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Chapter Text

Summer was quickly fading from the Frostbacks. Early though it still was, what light sprinkled down through the Inquisitor’s windows was dappled grey as it filtered through the storm clouds clinging to the mountain peaks around Skyhold. Fall was a short, wet, and chilled season here, and Mihra Lavellan had wasted no time unpacking her winter bed linens as the last of the summer wildflowers had wilted. As such, when the dawn light creeped across her eyelids she buried her face deeply in her thick goose down quilt. She had spent months in Haven trying to get accustomed to human sleeping arrangements, but one week into Skyhold’s winter and Mihra had quickly realize the advantages to sleeping buried in a nest of goose feathers and flannel.

Bang. Pause. Bang. Bang.

Mihra’s eyelids creased as she nestled more deeply into her bed.

Bang. “Inquisitor!”

Mihra’s eyes flew open as she sat up quickly, pulling half of her sheets with her as she attempted to stand. Sleep-heavy legs tangled under her, and she sat back onto the mattress hard.

“Y-Yes?” Mihra called down, rubbing sleep from her eyes and wondering if her voice sounded as thick as her tongue felt. “I’m awake.”

She heard the chamber door open and the head of an Inquisition scout peer at her through the bannister of the entry staircase. “You are needed in the war room, your Worship,” she said breathlessly, and Mihra caught the scout’s eyes sweeping curiously around her quarters. “It’s urgent.”

“Well, I’d imagine,” replied Mihra, running a hand through her hair as she peered out of the window. “It’s barely dawn.” She cast a distracted look back toward the scout, still watching her through the bannister. Mihra blinked.

“Give me two minutes,” Mihra said after a moment of silence.

“Yes, your Worship,” came the clipped response, and the scout’s head disappeared as fast as it had come. Mihra blinked again. She must be new, Mihra thought as she carefully extracted herself from the tangled of bedding around her legs. Recruitment for the Inquisition’s forces was still going strong as pilgrims flocked to their side in the wake of Corypheus’s defeat, just over a year prior. Mihra wondered how much longer the glamor of the Inquisition would last now that Cassandra was officially named Divine and the continent was back to a semblance of normalcy.

Stifling a yawn as she pulled on her clothes from the previous day, Mihra scrubbed her face with her hands briefly before climbing down from her quarters.

Cullen pushed a scalding cup of dark black tea into Mihra’s hands the second she entered the war room. Mihra smiled in thanks, cupping it to her stomach to fight the damp morning chill. Cradling his own cup, Cullen went wordlessly back to his perch on the windowsill, looking only slightly less bleary and red-eyed than Josephine, who was sitting on a chair in the corner glaring into her tea.

“I move to ban war councils before eight,” the Antivan muttered darkly. Mihra noticed the hair on one side of her usually exquisitely-groomed head was sticking up in odd directions.

“Seconded,” came Cullen’s soft reply. Mihra smiled.

“Third. Motion passed; let’s all go back to bed.”

Josephine made an irritable noise in the back of her throat and slammed her teacup down. For all of her usual poise, the Antivan ambassador’s habit of working late into the night rarely put her at her best in the mornings. Cullen’s eyes met Mihra’s, a small smile playing on his lips as he delicately took a sip of his own tea. Mihra’s response was cut off by the heavy door to the room swinging open again.

Leliana stepped in lightly, a small roll of parchment clutched tightly in her hand. Fully dressed and groomed, the spymaster seemed to have been awake for hours for all she was composed. Or, Mihra reasoned, she may have never gone to sleep. There was much about the Inquisition’s spymaster Mihra has never fully understood, and she supposed that the woman’s sleep schedule would just have to be tucked away into that category.

“I appreciate you all being available so quickly,” Leliana began, glancing around at the room’s other occupants, her eyes lingering on Mihra. “I understand it is early, but the matter is urgent.”

“Leliana, we figured that was the case when you woke us up before the sun had properly risen,” said Cullen, sliding off of the windowsill. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Leliana swept her gaze over him, then back toward Mihra. Mihra met her eyes. Dimly, something in her stomach turned. Leliana was watching her, searching for her reactions. Why?

“Early this morning, Scout Harding delivered a batch of reports from out agents in the Free Marches—“

Out of the corner of her eye, Mihra saw Cullen’s gaze swing over to the clock in the corner of the room, blink twice, then look back at Leliana. Mihra held back a smile. Leliana's concept of "early this morning" was more likely than not "the dead of night" for anyone else at Skyhold. 

“At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but this—“ Here Leliana held up the small, neat little roll of parchment in her hand. “—fell out of a series of agricultural reports from Wycome.”

“Wycome?” said Mihra sharply as Leliana slid the parchment toward her.

“Given the city’s history, I thought it best to bring it to your attention at once, Inquisitor.” Mihra nodded in brisk thanks as she pried the slip of paper open, her jaw tightening as she spotted Keeper Deshanna’s tight script.

Da’len.

Forgive the secrecy, but I sense too many ears in these walls for me to contact you directly. Though you and I both make camp among shemlen, we first are Dalish. Our priorities must forever be thus. Arlathvhen is still a year off, but for a months now I have been speaking with Clans Ralaferin and Thelrahel to compile the new texts your Inquisition has forwarded to me.

Two months ago, Keeper Elindra Ralaferin stopped responding to my letters. I voiced my concern to Keeper Athrion. He too had not heard from Elindra; further, Thelrahel usually passes near Ralaferin during this season, but Athrion had seen no sign of the clan.

I saw no cause for undue alarm until now. Athrion too has stopped responding to me, nearly one month after I lost contact with Elindra.

I fear something hunts our people, da’len, but I have no resources to prove it. Wycome has been gracious this past year, but you know as well as I how fickle the shemlen can be. If something hunts the People, I dare not aggravate out situation here lest we ourselves be nesting with wolves. Your Inquisition has been a friend to us in the past, and I fear I must ask for your assistance once more in this matter. But please be careful, da'len. 

May the Dread Wolf not impede you on your hunt. 

Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan

“This was written over two weeks ago,” said Mihra, noting the date scribbled under Deshanna’s mark before releasing the letter for Cullen to inspect. Leliana gave a small frown.

“We had no idea this package contained anything this important,” she said sourly. “If she had given any indication that—“

“If Deshanna fears corruption in Wycome again, she’s not going to make any sudden moves,” Mihra said impatiently. “She’s too cautious for that. That’s not my point. The message is two weeks old and we’ve lost valuable time.”

Josephine was now reading Deshanna’s note over Cullen’s shoulder. Mihra broke gaze with Leliana to lean over the large map of Thedas sprawled across the war table.

“Have we heard anything from those areas?” Mihra could hear adrenaline washing the early morning rasp from her throat as she gestured toward the map. “Ralaferin would be travelling west along the coastlands this time of year. If Athrion says Therahel crosses paths with them, they must normally be in the upper Bannorn.”

Leliana nodded her assent. “We tracked them just south of Amaranthine Kingsway last.”

Mihra’s jaw tightened as she shot Leliana a sideways look, but if the spymaster noticed she made no comment. This had been an old argument between the two: in the early days of the Inquisition Mihra had come across orders directing the Leliana’s agents to trail each of the Dalish clans and mark their movements. Mihra wouldn’t hear of it; history had shown her the result of humans tracking elven whereabouts too closely.

This was a perspective that Leliana lacked, however, and so to the spymaster Mihra was willfully denying her agents information. Information which, Mihra was loathe to admit, may have come in useful at this moment. Leliana eventually agreed only to make note of the Dalish when they emerged from the wilderness to trade. Unfortunately, this also meant that Mihra only had a vague sense of each clan’s territory as a whole and not their movements within it.

Frustrated, Mihra scrubbed her face and tried to push away the vague sense of nausea settling in the pit of her stomach.

“Is this an attack on the Inquisition?” Cullen asked, voicing Mihra’s concern. “They can’t attack the Inquisitor personally, so they attack her heritage?” Mihra grimaced. This had been her fear ever since becoming Inquisitor: as a Dalish elf, she singled out her entire culture for attack. It only took a handful of bitter humans to wipe out a clan. It had almost happened to Clan Lavellan, and certainly the less known, more mobile clans posed an easier target than Lavellan ever was.

“Perhaps,” replied Leliana, but the doubt was plain in her voice. “But my agents have seen no sign of unrest. Eliminating a clan without a trace would require a large force; we would have seen something. A mob would have left tracks.”

“Perhaps the clans simply do not want to be found?” said Josephine evenly. She looked at Mihra. “Could they have simply changes their route? Run into an obstacle?”

“No,” said Mihra grimly. “They were working on materials for Arlathvhen with Deshanna. They wouldn’t just give up on that without cause.”

Cullen scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he said, wincing. “But Arla—“

“Arlathvhen,” said Mihra quickly. “It’s a meeting of the Dalish. All of the clans gather once a decade to exchange the most important of their discoveries, reaffirm our culture, trade clansmen.”

“Since the beginning,” added Josephine. “Mihra has asked that I send any elven materials the Inquisition has recovered to Keeper Lavellan.”

“The materials we salvaged from the Temple of Mythal alone would push Deshanna to seek aid from the other clans to translate it. Add on what we found in the Temple of Dirthamen, Sylaise’s shrine—“ Mihra shook her head.

“It would have been the undertaking of a century to have it all translated in time. Ralaferin and Therahel are known for being especially tenacious historians. They wouldn’t have backed out of a project like this willingly."

The room was silent for a moment. Mihra stepped back from the war table, realizing she had been gripping the oak hard enough for her nails to make dents in the varnish. Her eyes found Wycome on the map of Thedas, and not for the first time she felt the sickening span of distance between her and her clan.

“So,” began Cullen slowly. “What do we know so far? It isn’t mob violence, so are we looking at something more organized?”

“I think we should assume this is an attack aimed at me,” Mihra added wearily. “These aren’t raider clans; they would have done nothing to antagonize human settlements. Already this is too complex to be simple prejudice.”

“The timing indicates a connection between the two disappearances,” said Leliana primly. “But that area is well settled; any one large group would have attracted attention if they moved directly between the two disappearances.”

Josephine’s eyes widened. “Are you suggesting there are two groups behind this?”

“We should consider the possibility,” said Cullen quickly as Leliana made to respond. “That magic is involved.” Three pairs of eyes turned to look at him warily, to which Cullen responded with the smallest of frowns.

“Don’t tell me I’m the only one thinking it,” he said, a bit gruffly. “The events of the past year alone should prove to us that magic in the right hands can seem limitless. Even without the magisters behind him, Corypheus threatened the fabric of the world.”

 “Corypheus is dead,” replied Mihra tersely. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Leliana frown.

“We should consider the last time we faced similar disappearances,” she agreed softly.

“What, the Wardens?”

“I’m not saying we’ve another Corypheus on our hands,” said Cullen quickly, but calmly. Leliana’s face remained steadily neutral, despite the panicked side-looks Josephine was now shooting her. “But we could very well be facing some splinter group of Venatori, or—“

“It would certainly answer some questions if Corypheus’s old allies were behind this,” said Leliana. “They have the motive, and likely spent the last year gaining power.”

Mihra straightened quickly, rubbing her palms—which were suddenly cold and clammy—against her trousers. “That settles it then,” she said. “I’m going.”

Her advisors exchanged stricken looks.

“I think we can all agree that whoever is behind these disappearances is more than likely threatening you,” said Cullen, his voice lowering in a way Mihra had come to associate with him putting down defenses. “You’d be walking into a trap.”

“It would hardly be the first time.” Redcliffe, Adamant, Haven twice over. The list went on.

“Traps aside,” added Josephine quickly, looking between Cullen and Mihra. “We don’t have any real information to work with. You are one woman, Inquisitor, and —while your talents are unquestioned—you can only be in one place at a time. If you give me some time, I can pool the Inquisition’s resources, create a network—“

“There are compelling reasons to wait before charging the field,” said Leliana measuredly. She gestured toward Deshanna’s letter as Mihra met her gaze. “As you said: Lavellan’s letter was written weeks ago. If the pattern holds, another clan will disappear soon.”

Mihra stiffened, her fingertips pressing on the surface of the war table.

“Your plan would be to go to the site of the last disappearance, no?” said Leliana. “By the time you reached the coast, we’d be on the brink of another disappearance. Your Keeper has likely ensured that whoever the culprits are have no idea we are on their tail. They may be growing cocky, and after three attacks we may have enough information to find the pattern behind them.”

“I’m not going to abandon a clan to strategy,” seethed Mihra through gritted teeth. The tips of her fingers were growing numb as they ground into the war table’s varnish. Leliana’s eyes flashed.

“You’d be a fool not to,” she said sharply. “In the field you are exposed, crippled. You can only act as quickly as we can get you information. And if I’m right? If we find a pattern in a week’s time? What happens if the next clan to disappear is in Orlais, and you are stranded in the coastlands?”

The silence that followed was more a test of wills than anything else. Mihra’s gaze was locked in Leliana’s, her mind working furiously. These cool analytics were what made Leliana such a potent spymaster, but at this moment Mihra’s instinct to run to her people’s side overruled any logic the Orlesian could toss her way.

Still, the chance to be able to face the perpetrators head-on?

“We need information, Inquisitor,” said Cullen softly. “Right now we have nothing but speculation to go on.”

Mihra glared at him.

It was a long moment before Mihra found her voice again. “Given the time it took for Deshanna’s letter to get here,” she said slowly, through gritted teeth, as if every word sealed another small betrayal of her people’s trust. But she needed information. “At best we have two weeks until the next attack. At worst we have days, if Deshanna waited before writing us.”

Leliana straightened quickly, her eyes flashing triumphantly as she caught the gist of Mihra’s words. Mihra gave her a stony look.

“A week.”

To her credit, Leliana held back whatever smile was growing in the back of her eyes as she nodded. “My agents will be alerted immediately. We’ll see something.”

“Cullen, do what you can to mobilize your soldiers in that time,” continued Mihra dully. Her limbs felt leaden, numb. “I may need them soon, if this turns out to be big.” Cullen nodded, his jaw set.

“At once, Inquisitor.”

“Josephine,” said Mihra, rubbing the back of her neck. Josephine stood up and crossed the room, stopping to grasp Mihra’s upper arm as Mihra spoke again. “I wonder if you couldn’t call back our old friends.” Mihra’s voice seemed far away.

Josephine smiled softly, squeezing Mihra’s arm. “Of course. Varric is back in Kirkwall, and should be simple to reach. The last I heard from Thom—“ Josephine stopped suddenly, and Mihra had just enough presence to notice her ambassador’s sudden blush. “Well, I believe he was leaving Weisshaupt for Redcliffe, of all places. But that was months ago, I mean, and well—“

Mihra glanced sideways at Josephine, whose blushed deepened. She cleared her throat. “Have you heard from Dorian recently?”

“He was back in Minrathous in his last letter.”

“Ah. I shall send my fastest messenger to him, then,” Josephine paused, chewing the inside of her lip as she made a note to herself on her ever-present clipboard. “We’d best inform Cassandra as well. Our new Divine may be able to rally us some Chantry forces to boot.”

“Fine,” said Mihra shortly, her head pounding. “Fine.”

“This will work, Inquisitor,” said Cullen softly. “We’ll find who is behind all this,”

Mihra gave him a stiff nod. “I’ll be in the library if I’m needed,” she said curtly as she moved to exit the war room. She had no doubt that her advisors would produce answers. But how long would answers take to come, and at what cost?

Chapter Text

Mihra stood in the musty silence of the Skyhold library. The noises of Leliana’s crows in the rafters were effectively dampened by the thick wooden bookshelves crowding the walls of the rotunda. Only a few markers remained of the room’s previous occupant, for which Mihra was grateful. She made a concerted effort to not look at the frescos peeking up and around the bookshelves’ silhouette. 

Solas’s old study had spent months untouched in the time following Corypheus’s defeat. In the immediate euphoria following, Mihra had left the room alone with the vague hope that Solas would eventually return, as he had after the death of his friend in the Exalted Plains. He had promised Mihra an explanation, after all. For all his evasiveness, Solas had always stayed true to his word.

But the months dragged on. Leliana’s scouts still were unable to find a trace of him, and the deep sense of wrongness left in the pit of Mihra’s stomach at their parting words—‘No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real’—only grew in size, twisting around Mihra’s gut until it seemed to consume her.

The room had then become a sort of hallowed ground, proof that Solas had lived and breathed and worked in the space for the better part of a year. Something had to be wrong, Mihra thought as she redoubled the Inquisition’s efforts to find the elf. If Thedas had not continued to exist in a state of political uproar, Mihra would have gone on the search herself. But, as the revered Inquisitor, she had been all but shackled to Skyhold and the Thedosian capitals.

