage. He can cause people to forget him, or even fail entirely to notice him. These are not the abilities of a mage. It seems that Cole is a spirit.”

“It is a demon,” Vivienne countered.

“If you prefer,” Solas replied, undeterred. “Although the truth is somewhat more complex.”

“Cole helped me escape an envy demon,” you told her. “I already agreed to let him stay.”

Vivienne gave you a knowing smile, sharp as a dagger. “Honouring deals with demons is a swift path to an early grave.”

“We’ll be fine,” you replied evenly. “And I’ve already decided. Cole stays, and that’s the end of it.”

Tired of the exchange, you turned away and led the horses over to the other stragglers, who were lagging behind. With a quick, practiced gesture, you conjured a few carriages and tethered the reins of the newly transfigured horses to them. You shrugged off the admiration and thanks from the townspeople with a half-smile and a nod, waving off their words as you finished securing the horses.

As you returned to the main procession, Cole fell into step beside you, no sign of any emotion on his pale face.

“They’re grateful. They feel safer with more to carry their weight, with you helping them carry their weight. The others are grateful you didn’t leave them behind.” He tilted his head, as if listening to something distant. “They’re hollow. No voices left to cry out, no singing in their bones, no lyrium in their veins. They don’t know who they were. But you’re in there—no more than you’re in you. That comforts them. They’re yours now, all of them.”

A bit puzzled, you paused, considering his words. “Is there cause for concern?”

“No,” he replied softly, his gaze drifting back to the green-eyed horses. “Not unless you want them to remember.”

“And the alternative? If I had let them die?”

“Then they would have been nothing but whispers in the wind. Now, they are alive, bright, and will retain the warmth of your touch.”

That was enough for you. Comforted by the thought, you moved forward and gave the horses no second thought. They now served a greater purpose.

The cold wind nipped at your exposed flesh as the Inquisition rode into Skyhold. It loomed ahead, a jagged fortress carved into the mountainside, its ancient stone walls weathered by centuries of neglect. The ride had been long, filled with silence, and as you dismounted, your body ached from the cold and the tension that had taken hold of you since leaving Haven.

You scanned the empty grounds, unsettled by the complete stillness. No bandits lurked in the shadows, no animals roamed about, and not even birds disturbed the silence. Only the scurrying of rats, seen only when their shapes slipped in and out of cracks in the stone.

The others were already here—soldiers, mages, and refugees alike—all gathered within the walls of Skyhold, a mixture of relief and exhaustion written on their faces. The Inquisition had survived the destruction of Haven, and now this fortress was to be its new home.

You were in an off-shoot room in a tower, a makeshift infirmary where you’d been tending to the wounded. Most were asleep or resting, but the faint candlelight glinted off the tear-streaked face of a small girl. She was awake, though she hadn’t said a word. She hadn’t spoken, even when you’d tried to comfort her, your own words hollow in the face of her pain.

Kneeling beside her bed, you were careful not to get too close. “You don’t have to be afraid,” you murmured softly. “No harm will come to you here. You’re safe now. I promise.”

The girl’s eyes met yours for a moment, but she remained silent, her gaze distant, haunted. You felt a pang of empathy twist in your chest. Children left alone in the world, bereft of family or guardians, had a unique and profound sadness that you understood all too well. You had been one of them once, navigating a harsh and unfeeling world alone—until Fig had found you and given you the father figure you never had. You could only hope that someday, this child would find the same comfort and protection.

Stepping out of the infirmary and into the chill of Skyhold’s courtyard, you spotted the War Council gathered in a small, huddled group. The figures of Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine stood close together, their voices low and serious. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt as you approached, and they exchanged a few nods before dispersing, leaving Cassandra at the base of the staircase, waiting for you.

Without a word, she gestured for you to walk with her. “They arrive daily from every settlement in the region,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of both pride and concern. “Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage.”

As you climbed, Cassandra’s face grew more serious. “If word has reached these people, it will have also reached those who worked for the Elder One. Any followers he left behind may see it as their duty to continue his legacy.” She cast a sidelong glance at you. “We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this threat is far beyond the war we anticipated. But we now know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus, what drew him to you.”

She stopped briefly, turning to face you fully. “Your decisions let us heal the sky. Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are that creature’s rival because of what you did. And we know it. All of us.”

As you neared the entrance to the Great Hall, your eyes travelled up the weathered, crumbling walls. They looked eerily the same as when you had seen them in the Fade with Solas.

You could tell by the look in her eyes that she wanted something, though you already knew what that something was. Her armour clanked slightly as she followed you inside the main hall.

“The people need you,” she said without preamble. “They look to you now, as their leader. You are the Herald of Andraste, and now as something more. The Inquisition needs an Inquisitor.”

You paused, glancing around the grand but dilapidated hall, your thoughts whirling. You hadn’t even had time to adjust to the idea of being their so-called Herald, and now they wanted to crown you as their Inquisitor? The title alone made you feel ill at ease. The Inquisition stands as Arthur’s legacy did; you finally realised, unable to ignore the parallels to the stories you grew up on. A beacon of hope and unity. Just as Merlin guided Arthur, you would guide them through these turbulent times, but not as their leader.

You weren’t Merlin, and this was not your world.

“I’m not taking the title,” you said with finality. Cassandra blinked, her expression hardening. “I won’t be anyone’s leader.”

“You must. The Herald is a lie, and the people need someone to look up to.” She frowned, displeased by your response. “The Inquisition needs a figurehead, someone to rally behind. You’ve seen what you’ve done—what we have done. The people need hope.”

Her words only fueled the gnawing discomfort that had been growing within you. The title of Inquisitor—it felt like a lie, another mask you’d be forced to wear. You had never wanted this. You were no hero, no grand saviour. The very idea made your skin crawl.

You looked her dead in the eye, your voice colder than it typically was. “I am not a beacon of hope. I’ve killed too many. Been disloyal to more. I don’t deserve to lead anyone.”

“The people need you. They need someone to guide them, someone to unite them. You must take the mantle you’re awarded. You will let so many down if you refuse.”

“Good,” you replied, meeting her gaze evenly. “People shouldn’t blindly follow someone who holds the key to the kingdom. That is how those in power grow powerful, while the weaker grow weaker. Just because I have this mark doesn’t mean I’m the best choice for them. Power without responsibility breeds tyranny. They should forge their own paths, not follow someone like me—someone who can’t even save lives despite all the power I have.”

The words felt bitter on your tongue. The Inquisition stood as a beacon, yes, but you? You were the shadow behind the light, the snake in the grass, the fox in the henhouse. They didn’t know the truth of you, of what you were capable of. To call you Inquisitor, to place the weight of leadership on your shoulders—it felt wrong. You had come here for something else entirely, not to be wrapped up in this world’s politics with its begging for someone with a saviour complex. You were only meant to help one person, and that person was yourself.

Not even a qilin would bow to you.

“I don’t think the role of Inquisitor should be thrust upon someone without proper consideration,” you continued. “It should be a position voted on by those who will be affected by the decisions made. Just because I have this mark on my hand doesn’t make me qualified. I’ve seen how societies hand roles to people based on arbitrary traits, whether it’s birthright or mere coincidence, rather than actual ability or experience.”

Cassandra frowned. “But you have accomplished so much already. You’ve united people, fought against dark forces-”

“Accomplishments don’t equate to experience,” you interrupted curtly. “I’ve stumbled through every challenge thrown at me. I don’t want to be a figurehead because it’s convenient for others. People’s lives hang in the balance; they deserve better than someone who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

She frowned again, crossing her arms in contemplation. “If there were a vote, everyone would choose you, regardless of your experience. You’ve proven yourself time and again.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s just it. They feel obligated to vote for me because of everything that’s happened. They think I’m their best hope, but that doesn’t mean I’m the right choice. I don’t want their pity or their misplaced trust.”

“But you’ve rallied them. You’ve inspired hope when there was none. Isn’t that what a leader does?”

“Ignoring the history of inquisitions,” you continued. “That title would make me a leader. And a leader I am not. I refuse to be the one leading people to their deaths.”

She pressed on. “You could inspire them. Show them what they are capable of-”

“-I won’t. I will not lead anyone to their deaths. I’ve seen too much of it already. My magic—it can save me, but it can’t save anyone else. And I won’t be the reason more people die.”

Cassandra’s expression softened, but the determination remained. She wasn’t giving up, not yet. She’d wheedled her way through to you before; she would and could do it again. But maybe that was because you were more lenient than you should be. “You do belong in this world,” she said quietly. “Maybe you did not before, but you are here now. What will you do now? Abandon everything we have accomplished?”

Despite her words, you didn’t belong here. Every day since you had arrived in Thedas, you felt like an outsider, playing a part in someone else’s story. And yet, here you were, at the centre of it all, with the fate of so many lives hanging in the balance. But it was a role that had been placed on you, not one you would choose for yourself.

“I’m not abandoning anything,” you said. “But I’m not the one who should be making decisions for this world. I don’t belong here. I won’t make world-changing decisions for a place that’s not even mine.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned away slightly, frustration clear in the lines of her posture. “People see you as a saviour. You cannot change that, not after all you’ve done.”

You laughed, but it was hollow, lacking any real amusement. “I’m a fraud, Cassandra. I’m not a messiah. I’m not a prophet. I wasn’t saved because of some unheard-of god’s grace.”

She flinched at your description, and you found yourself quickly apologising.

“I’m sorry. But I was never Andraste’s chosen, nor should I have been.”

Rumours had spread quickly. Even on the journey to Skyhold, you had heard the whispers—the incredulity that you had survived not once, but twice. Survived the defeat of Corypheus, then the second creation of the Breach. It shouldn’t have been possible.

“A miracle,” some called it. “The Chosen,” others insisted, as if the universe had a plan for you that you were entirely unaware of. It was a shame you never had access to any of your prophecies; that would have made life much easier.

The truth, as it would turn out, was much simpler and far darker.

Cassandra hesitated before saying, “Many believe you shouldn’t have survived the defeat of Corypheus, or the creation of either Breach. It’s as if fate or some divine force has decided you’re meant for something greater. Then… will you consider the Maker? As your god, or one of your gods?” she asked with hesitation.

“I don’t think the Maker saved me, Cassandra. And if he did, I’m not sure I’d want to use the influence of a god who chooses who lives and who dies, while so many others suffer.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with unsaid thoughts. Cassandra was clearly grappling with your words, her faith in conflict with your reality.

“Then who will take your place?” she asked, almost resigned.

“It was never my place to begin with. I just fell into it. But I do remember I was the replacement. Varric has a friend, doesn’t he? The one I’m standing in for?” You nodded as you recalled the stories Varric had shared about his charming companion, someone who had been the Inquisition’s original choice. “Hawke. There’s your Inquisitor.” You swept your hand in a twirling motion as you retreated from the Main Hall. “I cast my vote.”

Chapter Text

The rat scurried across the floor, its small body a shadow among the clutter. It sniffed at a pair of waterlogged boots, the leather faintly sour with the scent of damp and mildew. Satisfied there was no threat, it crept towards the looming shape of a table, its whiskers twitching as it sought out a faint, familiar aroma.

The climb was slow, the wooden legs of the structure rough but navigable. At last, it reached the flat expanse of what might have been a desk—a concept the rat couldn’t grasp, though the surface was as strange and vast to it as an open field. Amid the litter of objects, a morsel of cheese beckoned. It was dry and crumbly, the edges hardened by time, but to the rat, it was a feast long anticipated.

Nibbling cautiously, it kept its small, beady eyes on the motionless figure across the room. The towering being sat still, seemingly absorbed in something incomprehensible. Green light flickered and danced from the figure’s hand, painting eerie, shifting shadows on the walls. The rat didn’t understand the light, but it knew enough to be wary.

The small, dark room was perfect cover for the rat to move freely, though its movements were loud enough for you to hear. You paid it no mind. Seated on the stiff bed, your gaze was fixed on your left hand in its resting state, where green light rippled and shimmered like liquid fire, exuding from the Anchor. The familiar glow consumed your thoughts, pulling you into a quiet reverie as the power shifted, alien and untamed, within your grasp yet still untouchable.

It was the sharp tapping on the glass that shattered your trance.

Startled, you looked towards the window, your heart skipping a beat when you saw the culprit: an owl. It perched just outside, pecking insistently at the glass.

For a moment, you simply stared, your mind still half-occupied with the Anchor’s glow.

The owl was familiar. The one you had spent months trying to train, sending off with meaningless notes only to watch it fly away, never to return. Every owl you’d attempted to train had done the same, either soaring off with your treats or vanishing into the horizon with your letters never to be seen again. It had become almost routine by now, but there was no point in giving up so quickly.

But today, against all expectations, the owl came back. And not only had it returned—it had delivered the mail and brought a response.

The window couldn’t open, so you flicked your fingers. The glass shimmered and the iron bars briefly glowed before dissolving into a soft nothingness, the material still visible but no longer tangible. The owl flew through, circling the room once before landing on the small, battered dresser near your bed.

Its feathers were mottled shades of grey and brown, sleek yet slightly ruffled from the wind. Golden eyes regarded you, and its curved beak glinted faintly in the dim light. It was a tawny owl, a breed known for its adaptability and nocturnal hunting prowess. Tawny owls were solitary by nature, often territorial, and rarely inclined to trust humans.

Training it had been difficult. You had thought about using certain magic to create a particular bond. The idea was tempting, especially after so many failures. But each time, you dismissed the thought. It felt wrong, like forcing something that should come naturally. No, this way was better. Even if it took years, even if there were more failures along the way, it would be worth it to earn their loyalty properly.

Your eyes dropped to its leg, where a small, rolled-up note was tied with a bit of string.

“What shall I name you?” you considered aloud, carefully untying the note. Your voice distracted the bird well enough. “Avalerion?”

The owl tilted its head and gave you a peck.

“All right,” you conceded. “What about Taliesin?”

Another peck, this one sharper and more pointed, as though it were growing impatient with your efforts.

“Ambrosius?”

The owl offered a derisive nip at your fingers.

“Faustus?”

Before it could bite your arm clean off, as it appeared inclined to do, the owl suddenly swivelled its head, locking on something behind it. You followed the gaze just in time to see a rodent darting behind a stack of books on the desk. The pest’s small body was just visible through the gap between two tomes and gone a second later. The owl flapped its wings, swooping down from the dresser and advancing towards the books.

Unconcerned, you unrolled the note now in your hand, letting your eyes scan the words written there. It was simple, concise, but unmistakable in tone:

Your company would be most welcome for tea this morning.

The handwriting was pristine, formal, and with an elegance that only Vivienne could pull off in writing. It read as an invitation, yet the phrasing carried an undertone that made refusal impossible.

At the bottom of the note, there was an additional line:

Your owl was most insistent—peculiar, given I’ve never spoken to it. Yet, it knew the letter was for you. I’ve sent another carrier, one I trust more than this flea-infested creature.

“Flea-infested, are you?” you asked the owl, which was halfway through devouring the rodent. It hooted softly in response, unbothered by the critique.

You let out a sigh, folding the note carefully. Watching the owl enjoy its breakfast, you turned your thoughts to naming it again. As it tore at the rodent, your eyes drifted to the platter it was standing on—a silver tray that had been there for some days, judging by the faint traces of dust clinging to the edges.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment. Rising from the bed, you opened it to find a servant standing there, a sealed letter in hand. “A delivery from Madame de Fer.”

You gave your thanks, taking the envelope. They nodded and retreated down the hall. Closing the door, you broke the seal and skimmed the note. It was more or less the same.

“Well, Nameless,” you said, glancing back up at the owl. “It looks like you’ve succeeded in your training. But don’t think this means your work is done. I have plenty more tasks for you.”

The owl hooted softly, as if it had expected no less.

As you walked through the currently being remodelled corridors of Skyhold towards the balcony Vivienne had commandeered, you tried not to back out. This talk would not be pleasant.

Since your decision to meet with both Mages and Templars—an alliance that still had many in the Inquisition on edge—Vivienne had barely hidden her disapproval. It was always there, lingering behind polite smiles and pointed questions. Council meetings had been markedly tense; her silence, when she chose it, had been as condemning as her words. Despite her disapproval, she seemed to understand you wouldn’t simply dismiss her. Vivienne was as integral to the Inquisition as the very foundation Skyhold stood on.

Vivienne had chosen her perch with care, taking over the balcony that overlooked the main hall. Positioned above where judgements and decrees would be made, it allowed her to watch the Inquisition’s movements from a vantage that was both physical and symbolic—always looking down, always observing, as if it were her rightful place. If she hadn’t been so vocal in her criticism, you might have thought she wanted to be the Inquisitor herself. But it seemed her ambitions were greater, her aspirations far more important and less trivial than who is Inquisitor.

As you entered, she gestured gracefully to the seat across from her, already pouring tea from an intricately gilded pot. She radiated her usual calm authority, but there was a razor’s edge to her presence today, a tension that was impossible to ignore. When Sera called Vivienne the “Ice Queen,” it was usually in rudeness; today, you could almost agree there was a sense behind her cold demeanour, something hard and unmoving in her regard.

“I’ll admit,” she began, setting her cup down with the gentlest of clinks. “I was surprised when I learned you did not seize the opportunity to become our Inquisitor.” She leant back, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “It was a rather bold decision, though I’m not sure if I’d call it wise.”

Her words were like knives wrapped in velvet—sharp and cutting, yet dressed in a thin layer of courtesy. You had anticipated this. After all, the moment you’d stepped out of the council chamber without the mantle of Inquisitor, the look in Vivienne’s eyes had said everything she hadn’t voiced aloud. And that was taking into account how she rarely held back her tongue. She was honest, and so her silence was discerning.

You placed your cup down slowly, clenching your jaw as it made a sharp clatter against the saucer. “I did what I thought was best. There have been no disasters since, no coups or sieges on Skyhold.”

Vivienne’s perfectly painted lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Did you?” Her gaze bore into you, assessing, judging. “Or was it fear of the responsibility? You’ve turned down one of the greatest opportunities of your life, and for what? To avoid the scrutiny that comes with power?”

You swallowed the sudden bitterness rising in your throat, despite not yet taking a sip of the tea. Perhaps Vivienne had poisoned it, and you had a physical vision.

Deciding not to become the leader of the Inquisition had not been out of fear. You had your reasons. But it wasn’t the kind of decision Vivienne would ever understand. To her, power was everything—a tool to be mastered, a weapon to wield. She had built her entire existence around controlling her environment, her image, and those around her. Refusing a position of such influence was beyond her comprehension.

“There are other ways to serve the Inquisition,” you replied firmly.

“Ah, yes,” Vivienne said with a touch of sarcasm, raising her cup to her lips. “Perhaps by fading into the shadows and letting rumour build your reputation. Or by sitting quietly in the corner and hoping others will come to you on their own will. You’d be surprised how well that works. It has thus far for you.”

The civil conversation continued, winding through topics with no particular hostility, and certainly not with Vivienne choosing words to prod at any insecurities.

“I appreciate your concern,” you said finally, settling down the teacup. “But I’m confident in my decision.”

Her smile widened, but it was devoid of warmth. “Confidence is admirable, darling. Just be sure it isn’t misplaced.” She paused, her eyes glinting with something darker, something calculating. “And remember, when the time comes—and it will—you can always reconsider.”

The finality of her tone left little room for argument. It was a warning, thinly veiled as advice. You understood now why she had called you here. This wasn’t a simple invitation for tea; it usually never was.

After a moment, Vivienne leant slightly to her side and produced a book from the arm of her silk-lined chair. The cover was leather, embossed with an intricate script, the text foreign and not the common language, but the message was clear when she flipped open the cover and began reading.

You gave her a polite nod, then got up from your seat, leaving the warmth of her parlour behind as you walked away.

Later, you tracked down Solas in the rotunda, the wide, circular space being overlooked by the library above. He stood before a bare stretch of wall, his fingers stained with black chalk, his face hidden in concentration as he prepared to outline a complex diagram on the stone. The candlelight flickered softly, casting shadows that danced along the walls, and you watched him move, arm muscles flexing under his tunic as he traced precise lines with practiced ease.

Without turning, he began to speak. “You refused the mantle of Inquisitor. Choosing instead to withdraw from what you have built. Few are ever granted the power to shape nations, to guide them out of darkness, and yet fewer refuse it,” he said, his tone carrying the faintest edge of disapproval. “A noble decision, perhaps. But a foolish one.”

His words cut through your observations, as if he’d sensed your presence the moment you entered the room, which had been some minutes ago now. You quickly warmed the mug in your hand, for the liquid had chilled rather quickly in the draughty chamber.

“I knew you would say something like that,” you said, sighing, making the breath mist in the cold air. You approached the desk that sat in the centre of the room, briefly glancing down at the notes strewn across the surface. “How, may I ask, was my decision foolish in your eyes?”

He paused his movements, turning to face you fully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered his words. “You underestimate the influence you wield merely by existing in this role. Refusing to lead does not absolve you of the responsibility you carry. You are a symbol of hope to the people of Thedas. Whether you acknowledge it or not, that power remains. You can guide it or let it fall into the hands of those who would misuse it.”

His answer felt rehearsed, as though he had already played this conversation out in his mind a hundred times, as if he had thought through every possible argument you might present, if you were in the arguing mood to present them.

“You speak as if power is the goal. It’s not,” you said, placing down the mug on the messy desk in the centre of the room. With a sweep of your hand, the items organised themselves as best they could. The precariously stacked books situated themselves better, no longer threatening to damage themselves if they were to tumble off the desk. “Tea?”

He grimaced. “No, thank you.”

You waved your hand over the mug, changing the liquid with barely any acknowledgment. “Coffee, then? Wine? Or would you prefer chocolate milk? Perhaps I should summon something bitter to match your mood.”

He gave a long, unimpressed look but approached anyway, beckoned by his curiosity. He picked up the mug tentatively, peering into it as though the liquid might reveal the future. “An impressive display of magic,” he said after he sipped at it warily, his expression shifting to mild surprise.

“It’s a favourite recipe, one passed on by the…” you hesitated, the words catching in your throat.

He didn’t seem to notice the hesitation, too focused on the beverage. “You alter the essence of things as easily as most draw breath,” he said, not questioning the sudden pallor that crossed your face.

“It’s child’s play,” you said dismissively, steering the conversation back to safer ground, not wanting to dwell on old memories or his backhanded compliments. “Power corrupts. I’ve seen it time and again. The person who holds the most influence isn’t always the one sitting on the throne. And I care not for power, whatever shape it takes. With the breach closed and Corypheus dead, I no longer hold a responsibility to the Inquisition or the people of Ferelden. My duty here is done.”

Solas’s gaze flicked towards the glowing mark on your hand. “And the mark? It will not fade on its own.”

You followed his gaze, suddenly feeling the mark pulse faster. “I always knew if I wanted real answers, I’d have to find them myself. As much as I appreciate your help, it isn’t enough.”

“There are no answers for you in this world,” Solas said quietly. “No one here today can give you what you seek.”

“Fortunately, I’ve learned to converse with spirits,” you replied, a touch of bitterness creeping into your tone. “Thanks, in no small part, to you. I’ve learned that much.”

Where would you go? The thought tugged at the edges of your mind. To converse with spirits required focus and safety—a place where your body could rest while your consciousness wandered. Apparating away seemed appealing, but for what purpose? The road held no answers, and abandoning the Inquisition completely felt premature. Solas’s grasp on the Fade surpassed your own in ways you could scarcely comprehend. If anyone could help you understand the mark, it was him. Still, you couldn’t shake the urge to leave the Inquisition. There was a restlessness within you, a need to escape the weight of expectations that surrounded you here.

“You underestimate what you have to learn,” he said, turning back to his blank canvas, as if the wall itself might hold some elusive truth he sought. “Do not abandon the Inquisition. Not yet. There is still much work to be done, and the Inquisition can offer you more than you realise.”

“I’m not entertaining the thought of becoming Inquisitor when I’m thinking of leaving,” you said. “Some leader I would be.”

Solas turned, his expression unreadable. “The Inquisition will need someone like you—someone with strength and influence—to stand against what is coming. The Mages and Templars will meet for negotiations. Your voice alone won’t be enough to neutralise the threat they pose to one another.”

“Ser Barris owes me a favour,” you said, shrugging nonchalantly. “He’ll see to it the Templars meet with the Mages, if only to humour me.”

“He owes you a favour,” Solas corrected. “Not the Inquisition. He has not officially been made leader of the Templars. There will be indecision, and once that favour is fulfilled, you will have no sway over them. What will happen when the Templars’ true intentions become clear? When the Mages decide they no longer need the Inquisition?”

“Ser Barris is a reasonable man. He wants peace as much as anyone else. Of how little I know of him, I know he wouldn’t allow things to devolve into violence.”

“Reason does not hold sway over power struggles. And once both factions come to an agreement, Ser Barris will no longer be beholden to you. Without authority, without the title of Inquisitor, you will have no leverage to stop what follows.”

You paused. The logic of his argument was stronger than could have been assumed. “So what, you’re suggesting I force the Templars into submission?”

“I’m suggesting you lead,” Solas said firmly. “Only with leadership can you guide both factions, rather than merely influencing them. Otherwise, we risk losing the Mages. The Breach is closed, and their alliance with the Inquisition was primarily to that end. Once the Templars arrive, the tension will rise again, and without a strong leader, the Inquisition and all its allies will crumble.” He paused, stepping closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “What happens if Cassandra or Vivienne decide the Mages must return to their Circles? As of now, you hold equal power to anyone on the War Council. Therefore, as you stand, you will not be able to prevent it.”

“I wouldn’t let it go that far.”

“And how would you stop it?” he challenged. “Without authority, you cannot ensure the safety of anyone—Mage or Templar. And if you were to leave the Inquisition entirely, you would be abandoning it to others. They would carry on without you, but you would have no voice, no means of influence, and no way to change its course.”

“And you think the solution to all of this is for me to become the Inquisitor?”

“You misunderstand. It is not about command for the sake of power,” he said, stepping towards you. “The Inquisition is fragile without a leader. If you do not take up that mantle, others will rise to claim it, and they will not have your intentions. The Mages, the Templars, the nobles of Orlais and Ferelden—they will turn on each other, and you will be powerless to stop it.”

“I’m not going to command the Inquisition just to keep everyone from tearing each other apart,” you snapped. “I don’t need a title for that. The Inquisition can still function without me sitting on a big chair with a fancy title.”

Solas shook his head slightly, as if disappointed by your response. “And what do you think will happen when the Templars and Mages are forced to cohabitate? The Mage-Templar rebellion has been going on for years, and it is unlikely to end simply because they are placed under the same banner. The Templars will still act like prison guards, enforcing control over the Mages, even if both factions are united under the Inquisition. Without a leader with real influence, one who can manage both groups, you risk alienating the Mages. And we both know it will take more than vague promises to keep the Templars from causing harm.”

You took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising tide inside you. His words held too much truth, and it only made the decision feel heavier. “I didn’t ask for this,” you said. “I never wanted to be a leader. I’m not some saviour, and I’m not going to play politics just to keep the peace.”

Solas studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a soft sigh, he said, “I am not asking you to play politics. I am asking you to lead. There is a difference.”

You scoffed, trying to brush off the intensity of his words. “Why don’t you lead, then? You’ve certainly put a lot of thought into this. Or is that how you know all this, from watching it play out in the Fade?”

His expression hardened, a flicker of disappointment passing across his features. “Do you think they would accept someone like me? You have the power to lead, and they will follow you.”

“Some leader I’d be,” you murmured under your breath. “I can barely keep my own life together, let alone the fate of the Inquisition.”

Solas studied you for a moment, his gaze sharp. “It is often those who doubt their worthiness who are best suited to lead. Confidence without caution invites disaster. But if you walk away, who will take your place?”

“There’s no place to ‘take,’” you said, crossing your arms. “I was always the proxy, filling a role until Hawke could lead. From what I’ve heard, Hawke’s more than capable.” You allowed a small shrug. “I’ve heard good things.”

He raised an eyebrow, the subtle arch both sceptical and faintly admonishing. “So you would place all your faith in a figure you do not truly know? One who you know only from Varric’s colourful tales and whose reality may not match the fiction?” He gave you a pointed look. “Do you believe it best to entrust lives and hopes to a myth? You’d give them an idol instead of a leader—would that be a kindness to them or an alleviation to yourself?”

“Varric knows Hawke,” you said, standing your ground. “I trust his word.”

“Varric’s word is many things. But he can bend the truth as easily as you reshape tea. To put your faith in his stories is to anchor yourself to a well-crafted illusion.”

You sighed, frustrated. His arguments echoed those you’d heard from Cassandra, from Vivienne, from the snippets of soldiers’ conversations you’d overheard in the halls—each urging you to step into the role they believed you were destined to fill. But you couldn’t shake the sense that you were an outsider in this world, that your choices here felt foreign, forced.

“I don’t belong in this world,” you said, the words heavy as they left your lips. “I’m not about to make decisions that could change it forever.”

“The world does not care where you come from,” Solas said quietly, his eyes meeting yours again. “Only what you do with the power you hold. You have already changed this world. Simply by being here, you have altered its course. And you are not finished yet.”

“What would you have me do, then?” you asked, almost reluctantly. “Take up the mantle I’ve already refused?”

His eyes flickered, a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation. “Not for the title, but for what you can do. For what you can prevent. The Inquisition needs someone who understands the cost of power, who will not be blinded by it.”

“And you think that’s me?”

“I do.”

You searched his face for some sign that he was wrong, that he didn’t know you as well as he seemed to. But all you saw was a calm, unwavering certainty. The same certainty that had drawn you to him in the first place, despite all your misgivings.

You sighed again, the sound carrying the weight of your indecision. “I don’t want this,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “I never wanted any of this.”

“Wanting and needing are seldom aligned.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, you saw not just the scholar, the apostate, the strange, wise elf who seemed to know more than he should. You saw someone who understood the burden you carried, perhaps better than you did yourself. He’d seen people like you through the Fade. How often does history like to repeat itself? Are there others exactly like you, scattered across different times?

You hesitated, the argument poised on your tongue. But the truth was, you weren’t sure what you wanted anymore. Part of you longed to run, to disappear into the shadows and leave all this behind. And yet… there was something compelling about his words, about the idea of staying and trying to shape a future instead of just surviving it.

You shook your head, disbelief warring with something dangerously close to hope. “I don’t even know where I’d start. I’m not a leader. I never have been.”

“And yet you have led,” he pointed out. “Through action, through resolve. People look to you, not because of the title, but because of who you are.”

“Because of my hand,” you corrected. “Something I’ll cut off myself if it comes to it.”

He gave a brief nod. “Such efforts to evade responsibility. You speak as if your actions would free you from what you’ve already done—and what others believe you capable of doing. But responsibility, like power, cannot be discarded so easily. You carry it not because you wish to, but because others have placed it upon you. Do you think refusing to act absolves you of the consequences of your inaction?” His tone turned firmer as he turned his back, returning to his work on the wall, tracing something inscrutable. “You despise being held responsible, yet you seem content to let others suffer for your reluctance to step forward.”

The accusation cut deeper than you expected. “I didn’t cause this. None of this is my burden.”

“And yet it is within your power to influence what happens next,” he said. “The world does not wait for you to want this or to feel ready. It moves forward regardless. Without your guidance, others will act, and they may act poorly. Do you truly believe that abdicating responsibility spares you from the fallout of the choices you leave to others?”

“I didn’t come here to play saviour or leader. I came here to stop Corypheus, and that’s done.”

“Corypheus is dead, yes. But the chaos he wrought lives on,” he replied, still not turning around to face you while speaking. Such an act would be considered rude. “And if you believe the end of one man signals the end of the storm, you are more naive than I thought.”

His words stung, but they also rang with an irritating truth. You looked away, trying to gather your thoughts, but they scattered like sand in the wind. “There are others who are better suited—Josephine, Cassandra, perhaps Vivienne if she’d lower her standards.”

“They are capable,” Solas acknowledged. “But they are also divided by their own ambitions and beliefs. They do not have the singularity of purpose you possess, nor the perspective of someone who has walked in both worlds—human and otherwise. And none of them bear the symbol that has already united the disparate factions under one banner.”

You stood there for a long moment, watching him trace the chalk lines on the wall, feeling the tension between your desire to escape and the truth of his words pulling at you. But even now, with everything laid out before you, the answer still seemed impossibly far away.

“I won’t become the Inquisitor,” you said finally.

Solas did not turn around, but you heard the quiet resignation in his reply. “Then perhaps we are at a loss.”

You left the rotunda, Solas’ disappointment trailing behind you. As you rounded the corner, you nearly bumped into Varric, who was standing by the fireplace, looking a bit too casual to not have been listening.

“Well, look at you,” he drawled, eyeing the empty teacup in your hand. “Delivering tea now, are we? I’m sure the elf was all smiles. Where’s mine, by the way?”

You gave him a sidelong look. “I didn’t think you were much for tea, but I’ll keep you in mind next time.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. As you started to walk past him, he held up a hand to stop you. “Hold up. I actually wanted to talk to you.”

With an eyebrow raised, you stopped, arms crossing as he leant back against the wall. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“You’ve probably heard this from everyone by now and don’t need me giving advice,” he said. “But I’m going to give it anyway because I’d hate to see you throw away a chance like this without at least a nudge. Have you thought about reconsidering turning down that shiny new title of Inquisitor? It has a nice ring to it. Not that I’m saying you’d be an ideal leader—Maker knows we’re not running short on sceptics—but you’re… well, you’re you.”

“And what do you mean by that, exactly?” you asked, not sure whether to feel offended or relieved that he wasn’t all starry-eyed at the thought of you in command.

“It means that for better or worse, you’re the person everyone keeps looking at to lead us. No one’s asking for a saint or some untouchable paragon—they’re asking for someone they can trust, and somehow, you fit the bill.” He shrugged, crossing his arms and giving you a knowing look. “I can’t figure it out either, but here we are.”

You sighed, staring down into the empty cup, having the urge to fill it with tea and read the tea leaves for any answer of the future. “I don’t deserve the role. I’m not a leader. I’m not even sure I belong here.”

“Now would be the time to cut the self-doubt crap. I don’t know what’s keeping you from seeing it, but the rest of us watched you throw yourself into the thick of things with Corypheus and come out on top, even if you had no idea what you were getting into. Not many can say the same.”

“You thought you killed Corypheus with Hawke, too,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “Even if he survived, you did too.”

“Hey, don’t turn this around on me,” he replied, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “And if you think you’re deflecting your role onto me, then we’ve got a real problem. Cassandra wouldn’t know whether to go after you for making the call or me for being ballsy enough to take it.”

You shook your head. “But how can I lead when half the time I’m throwing myself in front of danger without thinking about what’s left behind? It doesn’t exactly form a very stable foundation for leadership.”

Varric’s expression softened slightly, but his tone stayed firm. “Look, I get it. You’re self-sacrificing to a fault. But you’re someone who understands the risks and won’t send anyone to the wolves without being willing to take the same hits.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off before you could get a word in.

“Maybe you don’t have all the answers right now. Who does? Half of those who came here are lost or looking for answers they’ll probably never find, but they stay because they’ve given them something real.” He gave you a half-smile. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

“So you’re saying I should continue winging it and hope everything doesn’t go to shit?”

“Not quite,” he countered with a faint grimace. “I’m saying, maybe don’t overthink it. Being a leader doesn’t mean you stop being yourself. If that means throwing yourself in front of danger every once in a while—well, just make sure to survive it.”

“Now I understand. Less noble sacrifices, more reckless resilience. Your advice is certainly unique.”

He shrugged. “You’re going to need that resilience if you’re really taking on all the trouble we’ve got coming our way.” He cast a look back over his shoulder at the empty hall. “I know enough to know the fight’s never over. Especially not when things are this calm. We’re in the calm before the storm, and I don’t know what’s coming, but I don’t think we’re done with Corypheus.”

That, you could agree with. Even long after Ranrok’s death, there were many who believed they could pick up where he left off. Of course, none were ever as worthy.

“I know what you mean,” you said. You’d never had anyone you could relate to when it came to stopping those who wished to destroy the world. There weren’t many wizards who got very far, and Wizardkind usually held a tight leash on non-humans to prevent them from waging war. “Things like this never end quickly. There’s always something waiting, lurking, just when you think it’s over. And Corypheus had too much power and too many allies for this to all vanish overnight.” It was a reason, if not the reason, why you still stuck around.

Varric gave a short, humourless laugh. “This one’s not really lurking. It’s flying over our heads and knows we can’t do a thing about it.” He nodded towards the stained glass that you’d repaired some days ago. “That dragon of his wasn’t just for show.”

“Whatever hold Corypheus had over it should be broken,” you said. For all its ferocity, there was something tragic about the creature. “It should no longer bother anyone who doesn’t deserve it. Tickle the dragon, suffer the consequences.” Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus. “Such a beast shouldn’t be tethered to the will of man.”

Varric gave you an odd look, somewhere between disbelief and sympathy. “You don’t know, do you? That ‘dragon’ wasn’t just any old flying lizard. It was an Archdemon.” When you were about to question him, he continued. “They aren’t just dragons—they’re supposedly Old Gods, corrupted by the Blight and dragged out of their sleep by darkspawn. Every time one of them wakes up, it brings a Blight with it. They’re the generals of the horde, and when they call, every darkspawn out there answers. That thing wasn’t free, and it sure as hell wasn’t just a dragon. It was Corypheus’ trump card, and that makes it all the more dangerous.”

A troubling thought, if true. The reappearance of resting creatures or gods bringing chaos in their wake was widespread among many mythologies: the Titanomachy war, Typhon’s return, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and a majority of impending events of Ragnarök. But those stories didn’t involve you.

This, though? This was real, and you were standing in the midst of it. Unlike the myths, there was no distance or abstraction to this. No poetic telling of events coming or long past. This was real, breathing, and far too close for comfort.

A cold feeling settled in your chest, seeping through your marrow like tendrils. “I didn’t know… But maybe that proves my point. My ignorance is reason enough not to lead. I’m stumbling in the dark while the rest of you are already leagues ahead of me.”

Varric shook his head. “Don’t sell yourself short. Nobody’s born knowing this stuff. We’re all just doing our best to make it work.” He gestured vaguely around you, the hall catching the morning light through its repaired stained windows. Josephine had entered quietly from one of the halls. Her shoulders were drawn with exhaustion as she thumbed through a set of documents.

“And look where your best has gotten us so far,” he continued. “We’re still here, and for a lot of people, that’s not nothing.”

His words stirred something in you—confidence, perhaps, or at least the faintest ember of it.

“For now,” you said, smothering the embers before they could become a forest fire. Hope was dangerous; it only led to expectations.

He tilted his head slightly, as though gauging your ability to argue about something so trivial. However he concluded, he then waved a hand in the air. “You know, it’s okay to have a little faith once in a while. You’re not going to jinx the whole world just by believing you’ve done something right.”

“I’ve seen what happens when hope turns into recklessness, and I’d rather not follow that path.”

“Fair enough. But you’ve gotten us this far because you know when to throw yourself into danger and when to hold back. That’s not recklessness; it’s instinct. Maybe not flawless instinct, but it’s better than most.” He leant back against the armchair. “You’re not perfect, and none of us expect you to be. But you’re still here when you could have left at any time.”

You sighed, giving him a small nod, though uncertainty made it feel like a deception. “You’re right. It was foolish of me to not have left a long time ago.”

“You were a fool to stay and get our hopes up,” he said, his grin returning. “Guess that’s our good luck, huh?”

The corners of your mouth twitched, almost forming a smile before the weight of your doubts pressed it back down. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

The Inquisition had yet to fully recover from the devastation at Haven before you were sent off again. You’d tried your best to help accommodate the townspeople and refugees into the dust-ridden fort of Skyhold, but the crumbling walls and bitter cold made it difficult to provide any real comfort. You even attempted to repair one of the towers, hoping to offer more space for the people huddling in the main hall, but without a wand, your control over magic had been unpredictable. The stones had trembled under your will, collapsing before you could do anything to stop it. Now, there was even less space, all because you had wanted to help. It was best to leave such things be until you could figure out how to create your own wand, considering staves seemed impossible to master without adequate training.

That, or someone had cursed yours to disobey. Yes, that had to be it. Perhaps it had been Sera’s doing.

It was best to leave Skyhold behind for a time and handle what loose ends needed tying up. You, along with your companions, were sent to the Fallow Mire to track down missing Inquisition soldiers. Despite the fact that you dreaded returning to Skyhold and the bitter cold that clung to the Frostback Mountains, it was good to be away, even if the muggy heat of the Mire felt oppressive, damp, and carrying a stench of rot and decay that lingered in your nostrils.

“Look alive,” Dorian advised, his voice dry despite the watery mess around you. “We wouldn’t want to be caught off-guard by a few rotting corpses now, would we?”

“Now isn’t that an encouraging thought?” you muttered.

The marshlands stretched out in every direction, thick mud squelching beneath your boots as it tried to suck you down like it was some tainted form of quicksand. Wetlands, including bogs, fens, and marshes were thought to be places of evil by the ancient Norse people. Indeed, by standing on the muddy riverbank, overlooking the dark bog, a dark feeling rippled just out of touch. The feeling was indescribable, but certainly dark and all-consuming. To further the sickening feeling, the surface of the water bubbled slowly, like a cauldron filled with thick sludge. It was safe to say that if this was your world, even the fiercest Norse warriors would never dare continue forth.

Scout Harding had warned you not to get too close to the bog, but you found yourself leaning over its edge, squinting through the haziness to make out a safe path forward. There wasn’t much of a clear way, and the bog’s stagnant air seemed to swallow any light, magical or not. Though it was early morning, the dense trees and mountain range surrounding the mire, combined with the dark clouds overhead, turned the place into a shadowed labyrinth. It felt like everlasting twilight, and the weak light barely penetrated through the gloom.

The only light being offered was the Lumos lit at the tip of your staff. It was a basic spell, so failing to cast it would be a disgrace, but it held strong. For now.

“Let’s hope this opponent of mine hasn’t gotten impatient and decided to kill the patrol already,” you muttered, backing away from the riverbank to find another route through the swamp. The dark waters lapped at your boots, as if to recall you back into its touch.

From the safety of a nearby dock, Dorian snorted. “I doubt the Avvar understand how hostages work. They probably think they’re doing us a favour by keeping them alive this long. If only they could have done it in better weather.” He wiped rain from his face.

You shot him an exasperated look as the two of you began walking along the dock. It creaked underfoot, and the everlasting rain had rendered the rotting wood slippery. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. Why don’t you just cast a rain-repelling charm and be done with it?”

“Why haven’t you? Considering how much you boast about the versatility of your magic.”

You bit back a sharp retort, choosing to let the comment slide. The truth was, without a wand, casting even the simplest of spells felt clumsy and unpredictable. But you weren’t about to admit that aloud. Instead, you focused on the task at hand. “Let’s keep moving.”

As warnings had depicted, the bog was alive with an unnatural energy, and it wasn’t long before you encountered the first of the undead. The mire grew quieter, more unsettling, as you walked deeper towards its grimy grasp. The rain ceased to be a mere annoyance as the stifling silence was broken by groaning and sloshing sounds. Figures emerged from the waterlogged ground—shambling, half-rotted corpses dragging themselves towards you, dripping with decay.

“Fire,” you advised the group sharply, your eyes narrowing at the approaching undead. “Use fire to take them down.”

Those who could summon fire did, but Cassandra was left to charge without caring that the undead were quickly rising. In the corner of your eye, Dorian summoned a red and orange flame that sputtered in the downpour but held steady enough to ignite the nearest undead. The stench of burning, rotted flesh mixed with the swamp’s putrid odour, turning your stomach. However, try as you may, the sight of the corpses rising from the muddy water was quick to trigger a flash in your memory, unbidden.

You were back on the banks of the Thames, your hands shaking as you relived the nightmare. The water had been just as filthy, just as dark, and those hands—those cold, lifeless hands—had reached for you then, just as these undead reached for you now. Hands you’d sent tumbling to their deaths. You could feel their presence, clawing at the edges of your mind, trying to drag you back into the water, to drown you in the guilt.

You shook your head violently, forcing the memories away as you realised you’d travelled some ways away. The bog was quiet, except for some buzzing insects. Ahead, a flickering light cut through the gloom. It seemed to be a beacon of some sort, a rare source of clarity appearing when it was needed most.

“This job should’ve been left to the advisors,” you muttered under your breath as you and your companions approached the beacon’s glow. “But I was asked for specifically.”

“Do tell, who thought it wise to bring me, of all people, to this swamp?” Dorian bemoaned. “Surely you could have brought a less valuable mage to this charming little corner of Ferelden.” He cast a pointed look at Solas, who was quietly wringing the bog’s filth from his vest, his expression as impassive as ever. “Very easily could have handled this swamp alone.”

“I did ask Vivienne if she’d like to accompany us, but she politely declined.”

“You didn’t extend me that courtesy.”

“None of us were asked,” Cassandra interjected, her tone as weary as the look on her face, her hair damp and armour streaked with mud.

Solas took it upon himself to light the way with Veilfire, the green flames casting eerie shadows on the twisted trees around you. The flames sizzled under the falling rain, flickering uncertainly as drops hissed against them, but they didn’t go out completely. The Veilfire flickered uncertainly, sizzling under the downpour, but somehow it held on, illuminating a narrow path through the mire.

“The beacons seem to draw out the undead,” Cassandra observed, her hand resting on her sword hilt as her gaze darted warily across the bog. “We could use them to fight on dry land.”

“That may be,” you replied, casting a wary glance around. “But we should also find out who, or what, is raising the dead. This isn’t random. Someone’s controlling these corpses, and we need to know why.”

“You suspect necromancy?” Cassandra asked, a hint of surprise in her voice.

Solas cut in before you could respond. “These are not the workings of a necromancer. The undead are simply demons inhabiting fallen bodies. They are drawn through by the rifts. It is expected that if the rifts throughout the Mire are closed, the dead will no longer rise.”

You hadn’t considered that possibility. “But what’s causing all these fallen bodies, then? Besides the Avvar and the Mire itself?” You glanced around, trying to scout the landscape through the fog. “It’s almost as though this place was designed to draw out spirits. The beacons suggest as much.”

With Solas leading the way, his Veilfire casting a ghastly green glow over the hazy depths of the Mire, you pressed on. The ground squelched beneath your feet, thick mud clutching at your boots as you trudged forward.

As you crossed a precariously rotten dock, you heard something strange off to the side. You looked over, spotting a creature that, at first glance, resembled a hippo—but something about it was wrong. Far too still, and its shape, too exaggerated. It stared back with an unsettling gaze. It seemed content to stare, not charge and attack as a hippo would.

As you squinted at it, trying to place the creature, your foot slipped on the slick wood. Someone behind you steadied you just in time to prevent you from falling into the mire, though you remained fixated on the creature.

“What on earth is that?” you asked, gripping your rescuer’s arm as you regained balance.

“Bogfisher,” Cassandra supplied gruffly behind your ear. She barely spared it a glance as she pushed past you, keeping her hand on her sword’s hilt. “Harmless, as long as it is not cornered. But it is not the monsters in the swamp we should be worried about.”

“Harmless or not, that thing belongs in a nightmare,” you muttered, glancing away from the beast and refocusing on the beacon ahead.

At the next beacon, Cassandra knelt down near a half-buried object by a broken rune stone, frowning as she brushed aside dirt and mud. “A journal,” she murmured, pulling it out from the muck. The cover was sodden, nearly falling apart in her hands.

She handed it to you, who flipped it open carefully, squinting as you scanned the smeared writing. The pages were lined with hastily scrawled notes, mentions of dark magic, and twisted, arcane symbols. The owner, an apostate, had been researching something—something dangerous, if the few legible words were any indication. One passage suggested the raising of the undead and controlling spirits, though much of the ink had bled into dark blots.

After glancing at a rather macabre illustration of a body, you snapped the journal closed and stowed it away in your pouch.