And then one day Mihra had woken to find that Solas’s ghost had disappeared. She no longer walked through Skyhold expecting to see him in quiet debates with others of her inner circle, no longer set aside books that would be of particular interest for him. Solas was gone—had been gone for nearly a year—and Mihra couldn’t close her eyes and picture his facial tells in Wicked Grace, couldn’t recall the distinct rhythm of his steps or the order in which he preferred to pack  camp.

It was only then when the loss of her companion had sunk in, and she felt as if she’d somehow lived a year missing her left arm and not noticed. Mihra craved his company like never before, pining for the man more intensely than she had when he had officially ended their budding romance. At least then, he had still been at her side.   

So Mihra had transformed Solas’s workspace into a much-needed extension of the Skyhold library. Not able to bring herself to scrub off his frescos, she crammed as many shelves and lights into the space as possible to block their view. A good sum of Inquisition funds was spent to stock the room with the rarest and best tomes on Thedas available. In doing so Mihra managed to strike an uneasy truce with the room’s past: the resources of the library became alluring enough for Mihra’s gut to not ache when she was surrounded by its familiar walls.

Today, it seemed, the room’s ghosts were more restless than normal.

It had been three days since Deshanna’s letter had arrived, and Mihra was nearly at her wits end for the waiting. As information trickled in from Leliana’s scouts, everything had become more confusing. The clans appeared to have literally been winked out of existence. Leliana’s scouts could see signs of clan movement—aravel tracks, halla droppings, fire pits—and track the clans up to a point. Then the tracks simply disappeared. There was no signs of struggle, no signs that the clans left in a hurry or were chased away, certainly nothing to indicate any violence. They were just gone.

Mihra had dismissed Cullen’s initial suspicion that magic was involved as little more than ex-templar superstition, but now? Magic seemed to be the only explanation left, although Mihra has difficulty even imagining the kind of power that would be needed to accomplish something like this. The Dalish certainly didn’t have the power to do this to themselves, nor could Mihra picture the Circles of Magi or the newly-formed College of Enchanters condoning the kind of research that would lead to this.

Venatori, then? Mihra’s advisors seemed to think so, but to Mihra these attacks held a kind of subtlety that the Venatori had never displayed before. Corypheus’s old allies had always displayed a flair for the dramatic; if they were behind the attacks, Mihra believed they would want her to know.

Mihra exhaled slowly, willing the nausea from her pulsing headache to lessen.

It had been this uncertainty that pushed Mihra to attempt to use the vir’abelasan to answer her questions. In the months following Corypheus’s defeat Mihra had learned how fickle the spirits of the Well of Sorrows could be: given a general question, the voices in Mihra’s head would clamor forward, full of conflicting answers and opinions that quickly became overwhelming but did little to lend clarity or a solution to the question. Mihra imagined the sensation was not unlike possession. At points the voices became so demanding that she would all but lose herself trying to pick apart the meaning. Realizing the potential danger of leaving the Well unchecked, Mihra had spent the better part of months training herself to muffle the spirits’ voices in her head unless she called on them.

Of course, spending the last two days with her mind fully open to the experience of centuries was bound to leave Mihra in a sour mood. She had been searching for any clue as to the kind of magic that would be necessary to cause the clan disappearances, but her questions were so general that the vir’abelasan seemed incapable of giving a direct answer. Certainly the elves of Arlathan knew of magic that would do something similar, but the specifics of the spells or who would have access to them now were details Mihra was having a difficult time isolating from the crowd.

At her wit’s end, Mihra poured over her pages of notes, racking her brain for new questions to ask of the vir’abelasan. The writing swam on the page as Mihra felt her pulse on the skin of her eyelid.

“Fenedhis!” she moaned, scrubbing her face. Never had Mihra felt as trapped in her own skin as she did now. She sank into the desk chair uselessly, the polished wood of the chair feeling cool through her robes. Mihra eyes stung angrily as she closed them, willing her gut to calm itself.

She allowed the room to swell with silence, but it was soon broken by a soft knock on the door. Mihra wrenched her eyes back open.

“Enter,” said Mihra sharply, her gaze swinging reluctantly back to her stack of notes. In all likelihood it was Josephine. The ambassador seemed to be making it her personal priority to check on Mihra every few hours, as if Mihra would simply decide to up and off to the coast any moment.  

“’Enter,’ now, is it?” came a familiar voice floating in through the now open door. “So formal. I only answer your summons, my lady Inquisitor.”

Mihra shot to her feet, slack jawed. “Dorian?!”

The mage spread his arms. “Guilty.” Mihra stared openly as he crossed the room to pull her into a gentle embrace. “Don’t go to too much trouble on my account, though,” he teased lightly, stepping back with his arms still resting on her shoulders.

“You look terrible,” he advised, a glint of concern lighting somewhere in the back of his eyes. His gaze swept across the room, lingering for a moment on the wall behind the furthest bookcase in a brief moment of solemnity before turning to Mihra again, all smiles. Mihra shook herself.

“How did you—?” she began incredulously. “You were in Minrathous!” Dorian chuckled.

“Would you believe I was actually in Orlais?” he asked, grinning as he folded his hands over his chest. Mihra blinked. “Happy coincidence your messenger found me at all, actually.”

“Orlais?”

Dorian waved his hand dismissively. “We’ve a group of us back in Tevinter, trying to set things right. And one of the ways we’ve started is by—quietly, mind you—reaching out to the southern nations, helping them put a face to Tevinter that isn’t a power-hungry maleficar,” here Dorian winked at Mihra. “As it turns out, my involvement with you last year has given me a bit of an international reputation.”

“You’re a diplomat?” Mihra asked incredulously. Dorian winced theatrically.

“Don’t let Josephine hear you say that,” he said severely. “I shall never hear the end of it.”

Mihra raised an eyebrow, to which Dorian shrugged and scratched the back of his neck bemusedly. “Really, though, it’s nothing so dramatic. Mainly I just host teas and attempt to get on the guest list to the right parties. It can be maddening, but we’ve managed to stay out of the Magisterium’s eye so far.”

“I take it the Magisterium would have a problem with this?”

Dorian let out a small chuckle. “Oh, I’m sure they would paint it as light treason. We’ll have to cross that bridge eventually, but for now—“ Dorian spread his arms.

“Is there anything the Inquisition can do?” Mihra asked seriously. Dorian grinned.

“I think not, my friend. We wouldn’t want to be too heavy-handed with our work, and the Inquisition’s name does pack a punch,” Dorian shrugged. “Besides, you and I have more pressing matters here. My colleagues will do fine without me.”

Dorian let a congenial silence fall between them. Mihra felt the weight of the last 48 hours lift from her shoulders. “Now,” Dorian said after a moment, moving to lean against the desk and look at the map intently. “I only know what your messenger could tell me. Do we know why your clans are vanishing?”

Mihra let out a heavy sigh, scrubbing her face as she sank back into the chair. “No,” she said, deflated. “Leliana’s people are working on finding a human-based connection. I’ve been trying to use the vir’abelasan to come up with an elven answer. We are fairly certain there’s magic involved, and that whoever is behind this is well-organized.”

“Last I heard, you were training to shut away the Well,” said Dorian cautiously. Mihra shook her head.

“I’ve got no choice but to use it. So far, though, it’s been less than useless.”

Dorian frowned, reading some of Mihra’s scribbled notes.

“What has changed between now and when you consulted the Well before? When we were fighting Corypheus, the answers seemed to come easier.” Dorian abandoned the notes for the mess they were, instead looking up at Mihra with an academic sort of curiosity. Mihra shrugged.

“Only a few of the Well’s spirits has encountered the magic Corypheus wielded,” she said slowly. “At least, that what I think happened. So only a few could comment on it. The questions I am asking them now are so much more general that every spirit has a different opinion, or a different legend to try and tell me. Its a thousand voices, speaking an ancient language, telling different tales and giving different advice all at once. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“And being more specific doesn’t do anything?”

“There’s only so much I can narrow down before I’m stabbing in the dark,” said Mihra, throwing her hands up. “I’ve tried every variation on ‘What would make clans of elves disappear each month?’ and—“

“Nothing has come up,” finished Dorian, pursing his lips in concentration as he stared back at the map.

“Well,” he said bracingly after a moment, clapping his hands together. “Now you have me. Although I may not command the last knowledge of a bygone empire in my head, I am quite intimately familiar with your library and happen to know a thing or two about magic rituals.”

Mihra snorted, to which Dorian’s eyes twinkled.

“For what it’s worth,” he concluded. “I’m here to help.”

Chapter Text

It seemed Dorian had taken over Josephine’s nannying duties.

“Have you looked at geography yet?” he asked, pushing a richly buttered pastry into Mihra’s hands. She raised an eyebrow at him from where she sat at the library desk, all but buried under mounds of parchment and leather-bound books.

“Leliana is looking for a more mundane pattern—“ Mihra began, moving to set the steaming pastry down as she grabbed for another book. A wave of nausea hit her at the sudden movement, forcing her eyes shut for a moment. The vir’abelasan was certainly taking its toll.

“Eat,” said Dorian, grabbing Mihra’s hands and pushing them back towards her chest. Mihra shot him an irritable look but the Tevinter only blinked innocently at her until she reluctantly took a bite. Conflict settled, Dorian lowered himself into the chair opposite Mihra.

“I mean ancient geography. Is there something elvish that would mark the places where the clans disappeared?”

Mihra shook her head. “Nothing that I have seen or heard of.”

Dorian made a noise in the back of his throat, folding his arms. He cast his gaze around the room, thinking. Mihra took the opportunity to set the now half-eaten pastry back on the desk and continue flipping through Magicks of the Olde Magisters. It was one of the books Dorian had requisitioned in the early days of the Inquisition, and was a largely banned title in southern Thedas. As such, every other page was still in the original Tevene, and what translations to the common tongue were present remained full of telling grammatical errors.

“Humor me,” Dorian continued after a long moment, scratching the corner of his eye as he continued to stare over Mihra’s shoulder. Mihra looked up at him, her finger hovering over a particularly obtuse phrasing. “How far out from the sites of these disappearances do you have to go before there is something that links them?”

Mihra frowned. “What kind of something?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows and blinked. “Anything, really. I’m thinking of all of the elven ruins we’ve stumbled across. They’ve all got something in them that could be dangerous. Maybe we’ve got a sort of ancient elven time bomb going off?” Dorian finished rather lamely, but shrugged and continued. “Something like that, anyway.”

Mihra ran a hand through her hair. “That will be difficult to phrase,” she said slowly, leaning over a map of Thedas on the desk with the Ralafern and Therahel territories delineated neatly. She sighed, and closed her eyes, forming the question in her mind carefully.

Mihra exhaled slowly, letting the spirits of the vir’abelasan leak into the front of her mind. She held her breath, willing herself to focus on the influx of answers soon to pour into her head in answer to the question. How far do you need to go? Mihra struggled to keep her own thoughts separate, as they would only confuse the responses she would be given.

A long silence stretched on. Suddenly, responses came flooding in; hundreds of spirits were clamoring for their voice to be heard. Mihra struggled to maintain focus long enough to interpret their answers. There was a word—one word—that kept pulsing through her head, but Mihra felt it slip past her every time she tried to grasp it.

BANG.

Mihra jumped violently at the sound of the library door swinging open forcefully. Focus lost, the voices of the vir’abelasan swarmed through her mind with an angry, unintelligible sort of buzzing. Dimly, she felt her nails digging into the palm of her hand as she fought to put up her barriers once more.

Dorian was standing when Mihra blearily opened her eyes. She rubbed her knee, stinging from where she had slammed it against the corner of the desk, as she turned toward the library door.

It was Leliana, her jaw set and a roll of parchment crumpled roughly in her hands.

“War room,” she said darkly, meeting Mihra’s eyes. “Now.”

Mihra and Dorian glanced at each other, apprehensive, as the spymaster spun on her heels and stalked toward Josephine’s office. After a beat, Mihra jumped up and hurried after the Orlesian with Dorian following wordlessly on her heels.

Each step Mihra took across the great hall seemed to add weight to the pit of her stomach. The near constant nausea of the past four days quickly gave way to a sort of buzzing numbness. Mihra could count on one hand the number of times she had seen that expression on her spymaster’s face.

Her legs leaden, Mihra had to pause at the door to the war room.

“Fenedhis,” Mihra swore, her eyes stinging angrily as she stared at the worn oak door. Dorian’s hand went to her shoulder immediately. He moved to pull Mihra around toward him, but Mihra gave a low growl and shook him off as she threw herself against the door.

Better to get this over with, then. Mihra knew it had been a mistake to wait.

Her advisors were already assembled around the war table when Mihra stalked in. She felt rather than saw Dorian slip in behind her. Leliana’s calculating gaze swung up towards him for a moment, then toward Mihra.

“What’s happened?” demanded Mihra, her eyes boring into Leliana’s because she couldn’t stomach another glance at Cullen’s pale, haggard expression or the red tinges around Josephine’s eyes. She could trust Leliana for cool intellect in moments like these. “Another disappearance?”

“Of a sort,” replied Leliana grimly. “I’ve just received word from Amaranthine. Their alienage has been gutted.”

Mihra blinked. Once. Twice. “What?”

Leliana shook her head, glaring down at the crumpled parchment in her hand. “Overnight, it would seem. The city woke this morning to find every elf within their walls gone.”

Mihra exhaled slowly, her fingers coming to rest on the war table. “That’s every major group of elves on the Ferelden coast missing,” she growled.

“That’s not all,” Leliana said darkly. “This time we were left with more than a trail.”

Mihra froze.

Cullen cleared his throat in the manner of one trying to choose his words carefully. “We are still getting in reports. Nothing is clear yet—“

“There were bodies, Inquisitor.”

Mihra felt a rush of blood through her ears, the spirits of the vir’abelasan rearing up to meet her pounding pulse. Joints locked in place, Mihra willed the Well to calm itself as she fought to wrap her head around Leliana’s words. She couldn’t imagine a Dalish clan putting up less of a fight than an alienage. Still—

“Sorry,” came Dorian’s grave voice from over Mihra’s shoulder. “But can you be sure these attacks are related? The timing seems all wrong.”

Leliana shot him another long, withering look, but to Dorian’s credit he did not back down. “Normally, yes, but—” she began impatiently, shifting her weight as her gaze met Mihra’s again. “My agents are reporting that Dalish weaponry had been found scattered in the deserted alienage.”

Leliana’s eyes were boring into Mihra’s, whose throat had suddenly gone very dry. “That’s—“ she began, but her voice caught. “No. No. The Dalish trade; their weapons find their way into alienages all the time—“

“Inquisitor—“ began Leliana severely.

“I’ve told you already!” Mihra was shouting now. “Those clans aren’t bandits; they aren’t raiders. They are historians, and they certainly wouldn’t—“

An insistent tapping on the window interrupted her. Leliana narrowed her eyes as one of her crows attempting to pry the window open, a small message tube bound to its left foot. She crossed the room in a quick series of long strides to wrench open the window.

“Since the beginning,” began Cullen slowly, rubbing his chin. “We’ve suspected magic involved—“

Josephine’s eyes snapped to him. “Could it be blood magic?”

Dorian made a noise in his throat. “The amount of power required to control even a handful of people, let alone an entire clan—“

“—Would not be unheard of from what we’ve seen the Venatori do in the past,” Cullen finished calmly. “I don’t need to remind any of you what one magister did to the Wardens.” Dorian scoffed.

“That’s hardly an equal comparison. I seem to recall more than a few mitigating circumstances which lead to Adamant.”

Cullen looked to Mihra. “It just seems more believable than two once-peaceful clans disappear and go militant.”

Mihra felt a powerful rush of gratitude toward her commander as Leliana turned back to them. She continued to stare intently as a small piece of scorched vellum in her hands.

“Inquisitor,” she said after a moment, setting the paper on the war table and sliding it to Mihra. “You’ll want to see this. It was found in the Amaranthine alienage.”

It was a map, or a part of one. Yellowed with age, the square of vellum was no bigger than Mihra’s hand, its edges burned and blackened from the heat of an unknown fire. Most of the labels had been burned off, but Mihra thought she recognized the shape of the northern coastline of the Waking Sea. The Free Marches. Mihra’s eyes drew towards a small, faded dot just off-center on the scrap of paper. A hole burned through the vellum had destroyed the dot’s label, but Mihra thought she could just make out a faint ‘K’ before the letters were illegible.