As evening set in, the already-hazy forest deepened into further blackness, if that was even possible. The larger-than-normal moon offered little light.

“It’s getting late. We should find a clearing and set camp.”

Cassandra suggested setting up camp for the night, and though few were reluctant to stop in the midst of the marsh, rest was necessary. With only faint light from the dying embers of your small fire, you lay down on your cot, exhaustion easily pulling you under.

Yet, as had happened so often in recent days, sleep did not bring peace. Dreams crept into your mind, heavy with visions that felt far too real.

In the past few days, your dreams had turned unsettling, recurring visions that seemed to circle back to one place: a small, sunlit hamlet, the kind nestled in soft green hills that you might stumble upon while wandering through the countryside. The hamlet felt real, almost too real. There was a sense of warmth to it, yet something beneath the surface whispered that it was wrong, as though some deep part of you knew better.

In the dream, the village unfolded with vivid clarity. You saw tidy cottages with thatched roofs, standing in neat rows along narrow, winding paths. Around the houses were lush fields, dotted with bright wildflowers and hedgerows that lined the boundaries of farmland. There was laughter, the shrill, joyful sounds of children running after each other through the green. A woman gathered herbs besides a cottage door, tucking sprigs of lavender into a basket. A young boy clutched a worn rag doll, stumbling and scraping his knees as he trailed after her. Everything looked perfect. Normal. Alive.

You drifted through the village like a ghost, moving among the people unseen, unacknowledged. You watched them, almost feeling you were there among them. They smiled and chatted with one another. The scene felt like an old memory, one you could almost claim as your own. You thought of the isolated life you had led in Scotland, of the small cabin where you’d kept to yourself. You’d felt like an outsider in places like this, always aware of eyes watching you whenever you ventured beyond the safety of your own walls. Sometimes it was the people of the little hamlets could see through you; that they could see through the enchantments you occasionally made to hide your appearance.

In this dream village, though, the people remained oblivious to your presence, and for a moment, you could pretend you belonged there among them.

But then, as it had each night before, something in the dream shifted. The cheerful sounds quieted, laughter dwindling to an uneasy murmur. The warm sunlight seemed to cool. People began to cough, the quiet, wracking kind that seemed to sap their strength. Then, one by one, they started collapsing where they stood.

You watched, helpless, as other villagers dragged the fallen to the village edge. They moved with a haunting resolve, carrying the still bodies to a clearing. One man poured oil from a clay jar over the bodies, and someone struck a spark. A towering flame rose in a sickening blaze, illuminating the remaining villagers’ faces. None of them looked at each other, and none looked at you.

You were still the ghost, the silent sentinel watching over them. You could not voice a warning. You could only watch as the flames devoured the bodies, the villagers’ faces pale and blank as they went about their grisly task. The fire consumed everything, turning the once-peaceful village into a scene of horror. The images burned into your mind until you could almost feel the smoke in your lungs, the ash clinging to your skin.

But then, as if someone had turned the page in a book, the dream shifted again. This scene was different, unfamiliar, new.

You were no longer in the village but somewhere dark and cold, and where the rain still sizzled when landing on your cheeks. A damp cage stood before you, rusting from the rain, and in the corner of the cell, a hulking figure crouched, turned away to you. Massive, curved horns framed the head, and the body was a wall of muscle. For a moment, your breath caught. The creature looked up. Golden eyes met yours, and you realised it was no monster, but it was not human either. No, it was something straight out of myth and legend. But before you could speak, the vision dissolved and you woke up.

The Fallow Mire stretched ahead in its bleak, sopping misery. Rain drizzled steadily, soaking you to the bone, designating itself as the worse place to be, placed second worse than the freezing Frostback Mountains. The others weren’t shy about sharing their opinions on the miserable state of affairs.

Fortunately, the bickering ceased as the next wave of undead shambled into view, then continued until you noticed a figure up ahead, a man towering over the swamp’s usual inhabitants. He carried a heavy maul over his shoulder and was staring intently at a faint, still-open rift. He was taller than the average man, with muscles that seemed almost exaggerated, lending him the thick, sturdy build of an infant giant—one just old enough to be trusted to wield a weapon but too young to destroy a mountain range singlehandedly.

“Who’s that?” you asked.

Dorian squinted through the rain. “Whoever he is, he doesn’t look undead.”

“Perhaps one of the Avvar,” Solas suggested plainly, eyeing the furs and leather armour that likely marked the man as one of the tribes.

As you approached, he turned, glancing at the glow of your mark with undisguised curiosity. “So you’re Herald of Andraste.” He glanced down at your hand, which had flared twice as brightly as you neared the rift. “My kin want you dead, lowlander, but it’s not my job. No fears from me.”

“You’re an Avvar? Where’s the rest of your clan?” you asked.

He shrugged, adjusting the grip on his club as he eyed the rift. On further examination, he appeared to admire it; no hint of fear. “Trying to figure out this hole in the world. Never seen anything of its like. They spit out angry spirits. Endless. What the Sky’s trying to tell us, I don’t know.”

You glanced up at the stormy sky, imagining what your Divination professor might have said about such a rupture. Perhaps centaurs, too, would have warned of an omen like this long before it even appeared. Lightning flashed overhead, followed by a roll of thunder that seemed to rumble through the Mire itself. That wasn’t your doing, at least.

“The Lady of the Skies. Do you not know her?” Sky Watcher pressed, eyes brightening with fervour. “Can’t you see the warnings she writes through the bird flocks in the air?”

Dorian, intrigued, called out from behind you, “You use the patterns of flocking birds as an augury, then?

The man frowned. “We don’t ‘use’ them. They’re sent. You see it, or you don’t.”

“I’ve studied them before. Never quite got the right reading, though,” you interjected, recalling a failed Divination assignment you’d once turned in late. Not because of laziness, but rather because other things had come up—things you could not have ever foreseen through the flocks of birds.

“Sometimes they require the right eyes to see,” the Sky Watcher replied, undeterred.

You cleared your throat, glancing pointedly at the massive maul strapped to his back. “Are you going to attack us?” you asked, the question sounding odd even as it left your lips, almost like trying to ask a bear for permission to share its cave.

He chuckled softly, a low rumble that was neither friendly nor threatening. “Our Chieftain’s son want to fight you. I’m called in when the dead pile up. Rites to the gods, mending for the bleeding, a dagger for the dying. That’s what I do.” His voice hardened. “I don’t pick up a blade for a whelp’s trophy hunt.”

Your gaze shifted to the sealed, but not closed, rift nearby. It was faint but still active, a tear in the Veil waiting to be mended. You looked back at Sky Watcher. “You might want to move if you don’t want to get hurt.”

He bristled, his eyes narrowing. “Is that an attempt at a threat, lowlander? It needs work.”

Without waiting for anything further, you approached the rift, focusing your energy on it. You reached out with your hand, the mark flaring painfully as you opened the rift wider, allowing the raw Fade energy to flow out for a moment before you forced it closed. The remaining demons screamed as they were torn back into the Fade, the tear mending in front of you.

The Sky Watcher stared, wide-eyed. “Lady of the Skies! You can mend the gaps in the air?”

“It’s what the Herald was sent here to do,” Cassandra said in a matter-of-fact tone.

The Sky Watcher studied you for a moment, as if truly seeing you now. Then he nodded. “Maybe you do have a god’s favour after all.”

You didn’t respond, knowing it was useful, regardless of who made that comment. Brushing past his awe, you focused on the task at hand. There were still soldiers to rescue and loose ends to tie up.

The further into the swamp, the more the signs of something disturbing took shape. Rotting corpses, half-buried in the mud and stagnant pools, lay in twisted postures, their skin covered with pustules and marred by shades of purple and green. Broken waggons sat half-submerged in the mire, their wheels snapped like brittle twigs. The scorched remains of wooden structures were scattered about, and blackened corpses lay nearby, their bodies twisted and stiff. It looked as if someone had tried to purge the area with fire, desperately attempting to cleanse something foul, but the relentless downpour had thwarted any chance of success.

Dorian sniffed the air, grimacing. “Charming place. Are we here to rescue soldiers or to see how fast we can all catch a plague?”

“A plague?” you echoed, feeling a strange tug of recognition. You’d seen or heard something like this before: a sickness that swept through without mercy, leaving rot and ruin in its wake, and it was not from your history books.

Wizards had a natural defence against most non-magical diseases, a fortunate trait given that magical ailments were often far more severe. You would likely be fine, but your companions, exposed to the elements in Thedas, especially in such a diseased environment, were a different matter entirely.

Dorian’s disgusted sigh snapped you back to the present. “A cheerful addition to any decent swamp. At least in the city, you can find a decent healer. Out here you have, what? Roots and berries? Some questionable moss?”

“We’ll need to burn our clothes and sanitise every inch of our gear before we leave the Mire,” you advised, backing away from a burnt corpse just in case any contagion still lingered. The swamp’s thick, sickly smell clung to everything, prickling the back of your throat as you moved past the blackened remains of a cart. “The last thing we need is to bring any of this plague back with us. An outbreak now would signal the end of the world indefinitely.”

“So, burning all our clothes is your solution?” Dorian raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with amusement. “It would certainly make for a memorable entrance back at Skyhold. Or is this all just an elaborate excuse to get us to bare all? Very clever, my friend.”

“This isn’t the time for jokes, Dorian.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra interjected, plainly unamused.

Dorian waved off your concerns. “I’m sure we have enough healing spells between us to deal with whatever plague this place has to offer. Magic can handle whatever nasty things this swamp has lurking about. If Thedosian plagues were that unstoppable, we’d be drowning in the undead right now.”

You paused. “Theodosian?” Something about it reminded you of ‘Theodosian,’ a term you’d heard once in reference to an ancient empire back home—Rome, was it?

“Yes?”

The resemblance was strange, but you pushed it aside.

“You can never be too careful with plagues,” you said grimly. “I’ve read enough on them to know that all it takes is one bite from an infected fly or a cut exposed to tainted water. In a place like this, surrounded by decay and disease, that’s a real risk.”

As a wizard, you were lucky in that non-magical diseases tended not to affect you in the same way they might the others. But your immune system lacked the everyday exposure to bacteria that the people of Thedas had, with their bodies adapted to handle both mundane and magical contagions. Here, you lacked the evolutionary defences that came with a world in constant contact with everything from infections to plagues. If not for your magical gene, you wouldn’t stand a chance against the unfamiliar threats this world held… At least, that was the theory. Back home, it was easy to separate things as ‘magical’ and ‘not magical,’ with the magical world paying little mind to the latter. But Thedas, with its Fade and its bogfishers, was unprecedented.

“There’s an elven artefact nearby,” Solas said, breaking his silence. His voice was a welcome contrast to the groaning of the undead and your companions’ endless complaints. Yet even he sounded less grounded than usual.

After scouring the area and finding the third beacon, you finally stumbled upon a large Fade Rift, pulsing with energy, actively spewing out demons. It was quickly closed and imploded into itself. Not far beyond the Rift, there was a hidden camp settled in a small clearing, barely visible beneath a canopy of twisted trees and hanging moss.

The clearing, however, was parted by a narrow, murky stretch of water. Your gaze lingered on it uneasily, the thick, oily surface concealing whatever might lie beneath. This was precisely the sort of place the undead could lurk, hidden and waiting.

They all started forward, stepping into the water without a second thought for their safety. Cassandra was the first to notice you weren’t following. She stopped mid-stride, turning back.

“Are you coming?” she asked dryly, not wanting to be there any more than you did.

Feeling a flash of heat creep up your neck, you sucked in a deep breath and pushed forward, stepping into the cold, cloudy water that quickly sent chills through your bones.

As you neared the edge of the clearing, the noises must have alerted someone—or something. A figure emerged from the camp: the apostate, eyes wide and face twisted as she muttered an incantation, arms sweeping through the air with a staff in hand. Slowly, the water began to churn, and with creeping horror, figures beneath the surface begin to stir. With you still in it.

Bony, decayed fingers erupted from the water, clutching at your leg and dragging you down with surprising strength. You stumbled, slipping into as you were further pulled under the surface. In doing so, you swallowed a mouthful of the bog’s likely plague-ridden water. Its vile taste clung to your throat as you struggled to reach your staff. But an undead hand clamped tight around you, pinning your arms at an awkward angle, too close for you to properly wield the staff.

Just as another set of hands broke the surface, you twisted hard, using what little movement you had to kick free of the first grasp. The undead clawed towards you with manic purpose, and as panic flared, you did the only thing you could: you summoned a blast of force, sending waves of water and fragments of bone scattering around you. The force of the magic was powerful enough to push all of the water in the knee-high stream away, slamming it against the walls of the rocky cave. There was a single, resounding crash, but then the water seemed to hang, as if held back by an invisible wall, suspended in place around you. The undead, caught behind the wall of water, clawed uselessly at air, unable to reach past the watery grave.

Now standing on the muddy riverbed, free of the water, you jogged the rest of the way through the dried stream. By the time you reached the end, the apostate had been dealt with. You busied yourself by drying your clothes, trying not to stare at the lifeless form at Cassandra’s feet, her sword still partially drawn and slick with blood. Yes, the apostate had tried to kill you all and had engaged in dark magic, but the sight of a dead body—especially up close—made your stomach twist. You could still taste the swamp’s foul water, clinging to your mouth like sludge.

Dorian glanced at the parted water left in your wake. “All that just to keep your clothes dry? I had no idea you went to such lengths for your wardrobe.”

You gritted your teeth, hearing the gritty silt grinding between them. “Let’s just get through this quickly.” Turning away to have some semblance of privacy, you took a long pull from your water skin. Without a wand, you had no safe way to use Aguamenti to rinse your mouth properly, and so you were left with a bitter, mouldy aftertaste.

By the tent, Solas was already inspecting the artefact, quietly activating it. “You should try to avoid ingesting the next swamp you stride through.”

“Save your breath,” you replied tersely, still feeling the sting of the swamp’s filth in your throat.

Wordlessly, he handed over a small vial filled with a red liquid. You took it, feeling the warmth as it spread through your system, easing the ache from the encounter and dulling the lingering nausea.

“Looks like he was researching this artefact,” you noted, noticing a journal among the deceased mage’s belongings. You slipped it into your bag, planning to read it later; perhaps the apostate had learned something about the artefact that Solas hadn’t found. The knowledge could prove valuable, especially given how much dark magic seemed to be at play.

You pressed on through the swamp, dispatching more Avvar as you encountered them until you finally reached Hargrave Keep. The outpost loomed, encircled by a horde of undead standing guard. Realising there were too many to take head-on, you dodged and weaved between them and into the keep as they lurched to intercept. The apostate you’d faced must not have been the only one summoning these creatures. Someone else was pulling the strings here.

Up the hill, you arrived at a row of iron-barred cages. Rain poured through the bars, drenching the caged prisoners. The cells were cramped, cold, and intentionally uncomfortable. A few prisoners sat huddled inside, shivering and tired. They looked up as you came into view, seemingly unperturbed. None wore Inquisition armour. These weren’t the soldiers you were looking for. But you couldn’t in good conscience leave them be, regardless of the reason they were caged like animals.

And then you saw it.

Inside one cage, a massive, horned figure sat chained, its broad back pressed against the bars. The rain streamed down its greyish skin and pooled beneath it. For a moment, your heart seemed to skip. In an instant, you were back in your dream: the horned creature from the damp cell, the one who had looked at you with that unsettling familiarity. It looked like something out of myth. A minotaur, perhaps, if you were able to cast your mind back to the classes Fig taught. But there was something else, something almost… human in its demeanour.

Beside it, prisoners were bound, including a familiar face of a soldier you had met before.

Wiping rainwater from his face, Cremisius’ eyes lit up when he saw you. “Finally! I was starting to think we’d be stuck here forever.” He tried his best to stand, but the cage was too small, and the creature’s bulk took up most of the remaining space.

“Long way from the Storm Coast,” you said dryly, casting a cautious glance at the horned beast, who had shifted its head to watch you. At least it seemed well-behaved and hadn’t eaten any of the Chargers. “What are you doing here? And what kind of entertainment did the Avvar have in mind?”

The massive horned beast—the minotaur—shifted in its chains and offered a wide grin that split its face his half. “We were on our way to help rescue your helpless soldiers,” it said, revealing an awfully human voice that was both deep and masculine. “Thought we’d do you a favour. The Avvar had other ideas.”

“You’ve certainly made an impression. I hope this isn’t a display of what you can bring to the Inquisition.”

“Not quite the one we were aiming for,” Krem chimed in, still fixing you with a grateful look, though one bordering on impatience. You’d yet to unlock the cell, perhaps because you feared letting out the beast. “Believe me, we’re more competent when we’re not in chains.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing back at the horned figure. “And you are…?”

He grinned again, revealing sharp teeth. “The Iron Bull. Leader of the Chargers.” He trailed his gaze down your form. “Bare armour, strange getup… Just missing the sentimental stick. You must be none other than the Herald of Andraste.”

“The glowing hand didn’t tip you off?”

“More mages have glowing hands than you’d think. But yours seems like it’s here to stay.”

Looking around, you counted a handful of people in the cages. There weren’t as many of them as you’d expected. Unless, of course, the Avvar had already taken care of the others.

“You do realise getting captured doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, yes?” you said.

Bull laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed too jovial for a prisoner. “Fair enough. But in our defence, we were trying to help your soldiers. We just got a little sidetracked.”

“A little?”

Krem piped up, standing at attention. “We didn’t mean to get captured, but when we heard soldiers were missing from the Inquisition patrols, Bull insisted we intervene-”

“Rescue mission,” Bull interrupted cheerfully, shrugging.

Solas, who had been silent until now, murmured, “I suggest we proceed with caution. It is no coincidence that the Chargers find themselves here just where the Inquisition happens to be.”

Bull glanced over, his grin unfaltering despite the downpour. “We’re good at what we do. Coincidences, fate—whatever you want to call it. We make sure we’re where we’re needed.” He looked at you, his bushy brows raising. “Now, how about a little help getting us out of here?”

You nodded briefly towards the lock. The cage door swung open, and the chains around each prisoner clicked open, as if magically unbound by your mere will.

As the last of the chains fell away, Bull stretched his massive, muscular arms, now enjoying his newfound freedom. “Ahh, that’s better. I’ve heard stories about your magic. Strange stuff. Different from the usual. Maybe I expected something more. Stories get so grand on the road and in dark cages.” He lifted a large hand to motion not the Anchor. “Guess Andraste decided to throw a bit of flair your way, huh? Make sure everyone remembers who’s got the power.”

“Let’s just say I was never truly Andraste’s Herald. Recent revelations suggest she had nothing to do with my mark at all.”

He looked at you, his grin still firmly in place. “When I do meet the real Inquisitor, I’m going to expect a warmer welcome.”

With a shake of your head, you turned to Krem, who had been watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement. “Get your people ready. I need you to help clear out the undead at the main gates.” You nodded to the stretch of ground. “We still need to find the missing soldiers. Hopefully, they’re in better shape than you lot.”

Krem saluted, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, Ser.”

As the Chargers filed out, heading back toward the main gate to handle the undead that had started to trickle in, Bull leaned in, his massive form taking up more space than necessary as he looked down with a sharp half-smile. “I’m the one in charge here, Herald,” he said, making the title sound almost like a challenge. “Once we sort out terms, any orders you have, send ‘em my way. Leave the handling of the Chargers to me. I’ve got a Mage-Killer who wouldn’t take kindly to a mage giving commands. Just a heads-up.”

His massive frame deliberately crowded your space, but you met his gaze, unflinching. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The seriousness dropped from his face as he broke into a low chuckle, then turned and headed out, moving to carry out your command. You watched him walk down the hill, your gaze momentarily trailing down his broad back as he moved with a powerful, almost effortless sway. Surprisingly, he lacked a tail.

“Aren’t we all just delightful?” Dorian muttered under his breath as the Chargers disappeared from sight. “Bold of you, staring down a beast like that.”

“What is he, anyway?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “He’s Qunari, though you’re not the first to ask. Rarely are they seen outside of their own lands, and even then, it’s usually not like this. The ones we usually encounter are considerably less charming, if you can believe that.”

“Are they more man than beast?”

Solas, who had been silent until now, cut in with a cool, detached voice. “The Qunari are indeed beasts. A race that thrives on discipline and order, guided by nothing but the rigid will of their Qun. To call them men would be to ascribe a humanity they have long since abandoned.”

“I hesitate to rely too heavily on someone who does not seem particularly reverent toward those rules,” Cassandra interjected. “If he has abandoned their laws, he may yet prove to be a liability. Such freedom often comes with a price.”

You frowned, considering their words. “Are they all like him? Do they always come with such presence?”

“What do you expect from a race bred for war?” Dorian replied simply.

“Do they have any relation to the Minotaur of myth, then?”

“If they do, I’ve never heard of it. And even if you managed to sit down for a polite conversation with one of their lot, it’s unlikely they’d be forthcoming. They aren’t exactly open about their history, or anything else, really.”

Cassandra, listening intently, gave you a sharp look. “Why do you ask? Do you know something?”

You thought for a moment, then explained, “In an old tale, the Minotaur was born from a man’s arrogance. A king failed to sacrifice a prized bull to the god of the sea, so the god cursed the king’s wife with an unnatural desire for the bull. The union resulted in the Minotaur, a half-man, half-beast creature driven by rage and isolation.”

Cassandra’s face paled under the dull lighting, and her nose wrinkled slightly. “That is… appalling. To think someone could be driven to that level of depravity.”

“A divine punishment—such stories do seem to echo across cultures,” Dorian mused. “Wrathful gods are often eager to impress upon mortals the folly of superiority. In many worlds, divinity seems to demand that people learn the hard way.”

Cassandra gave an indignant shake of her head. “But surely no one would believe that human and beast could be compatible. It seems far-fetched that the Qunaris’ ancestry would spring from such a tale,” she said, dismissing the thought with a hint of irritation. “It’s impossible. Unnatural.”

You raised a hand lightly. “It’s just a cautionary tale, Cassandra. I didn’t say it was factual.”

With the Chargers holding off the undead at the gates, you pressed through the keep toward the main castle, sidestepping the bodies of fallen Avvar. Just as you reached the central courtyard, a booming voice echoed from above.

“Herald of Andraste! Face me!” a deep, commanding voice called out. “I am the hand of Korth himself!”

After a hard-fought battle, the chieftain’s son finally fell. Just as you began to catch your breath, another rush of Avvar warriors and archers descended upon the castle, forcing you back. When you thought you’d have to retreat, the Chargers—those who had not been in the cages—appeared, coming to your aid and helping you dispatch the remaining enemies.

Finally, you freed the captured Inquisition soldiers from their binds, all battered but alive.

Bull found you in the room, helping the injured soldiers stand. His broad presence filled the cramped space, and a few of the soldiers shot him wary glances until they noticed you hadn’t raised a weapon against him—signalling that Bull, at least, was no threat at the moment.

“We’ve got a healer who can take a look at your soldiers, if you’re willing to let us lend a hand,” Bull said, his tone surprisingly casual.

You turned to Bull. “Thank you—for the help, and for holding off the Avvar warriors.” You looked around at the remaining Chargers, who were gathering supplies and helping move the injured. “Though, it seems you were holding out on me. Not all your people were locked up after all.”

Bull chuckled, a sound as rumbling and powerful as a landslide. “Thought I’d keep a few of them out of the cells—wanted a little surprise for the Herald,” he said with a toothy grin.

“You got yourself captured on purpose, then?”

He barked a laugh. “I knew the Avvar wouldn’t kill us outright. That’s not their style.”

You doubted that, but couldn’t help admiring the easy confidence in his words. With his frame and strength, Bull was almost the personification of confidence. But he exuded a self-assurance that bordered on recklessness.

“Well,” you replied, crossing your arms, “if you really wanted to eliminate any risk, you could have just captured the Inquisition soldiers yourself and staged a rescue when I showed up. Far less chance for things to go awry.”

“Now that’s a good idea,” he said with a low, conspiratorial chuckle, amused by the thought. “If I ever need to sweeten a deal, I’ll keep it in mind.”