“Kirkwall?” she asked aloud, looking up at Leliana who nodded stiffly.

“Yes, but there’s this symbol here,” she said, pointing to another spot on the map, closer to the edge. “Recently added, it would seem, and marking the Planasene Forest.”

Mihra’s breath caught, her heart plummeting as she bent to peer at the half-burned symbol with its achingly familiar curves, drawn by a practiced hand. She felt the blood draining out of her face.

“Do you know it?” asked Cullen sharply. Mihra looked away from the scrap of map, but couldn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s ours,” Mihra said quietly, her voice hoarse. Blinking, she forced herself to swallow. “That’s a Dalish character. A raven.”

“So either the missing clans were there—“ began Josephine slowly.

“Or someone is trying very hard to implicate them,” muttered Leliana. She turned to Mihra. “What does the raven mean?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, racking her brain. “If you want to get into the specifics, it was archaically tied to one of our pantheon, but it’s modern usage?”  Mihra shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she reiterated. “A decoration, something to carve on your bow, or on the corner of an aravel.”

“None of this makes sense!” cried Josephine, looking pale and frustrated. “If these attacks are aimed at the Inquisitor, we would have heard something by now. We have not. If this is—well—elf-baiting, prejudice, why implicate elves in an attack on another group of elves? Surely implicating them in a human attack would be far more potent to rile up a mob?”

“And what is so interesting about Kirkwall?” asked Cullen, frowning. “If that is indeed where their attentions are turning next. If they just wanted more elven blood, Denerim’s alienage would be much easier to get to.” He winced and shot an apologetic look to Mihra, but her eyes were back on the burned scrap of map.

Realization hit Mihra with the force of a trebuchet. “There’s a clan there,” she gasped.

“What?!” came the chorused cry around the room.

Mihra wiped her suddenly clammy hands on her sleeves, unable to look away from the small scrap of vellum on the table. “I don’t know where they are exactly this time of year,” she said quickly. “But the Blight pushed one of the old Ferelden clans—Sabrae—into the Free Marches. Last I heard they were in a semi-permanent camp in the mountains east of Kirkwall, but if they’ve become nomadic again—“

“We have our connection,” finished Cullen. Out of the corner of her eye, Mihra saw Leliana frown deeply, murmuring to herself.

“No, no—“ she muttered, eyes narrowed.

“Leliana?” asked Josephine tentatively. The Orlesian looked up, her eyes unusually bright as she met Mihra’s gaze.

“Upper Bannorn,” she recited grimly. “Coastlands, Amaranthine. Now Kirkwall? They are moving north—“

Mihra’s stomach gave a powerful lurch as she swung her eyes down to the large map spread across the war table.

“—and taking out every elven settlement in their way.”

Mihra’s eyes had fixed on Wycome, her vision swimming. “These aren’t attacks,” she said harshly. “Its genocide.”

“Inquisitor, please,” said Cullen quickly in a low voice. “The fact that we found—“ he hesitated. “—bodies in Amaranthine means whoever is behind this isn’t afraid of making a scene. And from what I’m hearing, there aren’t enough corpses for every elf in Amaranthine. Many are simply missing.”

“That we found bodies today means they must be taking hostages,” Leliana agreed. A frantic sort of snort bubbled out of Mihra’s throat. “We found nothing when the Dalish disappeared, which means—“

“It means that the clans are either imprisoned or brainwashed and—barring that—they’re dead,” said Mihra hoarsely. She tore her eyes away from Wycome, adrenaline beginning its steady course through her limbs.

“You’ve have five days. We know this is big, and we know where they are headed next. If all of this had been a ploy to drive me out of Skyhold, then they’ve got my attention. But if this is bigger than me, or some rogue Venatori, or what-have-you, then I need to be in the field.”

She paused, forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. Composure, to keep the vir’abelasan tame. Discipline, to contain her magic. Restraint, to stop herself from launching out of the window in a mad flight to the north. Clan Lavellan was safe, for now. It was Sabrae that required her aid.

Though you and I both now make camp among shemlen, we first are Dalish. Our priorities must forever be thus.

Another inhale, and Mihra turned to Dorian. The Tevinter nodded briskly as their eyes connected. “Well,” he blustered, but Mihra knew him well enough to recognize the worried sheen of sweat growing across his face. “Good thing I didn’t bother unpacking.”

Chapter Text

“So that’s it,” said Cullen, frowning as he looked at her. “You are just going to charge off, not knowing what you may face when you get there?”

Mihra paused at the war room door, the back of her neck pricking irritably. As she turned back to her assembled council, her look gave the commander his answer. Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You don’t need me to tell you I don’t like this. It feels like a trap. I know there’s no stopping you,” he added hurriedly, seeing Mihra open her mouth angrily. “Fine. How many soldiers are going with you?”

Mihra blinked, glancing at Leliana, who also appeared confused. “I wasn’t,” she replied shortly. “If I’m going to beat them to Kirkwall, I need speed, not soldiers. I was going to take two, three other people at most.”

“You what?” Cullen snapped. “Absolutely not! Of all the unprepared, naïve things to—“

“Perhaps our commander forgets,” said Leliana dangerously. “That we need answers, more than anything. Without a clear picture of what we face, we may as well be shooting in the dark. The Inquisitor is our best agent—“

“That doesn’t mean she’s invincible! Whatever this is targets Dalish elves, making Lavellan—quite frankly—the worst choice to put out in the field!”

“This isn’t up for debate,” snapped Mihra waspishly, folding her arms. “Cullen, give me some credit. I know I’m at risk here, but you know me better than to think I’m going to stew in Skyhold while I let others fulfill my obligation to my own people. Furthermore—“

“You simply must consider your station. As Inquisitor—“

“Furthermore,” repeated Mihra loudly, eyes flashing. “I was going to take Dorian and Bull with me. Cullen, for all of your efforts, you cannot tell me that the Iron Bull is not worth fifteen of our other soldiers. The man’s a living battering ram.”

“I would also ask that you take one of my scouts with you. Should the worst happen, we can be alerted as quickly as possible,” added Leliana, primly. A vein on Cullen’s temple pulsed, but the commander kept his jaw clenched. Mihra looked sideways at Leliana.

“Is Harding available?”

“I can have her ready to leave with you in half an hour.” Mihra nodded, turning her gaze coolly back to Cullen.

“Well?” Mihra demanded. Cullen exhaled sharply.

“I see I have little choice in the matter,” he said, his jaw tight with displeasure. “A group that small should make the crossing to Kirkwall in five days. If I don’t hear from you in six, I am sending the might of the army after you.”

“If you don’t hear from me in six days, send the army north to Ostwick or Markham or Wycome. Protect the alienages. If I’m alive, I will find you. If not, you won’t have wasted your time.”

Cullen threw his hands in the air in disgust, but assented. Mihra nodded.

“If there’s nothing else,” she said, glancing at her advisors. “We’re done here.”

Cullen wrenched the war room door open and stalked out into the hallway. Leliana gave Mihra a pointed look before following, Josephine bringing up the rear and squeezing Mihra’s shoulder as she passed.

Dorian was waiting for her in the entry hall, bag hoisted over his shoulder. “Maker, but you have a way with people,” he chided lightly, nodding at Cullen’s retreating form. Mihra rolled her eyes.

“He’s being paranoid.”

“That’s his job,” replied Dorian evenly, handing Mihra her pair of riding gloves. “I took the liberty of having your bag packed for you. Might want to glance through to make sure nothing is missing. And two of your mounts are readied, but from the dulcet echo of Cullen’s thundering, I am guessing we’ll need a few more?”

Mihra cracked a small smile as she pulled on her gloves. “Just two more. Bull is coming with us, or will be once I ask him, and Scout Harding. Reconvene at the front gate in twenty minutes?”

“Back to the stables for me, then,” sighed Dorian, walking with Mihra through the entryway until they parted ways at the entrance to the tavern. “Don’t be surprised when you set camp alone tonight, though,” he added, eyes glinting with suppressed mirth.

Mihra watched his retreating form for a split second, then ducked through the tavern door. Mihra needed all but two seconds before her eyes landed on the Iron Bull, leaning against the wall and nursing a large cup of ale, as was his custom.

“Hey, boss,” he said, eyebrows raised as his cup came to hover a few inches from his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d be pulling yourself away from the ancient well stuff until the end of the week, at least.” He drained his mug, wiping his mouth as he set the cup on the windowsill.

“I take it you found something, then?” Bull asked, clearing his throat. Mihra nodded.

“It’ll be a hard ride to get there in time. Are you in? I’ll explain more on the road.”

Bull let out a bark of laughter. “’Am I in?’ she asks. ‘Course I am. What else do you pay me for?”

The massive Qunari heaved himself off of his barstool, ducking so his horns missed the support beam above his head.

“Do you need to grab anything?” asked Mihra, following Bull as he exited the tavern. Bull snorted.

“Keep a bag near the gate,” he said. “I picked up the habit three months after signing on with you people.”

Mihra, jogging slightly to keep up with him, frowned as she pieced through the timeline. “After Haven, you mean?” Bull flicked her a sideways glance, but said nothing.

Their pace slowed as they neared the stables. “Dorian!” barked Bull, grinning as he and Mihra rounded a corner to see the mage fumbling with a strap on a saddlebag. Dorian jumped at the sound, the contents of the bag spilling out around his feet.

“Bull!” Dorian blustered, throwing a glance over his shoulder as he bent to pick up the wads of bandages scattered on the ground. “Dammit, would it kill you to warn me next time?”

“Very likely,” sniggered Bull as he went to help. Dorian straightened as the Qunari approached, grinning widely as he clasped the mage’s forearm in greeting. “What brings you back to the frozen south?”

“Oh, the usual. The world may be going to shit and our lady Inquisitor is lost without her devilishly handsome arcane advisor,” quipped Dorian, winking at Mihra over his shoulder as Bull secured the saddlebag on Dorian’s horse. Bull let out another bark of laughter. Mihra rolled her eyes before turning to her own mount, pulling open her saddlebag to check its contents.

Fifteen minutes later, Mihra concluded that her bag had all of the necessities, leaving little else left to do before setting off for the coast. Scout Harding had arrived moments earlier, her own bag slung across her shoulder as she ducked into the stable and emerged leading her own pony.

“Leliana just sent word; there will be a ship waiting for us in Jader,” said Harding cheerfully as she hooked her bag to the pony’s saddle. “I’ll be keeping my distance when we travel. It’ll be best if anyone watching your movements doesn’t see mine, considering I’ll be charging back here at the first sign of trouble.”

Mihra nodded. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Harding smiled and shook her head.

“I’ll be seeing you at camp,” she replied, patting her mount. “So I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

“Scout Harding!” greeted Dorian, leading his and Bull’s horses to stand by Mihra’s hart. The hart shifted, casting suspicious glances over at the human mounts. “Been a while! How are you?”

“Fair enough,” grinned Harding, before looking back at Mihra. “I’m going to head out. If you need me on the road, well, stop and look confused or something. I won’t be far.”

“Until this evening,” said Mihra, stepping back as the dwarf swung gracefully onto her pony.

“This evening,” she agreed, before swinging her mount around and trotting away toward the gate. Mihra turned back to her two companions, breathing deeply.

“Ready?” asked Dorian, watching her carefully. Mihra nodded. She’d been preparing to leave for days. But now, standing with her hart at the ready, Mihra found herself hesitating. Were they ready? Was she? There were still so many unknowns. What was she really marching her friends out to meet?

“Let’s get it on, then,” said Bull briskly, hoisting himself onto his stocky horse with surprising agility. The horse shifted his weight quickly as Bull settled in the saddle. Dorian gave Mihra a fleeting look, then mounted his own horse. His mare was a sprightly one, dancing around eagerly at the promise of adventure. Or so it seemed to Mihra, who turned to her hart.

“Inquisitor!”

Mihra grimaced, her hand gripping a fistful on her hart’s hair as she winced. Of course it wouldn’t be that simple. The hart snuffed at her indignantly as she turned to face the speaker.  

It was Cullen. Again. Mihra only just resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.

Something of Mihra’s frustration with her commander must have bled through the elf’s expression, as Cullen seemed to visibly hesitate before closing the distance between them. Mihra released her grip on her hart, turning away from the ex-templar to smooth the ruffled fur on his neck.

“Cullen—“ Mihra began, failing to keep the exasperation from her voice.

“Mihra.”

Mihra stopped her ministrations, turning to look at Cullen over her shoulder. He had used her given name. Ever formal, Mihra could probably count on one hand the number of times the commander had not referred to her by title only. Back in Haven, she’d been the “Herald.” At Skyhold, it was “Inquisitor” or—if Cullen was feeling particularly coy—“my lady.” Occasionally it was “Lavellan.” Never Mihra. 

Mihra peered at him curiously. To his credit, Cullen seemed to also have noted the boundary that had been crossed. He cleared his throat abruptly, a faint pink springing to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

“I don’t support you running off like this,” he said brusquely. Mihra’s forehead wrinkled, whatever it was that had just passed between the two draining away quickly. “You take too many risks. You fail to realize that, without you, everything we have worked to build is just going to—“

He stopped abruptly at the look on Mihra’s face.

“What would you do?” Mihra accused quietly, turning to face the man fully. “What would you do if we were suddenly losing contact with the Inquisition’s outposts, or if every family you knew growing up began disappearing? What if you knew something or someone was targeting village chantries, and you had a lead that could stop them?”

“It’s not the same,” Cullen replied stubbornly, armed folding across his chest. “You’re not—“

“It’s not the same,” said Mihra hotly. “But nothing I say will make you understand this, Cullen. Humans don’t have an equivalent. I can’t explain fully how I have a responsibility to my people, to the men and women who raised me and—“

“You. Are. The. Inquisitor.”

“And before, that, I am Dalish!”

Cullen’s scowl matched Mihra’s. Dimly, she was aware that their hushed argument was beginning to attract stares, but she couldn’t force herself to care. Suddenly, bitterness was pooling somewhere in her legs, grounding her to the spot.

“Forgotten that little detail, have you?” Mihra said nastily, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. She gestured at herself sharply. “With my unmarked face, cloaked in the Inquisition’s heraldry. It’s easy, at this point. You look past the fact that your Herald of Andraste was raised as First to her clan, under the Vir Tanadhal!”

“Stop,” said Cullen quickly, his tone giving Mihra pause. She blinked, the heat of the moment quickly giving way to her dull headache. Cullen was looking at her reproachfully, but Mihra had known the man long enough to see the hurt behind his eyes.

Mihra opened her mouth briefly, but finding herself at a loss for words, she closed it again. Her hand found its way back to stroking her hart’s rowan neck. Cullen watched her for a minute.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” he said tiredly. Mihra winced.

“I—“ she began, but Cullen held up a hand to stop her, his eyes closed.

“Just—“ he began, before shaking his head slightly. “Should the worst happen,” he began again, slowly. “Know that I will send everything the Inquisition has to the next alienage, as you’ve asked.”

“Thank you, Cullen,” Mihra murmured, feeling petulant as she looked down to inspect the puddle she realized she was standing in.

“But,” he continued, his eyes reopening with the sort of quiet determination that made him an excellent commander. “You cannot ask me to leave you in the dust. If we should lose contact, know that I will come find you.”

“Cullen—“

“You won’t be here to tell me otherwise,” Cullen said over Mihra’s protest, his eyes flashing but his voice was not aggressive. “Whether or not you acknowledge it, you are still very much needed here. You and your safety must be my priority, over all else. If you were to disappear—“ Cullen’s voice seemed to die in his throat. A beat of silence passed between the two.

“The Inquisition would be at a loss,” he finished, somewhat lamely. Mihra blinked.

“I see,” she said slowly. Cullen moistened his lower lip, nodding sharply.

“That’s it, then."

Mihra cleared her throat, then swung herself onto her hart. She glanced down to look at her commander again, who gave her a small, vague sort of smile.

“For what it’s worth,” he said softly, earnestly. “I wish you luck.”

“Thank you,” returned Mihra, her tone matching his. The two shared another split second of uneasiness, before Cullen stuck his hand out brusquely in Mihra’s direction. Unsure of what else to do, Mihra grasped his forearm roughly. It was as if a swarm of bees had suddenly taken up residence in her gut as she pulled away from the ex-templar.