You shook your head. “If you’re expecting the Inquisition to hand you plenty of jobs, you’re likely to be disappointed. We’ve managed to cut down most of the major threats.”

“Maybe,” Bull said. “But you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me.” He straightened. “You need a frontline bodyguard, I’m your man. Whatever it is—demons, dragons? The bigger the better. And there’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It’s a Qunari order. They handle information, loyalty, security, all of it. Spies, basically. Or, well, we’re spies.” He paused briefly, watching for your reaction, then continued, “The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Venatori. Tevinter’s bad enough without some crazy cult making them worse. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to you, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

The unexpected confession hung in the air between you, the honesty catching you off guard. You blinked, momentarily taken aback.

“You’re being honest about that?”

He nodded. “I’ve heard a lot of stories about Haven. No idea which ones are true. But whatever I am, I’m on your side. Besides, when it comes to something called the Inquisition? I’d’ve been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me.”

You glanced around at the Chargers, at the effort they had shown to aid the Inquisition soldiers, even if it meant throwing themselves into danger. For all his posturing, Bull seemed genuine.

“Well,” you began slowly, feeling as thought this would be lifelong decision. “If this is a show of goodwill, then I’m willing to accept it.”

He grinned widely and clapped you on the shoulder, his laughter ringing out as he turned to call for his Chargers. “Glad to hear it, boss.”

For a spy, he seemed strangely committed to playing fair.

But despite the good-natured front he put up, it would be unwise to trust him fully. Keeping an eye on Bull would be essential—or perhaps an eye in his mind, though he’d likely sense if you tried to meddle there. You entertained the idea of brewing a veritaserum and slipping it into his morning drink to coax his secrets from him, but you didn’t have half the ingredients. Or, if you wanted a more foolproof method, but one that ventured into darker magic, you could resort to the Imperius Curse… But the curse wasn’t perfect. With someone like Bull, there was every chance he could shake off your control or, worse, feign obedience only to turn your commands to his advantage. It would be too risky to let a known spy simply roam free, relying on mere good faith that he wouldn’t report every last detail back to whoever right under your nose.

You sighed to yourself, shaking your head. Dealing with spies… At this rate, facing the Minotaur seemed downright appealing.

The drizzle had thinned by the time you left the castle. Outside, the Sky Watcher waited, his eyes scanning the distance before they fell upon you. He nodded solemnly. “Your god looks after you, Herald.” His gaze flicked past you, settling on the ground where the ‘Hand of Korth’ had fallen. “There lies the brat. His father, chief of our holding, would duel me for the loss, if he cared enough.”

“We could use a strong warrior like you in the Inquisition. You’d be an asset.”

The Sky Watcher’s lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile as he looked up toward the gray clouds. “Is this why the Lady of the Skies led me here? To help heal the wounds of her skin?” He nodded to himself, as if deciding. “Aye, I’ll join you. Let me make peace with my kin, and I’ll find where you set your flag.”

The camp was quiet that night, the usual sounds of restless movement and murmured conversations muted by the ever-present mist that clung to the Fallow Mire. The fire crackled softly, offering little warmth. Above, your enchanted barrier shimmered faintly, doing well to keep the rain from drenching the camp, though it could do nothing about the pervasive stench of rot that clung to the everything.

You sat near the fire, a book balanced on your knees. The pages faintly curled due to the damp air. The words were engaging enough, but your mind kept drifting.

A soft hooting cut through the quiet, distant but insistent. You straightened, your ears straining to locate the sound. Another hoot followed, closer this time. You turned toward the tree line, eyes struggling to adjust to the dark.

A shadow flitted through the air, swooping low before perching atop a crooked signpost at the edge of the camp. The bird shook itself, scattering droplets of water in all directions, and you recognised it immediately.

The owl. Your owl. The one you hadn’t seen since Skyhold, two weeks ago.

“You’re here,” you muttered in disbelief, standing as the bird stared at you.

The bird hooted softly, puffing itself up as if to say, Of course I am.

It looked thoroughly bedraggled, its wings waterlogged, but it sat tall, chest puffed out with an almost prideful air. Clutched in its claw was a scrap of paper, rolled tightly and tied with string.

You took a tentative step closer, craning your neck to see the note. “Do you have my mail this time?” you called, half in jest. The owl ruffled its feathers and gave another low hoot, unimpressed by your tone.

You tried to coax it down, mimicking its call with a soft whistle. But it didn’t budge.

“Stubborn thing,” you muttered, glancing around the camp for something to entice it. A scrap of dried meat from your pack would have to do. You held it aloft, shaking it slightly to get the bird’s attention. “Come on. You’ve earned this, haven’t you?”

The owl shifted, regarding you sceptically. Its claws tightened on the paper, and for a moment you feared it might simply eat the letter. Then, with a haughty flick of its head, it began preening its sodden feathers, clearly in no rush.

“You have a most determined companion,” came a voice from behind you. Solas. You glanced back to find him standing close, having abandoned his book to approach. He was watching the owl carefully.

“A very stubborn one,” you replied, glancing back at the bird. It ignored you entirely, now fussing with the string around the letter as if testing your patience. At this point, the ink would run and the likely-very-important letter would be unreadable.

“Perhaps its disposition is a reflection of its master,” he said mildly.

“I’m not its master,” you retorted, giving a sidelong look. “It’s a friend. Do you need me to tell you what those are?”

The owl hooted again, fluttering its wings as if siding with you. You shook your head and returned to your seat by the fire, not needing to look up to tell how Solas had taken the harmless comment.

Setting the piece of meat on the log beside you, the owl eyed it, then you, but didn’t move to claim it.

Solas approached and, to your surprise, settled across from you. He rarely joined the campfire gatherings, preferring the solitude of a distant tree stump or some shadowed corner where he could pore over his notes undisturbed. Dorian had already retired to his tent, and you hadn’t seen where Cassandra went.

You busied yourself rifling through your pouch for your journal. You opened it to a blank page, poised to record whatever events laid heavy on your mind. But you were distracted by the owl and the flickering campfire.

After a moment, Solas spoke, “What became of the beast in this tale of yours?”

You looked up, pencil poised above the page. “Found it riveting, did you? I wouldn’t have guessed the story would be of much interest.”

He raised a brow, unbothered by the mild challenge. “A creature isolated by curse and creation, condemned to roam in a state between beast and man? It’s hardly a tale I’d dismiss so quickly.” He shifted slightly, resting an arm across his knee. “The tales of your world offer glimpses into the minds of their creators—what they fear, value, hope. That is always of interest.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips as you nodded. “Well… The king couldn’t bear to kill his wife’s child, so he had the Minotaur trapped in a labyrinth—a befuddling maze from which none could navigate. But, of course, the Minotaur needed sustenance, so the king ordered human sacrifices every year or so; a punishment on the Athenians responsible for the death of his other son. Eventually, the hero Theseus volunteered to be a sacrifice and took it upon himself to slay the beast. He navigated through the maze and claimed victory over the Minotaur.”

Solas absorbed the tale in silence for a moment before speaking with quiet reflection. “A tale born from greed, wrath, and lust… yet one of heroism as well. A tragedy. The beast’s birth and death were the wages of arrogance and the will of irate gods.”

You shrugged slightly, poking idly at the fire with a stick. “Yes, well, the Ancient Greeks loved their tragedies. A philosopher once argued that tragedy cleanses the heart by allowing us to feel pity and fear. He said it purges us of our petty concerns by showing us that there can be nobility in suffering; that there is beauty in survival and endurance.”

“Presumably, by letting people suffer vicariously through the tale, they feel lifted above it,” Solas replied thoughtfully. “But in reality, does that not romanticize suffering, as if to endure pain without resistance brings virtue. Does it not also disallow the possibility of truly overcoming it? Perhaps true wisdom lies in the strength to rise beyond suffering, not simply to bear it.”

You glanced up at the owl, who was still fussing with the letter tucked firmly in its claw. It looked like it might shred the paper entirely. “Careful,” you called to it sharply, before returning your attention to the fire. “You might be right. There’s a reason the tale of the Minotaur and similar others have survived for centuries. The consequences of choices, the ripple effects of hubris. Lessons that still feel relevant, no matter how much time passes.”

“But should the divine truly find it wise to inflict suffering as punishment for mortal failings? A powerful being need not subject the weak to cruelty to reveal its strength.”

“The king’s punishment was rooted in hubris,” you explained. “Poseidon gifted the king with everything, even his throne. To prove his worth, the king had promised to sacrifice whatever he was sent. The king was sent a bull, but he found it too beautiful, and so he sacrificed another in its place. That breach of promise earned him a terrible curse.”

Minos’ devotion to Poseidon had not been born of genuine reverence but necessity. A mortal, elevated by divine favour, found his crown resting not on the strength of his own hands but on the whim of a god. To keep his throne, he bent to Poseidon’s will, performing rites and offering sacrifices, each act tethering him tighter to divine expectations. Yet, even his loyalty had its limits; when beauty clouded his judgment, he faltered, thinking a substitution would go unnoticed, thinking he could trick a god. He failed. It didn’t work. The punishment came swiftly, not as a direct strike against him, but through the lives of others. He carried on, fulfilling new demands, making more sacrifices, each one deepening his servitude. What once was devotion had morphed into fear, though he failed to see it. His endless striving was not for redemption, but a way to mask the chains he himself had forged.

A fleeting thought teased at the edges of your mind—how often had you danced a similar line?

“The king’s betrayal warranted a lesson, perhaps, but the innocent were made to suffer for his actions,” Solas remarked. “I presume he retained his throne?”

You nodded, the irony not lost on you. “Yes, he did. Myths are written by human hands, and rewritten as time passes. Almighty beings only seem cruel to us because we made them so. When held against worldly moral standards, anything can seem unjust.”

“There is a truth in every tale, however deeply buried,” he replied, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger. “But it does raise a question. Would you consider suffering to be a mark of nobility, or merely the absence of escape? The beast suffered—not only in its birth, but in its isolation and abandonment. It was forgotten, cast away, then slain. It survived, yes, but in a way that could scarcely be called living.”

Before you could answer, a sharp hoot broke through the quiet. The owl spread its wings, the letter still clutched tightly in its claw, and took off into the night. It was gone before you could even attempt to beckon it back.

You rubbed your temple where a headache began forming. Turning back to Solas, you said, “The Minotaur was a force that defied the natural order. Its life, if you can call it that, was a distortion, not a matter of survival. It was dangerous; a creature born from rage and cruelty itself. Perhaps it isn’t reasonable to use it as a measure of mundane suffering.”

“Indeed,” he said quietly, nodding as he considered your words. “Yet it is fascinating how one can define suffering according to the nature of those who experience it. If a creature does not conform to common understanding, it becomes ‘other’. Many may use that to justify cruelty, as if one cannot empathise with anything outside of one’s self.”

Seeing as the owl had no intention of handing over the letter, you decided to retreat to your tent.

The dream came suddenly, without warning, pulling you into its depths like a river dragging you downstream. One moment, you were… elsewhere; the next, the scene shifted.

You stood on a battlefield—no, you were back in Skyhold, in the courtyard, but it was overrun. The banners that once proudly displayed the Inquisition’s sigil hung tattered, faded colours fluttering in a cold, biting wind. The walls were crumbling, stones chipped and broken as if they’d been struck by a relentless siege. The air was thick with smoke, and the sounds of battle echoed from every direction. Steel clashing, distant screams, and the hollow ring of commands barked but not heeded.

Figures dashed through the fog, soldiers you recognised—Inquisition soldiers. But they were in chaos, their formation shattered, their movements aimless. Some fought fiercely, but others fell, lost in confusion, their faces twisted with fear.

In the distance, a familiar figure stood tall, shouting orders. Cullen. His armour gleamed under the pale, sickly light filtering through the sky, but his voice was drowned out by the sounds of combat. He waved his sword, pointing to the south wall, but no one followed. No one listened. His voice, hoarse from shouting, faded into nothing.

You tried to walk toward them, but your feet felt heavy, as if the ground beneath you was pulling you down, trapping you in place. With a wrenching effort, you pushed forward, but the more you moved, the more distant Cullen seemed. And then you saw it—he stumbled. A figure, faceless in the dream, surged forward and brought him down. He tried to rise, blood streaming from a wound on his side, but no one came to his aid. His voice, still calling for unity, for order, was lost in the chaos.

You turned, desperate to find anyone else. Leliana was there, too—running, no, fleeing. Her normally calm, calculating eyes were wide with panic, her crossbow dropped in the mud as she shouted for her agents. But they were scattered, leaderless. She vanished into the mist before you could call out.

It was like watching the Inquisition unravel before your eyes. Like you were helpless to stop it.

Your stomach twisted. This wasn’t just battle—it was collapse. Skyhold was falling, not to an enemy from without, but to the rot from within. Without leadership, without direction, the heart of the Inquisition had been hollowed out.

Your feet pulled you away from the courtyard and Cullen, guiding you instead into the throne room. The heavy doors opened soundlessly before you, and you stepped into the vast, shadowed hall.

And then you saw it.

The throne, the seat of the Inquisition’s power, was no longer empty.

A figure sat upon it, draped in armour that gleamed unnaturally. Their face was hidden by a helmet adorned with strange markings. The Inquisitor. They held a staff in one hand and a sword in the other, the very picture of a leader prepared for war. But something about them made your stomach turn. It wasn’t their appearance—it was the way they sat, the way they looked down at the people before them. As if they were surveying the battlefield, not leading a united cause. A warlord caring only for the spoils of victory.

Your feet drove you forward, and slowly your gaze shifted to the figure kneeling before the throne. They were bound, their head bowed. As you drew closer, the figure in chains raised their head, as if being the only one to feel your presence. It wasn’t until then when you realised who it was.

It was you.

The reflection stared up at you, their clear eyes blinking dully, absent of terror, void of any fear for what might come next. There was no panic, no horror—only an exhaustion that seemed carved into every line in the flesh. It felt like looking at a crumbling statue of yourself. The eyes that mirrored your own were dulled, tired, and lifeless, hollow as though the fight within them had been drained away long ago. Even the corruption that had once flickered there, those red hues you’d occasionally catch in reflective surfaces, was gone. The absence should have been a relief, to find no trace of the twisted magic. Yet, the lack of it made them seem frail, as if that darkness, however insidious, had been the only thing keeping them upright, giving them strength, making them stand back up when they reached the end of the line. Without it, they looked like a ghost, one step away from fading entirely, one step in the grave where Death would finally embrace them.

This was you, as you were, stripped of titles and power—laid bare, bound, and at the mercy of the stranger on the throne. Your life in the hands of another. A notion none should have the might of controlling.

A lump forming as you tried to speak to comfort this version of yourself. The words wouldn’t come. You tried to step forward, but your feet wouldn’t obey. It was as though blocks of ice had encased them, pinning you to the floor. You’d felt this before—when the avalanche had buried you, when the cold had bitten deep, and movement became impossible.

As if your approach had been the cue, the Inquisitor rose from the throne. The soldiers before them stiffened. The Inquisitor raised their sword high, and for a moment, it gleamed brightly like a beacon of hope reminiscent of the hopeful symbols painted in murals and depicted in stained glass. But then the light dimmed, flickered, and the sword itself twisted into something darker, corrupted. The soldiers around you hesitated, but the new leader didn’t pause. They began barking orders—harsh, cold commands that sent the soldiers scrambling. Some followed, fear driving them, while others looked lost, confused by the sudden shift.

Now, you stood in the war room. The table was littered with papers, but they were torn, crumpled, forgotten in a heap. The advisors’ chairs were occupied, but not by the familiar faces you knew. Strangers whose faces you were unable to concentrate on sat there. They spoke in low, hurried voices, but the tone was all wrong. It wasn’t strategy being discussed—it was power. Greed. How to tear down instead of build-up.

One of them, a noble wearing an unknown sigil, glanced at the Inquisitor. “With your guidance, we can claim it all,” the noble said, voice oozing with ambition. It was a voice of envy, or perhaps the Envy demon itself that had tried to take your face. Maybe it had overtaken you after all and all of this had been part of a game to torture you further.

The Inquisitor didn’t respond. They merely nodded, cold and detached, as if the destruction of everything the Inquisition stood for was simply another task to complete. Rising from their seat, they moved to the window, gazing out over Skyhold as if this meeting bored them.

You wanted to tell them to stop, to take control. But no one heard you. No one even looked your way. It was as if you didn’t exist in this place, as if you were nothing but a shadow in your own dream.

And then the scene shifted again.

You were outside Skyhold, watching as it crumbled from within. Fires burned in the distance, the walls blackened with smoke. Soldiers fought each other, not an enemy, but themselves. The order was gone. The unity was gone. The Inquisitor stood on the battlements, watching the chaos below with cold, unfeeling eyes. Their hand tightened on their sword, the metal twisting once more into something unnatural, something tainted.

And in that moment, you understood.

This was what Envy had wanted. The demon had whispered it to you, shown you glimpses of a future where the Inquisition fell into chaos, led by someone who would twist its purpose for their own gain. And now, you were seeing that nightmare unfold. But it wasn’t just a nightmare. It felt real—too real. Like a vision of what was to come if you didn’t act, if you didn’t take your place on the quasi throne.

The Inquisition wasn’t meant to be leaderless, and it wasn’t meant to be led by someone like this. If you turned away, if you refused the mantle of Inquisitor, someone else would take it—and they would lead the Inquisition into ruin.

The war room was empty when the dream refocused.

The large map table stood before you, covered in papers and scattered reports, but no one sat at it. The great banners hanging from the ceiling were faded, almost grey, devoid of colour. The chairs, once occupied by advisors, were vacant. The throne at the head of the room loomed, its shadow long and foreboding, but no one was seated there. Not the false Inquisitor. Not you. Not anyone.

No one was there to make the right choices. The Inquisition, under the wrong leader, was crumbling under its own newfound weight.

You stepped forward, unsure why, drawn to the empty seat at the head of the table. Your fingers brushed the arm of the throne, the cold metal stinging your skin. A whisper echoed in your mind, soft and insistent. Sit. Take control. Save them.

But you didn’t move. You weren’t the one to sit in that chair. You couldn’t be. You weren’t meant to lead, not like this.

And then, as if in answer to your hesitation, the dream shifted again.

Skyhold vanished, replaced by a village you didn’t recognise. Smoke billowed from burning houses, the scent of charred wood and flesh making your throat tighten. The villagers were running, panicked, their cries for help swallowed by the rising flames. You tried once more to move, to help, but your feet were rooted to the spot.

A young boy ran past, his eyes wide with terror. He fell, his small hands grasping for something—someone to save him. He looked up, locking eyes with you, pleading silently. But you still could not move.

From behind him, a shadow loomed—something dark, massive, clawed. It descended upon him. Then the boy was gone, swallowed by the roaring fire. Taken. And there was nothing you could do.

The smoke thickened, and you coughed, eyes watering, as the world began to burn down to ash. In its place, Skyhold grew. But it was quiet, too quiet. You stood in the great hall, empty once more. The throne sat there, waiting. Always waiting.

You blinked, trying to shake off the smoke in your mind. This wasn’t real. This was a dream. You knew it. But the fear, the doubt, the sense of failure—it all felt too real.

And the chair. The empty seat. It waited for you. Always waiting.

You backed away, refusing to look at it any longer, but the pressure didn’t leave. The weight of responsibility, of inevitability, loomed over you.

You awoke with a start, your heart hammering in your chest, breath ragged. The darkness of your room in Skyhold was a sharp contrast to the chaos of your dream, but it did little to calm you. The images were burned into your mind—the crumbling Inquisition, the battle, the empty throne.

And the whispers still lingered, soft and quiet, at the edges of your thoughts: Take control. Save them.

You sat up from your cot, hands trembling slightly as you rubbed your eyes. You didn’t want this. You weren’t the Inquisitor. You weren’t meant to lead. But…

If you didn’t, who would? You’d chosen Hawke as the next Inquisitor, trusting them to carry on the Inquisition’s work, as they should have from the beginning. But Hawke hadn’t been heard from in years, disappearing out of thin air, leaving nothing but questions in their wake. If you didn’t step up, if you didn’t take control, someone else would. And they would lead the Inquisition to its doom.

You’d had dreams like this before—glimpses of what might come to pass, dark visions that felt more like warnings than fantasies. Prophecies. So how long would it be before all your dreams became reality? How long was the village you saw in your dreams thriving, full of life, before it fell ill, descending into madness, overcome by despair? How long before this vision became true?

There was only one way to prevent it, and it felt like you were being cornered between fate and your own fear.

Chapter Text

Sleep came in fleeting fits, leaving you teetering on the edge of dreaming and consciousness—a state of half-sleep that offered no true rest. Every time your mind began to drift, it pulled itself back, as if unwilling to surrender to whatever lurked in your dreams. Finally, when the fight felt lost, you gave up and forced yourself to rise.

You felt your way out of the cover you’d fallen asleep in, pushing aside what felt like fabric without truly identifying it in the limited light. The smell, however, alerted your senses immediately. Above, faint rays of light pierced through the thick cover of trees, signalling the slow arrival of morning.

Mud squeezed between your unbound feet as you attempted to navigate your way. Your shoes must have taken themselves on a walk or were eaten by the mooncalves. From the looks of it, you’d fallen asleep in the Swamp Vivarium, one of the magical sanctuaries conjured by the Room of Requirement. You knew it intimately, having catered it as a safe haven for the creatures who had no other safe refuge in the wild.

Sepulchria had spent most of her time here since falling pregnant. Once your closest companion and mount, the toll of pregnancy had rendered her bedridden. The feeling was mutual, somewhat; thestral pregnancies weren’t common knowledge, mostly due to the nature of the beasts and the superstition surrounding them. Death, it seemed, was both a literal and figurative barrier to understanding them, given how thestrals existed between life and death. But you’d yet to be struck down or see the Grim in your teacup, so it was all likely fallacy and a convenient deterrent to keep prying questions of such things at bay. Thestrals were fascinating creatures, yet fear kept them from being properly researched.

Considering the swamp didn’t provide the most comfortable sleeping arrangements, you must have dozed off while caring for Sepulchria. She’d gotten clingier towards the end of her pregnancy, and you often found yourself keeping vigil by her side. How many months ago had she fallen pregnant now…?

Your train of thought was interrupted by a more pressing one that jolted you out of this drowsy stupor. You were late. Late for… class. That sounded right. But what class? You couldn’t think due to the swamp clouding your thoughts. Your professors would be furious. Was it DADA this morning? No. The last time you’d seen Professor Hecat, the struck-by-time issue of hers from her time as an Unspeakable had caught up to her. Nor had your last meeting been particularly pleasant. It was more likely you had Beasts class. You also needed to explain why you hadn’t returned to your dormitory. Avoiding it for a week- month (?) now probably hadn’t gone unnoticed. You couldn’t avoid it forever, but as of now, you had a late class to worry about. Maybe Professor Howin would understand if you told her about Sepulchria. She might even offer her help. Merlin knows you need it.

You passed what looked like an abandoned house. That was new, as was the stench of burning wood and something sweet like rot. The vivarium wouldn’t have created the building unless one of the beasts considered something like that home. To each their own.

The sound of wings flapping brought your mud-caked feet to a halt. You craned your neck, blinking through the foggy morning darkness to focus on the sky. Your first thought was that the sound belonged to Sepulchria, though she shouldn’t be flying in her current condition. But the wings didn’t sound right. Quieter. Muted. They lacked the strong, heavy, thunder-like beats you’d recognise anywhere.

Your gaze fixed on a smaller figure, flitting through the shadows of the trees. An owl. What kind, you couldn’t quite tell. It was gone too quickly, disappearing into the mist.

This morning had already started off strangely, given that you’d woken in the vivarium. Now an owl had somehow found its way into what should have been a secure environment. You’d carefully curated each vivarium to suit the creatures that needed them. Owls had never been part of that equation, and you certainly hadn’t bred any. You watched the owl appear from the fog and then disappear. It looked almost as though it was mocking you—see, I made it in here! Particularly with how it then began hooting loudly. Owls were smart. It knew what it was doing.