Shaking herself slightly, Mihra turned her hart in a tight circle to face the front gate. Bull and Dorian were waiting near the portcullis; Dorian in particular was glancing between Cullen and Mihra, a glint in his eye that did nothing to calm Mihra’s suddenly uneasy stomach. To the mage’s credit, Dorian said nothing as Mihra trotted over to them.

Standing under Skyhold’s massive portcullis, Mihra glanced between her two companions. They were are prepared as they would be. They could not afford to waste any more time.

“Let’s go,” said Mihra, the air seeming to leave her lungs entirely. And without another word, Mihra swung her hart to the open road and set off.

Chapter Text

Mihra had known the first day on the road was likely to be rough, but she’d forgotten how long it had been since she had travelled without the full complement of the Inquisition’s luxuries. After nearly five hours of riding, her lower back was aching and her thighs screaming. She’d never been one for riding. Even with her clan, Mihra had always volunteered to walk rather than ride alongside the halla and aravels.

But with evening fast approaching, Mihra knew she didn’t have the luxury of travelling by foot. At Mihra’s best, she could hardly be expected to keep up with the pace of her mounted companions. And Mihra was certainly not at her best. There simply wasn’t time for comfort.

“So,” drawled Bull after a moment. “Dorian.” Mihra nearly sighed in relief, grateful for an opportunity to focus on something other than the sharp stabs of pain that shot up her thighs at every step of her hart’s fast trot.

“Yes?” Dorian sounded more than a bit suspicious at the tone of Bull’s voice. Mihra glanced over her shoulder to see he was staring at the Quanari with narrowed eyes. Bull seemed not to notice, or—as was more likely the case—was ignoring the mage. Mihra, however, could see the small smile playing at his lips as he rode.

“I was just wondering how the charming almost-Magister was enjoying life in rustic Orlais.”

“I—What?” Dorian sputtered. Bull turned around to flash him a wide grin. Dorian stared at him, then glared accusingly at Mihra.

“Don’t look at me,” said Mihra quickly, fighting back a smile herself as Dorian scoffed disbelievingly. Bull chuckled.

“Don’t blame the boss,” he said, amusement flashing in his eyes. “I was Ben-Hasrath, remember?” he finished, pointing to himself. Dorian, for a moment, looked as if he might fall off his horse in shock.

“What?” repeated Dorian, incredulously. His expression darkened, and his sped his horse up to pull even with Bull.

“Damn it, Bull!” he snapped. “The whole point of the thing is to not get me labelled as a traitor! If the Magisterium thinks I’m passing information to Par Vollen—“

“Implying that the Vints have any real ears there.”

“What, you think the Imperium doesn’t have its own spies?” scoffed Dorian. Bull shrugged, the implication of the motion clear. Dorian narrowed his eyes and shifted in his saddle waspishly.

“I will not go through all this effort to reform my country only to have it ruined by a rumor before the thing is done,” said Dorian through gritted teeth. “Call your people off mine.” Bull snorted, attempting halfway to cover the noise as a cough.

“You’re hardly trading state secrets, Dorian. I don’t think the Qun cares about the Valarian grape harvest even if I still reported to them.”

“You think that will matter in Minrathous? I mean it, Bull,” Dorian snapped, swinging his horse into the Qunari’s path. Bull’s horse whined loudly in protest as was stopped short. “Stay out of this.”

Mihra glanced back to see that Dorian had actually held a finger up to Bull, looking every inch the stern schoolmaster scolding a student. It would have been funny, had it not been for the look on Dorian’s face. Mihra noted that Bull was doing an admirable job keeping his own expression neutral.

“Aye, ser,” said Bull, only a hint of humor in his voice as he touched a finger to his quirked brow. Dorian scoffed loudly, bringing his horse around. Mihra and Bull shared a glance for a moment, before having to hurriedly look away as Dorian began trotting briskly down the path again.

The three rode in silence for the next few hours, as the sun dipped slowly behind the mountain slopes to their west. They pushed on for as long as they could see the trail, but eventually the darkness grew too thick to continue. Pulling off of the path, they set camp under a natural overcrop of rock.

Halfway through with their meal (Dorian had become quite the cook over the past year, to Mihra’s surprise), Scout Harding emerged from the snarl of scrubby trees.

“Nothing unusual that I’ve seen,” she said cheerfully as she drew up a bowl of stew from the pot over the fire. “The path gets a bit finicky a few clicks ahead; you may want to that that part on foot tomorrow,” she continued, cupping the warm bowl to her chest.

Harding lingered at their camp for about an hour before ducking back into the wilderness for the night. With the food cleared away and the fire down to coals, Mihra volunteered for first watch. Dorian slunk immediately off to his bedroll, his eyes heavily shadowed after what had likely been the fastest travel pace he’d met in over a year. In less than a minute, Mihra could hear him softly snoring underneath his thick woolen blanket.

Hearing this, Bull raised an eyebrow in Mihra’s direction, but the two exchanged no words. The Qunari fiddled around camp for a few moments, sorting through his equipment bag. Eventually, however, he too was asleep. Moving to her own bedroll, Mihra pulled her own blanket off to wrap around her shoulder as she returned to sit by the glow of the dying fire.

It was better, being on the road again after so long. She was doing something, moving somewhere. Sitting in Skyhold had been miserable, Mihra thought as she shivered slightly against a chilled mountain breeze. In all her days with the Inquisition, staying put had never been a tactic Mihra had mastered. There had always been something for Mihra to do in the fight against Corypheus, often too many things, forcing Mihra to choose where and when to apply her force. But since his fall, the Inquisition had been polished and primed into a well-oiled machine, and Mihra’s role increasingly involved more politicking and less action. With a united Orlais, Cassandra as the new Divine, and the cessation of most mage-templar hostilities, Mihra had become a figurehead. Thedas was stabilizing, slowly, and there was less need for the Inquisition’s machinations.

More than anything, Mihra missed the constant companionship of her old inner circle. Many of her companions had stayed on with the Inquisition in the time immediately following Corypheus’s defeat, but eventually they had all been called elsewhere. Dorian immediately launched into plans for reform in Tevinter, and in the end was the first to leave Skyhold. Vivienne hardly wasted time before returning to Orlais, little to Mihra’s surprise. Mihra long suspected that Vivienne found the Inquisition a bit too rustic for her tastes, and Mihra certainly wasn’t going to try to change that. Blackwell eventually was honor-bound to start his journey to Weishauppt. After a long while, Skyhold received word that he had indeed joined the Gray Wardens and would not be returning to the Inquisition’s side any time soon. Varric had lingered for some time, but eventually Kirkwall called to him and he returned to the Free Marches.

Sera and Cole had stayed on initially, but Sera had grown uncomfortable with the Inquisition’s changing role. Mihra couldn’t particularly blame her for setting off on her own again. (“You’re fine, it’s the wigs around ya!”) Cole seemed to flounder without Solas’s influence, no matter how Mihra tried to help him. The spirit had taken to haunting Skyhold’s passages again, rarely speaking to most except Mihra. Eventually, Mihra herself had to suggest he leave Skyhold. Occasionally the spirit would make an appearance in Mihra’s dreams, though Mihra couldn’t be sure if Cole was actually reaching out to her through the Fade or if Mihra was just dreaming it. If her dreams were to be believed, he was spending his time floating from village to village in the Fereldan countryside, healing what ills he found.

Then there was Solas.

He’d been her constant companion since the failed Conclave, helped her bridge the gaping cultural divide she’d faced after rising as Andrate’s Herald. For all his scorn towards the Dalish, his knowledge of their culture had allowed him to predict with quick precision where human society would cause Mihra to balk. They’d worked together to cement Mihra’s dubious honor as the Herald, averting much of the initial disgust at Andraste’s scion being an elf.  Mihra credited much of the Inquisition’s success to the persona that Solas had helped her create. Later, he’d been more: a friend and confident, a trusted advisor and guide. A lover.

But still he was gone, and—if he was still alive—subverting all of Mihra’s attempts to find him. In the end, it didn’t matter. The more time passed, the more Mihra felt betrayed, as if Solas had stolen pieces of herself and Mihra was left scrambling to hold the shards together. Her vallaslin, gone. Her faith in her gods, in her culture, gone. The unyielding pride she felt for her people, gone.

Solas had left her stranded in a world where she felt like an outsider to every people she touched. And Mihra had let him do it.

Mihra’s eyes snapped open in the dusky gray light of dawn. She blinked groggily, dewy grass brushing against her cheek as she sat up to scrub the grains from her eyes. When had she fallen asleep?

Her muscles ached, whether from restless sleep or from the day on the road, Mihra couldn’t tell. She reached over to pull her boots on, but—peering up at the cliff near them to judge elevation—decided against it, pulling her pack over to grab her footwraps instead. They had ducked under the snow line, and Mihra had never gotten used to wearing more than a few scraps of hide on her feet.

“You’re up early,” came a soft whisper from Mihra’s right. She turned to see Dorian walking back towards the small, rejuvenated fire at the center of camp. He set a pot of cold springwater on the embers, then rubbed his hands in the heat. “I’ve been on watch for less than an hour.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” was Mihra’s reply as she moved to crouch by the fire. Dorian gave a light laugh.

“I slept a charm,” he said through a long yawn. Mihra did notice that the bags under his eyes had subsided dramatically. Dorian peered out at their surroundings.

“Beautiful morning for it,” he continued amicably. “Damn cold, though,” he said brusquely, rubbing his lower arms vigorously. Mihra held back a snicker.

“You’ve been out of Skyhold too long,” she said lazily, stretching out. “This is balmy.” Dorian glanced at her briefly before sniffing and pulling his coat tighter.

“All I’m saying is that you could have settled the Inquisition in a nice valley somewhere,” said Dorian. “Or a desert. Or a swamp. Anywhere but that frozen wasteland you’ve got up there,” Dorian jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. Mihra snorted.

“I’ll make a note for next time, then,” she replied, smiling. Dorian glanced sideways at her.

“Feeling better?” he asked after a moment. Mihra nodded, staring at an ember searing a dripping blade of grass at the edge of the fire.

“Feels good to be moving,” she said as she poked the ember back into the center of the pile. Dorian glanced into his pot.

“That looks ready,” he said, turning to rummage in his pack. Mihra watched him drop a handful of tea leaves in the boiling water before he settled back down at her side.

“So,” he said, handing her one of the two empty mugs in his hand. “Besides all this, how have you been? I imagine Skyhold is much quieter than it used to be.”

“You have no idea,” groaned Mihra. “Some days I feel like I’m Josephine’s shadow, not the Inquisitor. It’s maddening.”

“I did notice quite the number of new faces.”

“You wouldn’t recognize the Inquisition anymore,” agreed Mihra vehemently. “I worry, sometimes, at how big it has gotten without a clear enemy to fight.”

“It can’t be all bad,” said Dorian reasonably, reaching over to pour the steaming tea from the pot into Mihra’s cup, then to his own.

“No,” said Mihra slowly, watching the steam from her cup swirl in the frosty air. “Just very different. And for me, at least, more impersonal. I’m the Herald or the Inquisitor more than I am Mihra. Its grating.” Dorian chuckled.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been introduced as ‘Dorian Pavus, friend to the Inquisitor’ in the last year. The epithet turns heads, I’ll grant, but I could forgo the tedious questions that inevitably follow.” Dorian gave Mihra a sly look, smirking. “And I apologize if any rather outrageous rumors reach your ears. One can only answer the same questions so many times without cracking.”

“What did you—?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll know it if you hear it,” said Dorian quickly, giving Mihra an apologetic wince. “If Leliana is sent a hefty supply of gooseberry preserves, though, you know nothing.”

Mihra let out a few confused chuckles, but Dorian didn’t elaborate. The mage glanced over his shoulder at Bull’s still-steadily slumbering form before turning back to face the fire.

“You at least seem to be moving on,” he said after a long moment of silence between the two.

Mihra frowned at him. “What do you mean?” Dorian raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea gingerly.

“I mean our lord commander,” he said lightly. Mihra’s brow furrowed as she took a long gulp, gasping as the tea scalded its way down her throat. Dorian sighed dramatically. “Come now, that wasn’t professional concern I saw in your little spat before we left.”

“Dorian,” grumbled Mihra, scrubbing her face. The mage raised a hand in the air.

“Say no more! I don’t mean to pry, just to say that I’m happy that you’ve—“

“Don’t,” said Mihra sharply. Dorian’s hand fell, his expression darkening into a small frown.

“Or not.”

Mihra looked down into the coals, her face heating up—whether from the fire or from her own blood she wasn’t certain. “It’s not what you think,” said Mihra thickly, taking another scalding gulp of tea.

“And what do I think?” asked Dorian. Mihra turned to meet his eyes.

“Solas.”

Dorian’s eyebrows raised, but he said nothing. Mihra looked away again, her face burning, feeling the part of a petulant child.

“It’s been a long time, Mihra,” he said after a long silence between the two. Mihra winced.

“I know that,” she replied quickly, shaking her head. “It isn’t him. It’s me. It’s Cullen. It’s the Inquisition—“ Mihra’s voice died in her throat. She coughed to clear it, rubbing her forehead. “Fenedhis!” she snapped.

“Mihra,” said Dorian, squeezing her shoulder warmly. “It’s fine. You are fine. I’m pleased you have options, and that you notice you do.”

Mihra rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Not much of an option,” she muttered. “I don’t know if it’s me he is infatuated with, or the Inquisitor, whoever she is.”

“You and Cullen have always been close,” said Dorian wryly. “You’ll figure it out. Eventually. Given your pace, the poor man may be waiting a decade.” Mihra scowled. The mage ducked, snickering, as Mihra’s arm swung towards his shoulder. Mihra couldn’t help an exasperated smile half-form on her face.

With a start, Mihra noticed the beginnings of sunshine poking over the mountains behind them. “We should get going,” she said to Dorian quickly. Sobering, Dorian nodded and gave her shoulder another bracing squeeze before standing.

“Bull!” cried Dorian as he crossed to begin packing up his bedroll. The Qunari gave a loud grunt, but made no motion to get up.

“Would you get your lazy ass up, you big oaf?” called Dorian, tossing a pebble at the offender’s horned head. Bull didn’t flinch as it bounced off a horn with a small tink. “The road won’t travel itself.”

Chapter Text

Mihra had only passed through Jader once before, but it had been with a full complement of Inquisition fanfare. As her small party slipped out of the wilderness, an entirely different city emerged to greet her. They left their mounts at the last Inquisition camp, so their progress was slow as they picked their way to the city gates.

It was early morning, and a thick blanket of fog had wrapped its way through the streets. Within minutes the fog had soaked through their clothes, leaving Mihra and Dorian shivering slightly as they picked their way toward the harbor. Bull seemed not to notice the chill, despite wearing fewer layers than anyone. Mihra suspected it was a Qunari thing.

So close to the border, Jader could certainly not be considered Ferelden, nor could it be considered entirely Orlesian. Its architecture was a chaotic mixing of the two nations' styles: on one corner would be the practical plaster and stonework of Ferelden simplicity, on the next a fanciful explosion of Orlesian columns and colors. The Jader of Mihra's memory had been bright and loud: a Ferelden made more sophisticated by Orlais and an Orlais made more genuine by Ferelden.

But travelling in anonymity revealed another face of the city hidden from the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste. In the gray light of morning, any passersby Mihra's group encountered hurried past with heads down and cool, if not openly hostile, glances. On every corner, Mihra felt new eyes—masked and unmasked—observe her party warily. Not that Mihra could particularly blame them. At its heart, Jader was a fishing port. Its residents saw enough travelers passing through to know when something was afoot.

And an elf, a Qunari, and a Tevinter slipping through the streets at the crack of dawn? It was a miracle they hadn't been stopped. Mihra supposed she had Leliana to thank for it; the spymaster had undoubtedly alerted a few key officials of the Inquisitor's passage through the city. As far as Mihra could tell, the only member of their group who had avoided attention was Scout Harding. Every few blocks Mihra would catch a glimpse of the dwarf out of the corner of her eye, but for the most part Harding was using the fog's cover to her full advantage.

A sharp gust of wind caught Mihra unawares as they rounded the corner toward the harbor. She grasped the creamy halla leather of her coat more closely, her toes bracing against the cold cobblestone street.

"Damnable south," groused Dorian, his arms crossed tightly over his chest to hold his own coat closed against the mist. Mihra shot him an amused sidelong look, but kept her mouth shut. Even at the height of the fight against Corypheus, when Mihra had dragged him back and forth to nearly every corner of Thedas, Dorian had never been one for roughing it. A year spent in cushioned Orlais had obviously broken him of what little travelling habit he had formed.

"Think that would be ours, boss," said Bull, nodding toward a far pier at the end of the harbor. Mihra looked up; she could just see Scout Harding's familiar form peeking through the fog.

Harding flashed them a quick grin as they approached, sliding off of the barrel she had been sitting on. She spun on her heel and hopped up the gangplank of the small, weathered ship tethered to the end of the dock.

"Captain!" she called, landing lightly on the deck. Her voice was loud and clear, cutting sharply through the damp quiet of the morning.

A wiry, red-faced man emerged from behind a stack of crates on deck, one eyebrow raised and the other effectively missing. His nose bore obvious signs of having been broken at least twice before. He produced a ragged cloth from his belt, wiping his hands (which were coated in a sort of dark, sticky substance Mihra couldn't place) as he approached them.

"Mages?" he asked sharply, eyeing the staves clipped to Mihra and Dorian's packs. The captain turned to glare at Harding. "I've told you people before: whatever cargo the Inquisition wants hauled I will do, Maker's work and all. But I'm not a passenger ship, and I'll be damned if I don't get to pick who I'm letting aboard."

His hands now a semblance of clean, the man folded his arms as he cast them a suspicious glance. Mihra noticed absently that the first joint of his left index finger was missing.

"We going to have a problem?" asked the Iron Bull, his voice low. The captain cast him an unimpressed look, which in itself was impressive considering Bull was easily twice his size.

"You and I?" the captain asked blankly. "No. I can handle mercs; you sellsword types are all cut from the same cloth. It's them I don't want." He nodded toward Mihra and Dorian again. "One errant spark and we'd be sorted. The Waking Sea is no kind mistress."

"Well, good thing we aren't children then," said Dorian tetchily.

"No need to take that tone," was the captain's sharp response. Beside her, Mihra felt Dorian swell with indignation. Mihra met Harding with a hard stare. Harding rolled her eyes sympathetically, then jumped into the conversation.

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, bending down to rummage in her back. "Believe me when I say, Captain, that you are always very outspoken about your preferences."

The captain pursed his cracked lips, his eyes narrowed. Harding straightened and tossed a small pouch his direction. The man's hand went up automatically to catch it. If anything his frown deepened as he tested the pouch's weight.

"That about cover the difference?" Harding asked sweetly. When the man said nothing in response, the dwarf nodded and turned to Mihra and her companions. "Captain Rae de Carvhalo, everyone," she said by way of brisk introduction.

The captain gave them a reluctant sort of grunt. "Passage'll take two days, depending. Whatever you are taking with you needed to be stored below deck ten minutes ago. You'll be sleeping in the cargo hold along with your things, and I better not catch wind of you messing with what's down there." He cast Harding another irritable look, but the dwarf only blinked sweetly back at him.

"This won't be a cushy ride; I don't make my business in comfort. You want beds, or hot meals, tell your Inquisition to look up a nice schooner for your passage."

Behind Carvhalo's back, Harding gave them all an apologetic wince. Her face straightened back to perfect neutrality as the captain spun around.

"Welcome aboard, and all that rot," Carvhalo grumbled, marching over to the open hatch and slipping below deck without another glance.

All eyes turned immediately to Harding, who sighed and rubbed her temple amusedly.

"Sorry," she winced.

"Any reason in particular we have to work with him?" Mihra asked quietly as Dorian made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. Harding grimaced again.

"He's the fastest ship to do the Waking Sea run for us," she said earnestly. "And honestly, Carvhalo's got a soft spot when it comes to the Inquisition. You should hear him go on about it when it's just me making the trip with him. If he had any idea who you were, your Worship—"

"Oh, goodie," said Dorian acidly, looking toward Mihra. "The raging bigot is a fan of yours."

Bull snorted and Harding gave Dorian a rueful smile. "I'd say he's all bark, that he means well," she said, shaking her head again. "But he really is a bit of an ass. The point is he does good work, though, and Leliana thought you'd prefer speed over anything else."

"I do," said Mihra quickly, casting a glance at the rising sun.

"Right," said Harding, following her gaze. "We should be ready to set sail any minute now," she assured Mihra quickly. "I'll go let Carvhalo know we're eager to get going."

"Good luck," said Mihra wryly. Harding giggled, but waved a dismissive hand.

"You get used to him," she said, turning to follow the captain below deck. "Oh!" she cried, turning back to them in a hurry. "Just so we're all on the same page, officially Carvhalo hasn't been told anything about our mission, but I've fed him enough scraps of information for him to think I'm training you up as a new scouting unit in the Free Marches. So, you know, don't get too Inquisitor-y around him. He knows not to ask too many questions, otherwise."

"Understood, Harding," said Mihra. "Thank you." Harding colored slightly.

"Don't mention it," she chirped before spinning around and following Carvhalo below deck. Mihra and her companions exchanged meaningful looks. Dorian still had the look of an irritable, puffed up pigeon.

"Prejudiced prig," he muttered sourly, adjusting the weight of his bag at his back. Bull snorted, his arms folded over his chest as he glanced thoughtfully around the deck.

"Got to hand it to him," Bull said reasonably. "If his biggest problem with our little group is that we've got two mages, he's less bigoted than most."

"I don't seem to recall him telling you that you were too stupid to keep your sword sheathed while onboard," snapped Dorian.

"Because he didn't."

"Enough, you two," chided Mihra.

True to Harding's word, the ship pushed away from the Jader docks not an hour later. By Carvhalo's estimate, they could be docking in the Kirkwall harbor late the next evening if the weather held. Their arrival couldn't come soon enough for Mihra, who had never been overly fond of travelling over water. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd needed to book passage on ships: once to reach the Temple of Sacred Ashes before the Conclave, twice for diplomatic envoys to the Free Marches.

Travelling as the Inquisitor had afforded Mihra the kind of luxury unheard of to the scrawny Dalish apostate who'd made the first crossing from Wycome, but Mihra's first experience had soured all those following it. Packed below deck with the other handful of elves making the passage, Mihra had spent a week in nauseated darkness, too afraid to use her magic to help her seasickness and strictly prevented from going above deck among the ticketed passengers. It had been her first independent foray among humans; Mihra would never forget the nameless, panicked sense of dread that had filled her at the prospect of having to repeat the journey in order to reunite with her clan.

Of course, that was a passage Mihra was unlikely to ever take, much as a part of her yearned to return to the austere pragmatism of clan life.

A part of Mihra was relieved when, a few hours later, it became clear she was not the only one of her party ill at ease with travelling by water. Bull had taken to pacing near the prow of the ship, his usually steely gray skin turned a delicate shade of moss. After a few minutes of this, Dorian—who had been engrossed in a dense-looking book Mihra didn't recognize—set his notes aside impatiently.

"Bull," he said severely. "You are setting everyone on edge. There are two mages aboard: either let one of us help you or tough it out, but for the love of the Maker stop pacing."

"I'm fine," grunted the Qunari, his knuckles white as he grasped the ship's railing. Dorian rolled his eyes.

"Obviously not," scoffed Dorian. Bull shot him a nasty look over her shoulder, then resumed pacing. Dorian quirked an eyebrow at the Iron Bull's back, then shot an exasperated sidelong look toward Mihra. Mihra kept her face carefully neutral as she met Dorian's gaze. Dorian rolled his eyes again then proceeded to gather up his book and tidy stack of notes in his arms. Mihra distinctly hear him mutter "Hopeless!" as he picked his way daintily below deck.

Hearing this, Scout Harding—who had been sitting on deck methodically fletching a new stack of arrows for herself—looked up quickly to catch Mihra's gaze. Mihra looked away to hide the rising smile on her face. For all their bickering, Mihra had forgotten how much she missed travelling with her old friends. If only it hadn't taken all of this to call them back together.

Mihra exhaled heavily as she crossed the deck to lean on the railing. The southern coast had all but disappeared an hour ago. For now, the crossing seemed almost peaceful, just Mihra and her friends alone on a sea of churning gray. Setting aside her dislike of ships, Mihra could almost see the appeal of the sea, and probably could almost enjoy herself. But there was little that could shake Mihra's growing feeling that whatever truths lay on the northern shore would mean a fight was coming. She only hoped she wasn't too late.

Chapter Text

Dawn had barely cracked when Mihra became aware she was screaming. White-hot, twisting, blinding pain was shooting up and down her left forearm, as if all her muscles had decided to contract at once and her arm was cracking from the pressure. Sickly green light burned against Mihra's eyelids as she heard the Anchor spitting angrily on her hand.

"Mihra? MIHRA!"

Mihra couldn't respond, could barely breathe as she felt her back arching, her whole body curling around instinctually to shelter her arm that was being pulled to pieces. Dimly, Mihra felt a pair of large hands grab her shoulders, hoisting her upwards as another set snatched her left arm and began pulling her fingers out of a fist one by one.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Mihra thought it was Harding's voice.

The pain continued to intensify, though Mihra bit her tongue hard to curb her yelps at each new surge of pain. She wrenched her eyes open, willing them to focus but catching only vague silhouettes of Dorian's face thrown into sharp relief by the sputtering light bursting from her hand. He was holding her hand fully open, nose inches from her palm. Mihra felt Dorian gathering his own magic around himself, beginning to feed it toward the Anchor.

"Stop," Mihra gasped, her arm jerking involuntarily away from the Tevinter as the Anchor seemed to thrash angrily at the intrusion. Dorian looked sharply up at her, his face shining as he opened his mouth to say something—

BANG.

"What the fuck is—?"

Carvhalo, standing silhouetted in the light streaming in from the open hatch to the deck, seemed to choke on his words as he stared wildly around his cargo hold. His eyes bulged when he saw Mihra's hand. He made a weak, strangled sort of yelp.

"You're the bloody Inqui—"

Harding was on him in an instant. "Out, Carvhalo!" she snapped, jumping between him and Mihra and shooing him back to the deck. Harding cast a worried look towards Mihra before slamming the hatch closed behind her.

The Anchor surged again, a cry slipping unbidden through Mihra's lips as once again her whole body seemed to tighten against the furious spitting green light.

And then—just as suddenly as it came—the pain was gone.

Mihra went limp as the last of the pain faded away, another unwanted whimper rising treacherously from her throat. She became aware of her shoulder steadily growing numb under Bull's vicelike grip, and of the awkward angle her knee pressed against the worn wood of the floor.

"Mihra?" Dorian's voice was grim, hesitant. Mihra forced herself to take a few steadying breaths before responding.

"I'm fine," she said shakily, pulling herself out of Bull's grasp and into a sitting position. The ship lurched uncomfortably under her.

"Load of crap," said Bull sharply. Mihra didn't respond as she cradled her left arm in her right, thumb rubbing the palm of her marked hand vigorously. The last time the Anchor had felt like that—

A vague sense of panic started spreading through Mihra's gut. She pushed off from the floor, unsteadily rising to her feet.

"What are you—" began Dorian, alarmed, but Mihra shook her head violently.

"Need some air," she muttered before stumbling up the rickety ladder to the deck above. It was still dark out, although the horizon had begun to show the faint edges of a gray morning. A single lantern hung on the mast above her illuminated most of the ship's deck. Mihra walked haltingly to the railing, her limbs buzzing from leftover adrenaline.

Mihra's eyes watered from the stiff breeze blowing across her face, but she couldn't bring herself to shut them. Every blink conjured the image of the last time the mark had reacted so violently: Corypheus emerging from Haven's flames as the Anchor's pain ground her into the snow. Corypheus's face looming toward hers as he wrenched her arm out of socket. Corypheus tossing her like a doll against a trebuchet. Mihra forced herself to swallow.

It could not be him. Mihra knew this with certainty.

Mihra wasn't sure how long she had spent staring at the choppy water before Dorian settled against the railing next to her. After another long moment, he finally spoke.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine," Mihra replied automatically. Dorian stiffened, exhaling sharply.

"No," he said acidly, turning to her. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to pull a Bull on me."

Mihra winced. "Dorian—"

"It may interest you to know that Solas was not the only one of us researching the Anchor. You think I had the Inquisition import all those obscure Tevinter books for nothing?"

Mihra winced again, shooting Dorian an apologetic glance. Dorian quirked an eyebrow.

"So tell me."

"I—"

"You didn't tell me you were the bloody Inquisitor!"

Mihra frowned as she and Dorian glanced over their shoulders. Carvhalo, face shining in the dim light, marched across the deck in a beeline for Mihra. An exasperated Harding jogged behind him.

"My lady," he blustered, his tongue catching on the words in the manner of one who rarely had use for lofty titles. "If I had known—" His voice seemed to catch again as he worried at the edges of a ragged hole in his sleeve. "I had you sleeping in the cargo hold!" he yelped.

Mihra shifted uncomfortably. "Its fine," she said as Dorian folded his arms across his chest.

"It's not fine!" raged Carvhalo. "Your Worship—Lady Lavellan—" A vein was pulsing distractingly at his temple, his eyes bulging, as he started to bow into a clumsy kneel.

Mihra's answer was cut off as the Anchor alighted once more. Mihra sucked air through her teeth with a sharp hiss, grabbing her forearm as Carvhalo gave a small yelp of surprise and stumbled backward. Mihra's eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, as she stared down at her burning hand. Something was different—

As suddenly as it ignited, the Anchor fell quiet once more. In the moment it took Mihra's eyes to readjust to the gray dawn light, Dorian had grabbed her hand and begun examining it again. Mihra let him; she was scanning the murky coastline, looking for—something? Even Mihra wasn't sure what she should be seeing.

"Fenedhis," Mihra breathed, her eyes widening.

"Yeah," said Bull grimly from her right. Mihra looked sharply toward him, unaware he had come above deck. "Was gonna mention that."

"What?" asked Dorian distractedly, his eyes still narrowed as he scanned Mihra's palm. "What are we seeing?"

"Campfires," Mihra groaned. She shut her eyes for a moment, exhaling. "I had hoped—Well. It doesn't matter now."

"I thought we knew the Dalish would be in those woods?" Dorian asked cautiously, finally letting Mihra's hand slip from his grasp.

"I wasn't sure," said Mihra, her eyes glued to the thin trails of smoke rising delicately from the treetops. "For all I knew, Sabrae never moved out of the mountains west of Kirkwall."

Dorian frowned. "In that case, it could be anyone by those fires. What's to say it's your clan?"

"I count eight fires, most of which seem to be arranged in a circle around the center two," said Harding briskly. She nodded toward the coast, then glanced at Mihra. "It's a Dalish pattern, right?"

Mihra nodded. "A flame is lit for each of our pantheon," she recited quietly, still hearing the steady timbre of Deshanna's tutelage almost a decade after the fact. It had been her among her earliest lessons as First to trail behind Deshanna as she sent bright little sparks to light each carefully prepared fire bed. Mihra's fingers still ached at the memory of the hours she spent stitching an aravel cover back together after a poorly aimed spark had showered Master Niron's aravel with flaming embrium pods.

Mihra shook herself. "In any case, that map fragment is looking like less of a coincidence."

Bull snorted. "Nothing's a coincidence around you, boss," he chuckled. "You're a magnet for the weird shit."

"Thanks, Bull."

"No problem."

Mihra frowned again, looking down at her left hand. "There's another problem," she said softly, closing her hand into a fist as she looked toward Dorian. "Sympathetic harmonics."

Dorian's eyebrows raised. "Oh," he said, blinking as he turned toward the dark line of the northern coast. "Well, then." He swallowed. "You sure?"

"Positive," said Mihra. "The directionality was pretty clear at that last flare. It's coming from the coast."

"Ah."

"Do I even want to know?" growled Bull. Mihra and Dorian exchanged glances.

"The Anchor is reacting to something like itself," said Mihra slowly. "Similar magic. It's changing the way the mark feels when it flares."

"Every mage puts his signature on the magic he produces. With particularly powerful spells, or when magic is embedded in an object for a long period of time, the magic can recognize its own signature in another spell," said Dorian. He shot Mihra a calculating look. "Since the Anchor was created by Corypheus, we are either encountering a remnant spell of his, or it's the Venatori casting in his style."

Bull frowned. "So it's ancient Tevinter bullshit either way. Again."

"Or its elven," murmured Mihra, scanning the coastline as if she could force answers from its jagged line with a glare. "Corypheus's orb was an artefact from Arlathan." She hesitated for a second, then with a small gesture sparked the Anchor to life. Mihra exhaled slowly, willing herself to feel down the creases in the Veil as the magic swelled in her hand, tugging against her palm toward the coast. Almost imperceptibly, she felt the quiet echoes of an answering swell of magic somewhere straight ahead of her.