Maybe the owl explained Sepulchria’s moodiness lately. She’d lost more weight than she should have (as much as a skeletal creature could). Fortunately, it seemed like you’d inadvertently solved the food shortage problem before you’d even realised.

Catching that pesky owl would have to wait for later. Or perhaps you’d leave it to Deek. For now, however, there were more pressing matters at hand.

Sighing, you quickened your pace into a jog. The swamp stretched on and on, its boundaries seemingly endless. The exit to the ROR should have been around here somewhere. You knew what to look for: large, sprawling trees with statues of Merlin and Morgana standing as guideposts, their weathered stone forms marking the way to the vivarium’s exit. The exit itself was a pond with enchanted waters to allow you to pass through without soaking your clothes.

But as you passed yet another abandoned house, you’d seen no statues, no pond, and no sign of the creatures that should have been roaming here.

You looked around, hoping to see Sepulchria standing nearby. She’d been by your side since you’d entered this vivarium, clingy as she was. Even if you’d somehow lost her, her keen nose could have easily tracked your scent from miles away. But the swamp around you was eerily empty.

The mist thickened as you turned, and the trees seemed more twisted, with branches clawing at the sky, clenching and unclenching as the wind thrashed them about. Something about this vivarium felt… off. Where were the familiar landmarks? The soft glow of enchanted lanterns lining the paths? And where were the beasts—your creatures?

Panic began to settle in as you considered the issues: you were lost, the creatures had vanished, and some sort of infestation seemed to have crept into the vivarium. Strange, indescribable sounds followed as you treaded along, with the sounds’ echoes slipping between the trees and damp air as if one.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. The vivariums weren’t designed to change without your intent. They were crafted spaces, conjured by the ROR, reflections of nature and suited for the creatures. They were controlled and safe places. Each vivarium mimicked the natural world so closely that they even produced resources like herbs, fungi, or animal products you might find in the real world. The Swamp Vivarium was no different, physically offering leeches perfect for harvesting leech juice without the dangers of dugbogs lurking nearby to drag you into your watery grave with their long, whip-like tongues.

And yet, for all their convincing details, the vivariums weren’t real. They were illusions—masterfully crafted magic designed to fool the senses, yet always bound to the castle’s control.

The sense of disorientation deepened as you stumbled forward, brushing through reeds that tangled around your ankles. The vegetation seemed thicker than you remembered, encroaching on paths that were once open. Descending further into the swamp, you sent yourself waist-deep in water, having no choice but to search for one of the exits this way.

A choking stench clogged your nostrils, a mix of decaying vegetation and something far fouler. Your clothes soaked immediately. They weren’t any of your school robes. The fabric felt wrong. When had you changed? You pressed a wet hand to your temple, trying to recall anything but only finding your memories slipping from your grasp.

Regardless, if you waded through the swamp long enough, an exit would eventually present itself. Theoretically. There was no point in trying to find your way back to the canopy you’d somehow fallen asleep under or waiting for Sepulchria to sniff you out. It wasn’t like she could sense your fear. You were late, and it was only a matter of time before you were declared missing.

Was this how students went missing from Hogwarts? You’d never given it much thought, considering how the school was known as a safe haven for young witches and wizards. But students did disappear, sometimes without a trace. Perhaps the ROR was truly sentient and needed some kind of fuel to sustain its magic, and you’d somehow been chosen as its latest candidate. Perhaps you’d upset it somehow. Or worse—perhaps you’d upset the castle itself by drawing on the ancient magic that had lain dormant in its womb for centuries. Stealing it was always going to come back and bite you in the arse at some point. And here it was—your long-awaited punishment. Maybe you were a seer after all.

Shaking your hands free of pond scum, a light caught your eye. It was coming from your hand. Green magic sliced down your left hand. As you took in the shape and the sudden stinging, your memories began fading, taking on the feeling of mud or sinking sand. The cold water seeped into your bones, bringing a startling clarity.

A sharp pain sliced through your foot as you stepped on what felt like a jagged rock. Before you could steady yourself, you slipped, plunging under the water and swallowing a mouthful of the putrid liquid. Gagging as you resurfaced, you struggled to stand on the injured foot, which throbbed with every attempt.

You reached instinctively for your wand but grasped only reeds and fabric.

How could both your wand and shoes disappear without a trace? Someone must have been playing a trick or had struck you with a curse that sent your belongings packing. But who would go to such lengths? You hadn’t pissed anyone off enough to deserve this. Well… maybe you had.

Movement joined you in the swamp before you think who had the talent for something like this. You paused, unclogging your ear to hear better. Through the dim haze, you squinted, focusing on a shadowy figure stumbling towards you.

“Hello?” you called, taking an instinctive step back.

The figure didn’t reply. You wiped the water from your eyes and tried again, louder this time. No one else should be here.

They waded through the water ferociously, their movements jerky and unnatural, as though driven by something other than will. You forced your stinging foot to move, retreating as fast as you could manage with reeds wrapping around your limbs. More ripples split the water, and another figure rose from the surface. Then another.

A tawny blur shot across the corner of your vision. The owl from earlier, the one who had trespassed into the vivarium, swooped down with an ear-splitting screech. Its talons flashed like knives before raking them against the first figure, tearing through flesh with ease.

You barely had a moment to process it before more figures began surfacing, skeletal forms pulling themselves free from the lake. Not the beautiful skeletal grace of thestrals, either. Water streamed from the decomposed humanoid limbs. Their glistening, fleshless forms jerked as they dragged themselves closer to you.

Inferi. That’s what they had to be. But how? How had they gotten into the vivarium? You’d never allowed such things here—couldn’t, not through the castle’s enchantments. Then they must have been created here. But that would mean- Who’d been practicing dark magic? It could have only been-

“Should I attempt to ask why you’ve returned soaked to the bone?” Dorian asked, sitting in front of a fire he was nursing.

You stumbled over without a word, drenched and sour, and collapsed in front of the fire to warm. The warmth hit your chilled skin like a slap. “I’d prefer if you didn’t,” you muttered, holding your hands out towards the flames.

“Ah, so one of those kinds of outings, then. Shall I fetch tea? Or something stronger?”

The undead (not inferi, or maybe they were inferi. Who could say?) had risen in numbers until they surrounded you, a baker’s dozen at least. That was when your memories had come crashing back, bounding towards you and slamming into you like a misbehaving dog returning to its master after chasing birds or something equally inane.

Dealing with the swarm of undead on your own hadn’t been much trouble. You’d conjured a ring of semi-waterproof fire, which consumed everything on the water’s surface in moments, leaving only ash. As the caster, the flames didn’t harm you, but the cold of the swamp had seeped so deep into your bones that you doubted you would have felt the heat anyway. More undead rose to take the place of the first wave, but by the end of the assault, you were still alive, which was more than they could say, if they could speak at all past a few groans.

Half an hour later, you’d managed to find your way back to camp, limping. Apparition was out of the question; you hadn’t been able to summon enough happiness or concentration to access the magic required. Even attempting it would have been reckless, and splinching yourself would’ve been the cherry on top of an already dismal morning. The Mire threw a cloak of despair over your shoulders, smothering your ability to conjure spells that had once felt like second nature.

Solas had once asked what the limits to your magic were. But now wasn’t the time to answer that question, not when you looked like this—drenched, battered, bleeding, and stinking of decay. Right now, no one could be able to see you as someone worthy of all the power you wielded.

The camp, as it turned out, was the Inquisition’s—one belonging to the party you’d been leading for the past few days. This was a real swamp, not some illusion spun by the castle that thought it knew what you wanted. This was Thedas.

What was worse: being stuck in a world not like your own or being trapped in an illusion of your world? Both with seemingly no escape. Glaring into the fire, you weighed the two scenarios as if there truly were a choice in the matter.

“I’m guessing the bog water wasn’t to your taste this morning?” Dorian asked nosily, interrupting your train of thought. Clearing your throat of pond scum, you replied, though your tone was curt as you were hardly in the mood to keep up with him this morning.

You’d dealt with undead before—both these past few days and back to the time where the Fade had dragged you kicking and screaming by the ankle, throwing you into the deep end without so much as a life jacket.

The Fade. Its influence had seeped into the present and waking world. It was undoubtedly why you’d been wandering as though sleepwalking while awake just an hour ago. Even now, as you sat baking in front of the fire, your memories couldn’t quite shake loose from its firm grasp.

Why it had chosen the time of your magical schooling, of all things, you didn’t know. That period of your life wasn’t particularly memorable, nor did it last long enough to carry any real meaning. The faded recollections of classrooms, potions, and the ceaseless drone of lectures felt like fragmented pieces of someone else’s story rather than your own. Yet this morning, before waking, you’d dreamt of the vivarium, specifically the Swamp Vivarium. The Fallow Mire had resurrected those memories as easily as it raised its undead from the water.

The foggy air seemed to churn both the mind and stomach, making it hard to separate dream from reality. The Fade blurred the edges of your mind until even the past felt disorienting, like trying to recall a dream after waking.

And then there were the dreams. The prophetic ones—or what seemed prophetic. Foreseeing the Iron Bull and the plagued village, along with the other hallucinations the Mire seemed determined to conjure, was certainly a new and unwelcome development. However, it was only a matter of time before you found a way to exploit it, purposefully or not. Power always seemed to fall into your grasp.

You shivered, though the fire remained scorching, and finished bandaging your foot. You’d sliced it on a blade of some sort, one once belonging to one of the undead and now lying submerged in plague-ridden waters. The cut twitched numbly as you pulled on your boots, which you’d found in your tent. That particular detail had escaped your notice earlier, while your consciousness remained muddled by the Fade’s lingering touch.

Physically healed, you leant closer towards the flames, rubbing your face as if the action might dislodge the memories that refused to leave. They clung to you like leeches, draining your energy and gnawing away at your sense of reality. The Fade was messing with your mind far too much for comfort. Sepulchria was years long dead—she’d fallen asleep during labour and never woken up.

Dorian sat opposite you on the other side of the fire, talking about something, though you weren’t listening anymore. He made a vague comment about your “fitness regime” before you tuned him out completely. Your ears still felt clogged with swamp water—or maybe you simply didn’t want to listen.

Shaking off the heavy thoughts, you began preparing breakfast and packing food for the day’s journey. The swamp wasn’t forgiving, and daylight hours were best spent moving. Preparing enough food now meant avoiding the need to light fires or stop for meals later, should the need arise. The air here killed appetites as effectively as it stifled spirits, but food was food, and everyone needed it to keep going. It had become your unspoken duty to ensure everyone had what they needed, even if your mind was elsewhere.

The morning had yet to settle completely, and as a perpetual storm cloud hung over the Mire, the time of day was hard to discern. Based on your exhaustion, it could have been the early hours of the morning, though you hadn’t exactly had the best sleep. Dorian had woken early and was already busy, but the others weren’t in sight. Movement from Cassandra’s tent signalling that she was at least awake. Watches weren’t much of a priority in Thedas, especially here in the Mire, where the murky, shadowed light made tracking time impossible. A sundial? Useless. Even the stars hid from this cursed place.

The damp morning air clung to your skin like a second layer. Mist still curled through the Fallow Mire, wrapping around the twisted trees and low marshland. Each breath felt like inhaling cold, wet fabric, particularly with how your soaked clothing clung tightly to your body. Attempting to dry them with magic was risky—you might accidentally set the entire camp ablaze. The scent of mud, decay, and plague clung to everything. It was difficult not to feel sick even without swamp water still bitter in your throat.

The Mire was the kind of place that made even the most stalwart adventurer question why they hadn’t simply walked away. And as the urge to abandon the mire grew stronger with each passing moment, you heard the faint rustling of wings overhead. Soft, muted. Not belonging to a winged mount of any kind.

Your gaze turned upward, following the familiar hooting to the creature now perched on a crooked post. Something wriggled in its beak: a rodent. Still attached to the owl’s leg was the letter it flaunted the night before, though now in worse shape.

You frowned, hesitant to approach. Was it plagued? Would the Mire’s sickness claim the owl as quickly as you’d found it? The thought stung more than you cared to admit. You’d tried to train many owls before, but only this one had truly followed your commands, though only to a degree. It was still wild at heart, but you’d grown strangely attached to it, even more so now that it had attacked the undead.

Perhaps it was because owls, in some strange way, felt like home. Wizards and owls had a long history, with both having deep ties to magic. Owls were messengers, familiars, symbols of wisdom, and omens of death. They’d always been more than just birds. Even if it held no connection to it, this owl was reminiscent of home, a place both near to your heart and distant in memory. You weren’t part of society back home, not really, given it had all but shunned you, but there was still something to be missed from that time. Owls held sentimental value, like a thread tying you to something you could no longer touch but wouldn’t or couldn’t forget, not when you were still connected to it, however tenuously.

“Drop it,” you called softly, stepping closer. The owl’s head swivelled towards you, then cocked it, feigning innocence. “I mean it. Drop it. Be reasonable now.”

Dorian’s voice cut in, incredulous. “Now you’re bargaining with animals?”

You ignored him, your focus unwavering as you edged closer to the post where the owl perched. It watched you, capturing your eye, before giving the rodent a victorious shake.

“You’ll catch the plague,” you told it warningly. “Then no one will want you. Do you want that?”

After several more moments of coaxing, the owl finally seemed to give in, in exchange for a strip of dried meat you’d presented. The scent caught the bird’s attention instantly. You could almost see it weighing the trade in its mind. After a long, tense pause, the bird fluttered down from the post and landed on your outstretched arm. Its talons dug into your flesh even through the fabric.

“There we go,” you murmured as it began pecking at the meat in your palm, tearing off small pieces and savouring each bite. “Good bird.”

The rodent it had been clutching fell lifelessly into the mud below, forgotten but too petrified to skitter away. Carefully, you reached for the letter still bound to the owl’s leg, faintly aware of the grime and rotted flesh now smearing it. Still, your fingers worked deftly, undoing the bindings as the owl remained fixated on its reward. It didn’t protest, too busy tearing into the dried meat with sharp precision. Once the letter was freed, the owl took flight, returning to its perch to preen its feathers, as if it hadn’t just been bribed into obedience.

You shifted your focus to the letter. The parchment somehow remained intact, and the wax Inquisition seal was still firm. Unfurling it, Leliana’s unmistakable handwriting greeted you. The message terse but clear: Sightings of Corypheus have been reported. Details unclear. Return to Skyhold immediately.

You froze, the paper trembling slightly between your fingers. Corypheus alive? No. That couldn’t be. He was gone. Destroyed. Soul torn away into the wind.

No date had been marked on the letter, so it could mean they were mere hours to weeks away. There were no further details, only the barest hint of urgency. It could mean his followers were stirring up trouble or something far worse.

A voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Herald,” an Inquisition scout called, trekking more mud into the semi-clean camp space. They held out an envelope. “From Leliana.”

“More news?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The scout nodded, then dipped their head in acknowledgement and disappeared back into the mire, gone before you could bid them farewell or good luck.

Tearing open the second letter, the contents were identical to what was delivered by your owl. “Damn it,” you muttered, stuffing both letters into your pocket. Straightening, you raised your voice. “Everyone, pack up your things. We need to return to Skyhold, and quickly.”

Cassandra, who had been methodically cleaning her blade, looked up sharply. She rose to her feet. “What has happened?”

You hesitated, scanning the faces of your companions for the reactions you didn’t want to see. “It’s a report from Leliana. Corypheus- his followers have been sighted. We need to move.”

Her eyes narrowed. “His followers? Or the creature himself?”

“It’s not him,” you said firmly, forcing conviction into your voice. “Just zealots clinging to shadows. Gather your belongings.”

Dorian, still lounging on the rock by the fire, raised a hand in protest. “As much as I despise this charming locale, we’ve barely begun to scout the area.”

You nodded grimly. “We don’t have a choice. If Leliana’s calling us back, it’s serious.”

“She wouldn’t summon us for anything trivial,” Cassandra agreed, though she didn’t look convinced at your explanation. “Very well. We’ll be ready shortly.”

Dorian gave his blessings for the letter, while Solas said nothing, merely turning away to pack.

As everyone hastily packed up their belongings, you turned your focus to the tents and other supplies scattered around. With a quick wave of your hand, the tents collapsed and folded themselves neatly, vanishing into your nearly-endless bag.

You glanced at your companions as they finished their preparations. A two-week trek back to Skyhold loomed ahead, but you’d already decided you weren’t wasting time on foot. Not in this mess, and not with the urgency Leliana’s letters suggested. Instead, you reached into your satchel, fingers brushing the rough leather of your journal. You hadn’t introduced it to the others yet, having carefully designated portkeys for emergencies, as they still didn’t fully understand the breadth of your magic. But you’d been waiting for the right time to show them. Now, with your injured foot and the prospect of a two-week trek back to Skyhold looming, this felt like the moment.

You carefully pulled the journal from your pouch, drawing their attention.

“This is a portkey,” you began, holding the journal up. “It’ll take us directly back to Skyhold with little fanfare.”

Cassandra frowned. “A… what?” she asked, murmuring around the unfamiliar word.

“It’s an enchanted item,” you explained patiently. “It’ll transport us instantly to a specific location. In this case, Skyhold. It’ll save us weeks of travel and spare us from trekking back through this god-forsaken swamp. I figured we should stay ahead of these rumours and return home quicker than natural means.”

“Well, why didn’t you lead with that?” Dorian exclaimed, thrilled at the prospect of avoiding the swamp.

Cassandra, however, remained wary, crossing her arms. “You mean to say this book can simply whisk us away? And how do you know it won’t take us somewhere… disastrous?”

You opened the journal to a page with a sketch of Skyhold’s interior. Specifically, the storage closet in the basement that housed a forgotten framed portrait of a snarling mabari. It was isolated, rarely used, which lowered the chances of any unfortunate accidents upon teleporting inside it.

“I’ve tested it,” you assured her, showing her the page. “It’s as safe as any magic can be. It’s a simple enchantment, really. Very unlikely anything could go wrong. Just think of it as-”

“Magic,” Dorian interjected plainly. “Always with the magic. How predictable. But what an intriguing little thing you’ve conjured…”

Cassandra’s frown deepened. “And what happens if something goes wrong? I’ve seen enough of magic to know it can be unpredictable.”

Dorian chuckled. “Oh, Cassandra. If we operated under the assumption that all magic is dangerous, we’d never get anything done. Trust our dear Herald to not subject us to anything truly disastrous.” He glanced at you, concern suddenly crossing his face. “Would you?”

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” you replied. “I’ve used it before. Provided we all stick close together, we’ll arrive without incident.” You glanced back at Cassandra, who stood with her jaw set. “Now, step closer. We can’t have anyone left behind now, can we?”

She drove herself forward, pressing her armoured shoulder into your shoulder. “Very well. If this truly is the best way forward, then let us not waste any more time.”

“I promise. It’s safer than trudging through the mire. Now, hold on tight.”

You traced a small circle over the sketch, and the markings began to glow, light spreading outward like ripples in water. A sudden pull yanked at your navel, as if an invisible hook had latched onto you and dragged you forward.

Then, with a hard thud, you landed on solid stone, knees buckling slightly as reality reasserted itself. The strong scent of cleanliness and fresh air assaulted your nostrils, filling your lungs, bringing about a comfort the stinking swamp of the Fallow Mire could never have.

Cassandra gripped your arm tightly, her wide eyes darting around. “Where are we?”

“Skyhold,” you confirmed, loosening your hold on her arm and stepping back to give her room. “Specifically the East Hall. Welcome home.”

The room you’d landed in was a storage closet, just as planned. The small space was further cramped with all of you in it. A candle flared to life, lighting the dim space and allowing one to peek at the shelves of supplies covering the one wall and the old painting of a mabari hound on the opposite.

The owl, trapped in the confined space, flapped its wings wildly. With its claws digging into your arm, you threw the door open hastily. The bird shot out into the hallway with an irritated screech.

Cassandra released your other arm and frowned. The short trip had leeched the colour from her face. “That was… unpleasant.”

“Efficient, if nothing else,” Solas said, adjusting his stance slightly given the uncomfortable and sudden proximity.

Dorian, still swaying and looking as if he might retch, found his voice to complain a little too quickly. “By the Maker… How often do you travel this way? I can’t imagine what it does to the digestion.”

You steadied him. He’d apparated alongside you before, but it seemed it would take more to become more comfortable with being twisted inside out every which way multiple times over simultaneously. “I do like to walk through the occasional fireplace,” you said. “It’s typically a more comfortable ride, especially when one is feeling under the weather.”

“Oh yes, being smothered by flames would be rather comforting.”

“So you do know of Flooflame?” you asked, intrigued. Of all things to remain the same in this world…

“I don’t understand half the things you say,” he replied dryly, breaking any hope of shared knowledge.

Cassandra, still glaring, interrupted, “Does this magic of yours have any downsides?”

You gave a sympathetic smile. “The worst downside should be nausea.” Cassandra’s eyes narrow slightly at the word.

“Should?” she echoed incredulously.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to use a portkey, particularly with the possibility of mixing up portkey sickness symptoms and those of the plague. If anyone got ill with the plague, you wouldn’t immediately know if it was truly the sickness or simply the side effects of the journey. You could only cure one. But it was too late for that; the urgency of returning to Skyhold had outweighed any second-guessing.

“Don’t worry about it lest you give yourself a heart attack,” you reassured her, already heading towards the door to find Josephine. “But, if by any chance, you do have any odd symptoms, come find me and immediately. Don’t delay.”

With that, you led the way out. It was good to be back at Skyhold, though the cold was already seeping in. At least the trek through the bog was behind you. Small mercies.

You moved quickly to Josephine’s office. She nodded at your request to summon the War Council, already reaching for parchment and a pen to begin the summons. While she saw to that, you made your way to the baths.

The Mire clung to everything—your skin, your clothes, your very being. The undead had pressed too close, their cold, grasping, decaying fingers seeming to burrow past your flesh and sink into your bones. The memories of their clammy hands refused to release their grip. No matter how far you fled or how fast you moved, the dead always seemed to follow. Though their forms varied in every encounter, they bore the same insatiable hunger, as if something about you drew them like moths to a flame. Sometimes their nails dragged like needles across your skin; other times, their teeth seemed made for tearing into flesh.

In the baths, you scrubbed with almost painful vigour. The soap did little at first to replace the mire’s stench. You worked at your skin until it was raw, as if you could scour away not just the physical filth but the memories themselves. At one point, you swore the water turned black, the filth leaching from your skin in thick, oil-like waves. You blinked, and it was gone—just a faint tint of green swirling in the water. You drained the bath and refilled it, repeating the cycle.

Eventually, the scent of soap and herbs replaced the mire’s foulness. For the first time in days, its taint receded from your senses, and you began to feel something close to human again. But the fear and memory of cold, dead hands lingered. No amount of scrubbing could reach that far.

You arrived at the War Council chamber. By now, your ability to vanish and reappear had become an accepted peculiarity. The council members no longer questioned it outright. Thedas had no true concept of teleportation. Your appearances were merely chalked up to magic beyond their ken.

“You made remarkable time,” Cullen said, standing to attention near the war table. “A blessing, perhaps. We’ve received reports of sightings. People claim they’ve seen darkspawn, with Corypheus likely among them if the details prove accurate. Entire villages have been razed, buildings destroyed, lives lost. These claims… they’re difficult to dismiss.”

Leliana stood with her hands clasped neatly behind her back. “The reports are credible. He’s gathering followers, rallying them with fear and false promises. We need to act before his influence spreads further.”

“It seems our battle with him is far from over.”

The man was dead. He had to be. You had seen it. Felt the force of the Killing Curse tear through him. But now…

“It’s someone posing as him,” you suggested steadily despite the churning in your stomach. “Someone’s taken his name, his appearance, his motives. He’s dead. But his type tends to have roots that dig deeper than Yggdrasill. There’s always someone ready to take the mantle.”

Leliana shook her head, a single, decisive movement. “No. We’ve confirmed it. He survived the attack, and he’s making plans again.”

“He couldn’t have. Are you certain it was him?” Your voice wavered just a fraction. “I mean his own body.

“The reports match his description exactly,” Cullen said, seeming confused at your phrasing. “We can’t underestimate him. Last time, he nearly destroyed everything. He’s more dangerous now, but we prepared for this.”