Mihra silenced the Anchor with another gesture, turning around to where Carvhalo and Harding still stood. "Change of plans," she said briskly, layering her voice with the commanding power of Lady Inquisitor Lavellan. She met Carvhalo's gaze. "Can you bring us to shore? Now?"

"What?" Carvhalo sputtered, brow furrowing. "We're not eight hours from Kirkwall on this course; it would take you twice that, or more, to get to the city on foot."

"As I say," repeated Mihra, her voice ringing as she drew herself up. She glanced briefly at Harding; the dwarf had said the captain was enamored with the Inquisition. Let him see its Inquisitor, then. "Plans change. How quickly can my companions and I be ashore? You are, of course, welcome to continue to Kirkwall without us."

Carvhalo stared at her for a long moment; Mihra could all but see the gears grinding in his skull. "Ser," conceded Carvhalo. "Give me an hour."

"Of course."

Mihra turned around again to lean on railing as she stared at the coastline.

"Well," said Dorian lightly. "Ancient magisters or ancient elves. This should be fun."

As promised, Mihra and her companions were onshore an hour later. The sun had fully risen and cast a glistening light through the morning mist of the damp coastal forest. Carvhalo had continued on to Kirkwall, after Harding had repeatedly warned against informing the masses of the Inquisitor's movements. If all went well, they would make the return trip to Ferelden on his ship in a few days.

Mihra wasn't particularly optimistic.

The Anchor continued to flare every few hours, but never as painfully as it had initially. Mihra was quickly adjusting to the new feel of its magic, much as she had when she had awoken in Haven. At each flare, Dorian shot Mihra a hard look which she quickly brushed off. Dorian meant well, but there wasn't time for Mihra to panic over every spark she shot from her hand. The mark was changing, for better or worse, but Mihra's attention needed to be elsewhere.

Deep within the forest now, Mihra couldn't rely on the glimpses of campfire smoke to help her locate the Sabrae clan. Instead she looked for the usual Dalish trail markers as they picked their way through the forest. It was tracking of the kind Mihra had had little cause to do since the formation of the Inquisition. It was no wonder she was out of practice, but that didn't stop Mihra's pride from stinging whenever Bull noticed a marker she had missed.

Harding had disappeared to scout ahead of the main group, as was her wont, but Mihra suspected that the dwarf would be at their side the instant trouble found them. The plan, as it stood, was to locate the Dalish clan and warn them of the danger—perhaps suggest they move toward Kirkwall, where the resident Inquisition forces could help keep watch—then set off in search of whatever magic was causing the reaction in the Anchor.

By early afternoon the trio broke through the forest to crest the top of one of the many small, pimple hills dotting the landscape. The tops of the hills were open and grassy, favored resting spots for the country's wandering herds of halla. Mihra paused, taking the opportunity to attempt to sight the direction of the clan without tree canopy.

"We are close," she said as her eyes landed on the thin tendrils of smoke to their east. A familiar nerve twinged uncomfortably in her gut. She hadn't been among the Dalish in years, and with good reason. What would they say when the bare-faced Inquisitor attempted to waltz into their camp? Mihra forced herself to stop; that train of thought was well traveled, and led nowhere productive. "The camp looks to be about ten miles northeast of here."

"Boss," said Bull, his eyes narrowed toward the west. "You see that?"

Mihra glanced at the Qunari, then followed his finger toward a cobbled remains of a structure nestled among the trees.

"Some sort of ruin?" she asked.

"It looks elven," said Dorian, shielding his eyes as he too spotted the crumbling towers on the horizon. "See those collapsed archways?"

Dorian and Bull exchanged rather significant looks.

"What are the chances that the creepy crumbling elven ruin isn't somehow tied up in all this?" Bull asked slowly. Dorian snorted.

"Given our odds?" he retorted. "I'd give it a one-in-fifty shot. Maybe sixty."

As if on cue, the Anchor sputtered into life. Flinching, Mihra frowned at it, then looked back toward the gray mass of the ruin in the distance. The pain was nothing unusual at this point; Mihra's muscles stiffened in a half-hearted reflex, but her interest was largely drawn to a sudden puckering of the Veil under the mark's magic. It was as if a small string had been looped around the bones of Mihra's wrist and was pulling her northward.

Dorian's eyes slid from Mihra's hand to her face, then back toward Bull.

"Make that one-in-a-hundred," he said. Mihra scowled at him as Bull laughed. "Sorry," said Dorian, looking less than apologetic. "But we do tend to be predictable, don't we?"

Mihra rolled her eyes, then sighed as she glanced back toward the delicate columns of smoke rising from the camp to the northeast. Out of the corner of her eye, Mihra saw Scout Harding crest the hill on her right.

"So," said Mihra, looking back toward the ruin.

"Where to first?" finished Dorian. Mihra chewed the inside of her lip, looking down at her hand, still shuddering from the latest surge of mana through the Anchor. Mihra couldn't deny that she felt a sort of affinity from the direction of the ruin, but she was loathe to forgo warning the clan on a hunch.

"Just to put it out there, boss," said the Iron Bull after a moment. "We still have no clue what we are up against. You want answers? You aren't going to find them with the Dalish. You don't even know what's coming for them, or how to fight it."

"You think we'd find any more answers going to that ruin?"

"I'm saying weird magic shit and elven ruins tend to go together," Bull replied, spreading his arms. Mihra looked at him, absently running a hand through her hair.

"That ruin is a good half-day journey from the camp," she said, glancing up at the sun overhead. "We can't get to both of them today."

"Strictly speaking," said Dorian reasonably. "Either presents a decent lead. And it isn't as if we've got the timing of the disappearances down to a science."

"I might add," he continued, a bit more cautiously. "Seeing the Anchor is your area of expertise, as much as it can be to anyone, wouldn't it be better to tackle that first? Head toward where we know the Anchor is reacting to magic and head it off immediately? We don't know exactly when the next attack on the elves is coming, but something is happening with the Anchor now."

Mihra bit the inside of her lip. Her eyes landed on Harding, who had taken the moment to shift some gear around in her pack. "Scout Harding," said Mihra slowly. The dwarf looked up at Mihra, an eyebrow raised in the beginnings of suspicion.

"Yes?" came the wary response.

"Leliana tasked you with alerting the Inquisition should our mission here go wrong. To do that, it's important you stay out of the line of fire."

"You want me to go alert the elves while you explore the ruins." It wasn't a question, or an accusation. Mihra blinked at her, then nodded.

"It may even be better this way," she said quietly. "The clan may be more amenable to a single stranger wandering into their camp than they would be for four." If her companions noted that Mihra counted herself among the strangers to the Dalish, no one said anything. Harding gave her a calculating look.

"We set up a rendezvous point," she said briskly. "If I don't get word from you by tomorrow, I fly to Kirkwall and send word to Skyhold."

Mihra took this as affirmation. "Thank you, Harding," she said earnestly. The dwarf's ears turned the faintest shade of pink under Mihra's gaze as she rubbed the back of her neck.

With a hesitant laugh, she continued. "I don't want to be the one to lose the Inquisitor. So, you know. Stay safe. Minimal disfigurement, all that."

Dorian let out a bark of laughter from behind Mihra.

"Don't worry," said Bull, his voice full of mirth. "We try to limit maimings to Tuesdays."

"Disfigurement is fair game, though, seeing as its Saturday," Dorian added quickly. Harding snickered as Mihra rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, you two—" she griped, turning to her companions. "Get your pack," she said gruffly, jutting her head towards the bag Dorian had deposited ungraciously on the hilltop. The mage raised an eyebrow and offered Mihra an exaggerated bow as he obeyed. Mihra scoffed and rolled her eyes again as Bull's chucking renewed itself.

"Seriously, though," said Harding in a low voice as Mihra moved toward the edge of the forest, her pack hoisted on her back. "Leliana will skin me alive if she gets wind I've tried any heroics, since I'm only here as a messanger. So," Harding gaze flicked between Mihra's eyes seriously. "If things get hairy in there—If it comes to it—Run. Don't let this be the thing that does you in."

Mihra blinked. "I'll try, Harding. I can't promise anything more than that."

Harding gave Mihra a wry smile. "Yeah," she said. "You're irritating like that, aren't you?"

Dorian and Bull met the two women at the forest's edge. Harding rubbed her hands together brusquely.

"Well," she said, bracingly. "I'll see you on the other end." Mihra smiled and nodded to her, casting a glance at her other companions. Dorian nodded back at her and Bull gave a small, lazy sort of yawn.

Chapter Text

As Mihra begin picking her way down a halla trail in the direction of the ruin, she tried hard not to feel relieved at the prospect of postponing her first encounter with the Dalish post-vallaslin. Mihra knew it was inevitable that her people would learn of her betrayal, but to push back the day, if only by a few hours, lifted part of her unspoken burden from her shoulders. One day she would be branded harellan, but not today.

Buried in her thoughts, Mihra was only dimly aware of her companions crashing through the understory behind her. The landscape changed slowly, bits of cobbled stone emerging from the ground where once had been an unbroken carpet of ferns and soft mosses. Remnants of ancient cultivation began to pepper the stone pathways: massive gnarly oaks, twisted hedges that would never have grown naturally now grew thick, tall, and forgotten.

“It’s dramatic, I’ll give you that,” said Dorian dryly as the three emerged at the foot of a ruined archway.

Mihra started then peered around at their surroundings. It was a ruin on a scale she hadn’t known to expect. A clear path of massive, half-collapsed stone archways led to enormous pile of stone and vine that formed the main body of the ruin. Remnants of ancient stained glass shot jagged knives toward the sky. What stonework remained stood piled together in what once was likely a high-arched dome; Mihra could see the tops of stubborn trees that had grown inside and through the ancient structure. Each stone making up the large archways was easily as think and as tall as Mihra herself, with intricate inscriptions carved in flowing spirals around the base of each.

“I’d say best bet for your entrance would be that way,” said Bull, jutting his head toward the end of the path of arches. Mihra tore her eyes away from the inscriptions running along the foot of the nearest pillar.

“Doesn’t seem to be anything there,” she said slowly, eyes narrowed. “How have we not heard about this place before?” she muttered furiously, more to herself than to her companions.

Dorian gave her a sideways look. “Any chance you could use the Well of Sorrows to figure out what this was?”

Mihra snorted ruefully, tracing the delicate carving of a raven with her fingers. “A place this old? It would have been used for years. The Well won’t give me a straight answer, and I’d prefer not to have a migraine when we confront this thing.”

Dorian cracked a smile. “Your people really designed their grand repository of knowledge with ease-of-use in mind, didn’t they?” he said.

Mihra laughed as she followed Bull to inspect the wall of stone at the end of the arch pathway.
Her eyes narrowed as Bull suddenly knelt at the base of the ruin and began pawing at the ground.

“Ground’s shifted,” he said as she approached. Bull pointed at a slab of stone sticking from the ground a few feet away. “Those would’ve been stairs leading down to the entrance. We’re going to need to dig our way through.”

Mihra knelt and began helping Bull scoop the soft dirt away from the stone wall. Dorian gave a long sigh before joining them.

It was nearly sunset before the small opening into the ruin widened enough for Mihra to slip down into the dark inner passageway of the ruin.

“Wonderful,” she heard Dorian mutter from outside. “Nothing like a bit of spelunking in a desolate, unstable ruin.”

“The old thing is sturdy enough,” came Bull’s humored reply. “See?” Mihra jumped as she heard a loud crack against the wall, followed by another loud thump and a startled shout from Dorian.

“Vishante kaffas!” Dorian swore against Bull’s surprised roar of laughter. “You damn well didn’t need to prove my point for me!”

Dorian slid through the entryway after Mihra, looking distinctly disgruntled in the chink of light filtering in from above.

“Don’t let that lummox near any walls,” he advised Mihra sharply, casting a dirty eye up toward where the burly Qunari was now attempting to squeeze his own way through the opening. “He’ll likely bring the thing down on top of us.” Mihra chuckled, the sound echoing unexpectedly as she moved deeper down the passageway. Bull finally made it through the hole with a loud thunk, before reaching up and pulling his bag down after him.

Mihra summoned a wisp of light in her hand to better peer at the remains of a ruined fresco on the wall.

“Your hand doing anything interesting now that we’re in here?” asked Dorian as he too inspected the wall with an academic sort of curiosity. Mihra glanced at him, then activated the Anchor.

“No,” she muttered, turning her hand over a few times for inspection. There again, that strange pulling sensation as the Anchor’s magic reacted to—whatever it was reacting to. “The feeling is stronger, but I don’t have a clue where we should start looking.”

“I assume we’ll know it when we see it,” agreed Dorian as Mihra flicked her wrist to dispel the mana from her hand. “That magic has always had a flare for the dramatic. Which is saying something, coming from me,” he added almost as an afterthought.

As the trio began to move down the passageway, it became clear that they were in a labyrinth of sorts. At each junction, the corridors of the ruin twisted and turned until Mihra had to begin leaving scorch marks on the floor before every turn they made.

“This may be easier said than done,” said Dorian lightly when Bull growled in frustration as the party crossed paths with one of Mihra’s markers for the fourth time in less than an hour. Mihra hesitated, gritting her teeth as the Anchor flared. Dorian frowned.

“Is it just me, or are those getting stronger again?” he asked quietly.

“Not just you,” growled Mihra, her fist clenched and her right hand’s nails cutting tracks in her left forearm. She squeezed her eyes shut, just for a moment. Was the Anchor swelling? Mihra grunted as the pain crescendoed.

After a moment Mihra managed to dispel the furious magics hissing on her hand. The passage filled was left with a sort of ringing silence. Mihra swallowed, flexing her hand to shake away the unsettling prickle racing under the skin of her arm. She stared down at her hand, rubbing her palm as the Anchor settled down to a dull glow. The mark had changed again; Mihra hadn’t been able to force it to completely dispel this time.

“We need to move,” growled Bull, voicing Mihra’s concern as he eyed the ominous glow embedded in Mihra’s palm. Dorian swallowed as he nodded sharply in agreement.

The buzzing in Mihra’s arm seemed to intensify as she glanced down the last untested passageway at the junction. Unconsciously, Mihra closed her left hand into a tight fist.

“This way,” she said sharply, moving down the corridor with renewed haste.

Mihra’s head was spinning as she hurried through the ruin, the others fast in tow. At each turn, the prickling sensation in her arm seemed to intensify. Mihra’s chest seemed to tighten with each jolt, whether from panic or the Anchor’s magic, she couldn’t tell. It had been well over a year since she felt like the Anchor was completely out of her control. After Haven, she and Solas had worked tirelessly to ensure—as much as was possible—that Mihra assumed possession of the power in her hand. Whatever spell Corypheus had crafted, Mihra would be its master.

To feel its power out of control, again, after it had been largely dormant for so long? The implications were too terrifying for Mihra to consider. At every turn, Corypheus’s shadow loomed over her, or else Erimond’s, or else Florianne’s, all smirking as they wrenched her hand apart with a gesture.

Mihra couldn’t stop a small yelp as the next wave of energy exploded from her hand. She paused, leaning against an ornate column as the pain crested. Her eyes squeezed shut, Mihra forced herself to breathe deeply through her nose. She felt Dorian snatch her wrist in his hand, opening her clenched fist to examine the Anchor for himself.

“It’s never felt like this,” said Mihra through gritted teeth, opening one eye blearily at Dorian as the pain began to ebb away. “The mark’s changing with every burst. The closest it’s ever come was right after I woke up in Haven.” Dorian looked at her sharply, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“In Haven there was an active breach to the Fade tearing a hole in the sky,” he replied, his voice a few notes higher than normal. Mihra pulled her hand from Dorian’s grasp, straightening herself as she raked her mind for something to say.

“There was also an explosion that flattened the top of a mountain,” Bull grunted, swatting irritably as his horns had become tangled in a mess of roots hanging from the ceiling. Flexing her hand, Mihra glanced down the passageway. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted a very faint, misty sort of glow spilling underneath the cracks of an ancient, carved ironwood door.

“At least we’re underground this time,” she replied grimly, nodding toward the glow. “There.”

Dorian and the Iron Bull tensed visibly, staring ahead. Mihra swallowed, then moved her way between them and forward along the corridor. Mihra hoisted her staff from her back as she paused in front of the door, her arm stinging sharply. She heard the slow hiss of Bull pulling his sword out as well as the small click as Dorian, too, readied his staff.

Mihra glanced briefly back at her companions, giving them a small nod, then with a breath she shoved the door open forcefully. For its age, the heavy ironwood swung easily, soundlessly on its polished hinges.