The Killing Curse should have left his body beyond ruin—a vessel shattered beyond any hope of inhabitation. Even if he had an anchor to the living, however unlikely that was, his body should have been beyond use.

Josephine’s pen hovered above her notes, deep in thought. “Whatever the case is, we cannot treat this as simply rumours. The Winter Palace in Halamshiral approaches quickly. If Corypheus—or,” she added, glancing at you, her expression conflicted but believing. “If his agents are planning anything, they’ll strike there. We cannot allow the future you and Dorian saw come to pass.”

The accidental insight into the grim future that had haunted your thoughts ever since Dorian’s spell was starting to feel less like a warning and more like a prophecy.

You sat back, mulling over the possibilities. You had watched Corypheus fall, had watched him die. The Killing Curse was powerful magic. Nothing was supposed to survive that—no one but the darkest and most powerful of wizards.

“Vivienne,” you said, turning to her across the table, fishing for some form of answer. “Is there… any kind of established magic in Thedas that allows people to… Anything that could explain this? I killed him; I know I did. He couldn’t have survived naturally.”

Her lips curled into a faint, disdainful smile. “Darling, you seem to forget Corypheus is a darkspawn. Death is a relative concept for such creatures.” She tilted her head, her tone edged with reproach. “I would have thought you understood that by now.”

“We can’t let ourselves be caught off guard again,” Cullen said, nodding to you, seemingly noticing the way your gaze had drifted. “If we’re to confront him, or whoever walks in his shadow, we need to prepare our forces and gather intelligence. We cannot allow this to escalate further.”

Everyone knew Corypheus was a darkspawn. Everyone accepted that. But darkspawn were supposed to be soulless husks. And yet…

The moment the curse had landed, the world seemed to thin. In that clearing, for a heartbeat, you had touched something raw and dark. The sound, if it could be called that, was like glass splintering underwater: muffled, sharp, with a ringing that reverberated in your ears even now. It’d been a fleeting connection, yet the sensation lingered like a phantom, sending tingles down your right hand. The feeling itself was indescribable, only worth comparing to a wrenching of something that should never be within mortal grasp.

Vivienne’s vague answer only deepened existing concern. If there was no definitive answer, no way to truly know, then this was far worse than initially believed. The council carried on, discussing their next steps and planning for Halamshiral, but you remained quiet, lost in thought. The words faded in and out, but nothing could pull you from the rising tide of panic inside you.

If Corypheus survived the Killing Curse… No, it wasn’t just a matter of ancient magicks.

As the meeting came to a close, you stood and left, not waiting for any other issue to come in between yourself and getting answers.

The halls of Skyhold felt colder than usual as you walked, the semi-familiar stone corridors offering no sense of comfort. You needed answers, real ones, not theories or speculations.

Dorian wouldn’t take this seriously—he’d joke about it, no doubt. And Vivienne… She never truly trusted your ideas. She looked down on your methods, on the kind of magic you wielded and how freely you did so. She was far too aligned with the Chantry’s thinking to entertain anything as unconventional as what you were considering, or at least not judge or scrutinise you for how much knowledge you had on the subject of Corypheus’ resurrection. There was also the fact that you had ignored her and everyone else’s warnings about Corypheus being a darkspawn. She’d never let you hear the end of it.

You needed a perspective that could shift between different lenses, one that wouldn’t judge the knowledge you held, a source that would help you understand. One with clarity beyond your own, offering answers or insights you couldn’t reach alone. A source beyond your own muddled thoughts.

Naturally, the library was the only place that stood out.

Chapter Text

Apparating into the library buried within the Skyhold dungeons, your sudden materialisation resulted in layers of dust that had laid undisturbed for years suddenly being transferred into your lungs. Excluding the dust, the room itself was suffocating. It was a small space, far more cramped than the personal library you once maintained. There, the walls had been lined with towering shelves brimming with hastily organised tomes. Here, the shelves scarcely homed anything but insects and neglected books with cracked and faded spines.

It was an imperfect sanctuary, but it would have to do.

Books you’d taken from Lucius Corin’s office in Therinfal lay strewn across the little floor space there existed. The majority of them had been read through, though they held little information important for your current ventures, but the contents were strange enough to warrant being kept from the main library.

You briefly observed the walls, visualising how the room might stretch and expand with the proper enchantments. It could be so much more; your own sanctum, a true workspace. But without your wand, the thought was futile, no more than an idle distraction.

By now, you could read the common tongue with relative ease. Solas’ patient lessons on language had become unnecessary, though his more valuable insights and training on the Fade had grown scarce these recent weeks. Too many other matters demanded his attention, or perhaps your own. You still struggled with controlling the Anchor outside closing rifts, and any attempt to channel magic directly from the Fade remained impossible. It seemed the Fade was a realm you could only truly access when you were asleep, or semi-conscious if this morning was anything to go by. Otherwise, your waking self was shut out from its “potential,” as your mentor often raved about.

This struggle remained outlandish and often humbling. At school, you had taken to magical studies with an ease that confused many. Even starting as a fifth year with no prior experience hadn’t hindered you for long. You’d progressed quickly, naturally, perhaps even arrogantly. The same could not be said for the Fade. It was slippery and elusive, and clearly you had no natural hand for it. It didn’t matter how much focus you applied or how many techniques you tried; the Fade remained tantalisingly out of reach. The lessons with Solas often felt more grating than any class from your youth ever had. There, learning had been a joy, even in its challenges. Here, it was a battle, one you were constantly losing though you weren’t keeping track.

Thirty-seven times this month you’d tried and failed to shape the Fade. But you weren’t keeping count. Thirty-seven was just an easy number to remember. For example, there were thirty-seven plays attributed to Shakespeare, give or take. Though your attempts at controlling the Fade felt far less poetic than tragic.

For now, however, you researched. The reports had to be wrong. There was no other possibility.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. With no natural lighting in the dungeon, the only indication of time passing was the candle melting. You didn’t notice the knock at first, soft as it was, but when it came again, it startled you out of your reading.

A moment later, the door creaked open, and a servant stepped cautiously into the cramped space. She carried a tray balanced delicately in her hands.

“I… I was told to bring you this, Your Worship,” she said, a little breathless.

You choked slightly at the title. “Just ‘Herald’ is fine,” you said, standing awkwardly as though to offset the strangeness of someone serving you. Still, you gestured for her to come in.

She stepped forward and gingerly placed the tray on the rickety table that groaned faintly under the weight. Then she stepped back, clasping her hands before her, clearly uncertain about what was expected next.

Apparently the entrance to the dungeons had been boarded up to prevent anyone from coming down here while work was being done. There also had been a manhunt for you, a manhunt to serve you food, it seemed. No bother; you’d been found eventually. You didn’t even realise you’d been declared missing, though the so-called Herald of Andraste being missing for half a day would be a concerning matter, supposedly.

“Thank you,” you said earnestly, though the words felt insufficient. “But you didn’t need to trouble yourself. I can fetch my own meals.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, as though the notion was entirely foreign. While you learned French as a child, you certainly weren’t of nobility. You were used to fending for yourself, accustomed to the absence of grandeur or expectation. Having others anticipate your needs, deliver food, or address you with reverence—it was all so strange, like trying to wear someone else’s skin.

“Oh… of course,” she replied after a pause. Her lips curved into a small, polite smile, the kind given to those above her station. It wasn’t genuine, not entirely, but it wasn’t insincere either. “I’ll… leave you to it, then.”

You nodded, watching as she turned to leave. When the door closed behind her, you exhaled, then proceeded to throw yourself back into the book.

The hours slipped by as you turned page after page. Bits of lore sputtered to life just as quickly as they died. Darkspawn were soulless, created from corrupted magic. And yet, Corypheus was more than that. He bared a soul. Part human, part darkspawn; a contradiction that defied explanation. But, as it were, he was the first of his kind.

As the hours wore on, the words blurred, and your concentration faltered. The candle’s flame sputtered weakly, and the wax melted over the dish meant to collect it, spilling onto the table. At last, you conceded defeat. You blew out the candle and left the chill of the dungeon behind.

The rotunda library was far more welcoming with its high arches, small but open windows, and fresh breeze, a stark contrast to dungeons. As you stepped inside, you spotted Dorian reclining in an armchair in one of the alcoves. Mounds of books sat by his feet, stacked carelessly. A book rested on his knee, though his posture remained poised. His attention wavered and latched onto you almost immediately.

“Well, well,” he drawled, shutting his book with a definitive snap. “Decided to bless us with your presence, have you? Should I be honoured, or should I be concerned?”

“I thought I’d check out what the Inquisition funds were being poured into,” you replied, glancing around the chamber. You hadn’t quite spent much time up here, though you’d gotten glimpses due to the interior balcony spanning the tower’s three floors.

He leant back, lounging like a bored king draped lazily over his chair. His gaze slid up to meet yours. “Ah, yes. These noble efforts to civilise the masses with the written word. Truly, a worthwhile endeavour.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. We’ll be heading back out to the Fallow Mire tomorrow to put an end to the necromancy issue.”

He brought a hand to his throat with rare delicacy. “It seems I’ve come down with something most unfortunate. One of your healers prescribed me rest and some abominable Ferelden concoction that smells like boiled boots. I must have picked this dreadful illness up in the swamp. Or perhaps it’s the altitude. Who can say? It’s nothing contagious, I assure you.”

Your expression must have given you away because he waved the same hand dismissively. “Perish the thought,” he said. “But I am allowed a choice in our ventures, yes? That was the arrangement, if memory serves. I do recall something about not being ordered about like some hapless foot soldier.”

“You’re correct.”

“Oh, all right.” He stood in a slow, languid motion and faced you. “I’ll go back to that swamp whenever you so wish. But only because I am nothing if not indispensable.” He all but saluted.

You didn’t dignify his sarcasm with a response, instead wandering towards the shelves. The spines were in far better condition than the ones in the dungeon and didn’t crumble as you traced their edges, searching for something that might provide answers. When Dorian caught your ear again and engaged in a half-hearted conversation, you didn’t mention your fruitless search for darkspawn knowledge. Pride kept you from asking questions you felt you should already know the answers to, and perhaps it was the knowledge that such questions would lead to the truth being revealed, even unwillingly.

Dorian must have been bored sitting up here all day, as he tracked your movements as you waved your hand offhandedly, sending the books that he’d hoarded by his chair back into the shelves. He watched the magic silently, though his mind was elsewhere. “That particular magic of yours… quite fascinating. Earlier, I mean. Brilliant, terrifyingly so. The sensation was unpleasant, to put it lightly. Like being torn apart and reassembled all at once.” He shuddered. “Hardly my idea of a pleasant experience. But I must confess I’m torn between never wanting to feel that again and being morbidly curious about how the whole thing works. It’s strangely exhilarating, in an aberrant sort of way.”

You paused your browsing, glancing over your shoulder. “Do you feel lightheaded? Nauseous? Are you missing something you shouldn’t be without?” Portkeying never splinched anyone, but this circumstance warranted the concern.

“It’s a marvel. Truly,” he said, ignoring your attempt to ensure his well-being. “Though, if I may make a small suggestion: if we’re going to do this again—and we are, aren’t we?—I’d appreciate it if we could make the whole process feel a tad bit less like my organs were being briefly vacationed.”

“It’s not meant to be comfortable. Just effective. We travelled to the other side of the country in milliseconds, mind you,” you reminded him, tugging a book from the shelf and flipping it open.

“Efficiency at the cost of your stomach lining, no doubt. Being yanked leagues through space in an instant sounds like the kind of experience one pays a dubious healer to forget,” he mused, now leaning against a nearby shelf that creaked. “We’ve now travelled through both time and space. What else do you have up those sleeves? Shall we travel to the moons next? The Void, perhaps? What about through the Fade?”

“Even magic has its limits.”

“Including for you?” His eyes widened in mock shock. “No.”

“Would you consider the alternative of slogging through miles of swamp preferable?”

“Not particularly,” he said, falling back into the chair, though he didn’t pick up a book. “But I’d prefer to keep all my internal organs where they belong next time, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I try not to make promises I can’t keep.”

He chuckled softly, but the sound lacked its usual amusement.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. You turned back to your book, thumbing through its pages as your mind settled into the rhythm of study. There was a quiet fellowship in lounging here with the other patrons. It reminded you of late nights in the school library, with oil lamps burning low at the table and casual perusing along the endless shelves and rows of books. The answer to if studying had been your only pastime belonged to memories muddied by time. But the feeling was the same. If you closed your eyes, you could easily be swept back to that time. The only question was if you wanted to return there.

After you’d finally regained some of the concentration you’d lost earlier, Dorian’s voice broke the silence. “So, where are you from, really?”

You kept your gaze on the book in your hands, its contents seeming promising. “You wouldn’t know it.”

“Ah. North. Always North. A place no one knows, full of mysteries and untold horrors. Do enlighten me. Do you have fire-breathing goats up there? Or perhaps a curious tradition of eating raw meat by the light of the full moon? It would certainly explain a great deal about you.”

Realising the book’s contents were less helpful than they’d seemed at first glance, you snapped it shut and swivelled to face him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re offended,” he said more as a question than a statement. “There are more than a few tales of the uncharted North that would truly curl your hair. I’m sure the Inquisition’s detractors are already convinced you’re here to spread your northern ideals to the poor, unsuspecting masses.”

There were so many things about this world that were abhorrent, unjust, broken. And yet, it wasn’t yours to fix, or your place to try. People looked to you for change, as if you held the answers. But how could you provide them when this world wasn’t yours to lead? You knew nothing of it. You hadn’t grown up in it; you barely understood its fractures. And changing it because you happened to be here, that wasn’t your right. One person couldn’t reshape a world just because it didn’t align with their own sense of how things should be.

“I doubt they’re losing sleep over it,” you said flatly, debating sitting down to speak with Dorian on equal terms but ultimately deciding against it. “But what do these supposed tales say about the Northerners?”

“Nothing,” he replied with a chortle. “Absolutely nothing but gossip and superstition. Isn’t that wonderful? But do feel free to share. I’m sure you have something intriguing to contribute.”

“You’re telling me Tevinter hasn’t tried to lay claim to the North?”

“We’ve tried,” he said, his tone breezy. “But no one has succeeded and survived. Quite frankly, we have too much on our hands already to deal with another country. The Imperium may once have claimed all of Thedas, but these days, there are just too many distractions. Not that the Imperium wouldn’t love to have all of Thedas under its control again.”

“A country’s influence is only as strong as its weakest link,” you noted, watching his reaction. He didn’t react. “You’d think with all that ambition, Tevinter would spare some thought for what lies beyond Thedas. Or is Orlais more suited for that kind of thing?”

“I’m certain some enterprising magister has already devised some grand scheme to conquer the entire planet in one fell swoop,” he said with a shrug. “Probably some fool who thinks himself so brilliant that he hides his plans, lest anyone steal his genius. That behaviour is more common than you’d suspect. But until the Imperium can sort out its internal power struggles, I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for an invasion.”

“Would Corypheus succeed in such an endeavour?”

He gave an odd look. “If he had any air left in his lungs, maybe,” he quipped, though his smile faltered for a moment. “That corpse had ambition, I’ll give him that. Pity it only took you to bring him down.”

“A pity indeed.”

It was strange that Thedas seemed to give little thought to the continents beyond the waters. But to be fair, as long as the ‘Northerners,’ or whoever was out there, weren’t waging war on Thedas, it wasn’t much to worry about. Rocking the boat for the sake of curiosity and greed was a dangerous game.

“Unless there is something you need to admit,” Dorian said suddenly, tone shifting to something more pointed. He fixed you with a look of subtle interest. “What came of your meeting?”

You stiffened slightly. “That’s private information.”

“Is it private, or something you’d rather not say aloud? I thought I was your closest confidant.”

“What on earth would possess you to believe that?” you asked incredulously. If you didn’t know any better, he was possessed by a pride demon.

“Your undeniable good taste, naturally,” he replied, leaning back against the library table. “Considering our shared Northerner status and how we travelled through time together, it should really be a no-brainer. Or is there another mage you’d rather confide in? Have I been replaced already? Don’t tell me it’s Solas.” He nodded to the balcony, where the drop-off gaped open, revealing the floor below. “You’d never be able to get a word in edgewise. Not exactly a conversationalist, that one.”

The open floor plan of the library had its drawbacks. Below the balcony railing, the chamber extended into the lower level where Solas, the last time you checked, currently dwelled. From this vantage point, you could see him easily if you felt the need to spy. You could watch him, and he wouldn’t notice unless he craned his head up. But more importantly, the openness meant he could likely hear every word if he cared to listen. The space wasn’t designed for privacy.

You lowered your voice an octave and hissed into Dorian’s ear. “You don’t even know him. Have you spoken to him directly, even once?”

“I can only imagine how tedious those conversations must be,” he replied, his voice noticeably not dropping to match yours.

“He’s insightful.”

“Insufferable. There’s a difference.”

“And you believe you’re better company?”

“Absolutely. I’m the very paragon of delightful conversation and repartee. I bring levity to this dreary existence. And I must say, I’ve done wonders with you. Who knew you had this much to say? My work here is nothing short of miraculous.”

“You’re a regular gift to humanity, I’m sure.”

“Absolutely. You should thank me.”

Behind you, someone cleared their throat sharply. It wasn’t loud, but in the library’s otherwise hushed environment, it echoed faintly. When you glanced over your shoulder, no one seemed to meet your gaze directly. A few scholars buried their noses further into their books, while another spun around so you couldn’t see their face. The origin of the sound remained unknown. It would have been heresy for anyone to openly chastise the Herald of Andraste, after all, but the sentiment was clear enough.

Clearing your own throat in return, you turned back to Dorian, who looked entirely unbothered. “Maybe we should put an end to this conversation,” you said quietly, ashamed such a heated conversation had become a dramatic display to people who idolised you—though with the recent news of Corypheus’ return, that was likely coming to a swift end.

“Oh, no. We’re not leaving this quite yet.” He continued refusing to ensure this conversation remained private. No wonder why you didn’t consider him a confidant. “You made us up and leave the swamp with barely a word, pulling out that odd little book of yours quite suddenly with no preamble, and now you’re looking particularly troubled. Forgive me if I’m curious. It’s one of my many vices.”

“You needn’t worry, Dorian. It looks like you’ve got enough on your plate anyhow,” you said instead of explaining, brushing past Dorian and leaving him to his nook of the library. You’d have to come out and tell the truth about Corypheus someday, but before you did that, you needed to know what the truth even was.

You wandered deeper into the shelves, eyes skimming the rows for anything that might hold answers about darkspawn and archdemons. Anything to explain Corypheus’ impossible return. The hours slipped away, leaving you no closer to understanding. The same recycled knowledge, the same dead ends.

Dorian’s voice broke through your fragile focus. He’d followed you again, this time with less pretension of subtlety. “There’s nothing here worth reading,” he declared, loud enough to earn a few disapproving glances from other patrons whose patience had thinned tremendously since you stepped foot in the upper library. “Just Chantry propaganda and endless accounts of when Divine Galatea deigned to take a shit.”

Despite your exhaustion, you responded to him in kind. “And what if I wanted to chart sacred bowel movements across the ages? You’d be surprised how enlightening it can be when certain events align and patterns emerge.”

“Then I fear we’re all beyond saving, and Skyhold’s fall is inevitable.”

He grinned, and for a moment, your frustration lifted.

“How are your accommodations, by the way?” you asked, shifting the topic and changing your tune from the earlier argument, if it could be called that. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too terrible to play nice. “I hope everything’s to your liking?”

“For a draughty fortress in the middle of nowhere? Surprisingly tolerable.”

You let a soft chuckle escape and moved further down the aisle. A patron stood there but moved away and out of sight when Dorian followed you into the already cramped nook.

“Considering your recent… interest in unconventional topics,” he began, voice quieter now, “you might find her more enlightening.” He tipped his chin subtly towards the other side of the balcony.

You followed his gaze. On the other side of the room, past the circular drop-off of the balcony, a woman in white mage robes stood by the balcony, head bowed over a book. Her hand moved with steady precision, the quill in her fingers gliding smoothly across parchment.

“Is she a friend of yours?” you asked.

“A mage who went through the Rite of Tranquillity,” Dorian explained. His usual levity faded, replaced by something softer, more respectful. “I don’t know her personally, but she might offer insights a stuffy book cannot. I assume you still have some interest in the transgressions against mages.”

The sight of the tranquil mage stirred something uneasy within you. You had never spoken to a Tranquil before. The stories made them seem far more intimidating than this woman appeared. It wasn’t her presence exactly; rather, it was likely your anticipation.

“She looks so immersed in her work,” you mused. You had expected something else—someone hollow, a soulless husk like those left behind after a Dementor’s Kiss. But this was… different.

Dorian’s brows furrowed. “What were you expecting? A statue?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you offered him a faint nod. “I should go speak to her. If you’ll excuse me.”

As you drew nearer, the sunburst mark on her forehead came into view. That cold, emotionless brand. A phantom itch flared across your own; a ghost of something you couldn’t remember but knew you should.

Your feet slowed. The woman before you was a picture of rigid stillness, with every movement mechanical and precise. Her hand moved across the parchment in controlled strokes. She didn’t sway, didn’t fidget, didn’t show any of the small, unconscious gestures that made a person feel alive. The only sign of life being the steady, methodical glide of her quill.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. What were you supposed to ask? Where did you begin? Ultimately, deciding now wasn’t the time, you began to turn away and leave the library, suddenly feeling like you were being suffocated. However, you caught the eye of Fiona, who stood near one of the library nooks.

Seizing the distraction, you approached. “How are the mages faring?” you asked.

“They’re doing well, all things considered,” she said with a nod.

“And yourself?”

“We are all managing. We’ve all had to adapt to these changes. The world has shifted beneath our feet. The mages are learning to navigate this… uncertain landscape. They’re no longer bound by the constraints of the Circle, but freedom brings its own trials.”

You studied her closely, noting the subtle lines of weariness etched around her eyes. You took a step closer, lowering your voice. “You know you can come to me if there are issues. This alliance was for both parties.”

Her gaze searched yours for a long moment, as though weighing your sincerity. Such a sentiment wouldn’t be strange, considering what the mages had been through; distrust was expected. Except you were a fellow ‘mage’. It was hard to not feel a little like you’d let the Free Mages down.

Finally, the tension in her shoulders visibly eased just a fraction. “There are concerns among the mages. The rest of the Templar Order will arrive soon. A decision not everyone agrees with.”

“I won’t let the mages live in fear,” you assured her. The words were a promise, one you intended to keep.

Fiona’s lips tightened, her gaze assessing. “That will be up to the next Divine. But for now, many of the mages aren’t convinced you have their best interests at heart.”

That information was filed away for later. There was still so much to do, so many bridges to build, both literal and figurative.

Your gaze drifted back to the Tranquil woman, standing like a forgotten statue amid the sea of books. “Do you know who that mage is? I’ve yet to introduce myself.”

“Her name is Helisma. She took over as your new head creature researcher.”

A new researcher? You hadn’t even realised there was a new researcher. That was a failing on your part, wasn’t it? These people worked under you, relying on your leadership. How had you missed something so important?

“What happened to the previous scholar?” you asked hesitantly.

“Minaeve turned her focus to personal studies,” Fiona explained, alleviating your nerves about another lost life you could have been ignorant to. “She appointed Helisma in her place.”

You looked at Helisma again, who stood perfectly still and with a rigid posture. The absence of movement was unnerving, like a puppet waiting for someone to pull its strings.

After exchanging a few more words with Fiona, she excused herself to attend to her own work with the mages. With a steadying breath, you approached Helisma. She turned as you neared, her expression flat, devoid of warmth or curiosity. Just mild acknowledgement.

“Helisma?” you called uncertainly.

“Yes, Herald?” she replied, her tone even and unfeeling. It was a voice stripped of everything human, reduced to nothing but pure function.

“I’m interested in your research.” The words felt clumsy as they left your mouth, but curiosity bloomed brighter beneath hesitation. Not curiosity about beasts, but of tranquil mages. “What have you been working on?”

Her words droned on, a meticulous recounting of dry details you barely absorbed. You nodded along, offering an occasional murmur of interest as she described territorial markers and feeding habits. Your mind, however, was elsewhere.

You’d been to Azkaban before, seen the hollowed husks of those who had received the Dementor’s Kiss. Those bodies existed without souls, empty shells barely capable of movement, unable to speak or respond to the world. This was different. Helisma’s soul wasn’t gone. Her soul was still there, trapped behind an impenetrable wall. Perhaps it could be breached.

Two different worlds, two different solutions—but beneath the surface, they shared the same grim core: the stripping of the spirit, the hollowing of a person until nothing human remained. When something became a threat, society always found a way to temper it. Not to control it, as there was a chance it would prevail, but to remove the risk of rebellion. A powerful person, especially one wielding magic, could never be controlled indefinitely. Sooner or later, chains, proverbial or not, would break. But that would only happen if society was weak and built on crumbling foundations.

A memory snagged your thoughts, trying to tug it back. “I’ve been told I was made Tranquil. Twice, actually. So I’ve heard. Yet I bear no memory of either.”

Helisma’s gaze didn’t waver. “I am barred from discussing the details of the Rite, even with you, Your Worship.”

Of course. The knowledge was guarded, even from someone who had experienced it. The secrecy wasn’t unexpected, but it rankled all the same. Anger stirred like an unkept cauldron. It wasn’t merely the removal of emotion; it was the removal of autonomy and choice. The transformation of a person into a tool.

“Why does the Circle guard it so closely, do you know?” you asked, digging where you know not to. “You’ve been through it. Doesn’t that make it yours to share?”

Helisma tilted her head again, her expression untouched by the accusation in your tone. “I have no reason to discuss it. My work is more pressing. Do you wish to know anything else, Your Worship?”

“But you remember the process?”

“Yes. The memories are preserved, but they mean nothing.”

What was the inside of her mind like? Would Legilimency show you a barren wasteland? A quiet void? Even if you could glimpse her thoughts, you didn’t know what damage it might cause or whether she could truly approve or defend herself against such an intrusion.

“So it is like being lost in your own mind?” you pressed, needing to understand what her current state meant and, more pressingly, what it could have meant for you.

“We do not experience loss in the way you conceive of it.” Her tone remained flat. “We are free from the turbulence of emotion, free to focus, to understand without distraction.” Yet there was an undercurrent to her words that hinted at a sacrifice too great to express. Perhaps she lacked the words, or perhaps she didn’t know what such a thing felt like. If the Tranquil lived in shades of grey where there should be colour, perhaps she could no longer name the colours.

“But at what cost?” you asked, gripping the railing with your right hand. The rotted wood moulded within your grip. “To be stripped of your spirit, to have your soul taken away against your will? How can anyone see that as freedom?”

Her gaze remained still. Her dark eyes were windows to rooms left vacated.

“I’m sorry.” You bowed your head. Having such a discussion was futile. “I’ll leave you to your work. Thank you,” you murmured, though you weren’t sure what for.

She turned back to her work, as if you’d never been there.

You lingered a moment longer, staring at her face. Her silhouette was too calm, too quiet. There were no answers here, not in books or conversations stripped of essence and humanity.

The rotunda was quiet, as it often was, aside from the soft noises of Solas’ musings and the occasional sounds from the open floors above. The candles lining the circular walls trembled at your swift entrance, with the flames leaning away as if recoiling from you. Solas stood at the central table, gazing down at a book, lost in thought. His presence always brought with it a sense of calm and wisdom, but today, you needed more than that.

He glanced up as your footsteps crossed the room. “You’ve returned,” he said simply. His eyes flicked briefly to your hands, clenched tightly together as though to anchor yourself. “No tea this time?”

You faltered, the question catching you off guard. “This wasn’t a planned visit. I didn’t want to interrupt you. I know how busy you’ve been with your work lately. But would you like some?”

The corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “No, you are not interrupting. And as for the offer, while I appreciate it, I would not trouble you for such a task. Sit, if you like. How was the council meeting?”

“Have you heard the rumours?” you asked quite suddenly, still breathless from the brisk walk you’d taken before returning to the rotunda. It should have cleared your head, but the confusion was still there, swirling like a storm. It was as though you’d apparated instead of walked, your mind and body disconnected, and your thoughts no clearer than before.

“There have been many circulating the castle. Some believe the Inquisition harbours a dragon in the dungeons. Others whisper that a monstrous creature lies in hibernation beneath the frozen lake. Yet still, talk often drifts towards you and your reach into magics less travelled,” he said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “But I doubt these are the thoughts that trouble you.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown by the absurdity of it all. How did he know these rumours when you barely saw him speak to anyone other than Cole?

But there was no time to think of idle rumours or speculation right now. “I’m afraid there are more pressing matters at hand. There’ve been sightings of Corypheus,” you said, cutting straight to the point. “Or of what he leaves in his wake. Destruction. Terror. The council is convinced he’s still alive, but I killed him. I used magic that shouldn’t fail. Magic that should be absolute.”

If Corypheus was truly still alive, there was no escaping this nightmare. You needed Solas to tell you it was impossible, that there was no way he could have returned. But deep down, you knew the truth, and that truth clawed at the edges of your mind. You were in denial, clinging to any scrap of hope. Hope, one of many evils. It had bred ignorance and disappointment before.

Solas’ shoulders shifting almost imperceptibly. Maybe you should have waited before throwing this new, world-breaking information at him. “Corypheus is not an ordinary being. He has lived for centuries, perhaps millennia, and has mastered magics lost to time. I have seen in the Fade how long he has endured, how deeply his essence is woven into the fabric of this world. There are forces in this world, beyond this world, that we do not fully understand.”

That wasn’t the reassurance you were hoping for.

Your gaze flicked around the room. Without a word, you lifted your hand and traced a vague pattern in the air. A silencing barrier settled around the rotunda, briefly brushing against your skin. The caws and faint rustling from the library above disappeared, leaving only the thrum of your own heartbeat in the quiet.

Silently, Solas inclined his head.

“This isn’t a safe topic for open ears.” If word of Corypheus’ return got out without certainty, panic would ripple through Skyhold, perhaps even through Thedas itself. You couldn’t afford that mess.

Closing the book with a soft thud, he gave you his full attention. You’d come here for this, sought him out deliberately, but his focus made something knot uncomfortably in your chest.

“Do you think he might be using some form of spirit magic?” you asked, gripping the back of the empty desk chair. You should have gone to Solas first after the council meeting, not wasted time in the libraries hunting for answers that refused to be found. The fact that Corypheus retained his original body after the Killing Curse was impossible. It should have been impossible. “Something through the Fade?”

He paused, eyes narrowing in thought. “It is possible. But whatever he is now, he has transcended mortal limitations. His power may not be tied to life or death in the way we understand it. If he returns, it is because he has found a way to defy the grasp of death itself.”

Your thoughts spun like a wheel stuck in the mud. The certainty there had been once was now crumbling, giving way to a quicksand pit of horror.

Solas’ voice broke through your tumultuous thoughts. “Perhaps what you destroyed was only a part of him. Or perhaps he has bound himself to something else, something that anchors his existence beyond the reach of your magic. Where has he been sighted?”

You gave the region. “You don’t seem surprised by this news.”

He met your gaze steadily. “I did caution that no one truly knew Corypheus’ fate. His defeat was never guaranteed.”

“Yes. Yes, you did. I should have listened to you.” How many lives had been lost because of your refusal to believe what was in front of you? Because of your ignorance and stubborn refusal to believe you were wrong? “I should have never doubted you, not after all you’ve done. But I had my reasons.”

You hesitated, your fingers curling into your palms. The Anchor blazed briefly in return but behaved well enough. You’d come here to speak to Solas about something you barely wanted to admit aloud. The truth was a jagged thing, hard to grasp and harder to share. The very idea of it could make one feel exposed.

“I didn’t just kill Corypheus. I ripped his soul from his body.” Remnants of the mire’s water remained in your ears, muffling your own voice. “The spell I used… I don’t use it liberally. The times I have, I can count on one hand, and I’ve since repented.” You swallowed hard. Even speaking one word of this was enough for the Ministry to magically catch wind and run an investigation—if they ever bothered to do their jobs properly, that is. Many a magic was left unchecked by their rule. “It kills the body immediately, ceasing every bodily function, simultaneously ripping the soul from the body. It’s quick and painless, but murder all the same. None survive it.” Once more, you hesitated. Harmless as they are, some words were painful to say out loud. Such conversations of morality could have blurred lines when spoken with someone who came from a different world to your own, whose opinions may contradict your own. Open-mindedness could only go so far. “As I’m sure you know, it’s unnatural for a soul to return to the body once severed. The soul has to pass on to somewhere. It can linger as a ghost or pass into the afterlife. But if it is tethered to this realm, it is unable to join the dead, regardless of if the body is intact or not.”

You had been so adamant that Corypheus was dead. So many people had told you otherwise, citing his nature as a Darkspawn, but you had refused to believe it because of what that could mean.

Solas’ lips pressed into a thin line. It was difficult to discern if he believed you or not; he so often did not. “You’re describing a way to anchor oneself beyond the reach of death.”

“Corypheus has been resurrected. He has surmounted my curse. That can only mean one thing.” The words tasted bitter on your tongue before you even spoke them. “He has a horcrux.”

The word seemed alien in the rotunda, as if it didn’t belong here. Solas repeated the cursed word slowly. It sounded strange on his tongue, a foreign concept given weight and shape. He didn’t need to say that he didn’t know what it was for you to understand that it was unheard of in this world. Yet he appeared intrigued. The nature between horcruxes and darkspawn was similar in its corruption, yet fundamentally different. But there was still so much you were ignorant of.

You’d known what you were doing when you sought him out, but speaking about this now, to Solas of all people, left you feeling inexplicably exposed. Still, it was too late to back out now. He’d question your retreat, and you might as well explain to prevent unwanted assumptions.

“It’s a dark form of magic; a way to anchor part of a soul to an object, ensuring that even if your body is destroyed, the primary soul can live on. But even possessing the strongest magic, dark or not, my curse should have rendered his body uninhabitable. The curse destroys everything as easily as it displaces souls. He should have been unable to return to the body—it is impossible.”

“Impossible, or simply unheard of?” Solas asked, repeating words you’d spoken once before, though if he knew he was slapping them in your face, he didn’t show it.

“The curse does not discriminate between species. He fell, meaning he bears a soul somewhere within him, but it found its way back.”

“Considering his nature, it is not unnatural to have been resurrected in another body.”

“But to retain his appearance?” And why. Only three weeks had passed since the fall of Haven, and Leliana had already caught wind of Corypheus’ movements. It was a foolish decision for one who had immeasurable power at his fingertips to not at least try and hide. Though, perhaps, those with horcruxes did not often feel the need to hide. “If he was merely possessing someone, he would go undetected. But Cullen explicitly said the reports matched his description.”

“If his return follows the path of an Archdemon, his physical form may be replicated. His essence, the corruption of his being, the blight in his blood, may mould any new vessel to resemble his former self. He is beyond the reach of mortal law. That is far from the most unnatural part of this. His ability to shatter the boundaries between life and death, to twist the Fade’s rules to his will. This is a defiance of the natural order so profound that it is a corruption of creation itself.”

Similar explanations had been offered before. No—given to you. You didn’t ignore it; you just couldn’t accept it. You’d been in disbelief, unable to reconcile the reality with the power you’d wielded. You had been told, but you were unable to believe it—unable to fathom that something so monstrous could bypass your curse. Perhaps Corypheus didn’t have an actual horcrux like those from your world, but his soul was being protected somewhere, beyond the confines of his decaying body.

“It’s starting to make sense now,” you admitted, finding sounds weren’t so muffled now. Mindlessly, you picked up the empty inkwell from the desk and cast the Refilling Charm on it, watching as the ink swirled into existence in the pot. “I wasn’t just turning a deaf ear to what I was told; I couldn’t comprehend it. But if his soul has found sanctuary elsewhere, it’s the only explanation for his survival.”

“The severing of one’s soul… a dangerous venture. It seems you are not so unfamiliar with anchors of the soul, even if they take different forms in your world.” He paused, his fingers brushing absently over the cover of his closed book before he reclasped his fingers, hiding them. “How does one create this soul tether?”

“Through means of which I have no doubt Corypheus is capable of fulfilling with little issue. But unexpected means all the same.”

He was silent for a moment, brewing your words. “He is no stranger to ancient magicks. Were such power existent, he would seek it out. So, this tether is a form of your ancient magic? Something achievable by those who wield sufficient power?”

“Yes, it’s a form of ancient magic—it involves the splitting of one’s soul, after all,” you answered quickly. “While every wizard can do it, hypothetically, that doesn’t mean they should. It’s highly illegal, and the cost is too great. In fact, it’s the darkest of inventions one can possibly make. If someone is found to have made one, they’re thrown in Azkaban and forgotten about. Quite the punishment when you remember they’re immortal, and their soul cannot pass on.”

“Immortality achieved through soul fragmentation. Such a prison would be a torment few could suffer without irreparable damage.” He studied you for a moment before his gaze shifted to the room itself.

Pushing yourself from the table to get some space, you surveyed the room. It was no longer as bare as it was three weeks ago, though Solas had hardly made it his own aside from where his influence had graced the walls.

You motioned to where a third of the wall had been painted. “Already redecorating? And here I thought you chose this place for the impeccable architecture.”

The frescoes stretched across the curve of the wall, with hues rich and vibrant despite the dim candlelight. He’d gone for a largely geometric design to depict the Breach in the first panel and then perhaps the Inquisition in the second. Reds, browns, and greens dominated the panels; an earthy, grounding palette. Yet the many eyes stood out above all else, holding the gaze captive.

The Templar’s pet Envy demon was obsessed with eyes. It painted them madly around the shrine it tributed to Empress Celene in Therinfal Redoubt. For it, the eyes likely symbolised its struggle to be seen in a fixed form, its obsession to view through countless perspectives (either possessing others, copying others’ bodies, or before when it viewed the waking world from the Fade), the Seekers of Truth as fresh prey, or its fixation on the Inquisition—it’s master, Corypheus’ new focus. Who could say? You’d hardly been in the right mind to interrogate it.

Eyes carried a universal significance. They were symbols of perception, knowledge, and power. The Evil Eye, the All-Seeing Eye, the Eye of Horus, the Eye of Ra, the Watchful Eye of the Divine—the list went on. They were the windows to the soul. A single eye could see the world differently from another, despite sharing the same shape. No two ever truly saw the world in the same way. They were the ultimate paradox of universality and individuality.

The Envy demon’s true form—that thin, pale, spindly thing with too many limbs and too many teeth—had been a monster without a single eye. No wonder one such as Envy would fixate on the symbol. Eyes offered perspectives it could never fully possess: to see, to be seen, and to lead.

Here, Solas seemed to have chosen them for a similar symbolic reason. Perhaps they symbolised the scrutiny the Inquisition faced, or how all of Southern Thedas watched as the world teetered on the edge of ruin. Whatever the case, it was unlikely he painted them because of your (widely) known arachnophobia. That would have been a step too far… wouldn’t it? Even for him. Probably. On the off chance it was the reason, you didn’t ask for confirmation, preferring not to know if he felt so negatively.

The eyes on the wall seemed to follow you as you turned away, and your gaze found Solas again. It seemed easier to look at him than at the eyes.

“Do you disapprove of my choice?” he asked with a certain edge, as though not merely seeking validation but attempting to unearth your thoughts.

Spiders just have far too many eyes for comfort. All manner of beasts had been welcome in your vivariums, but anything with too many limbs and too many eyes was categorically banned.

“I didn’t take you for the colourful, artsy type,” you said instead, choosing the sensible route. “I falsely assumed aesthetics were beneath you. But you’ve accomplished much. You have an eye for detail.” You hesitated, feeling an itch as if being watched. Having a mass group of eyes in your peripheral vision was awfully reminiscent of creeping around caves belonging to spiders three times your size. “Impressively done. There’s so much intent I wouldn’t have expected from you. A poor assumption indeed.”

He seemingly accepted that with little offence, of which none was intended. “To leave these walls untouched felt like a disservice. Skyhold and the Inquisition could be more. Art has its place, even in places deemed solely for war. Perhaps especially in such places. It calls to the heart, reminding us of the things we fight to save or might lose.”

“I’ve never seen frescoes quite like this, though. It’s an old form in my world, not very mainstream anymore. They often told stories, myths, victories, and warnings. They’re fragile, though, and most haven’t survived the test of time.” You glanced back at the wall, captivated despite yourself, but kept your gaze below the eyes. Perhaps you hadn’t had much time until now to dwell on art, but Solas’ work was different.

He returned to the topic that had brought you here in the first place. “It seems the absence of the Fade does not limit the pursuit of something greater among your kind, even without the realm of dreams and spirits guiding them.”

“High praise, coming from you.”

“Though it does beg the question: how far would your people go if you did have access to the Fade? Would it temper your creations, or would it drive you to destroy yourselves in pursuit of accomplishments?”

“That’s a cheerful thought,” you cheerlessly replied. “One that speaks of your disappointment. Are you bitter that the Fade places shackles on the magic in this world while mine doesn’t play by the same rules?”

“The Fade does not impose such limits.” His lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke again. “With such freedom comes danger, as you’ve illustrated. Limitations often serve to refine power, not diminish it; nor does dormancy equal absence. The Fade may simply be quieter to the mages of your world. Perhaps the Veil’s influence has shifted your world in ways you have not considered.” His voice cooled, becoming almost clinical, grating on your nerves. “But this freedom of yours… I wonder, how much do you understand of it? Such as how your people might anchor themselves beyond death?”

You leant against the bare wall, letting the cold stone seep into your back. “I know as much as one can without having first-hand experience. Well… Perhaps I know a little more than is academically acceptable.” Your hand drifted absently to the side table, fingers picking at the flowers displayed in the vase. The motion offered a fleeting distraction. “I knew of one witch who’d been sealed in a cave for years by the Ministry. No one could find her horcrux. Very few visited her. Not even Death.”

His head tilted slightly, his interest unmistakable, almost overwhelming, considering the subject matter. In a way, it felt like you were bearing your soul. “To resist even death’s claim is no small feat. Your kind has a habit of pushing magic into the world—gracing it, as it were, with your touch. Objects, places, and possibly other beings made to bear traces of this imposition. A form of imprinting. I assume your magic is a shadow of the soul.”

“You make it sound complimentary,” you said dryly.

He gave a faint, knowing smile, the kind that could have easily been overlooked. “Not all impositions are unwelcome. Take your portkeys, for example.” The word sounded strange on his tongue. Not wrong—far from it. He had perfected the pronunciation, despite this being the first time you’d ever heard him speak it. It was strange in the way that it was entirely familiar, a word from your own world, your own tongue. It was as if you were back home, deep in debate with a classmate or a Ministry official about the legality of portkeys, of which your portkey journal was, technically speaking, illegal, and you’d known wizards who’d gone to Azkaban for selling similar ones. But no one was around to police you on it. Not that this was the first time you’d skirted the law either.

Without pause, he continued, “A mundane object imbued with purpose. The magic remains within indefinitely, awaiting activation. It is not unlike some enchantments seen in ancient civilisations, which have lasted centuries. However, yours seem more robust.”

“Comparing portkeys to horcruxes is a dangerous leap,” you said. “But you’re correct; they do share similarities. It seems you’ve given this much thought. Wizards don’t care much for the root of magic. Most don’t give much thought to where it comes from, so long as it does what he needs it to.”

“Few care to dig deeply into the nature of the world. They walk upon it, use it, and shape it to their will, but rarely do they stop to understand it. Many take its gifts for granted.”

Conceding the point, you said, “I can’t argue with that.”

His clinical countenance softened as he seemed to rein in his musings, as if deciding against digging further into some confounding philosophy. There was a pause, a subtle shift in his tone as he redirected the conversation. “The witch’s prolonged existence—was it one of triumph or suffering?”

“The latter,” you replied with little thought. “There was no joy in her existence. She was cruel, bitter. A twisted version of the brilliance she once was. I imagine the first few decades she spent in that cave starving and picking at her skin, she at least had her knowledge to keep her company through dreary nights.”

“Such transformations are inevitable when one tears themselves apart for power. Did you know her well?”

A humourless smile curled your lips. “Trust that she was no friend of mine. I sought her out for a different matter altogether. Most wizards lose their minds the older they age. Their magic may become stronger, but they lose their senses in the process. But her? She was as sharp as ever, even after centuries. She held valuable information long lost to time.” You paused, finding the memory vivid behind your eyes. “Her ‘tether’ was an earring. A simple piece of jewellery, easily overlooked.”

“And yet, you did not fail to find it.”

“No. She revealed it herself, as a taunt, I presume.” You tilted your head towards him. “It was hidden in plain sight, as most dangerous things often are. But finding it was the easy part. Destroying it? That’s where things get complicated. Not something I concerned myself with.” By that point in your life, you were done doing the Ministry’s dirty work. You never worked for them, never wanted to, but you were the only one who saw things clearly enough to act. The Ministry’s ignorance left you no choice, nor was it ever your burden to carry.

You began to pace, unable to still the tension building inside. The cut on your foot had since healed (by way of your magic). “On that note, I fear that Corypheus’ may not be as easy to unearth. We are at a loss. Finding it would be nearly impossible. Destroying it would be even harder. You can’t just break something holding a soul. It requires… It’s more than physical, so, naturally, to break it, an equal power is required. My magic alone will not suffice, I assume. Best not to take any unnecessary risks. And what if he’s hidden it somewhere? We wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“He has a dragon,” Solas stated simply, his tone matter-of-fact, cutting through your spiralling thoughts.

You stopped mid-step, scuffing your shoes against the stone floor. Turning, you shot him a disbelieving look. “How could I forget he has a pet dragon? What next, a kraken for a servant?”

“Consider the possibility,” Solas interjected, unruffled. He set off from the table, approaching to keep up a polite conversational distance. “If one wishes to guard something precious, it is kept close. The dragon that follows his will, a creature that should not bend to the commands of man, does so without question. Have you considered why that is?”

“You’d think the tether would be hidden, but that would only make it obvious what it is.” Then the next thought struck you like a blow. “But in the dragon?” You shook your head, sceptical or ignorant—who could tell at this point? Thoughts merged and moulded together, becoming an inscrutable mess. “No, horcruxes are placed into inanimate objects because they’re easier to protect. You can’t enchant a living being like you can an inanimate object. Dragons don’t go into hiding with ease. How would he even succeed? Little magic affects them. Their hide alone makes them nearly impossible to fatally injure.”

Solas allowed you to air your grievances without commentary. Finally, he said, “It may explain why the dragon is so closely bound to his will. Perhaps he possesses it.”

“Ah, but of course. No one would expect the dragon to be the horcrux.” A sharp laugh escaped you, though it lacked any real humour. “Except you, that is. The answer was right in front of me the entire time, flying right over my head. I can’t imagine the impact that has on the dragon. Placing the soul into something already existing with one… that would no doubt cause complications.” Souls can’t merge.

You resumed your pacing. Keeping polite eye contact was just out of the realm of possibilities at this moment. Considering the subject matter. “Typically, those who create horcruxes want to defy their mortality,” you said, unable to stop the amused smile tugging at your lips. To quell it, you continued speaking. “He wishes to be immortal but chose a mortal being as his champion and to bear his soul. Why choose something so fragile?”

“Dragons are many things, but fragile is not among them,” Solas said, displaying faint condescension, as though amused or confused by your choice of words but choosing not to say so outright. “It may be a choice of hubris. What better vessel for one who sees himself as a god than a creature revered as such?”

You’d read something about this before, though the source was now blurred in the haze of your prior hunt for knowledge. In mythology, gods were rarely, if ever, dragons. Such beasts were monsters to be conquered or guardians to be outwitted, not deities themselves. They were symbols of might, power, or destruction. Never worshipped.

Thedas’ religions mirrored those from your world, naturally with some differences, but the core aspects, such as control and morality, shared roots. Humans were fundamentally the same, after all, driven by the need to make sense of the unknown and to seek comfort in higher powers.