Mihra let out her breath with as she stepped into the swirling, misty light of the grand chamber and found it empty. The roof had long since collapsed, leaving the vaulted archways of the chamber open to the night sky. From the scattered fragments of stained glass peppered on the ground, Mihra could only imagine the beauty of the chamber when it was in use.

On the far end of the chamber, past thickly gnarled stumps of ancient vines, was a raised platform. At the center of the platform sat a tall, seemingly ageless mirror. An eluvian, whispered the spirits of the vir’abelasan before Mihra hastily tucked them toward the back of her mind. There would be enough for Mihra to focus on tonight without the voices of eons straining her concentration.

It was the mirror itself which appeared to be producing the mist, which leaked from the glass like sand through a sieve, falling to the floor before rising up in swirling patterns. Mihra glanced uncertainly back at her companions before stepping closer to it. With a high-pitched whine, the Anchor swelled to light once more, brighter than Mihra had ever seen it manifest. The tugging sensation at her wrist spread up toward her elbow, forcing Mihra to take a surprised stumble toward the mirror before she managed to stop herself.

She felt the mark’s power shift and expand, reaching for the mirror almost as if greeting an old friend. Mesmerized, Mihra stared at her hand in wonder. For all of the rifts, all of the torn bits of the Veil she had thrown the Anchor’s power at, Mihra had never felt a sensation quite as pleasant as—

“Mihra!” Dorian barked, breaking Mihra from her reverie. She glanced around, noting with a start that she had somehow crossed the room and was inches from the glass of the eluvian. Mihra sucked in a breath from her nose, taking a quick series of leaps backward. She felt Bull’s hand close tightly on her shoulder as he too jerked her away from the quiet power oozing from the mirror.

The Anchor made a horrid spitting noise, its power lashing out from Mihra’s palm with a furious, hissing power that made Mihra’s eyes water as the mana forced its way through her skin. Still, as the pain resurged through her hand, Mihra was grateful. Better pain than whatever had come before. How had she lost control of herself so easily?

Still, Mihra would be a fool not to notice how familiar the mana emanating from the eluvian felt.

“I need to get a closer look,” she grunted, trying to pull away from Bull’s vicelike grip.

“Like hell you do, boss,” said the Iron Bull sharply, pulling her toward the door. Mihra knew it would be pointless to struggle, considering the Qunari’s hands alone were bigger than her head. Instead she shot Dorian a desperate look.

“It’s the eluvian,” she said breathlessly, bracing her feet against Bull’s movement as best she could. “The magic is—It’s the same as the Anchor. I—“

“What?!”

“—don’t know if it’s Tevinter, or elven, or which would be worse but—dammit Bull!—it’s calling to the Anchor and I need to see it.”

With a growl and a tremendous force of will, Mihra drew the Fade around her with her own mana and smothered the spitting, angry magic lashing out from the Anchor. The pain dulled slightly, though Mihra’s hand felt suddenly leaden. Mihra’s jaw tightened as she fought to keep the Veil in place where she had twisted it around the Anchor, its furious pulses now mute. Mihra straightened herself, finally managing to wrench herself from Bull’s grasp in the ringing silence that followed.

Mihra held her hands up to Dorian. “I’m fine, see?” She flicked her gaze down to her left hand. “I think I’ve got it now.” Dorian’s eyes flashed, his lips pursed as his gaze bored into Mihra’s. After a moment, he glanced in the direction of the eluvian, still quietly oozing the pale, scintillating mist that was filling the room.

“Wait here,” he said tersely to Mihra. Mihra nodded as Dorian readied his staff and began stepping cautiously toward the eluvian. Mihra glanced over her shoulder towards Bull. The Qunari’s expression was unreadable as he stared ahead toward the glowing mirror. Mihra thought she saw a vein twitch in his temple in the split second before the Iron Bull noticed her gaze.

“What happened?” he grunted, jerking his head toward the Anchor. Mihra broke his gaze.

“I don’t know,” she muttered. She swallowed, her eyes shut for a half a second as she fought the vertigo she knew would be coming the longer she pulled on the Veil. Bull made a noise in the back of his throat, and when Mihra looked back at him he was once again staring in the direction of the eluvian, his greatsword primed for action.

Dorian was pacing around the eluvian, chanting quietly, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tested the mana embedded in the mirror. Mihra began to cross the chamber once again, slowly, careful to pause whenever the Veil started to slip where she held it pressed to the Anchor’s magic.

Along the walls of the room were carvings of birds in sharp relief, preserved in remarkable condition despite the ruin’s age. In pairs, they roosted and soared and danced across the walls. In the center of the room, directly behind where the eluvian stood on its platform, two birds sat prominently on a large, detailed branch, their heads together in a sort of conspiratorial whisper. Glittering obsidian was embedded in the walls as the birds’ eyes, giving the impression of a hundred spirits watching suspiciously as Mihra and her companions blundered about the room. In the mist of the eluvian, the carvings almost appeared mobile.

Mihra paused, frowning as she stared at the carvings. An uneasiness she couldn’t place tugged at the back of her mind. Why did she feel as if she was missing something obvious?

Mihra tore her gaze away as Dorian hissed a curse, pulling his hand sharply away from the eluvian’s frame as the mirror crackled irritably at his prodding. Mihra closed the distance between them quickly, her staff alight and wary as the eluvian’s crackling subsided.

“Kaffas,” muttered Dorian, his concentration breaking at Mihra’s approach. His arms folding, Dorian shot Mihra a sidelong glare. Mihra stopped, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“You can’t do this alone,” she said quietly, trying to head off the argument before it came. Dorian huffed, shaking his head.

“I can if it means you aren’t about to accidentally kill yourself because of that thing.”

“Dorian,” snapped Mihra. “You said it yourself earlier: if it concerns the Anchor, I’m the closest thing we have to an expert.”

“That was before the thing started controlling you,” replied Dorian acidly.

“Well, it isn’t controlling me now.”

Dorian pursed his lips, looking back toward the Mihra. Mihra held his gaze. “You need to trust me.”

“That’s not—“ Dorian broke off, exhaling sharply through his nose. Another beat of silence, then he glanced down at Mihra’s hand. “Is that actually working?” he asked gruffly. Mihra knew he had to be feeling the warp of the Veil around the Anchor.

“For now,” she replied, taking the question as affirmation as she stepped around him to better peer at the glass of the eluvian.

“And how long can you sustain it?”

“Not sure.”

“If it starts to slip at all—“

“I’ll run like hell, Dorian. I know.”

Dorian looked like he might be about to say something more, but was interrupted as green cracks splintered across the surface of the ancient mirror, all but blinding them with its unearthly light. Though feeling in her hand was deadened by the pressure from the Veil, Mihra felt the Anchor respond to the surge: swelling, reaching, pulling toward the eluvian. As quickly as it came, the magic died down again. An astonished Dorian met Mihra’s gaze. Mihra could see the wheels spinning furiously in his head.

“Did you feel that?” he whispered harshly, all concern forgotten in a moment. Mihra blinked, feeling rather certain he wasn’t referring to the Anchor.

“Feel what?”

Dorian looked back at the eluvian. “The Fade? It was as if a rift was trying to open inside the mirror. I haven’t felt raw Fade like that since Adamant, like it was bleeding through—” Another loud crack interrupted Dorian as the eluvian’s surface lit up once more. Mihra threw up a hand to shield her eyes, but it was of little use as the Anchor sputtered back to life and blinded her all the same.

“You’re telling me you don’t feel it?” Dorian shuddered, taking a clumsy step backward as the light faded from the mirror’s surface once more.

“No,” she said slowly, fighting off a muted sense of panic as she blinked rapidly to restore her vision.

Dorian fixed her with a long look, then shook himself. “Strange,” he murmured, circling to the back of the eluvian. Mihra was left looking uneasily at her warped reflection on the mirror’s surface, glowing and tinged with green.

“What is?” she asked as she followed him, shaking off her unease. She had always been able to feel rifts, to feel the wrongness as the Veil shredded in front of her. The Anchor must be distorting her connection to the Fade, swollen and fervid as it was. Mihra swallowed. The longer she spent her own pool of mana trying to restrain the Anchor’s magics, the more intense the vague, persistent buzzing from the Anchor became.

Dorian hesitated. “The eluvians we’ve encountered before, at Skyhold, at the Temple of Mythal,” he began. “Their magics seemed to be directed inward. The—Crossroads, was it?—” he asked suddenly. Mihra nodded absently, focused on wresting power from the Anchor.

“When we were in the Crossroads after Mythal, it was like the eluvians had pulled elements from the waking world into the Fade. As if they had drawn in just enough to make that realm not the Fade, but some gradient between the two. The magic here, however, is—“ Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “It’s inverted, somehow, like it’s meant to be drawing the Fade out.”

Mihra’s throat went dry. “What does that mean?” she asked.

“There’s something more,” continued Dorian distantly, not hearing her. His eyes narrowed. “Something—Something familiar that I’m missing, or forgetting, or—“ A spark went off in the back of his eyes. Dorian spun on his heel and all but ran to where he had deposited his pack and began digging through it frantically.

Behind him, Bull was marching toward Mihra, face stormy. “Did I hear that right?” he demanded, eyeing the eluvian as he stopped in front of her. “The mirror is pulling the Fade here?”

Dorian rushed past the pair, two worn-looking books clutched against his chest as he hopped back onto the dais where the eluvian sat.

“I—“ Mihra’s words sputtered out as her grasp on the Veil faltered, just for a moment. At once, the Anchor swelled in her hand as Mihra desperately tried to wrest back control. Pressure, overwhelming pressure, pulled and prodded at Mihra’s hand, her arm, her torso, as if her entire body was slowly being torn to shreds in the Anchor’s desperate bid to access the eluvian.

Mihra could hear the eluvian sizzling to life again behind her. Knees weak from the intensity of the Anchor, Mihra wrenching her gaze back to the eluvian even as her hand bade her leap toward it. The cracks in the eluvian had reappeared, deeper than before, and Mihra swore some of the cracking she heard was actual glass breaking on its surface rather than just outbursts of mana. Dorian was kneeling in front of the mirror, two fingers marking a spot on the page of the book laying open at his feet.

Something shifted, almost imperceptibly, from behind the eluvian’s glass. Mihra felt her blood run cold.

“Dorian!” she cried, stumbling a bit as she drove her legs forward. He started, swinging his gaze over his shoulder toward Mihra and Bull. His eyes slide past them in a fluid motion, focusing somewhere behind Mihra’s right.

The mage stiffened, all color draining from his face as he clamored to his feet, still staring wide-eyed over Mihra’s head.

“Shit.”

Mihra felt Bull twist around behind her, but her eyes were plastered on the eluvian. Something had definitely shifted behind the glass.

“Dorian, behind you!”

“Oh, come on,” growled Bull. Mihra frowned, her eyes tearing away from the eluvian’s surface to glance over her shoulder at the Qunari. Bull was glaring toward the entrance to the chamber, same as Dorian.

Mihra’s frown deepening as she peered toward the chamber entrance, ready to snap at her companions for losing sight of the real danger.

“Elgar’nan, will you two pay atten—“

Mihra’s voice died in her throat, a sort of numbness blossoming rapidly from her stomach. The eluvian was all but forgotten as her eyes landed on the achingly familiar shape of a figure frozen at the far end of the room. Steely gray eyes met her own.

No.

How many times had Mihra pictured this moment? How many nights had she wandered the Fade, looking relentlessly for any sign of him? How many imagined explanations, constructed excuses had she created for him, and forgiven them all in turn?

But for him to appear now, when the Anchor was all but out of Mihra’s control, elves were disappearing across the continent, and something was about to emerge from the eluvian behind her?

An overwhelming sense of dread was pooling near Mihra’s feet. For him to appear now, in the midst of all the chaos, Mihra knew it could only mean more disaster. And so she worked her throat muscles furiously, willing them to work again.

It seemed like ages before her voice found her, and even then Mihra’s next two syllables were the hardest she had ever needed to choke out.

“Solas.”

Chapter Text

No.

"No!"

Mihra started, blinking to clear her vision. It hadn't been her voice, but his.

In an instant, Solas was crossing the chamber in a series of long strides. Mihra found herself drinking in the sight of him: the familiar arch of the pack slung across his back, the engravings on the cool metal of his staff, the imperceptible sway of his hips at each hurried step.

And then he stopped, seemingly caught in the cross-fire of Dorian and the Iron Bull's dark looks.

"Why are you here?"

Something had changed in his voice. He sounded harsher now, more stern. Another warning bell went off in Mihra's head, but she didn't have the capacity to address it. Her hand was spitting, her mana spent, the vir'abelasan pushing against the frayed edges of her mind: it was all Mihra could do to stay upright.

"You first," came Bull's terse reply. Mihra noticed he hadn't lowered his sword.

Lips tightened, pressed together in a mask of displeasure. "You must leave. It is not safe for you to remain."

"Figure that out on your own, did you?" said Dorian. "What clued you in? The mirror? The ruin?" Dorian cocked his head toward Mihra. "Her hand?"

Gray eyes turned toward Mihra's green. "Please," he said quietly. His next words seemed to catch in his throat, before, "Inquisitor."

Mihra let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. So it was 'Inquisitor' to him. Good. The Inquisitor was distant, calm and collected in the face of crisis. If it had been the other—

"Why are you here?" Mihra was relieved to find her voice steadier than her body felt. She tightened her jaw, forcing the spirits of the vir'abelasan back as they trickled forward, muddying her thoughts. The Veil snapped against her chokehold on the Anchor, forcing Mihra to break his gaze as she fought to correct it.

His eyes swung down to her hand, brow knitting together slightly.

"Solas."

"You must trust me, Inquisitor." Eyes back on Mihra's. His voice was cool, but everything about his posture screamed tension. "Please. You must leave."

"Why?"

He gave her a long suffering look. "I cannot say."

Something snapped. "Bullshit," she retorted. "You'll give me answers. I'm owed that much."

Another pained look. "There isn't time—"

"You've had plenty."

Something flashed in the back of his eyes as he stiffened. Mihra resisted the urge to swallow as his gaze hardened, a response forming on the tip of his tongue—

And then Mihra's arm exploded.

Mihra yelped, her torso curling automatically around her forearm as the pain intensified—worse than Mihra had ever felt before—worse than at Haven, worse than Corypheus himself trying to rip the magic from her hand. Mihra retched, the edges of her vision turning dark. She was dimly aware of Dorian—or was it Bull?—calling her name, but Mihra could only focus on the need to remain standing. It was happening, whatever 'it' was, and Mihra—First of Clan Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, Leader of the Inquisition, and otherwise Obscenely Important Woman—would not meet this evil curled over on the ground.

Mihra's foot slipped from under her, bringing her knee back down to the stone floor with a sickening crack. Mihra felt something splinter as she gasped, dropping her staff as her forehead bent down to the floor. She felt her breath reflecting on the stone as she struggled to breathe—struggled to focus at all—against the searing agony from the Anchor. She couldn't see; her eyes opened only to a blinding white light to match the pain in her hand. She fought to remain conscious, the edges of oblivion increasingly narrow. It had to end, somehow, soon. This was—

And then it was gone.

Mihra shuddered, dimly aware of a cool grip on her wrist holding her limp arm aloft. Another steady, slender-fingered grasp supported her right shoulder. As Mihra hesitantly reopened her eyes, she cursed the traitorous breath that caught in her chest at the sight of Solas kneeling so close in front of her, his lips drawn so thin that they threatened to disappear any moment.

Creators damn her for wanting to throw herself on those lips, even now.

Solas pulled Mihra to a half-stand, his eyes never leaving her hand. To his credit, the moment she was supporting her own weight his hands fell away, although he failed to take a step back.

"Please," he repeated, meeting her gaze, and for the first time Mihra thought she could detect a glint of panic in his eyes. "You cannot be here."

Mihra took another shuddering breath. "I'm not going anywhere without answers."

Solas's response was cut off as the eluvian let out a loud screech, a horrible splintering sound echoing through the room as green cracks shot their way through the mirror's glass. Mihra managed to roll onto her feet just as a blinding green light exploded from the mirror.

Swinging her staff in front of her, Mihra threw up her other hand to shield her eyes from the eluvian's light. The Achor was aflame again, glowing and spitting as angrily as the mirror was. A wind picked up from somewhere, but the light was too bright for Mihra to see the source as her robes snapped furiously around her legs.