Dragons revered as divine weren’t a new concept, nor particularly common across the world. They usually retained some human quality, making them more comprehensible. But the Tevinter Old Gods were nothing like that. They were dragons, point blank. No human visage or hand reined them in. There wasn’t a mediator or judge to humanise their image. No divine parental figure kept them in check. They were unrestrained, raw, powerful. Now that was revolutionary. They fit Tevinter perfectly as a society that worshipped power, unbridled by restraint. Societies did often handcraft or choose their own pantheons.

Perhaps Corypheus was vying for that role. Not only striving to rule over humanity but his own idols. To become a master of all things, mortal and divine. The worshipper becoming the worshipped. That was his aspiration. Envy had said something of that sort.

Greed was predictable and transcended past humanity. Ranrok wanted power, going as far as to kill his own kind. Both wizarding and mundane history were riddled with such figures. Morgana coveted control, going dark for the sake of power. Fáfnir killed his father and abandoned his humanity to protect his hoard. King Midas turned himself gold in his insatiable ventures. Judas Iscariot betrayed for greed. King Croesus’ name became synonymous with riches. Alexander the Great did everything under the sun to satiate his decrepit desires but was never satisfied. King Henry VIII’s desires saw no bounds. Wizardkind kept magic to themselves when it could save lives. The list could go on for eternity. What was boundless if not the universe and the greed of man? It is everywhere, across worlds and time. It saw few bounds, as did its malefactors.

Yet Thedas knew no Demon of Greed. Perhaps its people had simply taken on that role themselves.

You struggled to draw a real parallel to the Tevinter Old Gods, finding no easy comparison. They were neither the monsters of myth nor the divine judges of old. They made up the entire pantheon, defying generalisation entirely, embodying something uniquely Thedosian.

It was maddening. Fascinating. A puzzle not yet unravelled. It made understanding them all the more difficult, but nonetheless intriguing. New. Ready and begging to be explored. This new well of knowledge was almost enticing.

“Dragons may be harder to kill, but they still die,” you said, forcing yourself back to the matter at hand. Research could wait. “Then what? The soul fragment would have nothing to cling to. It would all be for nothing. That is what I meant by fragility. Corypheus, while his tastes may be grandiose, his forethought is… unbalanced. Ambition clouds his reasoning.” How he got so far, who could say?

“Ambition and reason may not always work in harmony, but neither are they mutually exclusive. Do you believe the cost of creating a tether outweighs the gain?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“To dismiss him as reckless would be shortsighted. Would you dismiss the act of tethering a soul so readily if you understood the cost? Or is it that you question whether such steps can ever truly outweigh the finality they seek to avoid?”

“That would entail myself knowing what the cost is.”

“Do you?” His question was calm, but something about it sent a prickle of unease crawling up your spine. He was barking up the wrong tree.

“No,” you said honestly, halting your movements to give a pointed look. “That information is largely hidden, nor have I ever had any wish to unearth it. My research did not target the methods, mind you, and I’d appreciate it if such accusations remained unspoken in the future.”

He inclined his head, yielding, for now. “A fair point. I was unaware that your people would treat such things as forbidden. If anything, I would have thought them more likely to revel in their discoveries.”

“Power of that nature taints anyone, no matter the intent,” you countered, crossing your arms as though to shield yourself from the very thought. “Those who sought it rarely returned unscathed, and that is when they succeeded. Dealing with souls is terrible business. Better the methods remain buried.” Just speaking of it made your teeth tingle, a discomfort that crawled through your body and settled into an un-scratchable itch deep in your bones. To even touch the soul risked corruption. Even now, it writhed under your skin as a phantom sensation.

“A noble intent. It is rare to see.”

“For humans?” you asked, assuming his meaning.

“In matters of magic,” he corrected.

“Hmm.” You studied him for a moment, evaluating his sincerity. To test the appraisal, you suggested, “You may find that the processes are hidden not to protect others, but to hoard power. Wizards don’t want anyone surpassing them. We are the sole holders of the world’s greatest secrets, after all. That’s why it was so surprising to find Thedas isn’t as restrictive with magic. Good-surprising, though I can’t help but wait for the ramifications.”

Solas tilted his head slightly, as though weighing your words. “Magic in Thedas has always been a point of contention, revered and feared in equal measure. But freedom can invite both growth and disorder. I wonder which you expect to see.”

“Both,” you replied bluntly. “That’s the way of things. Power invites conflict, and magic is just a fancier weapon.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “Conceivably.”

The conversation lingered before turning back to the matter at hand.

“If the dragon is his ‘horcrux’, as we suspect, then his immortality still hinges on something mortal.” Pacing again, you found doing so in a rotunda was almost soothing, though perhaps it was not the room itself. “And yet dragons die. Eventually, it will fail him. It sounds too easy.” As long as it had a soul like one would expect it to have, one grumbled Avada Kedavra thrown at it and it would crumble. Voilà. Except nothing was ever that easy, at least in your experience. If anything didn’t go to plan, everyone was doomed.

“How can a dragon, one of the most powerful beings in either of our worlds, be considered an easy solution?”

You stopped mid-step, turning to face him. “You’re telling me it’s not? Have the properties of dragon blood not been discovered? One drop can clear warts, among other uses.” Particularly useful when hit with the Wanton Wart Curse.

Seemingly incredulous, as though he thought you were being facetious, he said slowly after a lengthy pause, “Perhaps the situation seems simple to you because you underestimate your foe. This dragon may not be merely powerful. It may not be mortal.”

You blinked, finding the words hit like a blow. “Immortal?”

“If it were an Archdemon, there would already be signs of such corruption,” he mused, catching your train of thought. “The taint. The beginnings of a Blight. But we have seen no such evidence.”

“Then what else could it be?” you pressed.

“A question worthy of exploration,” he replied, though his expression betrayed no answers. “There are many possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“Until we hold more answers, it is folly to claim certainty.”

“You don’t know. That’s a horrifying thought.” Exhaustion tugged at your sore legs, forcing you to sit down in the central desk chair. “I’ve heard of dragons enchanted for protection. But making a dragon immortal? That’s entirely different.”

“Perhaps not so different.” He approached, coming to stand on the opposite side of the table. “Your kind treats magic as a tool, something to be bent to your will.” You recalled saying something similar about the Fade previously, though it hadn’t felt accusatory then. Now, why did it feel like you were both comparing magic like it was a pissing contest? “It is not so simple here. To make a creature immortal would require a sacrifice, a cost paid by the one casting rogue magic or the creature itself. Life,” he supplied after a pause. “It is always life. Whether it is willingly given or stolen is another matter entirely. Considering who the dragon kneels for, I would suspect the latter.”

“That’s…” You couldn’t find the right word.

Relics that healed in exchange for a sacrifice—that pretty much summed up every dark artefact, or at least the ones you’d held in your hands. The comparison to Corypheus’ dark experiments wasn’t personal, but it struck like a blow to the chest all the same.

If not dark magic, then Corypheus may have turned to alchemy, a type of magic far less explored by wizards, considering its ties to dark magic and grotesque experiments.

As if assuming you found the idea distasteful, Solas nodded once. “Such transgressions are merely means to an end,” he proclaimed, gaze unfaltering, already coming to terms with the matter.

“Usually resorted to when one doesn’t have a choice,” you countered. Before he could question your personal ties, you opted for a lighter tone when you rushed to say, “Regardless. Two souls can’t exist in one body, not without conflict. Possession seems the most likely explanation. Corypheus’ body was destroyed, so his soul would have no choice but to rebuild it or possess another. Which means he could be anyone. He may already be walking among us.” Any remaining spiralling thoughts had been chased away by the sobering turn of the subject.

“Provided the host is tainted as to receive him. The taint in darkspawn blood is a corruption—a poison that seeps through mind and body, and soul if present. Those marked by it are forever changed. Their very being resonates with the Blight. For Corypheus, such a vessel would be necessary to anchor his essence.”

The pieces began to fall into place.

“Then we’re at a profound loss,” you said, something akin to fear churning in the pit of your stomach.

“It is not insurmountable.”

“We’re talking about two creatures intricately linked that defy death.”

He rounded the table, stopping besides you. You tilted your head back to meet his gaze, but he merely placed a steady hand on your shoulder. “Thankfully, this is a problem long accounted for. It is the one true purpose of the Grey Wardens. A duty they devote their lives to, hoping for the chance to face it themselves.”

The warmth of his hand lingered for only a moment before he withdrew it, leaving you to the cold reality of Skyhold’s stone rotunda. “You sound bitter. Did you fail the recruitment process?” you asked, the words slipping out easily.

A familiar look of reproach crossed his face, one you’d grown accustomed to by now. Before he could answer in kind, you stood up, levelling the field, and added quickly, “Blackwall is one of them. A warden.”

His lips twitched slightly, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Indeed, he would have been of use. However, while the dragon may resemble an Archdemon, it is not one. An Archdemon would herald the Blight, and no such corruption follows this creature. Blackwall may not yet need to sacrifice himself for the greater good.”

There was a sharp edge to his words, a hint of disdain that felt strange coming from his humble self. Neither he nor Blackwall had openly expressed distrust towards the other, yet the undertone made you wonder. Perhaps it was simply a gap in your understanding, the result of not engaging with either of them as much as you should have—especially for someone in your position of leadership.

“That’s a relief, at least,” you murmured. But your relief was short-lived.

The warmth of his voice turned cold when he warned, “We must not underestimate either again.” As he’d seemingly known from the beginning, that warning was for you and you alone. It felt like a lecture, although the mistake was far from an honest one.

This nightmare was yours to end. That was clear now. You were the one who understood the nature of horcruxes, who knew of the dangers in anchoring one’s soul beyond death. You were the one who had the means of unravelling the web of dark, forbidden magic Corypheus had woven and would continue to do so with your magic now in his arsenal. Perhaps this was what you were always meant to do. You certainly couldn’t turn your back on the Inquisition now.

Fate, karma, destiny—whatever it was, it felt like a noose tightening around your neck.

“And you were prepared to abandon hope so easily,” Solas said, baring a challenging tone.

‘Hope’. With how many times that word was thrown around, one should have started hating it by now.

“You’ve made it sound easy. You should make speeches more often; you do have a way with words.” You rubbed your temples as if you could smooth away the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind. “I underestimated what I was up against. The Anchor, the Fade… I thought they were of little consequence. But Corypheus surviving the Killing Curse? That changes everything. I knew what that meant but didn’t want to believe it, and I thought there was no defeating him. I see now that we’re facing something far greater than I ever imagined, yet… You’ve made me believe it is still defeatable, however unlikely that was. I forgot this is not a battle I need to fight alone.”

Solas’ calmness was a tether to constant fraying resolve, easing most doubt and almost acting as an anchor in the tumultuous sea of qualms. He hadn’t flinched from the truth, nor did he sugarcoat it. It was a strange comfort. The information he provided also couldn’t have been found in any book.

“The bonds we forge often go unrecognised until tested,” Solas said, leaning his weight against the desk. That hand now rested gently on the edge of the desk. “You speak as one accustomed to standing apart, even while surrounded. I take it you are not accustomed to leaning on others for support?”

“Is that a serious question? Was it not you who said many avoid me because of my so-called disposition?”

His eyes remained dull and serious, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I believe I suggested spirits may avoid you because of your forthrightness. A quality that, while not unadmirable, can be discouraging to those unaccustomed to it.”

His words brushed against old wounds, ones you didn’t care to reopen, but the warmth in his tone softened the sting. It had been so long since you’d shared even a moment of levity like this. At Hogwarts, things had been different. You’d been a social butterfly in your own way, easily slipping into conversations and drawing people towards you for one reason or another.

Some found your keenness endearing, others gravitated towards your intellect and quick learning, and others admired how you remained undefeated in duelling. There was also, of course, your helpfulness. There was something to be enjoyed in helping others back then, no matter how small or large the task was. It gave you the excuse to be nosy, anyhow.

The secret of your connection to Ancient Magic had also played a part. Those who knew about it either sought you out, desperate to learn more, or tried to ingratiate themselves for their own gain. They hadn’t cared about you so much as what you could offer them, and it had taken you too long to see it.

Then there were the others, the ones who hadn’t given you a second glance until the day your name started to circulate. It changed everything. People who had never spoken a word to you before suddenly found reasons to strike up a conversation, their curiosity thinly veiled by false friendliness. You could see it in their eyes: the hunger for something they desperately wanted. The Mirror of Erised relieved the burden of their stares and expectations, but as you’d recently come to terms with, it came at a cost.

It had been too much, far too much for someone your age, and all of it had come so quickly after you’d finally entered the wizarding world formerly. You’d barely had time to catch your breath, let alone process any of it. By your final years at school, your once-vibrant social life had withered. After you left the school altogether, it ceased entirely. Returning to that castle in your dreams now often came with bitter memories that could as easily ignite your temper and burn your eyes.

But there had always been a shadow over your youth, which somehow carried itself into the present despite the different circumstances.

Ranrok, Rookwood, and what felt like half the magical criminal underworld had seemed determined to snuff you out. Even then, you had refused to pull anyone else into the fray. It had felt too dangerous. Perhaps, deep down, it was also your ego that held you back and fostered the unwillingness to let anyone see you falter or fail.

Not like it mattered; you always came out on top. Perhaps if the sun itself decided to single you out and declare war, you’d emerge victorious, albeit burnt to a crisp.

Returning to the present, a wry smile tugged at your lips. “At least we have you.”

Solas inclined his head, a gesture of practiced humility that you had come to recognise. “I help wherever I can.”

“And that I am grateful for. We are on the precipice of a storm, one that could tear us apart if we’re not careful. But your presence has been pivotal.”

Surprise briefly crossed his usually composed demeanour. “You do not often voice such gratitude.”

“Which means I should do it more often.”

“If you so wish. It would not be unwelcome.”

How many times had you relied on Solas without truly acknowledging the depth of his support?

“Do you always make people feel like this?” you asked, the question escaping before you could think better of it. That seemed to be happening a lot recently.

His brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Like they can actually succeed. If you told me I could wrestle a dragon and win, I’d probably believe you. Though I’d loathe to do that. Dragons are such magnificent creatures.” You’d done worse.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unguarded. It was a sound so rare it nearly caught you off guard. “Then it seems I have done my work well.”

“Too well. You make the impossible feel possible.” It was unsettling how easily his words could sway your thoughts and how much his approval was beginning to mean.

“What is possible and not relies on perspective. To look beyond the limits one imposes upon oneself is to see the path forward, no matter how treacherous.”

You glanced around the library. Despite the coming storm, there was an undeniable sense of safety within these walls. But how long would that last when someone like Corypheus held the magic he possessed? Haven had fallen despite your enchantments. It was time Skyhold received the same treatment, tenfold. At least now you knew what you were up against, corrupted magic included.

“You’ve faced many challenges since arriving in Thedas,” Solas continued. “Yet you continue to adapt, to learn, to grow stronger.” It was a quiet observation, one that lingered in the air like the scent of the earth before the first rain of the season.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“There is never a lack of choice. You could have turned away, denied the responsibility thrust upon you. Despite that, here you stand, not unwilling to confront a greater threat. That is not without worth.”

You looked away, shaking your head. “In a way, I did refuse the responsibility. I denied the truth, even when it was staring me in the face.”

Many had told you that Corypheus might not be dead. People had warned you, tried to prepare you. And yet, they had believed you when you ignored their warnings. They trusted your word over logic. They’d listened when you declared victory. They’d ignored the facts, just as you had, but they only ignored it because you had indirectly forced them to by giving false hope.

Your eyes lifted to the upper levels of the rotunda, where the library loomed above you. Higher still was the rookery. Vague figures leant over both sets of balconies, shifting under the dim light offered by the moon filtering through the top of the rookery. The faint outlines of people peered down, some making gestures and others backing away from your attention. They couldn’t hear a word through the Silencing Charm, but your wild gestures and animated conversation must have made for quite the spectacle.

Helisma stood where you’d left her, standing against the balcony, seemingly having not moved an inch as she worked, nor had she taken any interest in your display. At least your dignity wasn’t entirely lost on everyone.

What were the unidentifiable figures thinking of when they peered down? To them, you must have looked like someone unravelling at the seams. Their supposed leader lost in a frantic, silent conversation. They were like the upper class seated in the private boxes of a theatre, positioned to see everything while remaining unseen themselves. You were the drama playing out in complete silence, almost like the little projected moving pictures that were rumoured to have been invented by muggles (mundane ‘magic’, as it were). Every exaggerated tilt of your head and wave of your hand became fodder for a foolish display, and considering recent revelations, there was plenty more of that to come.

An itch settled around your shoulders, as did the sense of exposure. How did Solas find peace in a place like this, where unseen eyes constantly watched, where every movement risked false interpretation and judgement?

Eyes above, eyes around, eyes before you. Yours blinked, meeting those that watched ahead in silence.

“Speaking of,” you began, trying to ignore all of the surrounding attention, both sentient and not. “Now that we know Corypheus has returned, I can’t keep that information private. Everyone deserves to know the truth. I was told he might not be dead. You warned me as much. But I was blindly believed when I said I killed him. People trusted me, and I misled them.”

“Such is the nature of your position,” Solas said matter-of-factly. He blinked, then again and again. “Many will follow you, even when it leads them astray. But that does not mean you cannot turn this around.”

There was a subtle edge to his tone, a suggestion buried beneath his words. You knew what he was implying. The role, the mantle. You’d argued against it before, rejecting the idea vehemently. The very idea of it had felt suffocating, a responsibility too heavy to bear.

“You think I should become Inquisitor,” you said, the distaste clear in your voice. “Should any leader wield such power over belief? How can I lead when I ignored something that could’ve had such dire consequences? The shepherd can only compromise himself so many times before losing the faith of the flock.”

“A shepherd guides but does not force,” he countered smoothly. “The role is to provide others with clarity, a purpose for the flock to follow. The flock does not require perfection, only that their shepherd walks with them, not above them. It is the hound who keeps them from being led astray.”

“What a lazy shepherd. He commands the flock through fear, not trust. Fear breeds rebellion and doubt.”

“Perhaps. But trust earned through complacency leads to failure. A shepherd must balance the two, understanding when to demand and when to guide. To lead out of fear alone is folly, but so too is ignoring the importance of authority. Leadership is not meant to be easy or comfortable.”

You bristled but said nothing. His words had struck too close to home.

He sidled around the table. “You would do well to heed the counsel of others. You are learning, which means you are not yet unfit for leadership. Growth is not weakness. Leadership will shape itself to fit your frame, as you will shape yourself to bear its weight.” His voice was gentler now, but no less resolute. “A shepherd who has never lost a sheep cannot understand how to guide the flock.”

Learning at the cost of lives. Every day spent in the role would mean every decision made would always have someone paying the price—but never you; you would not need to pay for your inactions or mistakes. The trust and faith blindly given to you was a weight that could become a burden. That burden could be crushed, ignored, or given to another, but it will always cost someone.

Finally, you exhaled. “Do you want to know what the Inquisition from my world was like? It wasn’t a beacon of justice. It was nothing to admire. The witch hunts—those killed weren’t even magical, not the majority at least. They were ordinary people accused and tortured by their own neighbours, their own blood. They murdered more of their own than wizards ever could.”

“Humans have long been known to persecute one another. If I remember correctly, your kind enacted a law to protect itself.”

“Not only was it to protect us, but to protect both worlds, magical and non-magical, from each other.” You paused, casting the mind back to dusty history books. “The Inquisitions from my time used religion to indoctrinate entire populations of people, validating their bigotry, making them complicit in a corrupted system. Entire peoples and cultures were wiped out in its name. It was genocidal, colonial, and worse than you could ever imagine. The Inquisitions tortured and killed for religious persecution, all under the guise of righteousness. All in the name of God.”

“This world lacks justice,” you continued. “If I were to carry it, it would take more than I’m willing to give. I can’t ensure justice for all of Thedas, and I won’t pretend to.” You gestured roughly, as if trying to pull the thought out of thin air. The eyes above watched intently, but you paid none any mind but the pair in front. “What I see as justice, others might call rebellion or tyranny. What you call leadership, I call risking becoming exactly like those Inquisitors from my world. They thought they were doing the right thing. Look what it led to.”

“That knowledge remains your greatest strength. It is a foresight to be used wisely.”

Bitterness laced your voice when you asked, “And what of the Chantry? They’re already corrupt. I’ve seen it firsthand, and they want to pull the strings of the Inquisition as if it’s another tool in their arsenal. If I take this mantle, I become part of that system. And I don’t want to be used by them. The Inquisition was enacted because of Divine Justinia’s death. It was enacted for the Chantry, on a lie.”

He nodded once. “The Chantry is flawed. Corruption has seeped into its heart, yes. But corruption thrives where no one resists it. With your hand guiding this Inquisition, you could ensure it is not a pawn of the Chantry but a force of true change.”

“Change comes with a cost, Solas. I’m not sure I’m willing to pay it or make others pay it for me.” You lowered your tone, though with the Silencing Charm glinting around the room, there was no way this conversation could be heard. “If there is to be justice, the Chantry needs to change.”

“Do you not believe you could lead that change?”

You scoffed lightly, though it lacked feeling. “And what would people think if I began spreading my outsider views? It isn’t my place to bring change here.”

He stepped closer, his voice low but unwavering. “Change does not recognise borders. Justice does not respect titles or bloodlines. If you possess the vision and strength to see a better path, why would you not walk it?”

You faltered, the argument warring with silent doubt.

“You are not less than you think,” he continued. “Thedas may not be your home, but you have not failed to carve out a place here. You have fought, bled, and sacrificed. Do not allow fear of the unknown to drive you from what you’ve become.”

“I’ve always been a terrible decision-maker,” you said in warning, hoping he’d change his tune. “I’ll fail again. What then?”

“Then you shall learn and rise to face the challenge again more prepared,” he responded simply, though his words were truer than he could ever possibly know. The only thing you could ever do was get up and try again. Or get up and quit. Quitting was always easy.

His words hit deeper than one would be coarse to admit. It burrowed into festering doubts, dislodging them just enough to allow in a sliver of hope. You stared at the painted walls, at the possibilities they seemed to represent. The dream-vision you’d had of a Skyhold in ruin collapsing under a false Inquisitor’s leadership flashed through your mind. You had seen yourself weak, judged, defeated. There was a bit of selfishness in your resolve, a desire not to end up as you’d been depicted in your own fear-ridden dreams.

“So be it,” you said finally before you could think more about it. Something like this needed another week of deliberation. However, Corypheus was unlikely to wait. “But only because I want to help, not because I greed for power.”

Solas nodded, a faint smile gracing his lips, softening his features. “That is all anyone should ever hope for. I’m glad you see it now… Inquisitor.”

The title sent a shiver down your spine. “Something tells me I’m going to quickly miss being called the Herald of Andraste. At least that one came with fewer expectations.”

“Titles are fleeting, but the actions behind them endure. There is a gravity to this one that suits you.”

“Are you suggesting I look better under pressure?”

He chuckled briefly, allowing warmth to pierce the cold like sunlight breaking through storming clouds. “Perhaps. Or there is something to enjoy in how you look when faced with a challenge. Pressure tends to reveal the strength one already possesses.”

“I suspect you just enjoy watching me squirm in difficult situations.”

“Such an unyielding will is a rare pleasure.”

That gave you pause. “I came to you because, frankly, I thought Corypheus’ return felt insurmountable. You think I’m unyielding? No, I just have a talent for pretending the world isn’t crushing me.”

“It has not yet failed to suppress you.”

“Keep talking like that, and I might start believing it.” Before you could continue running your mouth, you turned away from Solas, indulging the last dredges of warmth before the frost of reality settled back into your bones. With every passing second, the enormity of the task at hand loomed larger, threatening to tighten the noose.

Without another word, you lifted your hand and undid the silencing enchantment. Immediately, the muted noises of Skyhold rushed in all at once: the cawing of ravens, the faint murmuring from the library. The sudden onslaught of noise should have been overwhelming. But a strange sense of peace settled over you, as if, for the first time, you were finally on the right path—whatever that might be.