A long moment passed with just the howl of the wind in Mihra's ears. Mihra squeezed her eyes shut against the light, her nerves screaming from a combination of anticipation and the power surging through the Anchor. She adjusted her grip on her staff, readying herself to spring into action at a moment's notice.

Slowly, Mihra noticed the wind dying down. She opened her eyes a slit, in time to see the light fading from the surface of the eluvian. Green sparks were scurrying over the mirror's surface, hissing when they met each other. Mihra smelled the burnt, acrid smell of ozone. Dorian, it seemed, had taken a dive off of the dais and was crouched at Bull's side, his staff aflame.

Mihra sucked in air sharply, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the eluvian's surface. Dimly, the green sparks had begun to resemble the silhouette of a hunched, kneeling figure. Mihra's stomach gave a lurch, the mark on her hand prickling uncomfortably. The figure continued to grow clearer, just behind the surface of the eluvian. Mihra noticed his pointed ears with a start.

"It's an elf!" she cried, stepping forward. Solas's hand lashed out to grab her wrist, pulling Mihra back.

"Go. Now." Solas wasn't looking at her. His eyes were plastered, calculating, on the mirror's surface. Mihra frowned.

"Solas—?"

"Please, vhenan."

He had said it. Seemingly without meaning to, judging by the way Solas stiffened and shot her the briefest look. Mihra stared back, straightening as she tugged her wrist from his grasp. She looked between his eyes, digging for meaning.

"Who is he?" she asked.

Solas's jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes fixed on the eluvian. Mihra frowned; she could see the gears grinding in his thoughts.

"Solas," said Mihra, stepping into his line of sight. "Answer me."

Another pained look. "There isn't time." Mihra hesitated, stepping back to shoot a searching look toward Dorian. Jaw set, Dorian gave her the smallest of nods. Mihra took a breath.

"I'm not leaving you to face this alone," she said quietly, looking back at Solas. Mihra thought she saw the edges around his eyes tighten, but otherwise he kept his expression carefully blank. "Not if it's as dangerous as you seem to think."

With a sucking sound, the room's mist suddenly turned inward, flowing back toward the eluvian's glass to form a swirling mass. Solas's gaze jerked back to the eluvian. Unbidden, Mihra's hand shot out to his forearm, grasping the rough cloth of his tunic like a lifeline. Just barely, Mihra could see the green sparks from the eluvian jumping into the cloud, crackling and sparkling as they too began to harden. The hunched figure was reforming, outside the eluvian now.

"What the—" cried Dorian as Bull let out a low sort of growl, rolling his shoulders.

"Promise me." Mihra tore her eyes away from the eluvian to find Solas's attention returned to her. "You cannot be seen," he said bitterly. Mihra frowned. "Whatever happens—"

"Creators, Solas, what is—?"

"—Whatever you see, you must not reveal yourself. To do so would destroy everything. Swear to me, we've no more time."

"Solas—"

"Swear it, vhenan."

That word, again, crawling out from under the weight of years. Mihra swallowed.

"I'll try."

Solas's brow furrowed, but another spitting sound from the eluvian drove his attention elsewhere. The figure had almost fully formed in front of the mirror. Through the fog, Mihra could begin to see the texture of the elf's finely embroidered robe, made in a style she had never seen before. The elf's forearm twitched, but his head remained bent as the mist seemed to dissolve around him. His dark hair hung down to his shoulders in thick cords, small golden charms hung throughout the style. Again, he seemed to shift slightly, but remained kneeling on the ground.

Solas let out a hiss. "Hide, now," he whispered harshly, pushing Mihra behind him. Mihra took a halting step back, motioning to Dorian and Bull to follow suit. Solas watched as the three made themselves scarce behind the overgrown rubble at the far end of the chamber. Mihra heard Solas mutter a few words, then she held back a gasp as a cold sort of prickle ran down her neck.

Mihra wrenched her gaze up toward Solas. His eyes were closed as he formed a series of complicated gestures with his right hand. Next to her, Dorian inhaled sharply as most of the colors in Mihra's vision went suddenly dull.

"I haven't seen magic like that since Minrathous," he muttered, frowning as he craned his neck to look around him. "Some sort of—of shielding spell, I think. Though the form's very odd."

Mihra didn't respond as Solas opened his eyes and looked at her for a long moment. Mihra's eyes narrowed as she peered through the rubble toward him, unable to shake the feeling of foreboding that had lodged itself deep in her gut. She blinked, certain for a second that she'd seen some sort of spark run across Solas's eyes just as he reopened them.

"Creators, what has he stepped in?" Mihra breathed.

"Right. Anyone else have a feeling everything's about to go to shit?" muttered Bull as Solas turned and began approaching the dais. Mihra noticed that the Qunari had not sheathed his greatsword.

Which—all things considered—didn't seem like a particularly bad idea at the moment. Mihra exchanged a meaningful look with Dorian. With well-practiced grace, the two mages readied their staves in unison, and waited.

Chapter Text

Solas moved toward the figure knelt at the eluvian with a languid, predatory grace. He stepped deftly up onto the dais, hands clasped loosely behind his back, pausing for a moment in front of the kneeling elf. The elf gave no response; if it weren't for the small, steady motions of his chest, Mihra might have thought him dead. Solas watched him carefully, measuredly, and after a moment stepped lightly around him to face the eluvian's still shuddering surface.

He lifted a hand to press lightly against the eluvian's glass. Within seconds the mirror had calmed itself, its glass clouded and peaceful as any other eluvian Mihra had seen. When the last green spark died as it skittered past Solas's finger, the elf knelt beside him let out a sharp gasp, shuddering with the inhale. Solas stiffened, glancing back at him over his shoulder.

Mihra had only ever seen this expression's like on Solas once before—confronting the Kirwall mages on the Exalted Plains—but even then it was paled by the fury now buried in Solas's furrowed brow. Solas paused, seemingly taking a moment to compose himself. His eyes flickered back towards where Mihra and her companions lay crouched among the ruin's rubble. His gaze lingered only for a second, and for the life of her Mihra couldn't catch the expression in his eyes as he looked away. Sorrow? Regret? Bitterness?

Fear?

Whatever it had been, Solas had rearranged his face into a composed neutral when he turned his attention back to the elf in front of the eluvian. The elf's breathing had steadied. Mihra saw a hand reach down to touch the ground as he straightened himself slowly, head still bent, as if unaccustomed to the movement.

"Greetings."

Solas had spoken the quietly, but the sound carried. At once, the elf's eyes snapped open, a feral snarl on his lips as Solas stepped into his line of sight. He rolled to his feet, jumping back from Solas. Mihra held back a gasp as she felt the Veil wrench against the elf. She shot a look at Dorian, whose pursed lips confirmed that he too had felt the shift.

Another shocked snarl from the elf. "What have you done?"

Solas regarded him dispassionately, hands still clasped tightly behind his back. "What was necessary."

"Traitor!"

Solas gave a tight smile. "No doubt."

"How long?"

"Enough."

"And the others?"

Solas didn't respond, which seemed to further enrage the stranger. Mihra felt the spell forming rather than saw it: there were no outward sparks or errant flames, but it was if a great siphon was pulling all of the ambient magic from the air. The spell was clumsy, inelegant, but Mihra's skin prickled with the sheer force of will behind it.

"Tell me, dog!" the elf hissed.

"Unwise," replied Solas, and the spell released. The Anchor grew suddenly bright, forcing Mihra to stuff her hand into her coat to block its light as she and Dorian shared a pointed look. Although his back was turned to them, Mihra hadn't seen any indication that Solas had dispelled the magic. His staff was still clipped to his pack. To cast a dispel charm without a staff to focus the necessary mana was unusual, but to cast the charm without so much as a gesture?

What had Solas been doing for the past year?

"You are raw, still weak from your slumber. You've awoken in a world that you no longer recognize, and will certainly not recognize you," Solas continued coldly. "And I have had years to prepare. You are no threat to me."

The elf snorted, his eyes narrowed as he swept his gaze across the room. Unconsciously, Mihra sank lower into the tangled mess of vines hiding herself from view. The elf's gaze swept past them without a pause, however, and landed on the eluvian to his right.

"I would speak with you," said Solas quietly. The elf gave a sharp laugh like a snarl, but stopped when Solas offered no further comment. He cast another feline gaze at the eluvian.

"Then speak," he returned smoothly, his tone suddenly gracious enough to raise the hairs on Mihra's neck. "Or have the years turned you so feral you lack the skill?"

"Are you understanding any of this?" Dorian murmured to her left. Mihra shook her head slightly, her eyes still plastered on Solas and the strange elf.

"No. I don't understand how they know each other," she breathed back. "Solas has been preparing for this for years? What years? If he knew about this when he was at Skyhold—"

Mihra stopped as she caught sight of Dorian's stricken look. She glanced at Bull, who stared back at her, nostrils flared, a furious vein beating in his temple.

"What?"

"So you are following the conversation?" confirmed Dorian quietly. "Every word?"

Mihra frowned. "What?"

Dorian's brow furrowed. Bull glared at her. "Seriously?" he hissed. "They haven't spoken a lick of Common since the thing started."

Mihra's eyes widened, as she turned to stare back towards where Solas still stood in front of the eluvian. As she focused, Mihra suddenly could hear snaps of conversation: elvish phrases that she knew she'd never heard before, and yet somehow their meaning was apparent.

"It must be the vir'abelasan," she breathed, turning to stare wildly back at Dorian.

His response was cut off by another sharp laugh from the strange elf.

"'Without you'?" he echoed incredulously, eyes raking over Solas's face with a sort of disbelieving wonder. Solas's expression darkened, but he said nothing. "Have things really grown so desperate that you look to me as an ally?" he mused, the beginnings of a new smile growing on his face as Solas's frown deepened.

Mihra readjusted her grip on her staff. She looked pointedly toward Bull, who nodded, shifting his weight into a combat crouch. It was only a matter of time before spells were flying; the hostility in the room could be cut with a knife. Creators take her if Mihra was about to let Solas face this fight alone. She only wished she knew why.

The elf turned on the ball of his heels and walked away from Solas, dispelling some of the building tension. Mihra's grip on her staff loosened by a hair, but Solas's expression was effective in keeping her on edge. The elf fingered the decorative edges of the eluvian, then turned back to Solas.

"I refuse," he said silkily, his glare shrewd. "What then? Will you deign us locked into a duel for my death? Does this end now?"

Solas glared at him. "You are a fool," he hissed, one fist closing into a tight ball. "You've learned nothing, after all this time."

The elf's face darkened as he scowled at Solas. Mihra bit her lip as she felt him tug at the Veil again, his face turning expressionless as magic pooled toward him. The back of Mihra's neck prickled as Mihra's thoughts grew suddenly cloudy with the force of the vir'abelasan crowding to the front of her mind. She whipped around, a bolt of electricity on her fingertips, ready to confront whoever was behind her.

No one was there.

"Enough," said Solas sharply, taking a step forward, but the elf had already snapped his attention back. Mihra shared an uneasy glance at Dorian, who swiped a hand across his mustache to clear the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. On the dais, the elf's eyes narrowed and—for the first time—Mihra thought he looked uncertain.

"Impossible," he murmured, and Mihra thought she saw him glance over his shoulder uneasily. Solas said nothing, but for the first time his posture displayed true tension. The strange elf swung his eyes back to Solas, his previous hatred masked with a layer of apprehension.

"You've laid your trap well, dog."

Solas remained silent for one beat too long. "I don't know what you—"

"The game is done. Why extend this charade? Where is she? How?"

Solas stiffened slightly before something clicked in the back of his eyes and he scoffed. "Once more your paranoia betrays you."

"Don't lie to me," hissed the elf, scowling.

Before Mihra could blink, the elf exploded into a cloud of dark smoke which hissed through the air above them. The next thing Mihra knew, she felt Bull's fingers hook into the collar of her robes and send her flying away from where she had crouched. Dorian's shoulder crashed into her thigh as he skittered after her.

Mihra rolled to her feet, years of combat training lending her the strength to drag her staff into position between herself and the strange elf who had appeared precisely where she had been hiding. Mihra shuddered to think what might have happened if she had still been there when he materialized.

Pure, unadulterated shock was written all over the elf's face as he regarded Mihra with narrow eyes. Mihra shifted, hesitant, waiting for an attack when—

Somewhere on the far end of the chamber sounded a great crack, and with a powerful rush of mana the elf went flying away from them. Mihra bit her lip quickly to muffle a yelp as the Anchor surged on her hand, crackling loudly, snapping at the unspent magic lingering in the air.

On the other end of the chamber, the elf had sprung back to his feet and was staring at Mihra again with narrowed eyes. To Mihra's left, she heard Dorian light his staff, moving slightly forward in defense of Mihra's weaker side.

"You all right?" he muttered, eyes not leaving the elf.

"Fine," Mihra returned, closing her hand into a fist to dispel the Anchor. She frowned. That was the second time Solas's spells seemed to have set off the Anchor's magic. Why?

It was a question that would have to be addressed later. Mihra felt an uneasy prickle race down her spine as she caught the strange elf staring—almost hungrily—at the still-glowing mark on her hand.

"What is this?" crowed the elf as Solas crossed the chamber towards them in a series of long strides, his face full of cold fury. Mihra couldn't read the elf's expression, but it was too close to a sort of vengeful triumph for Mihra to be at all comfortable.

"A mistake," said Solas, casting a cool gaze over Mihra. Mihra felt her eyes narrow. "One that has yet to be corrected." Something in Mihra's chest set off a small spark of fear, but Mihra pushed it aside. She didn't know what kind of game Solas was playing, but the last thing she could afford to do was stop trusting her allies. The elf was obviously on the edge of becoming very dangerous.

The elf was laughing again: a wild, manic sound that set Mihra's teeth on edge. "And what world is this, then, that the great Wolf has allowed such an error to fester? Surely you would not be so great a fool as to repeat Andruil's mistake."

Mihra froze as Solas's mouth drew into a thin line, but she couldn't hear his response over the steady pound of blood filling her ears. Something clicked in the back of Mihra's head; the gnawing feeling that she was missing something grew as Mihra glanced between Solas and the elf, eyes wide. Many expressions were running across Solas's face, but confusion was not one of them.

Mihra must have misheard. It didn't make sense. She had to have misheard, otherwise—

Mihra looked at Dorian, trying to confirm her error, but the Tevinter mage was still flicking his gaze uncertainly between Solas and the elf. Bull was doing the same, albeit much more aggressively. The vir'abelasan must still be translating for her; they must still be speaking in elvish. Mihra's chest plummeted. The vir'abelasan wouldn't translate incorrectly, how could it?

"And she bears Mythal's mark, too," purred the elf, his eyes glinting as he looked back at Solas. "How curious."

Mythal's invocation snatched the already unsteady breath from Mihra's throat. He was speaking of the elven pantheon as no Dalish ever would, as even Abelas and the other sentinels at Mythal had not. He spoke of them, not with reverence or wariness, but as something approaching an equal. Mihra had only heard the like when she had spoken with Mythal herself.

He spoke of the elven gods as if he were their equal, as if they were his peers. But that was impossible, unless—

Mihra's stomach plunged somewhere far below her feet. He couldn't be. The elf couldn't be Mythal's equal, because if he was? She had just seen him materialize from an eluvian that was spitting out a direct connection to the Fade—to the Beyond itself. His clothes, his magic, his dialect—or what Mihra could make of it—was unlike anything Mihra had ever seen or heard, except in the sentinels of the Temple of Mythal. And they had been elvhen, which meant he should be elvhen. To be an elvhen trapped in the Beyond—

It would mean Mythal was alive, and now he was alive, and now the millennia-long prayers of the Dalish could be on the brink of being answered. It would mean everything was real.

In the back of her head, Mihra could faintly hear the echoes of Sera's rampage upon arriving at Skyhold. Even the fanatics don't want to be this right.

And he had called Solas a wolf.

Unbidden, every slight Solas had made toward the Dalish came rushing back to her. Every sneer at the mention of her culture, of the elves. Every whispered truth he had claimed to have gathered from the Fade, more specific in their details than Mihra herself had ever been able to grasp.

No.

There had to be another explanation. A more reasonable explanation.

"Solas—" Mihra choked out. The elf—Not god, Mihra thought to herself furiously—snapped his eyes to her, another feral sort of grin growing on his face as he opened his mouth to speak. But then Solas turned around, and Mihra felt her blood turn to ice as she was fixed with the quiet ferocity in his glare.

It couldn't be true. Mihra couldn't breathe. It could not be true.

Solas's frown deepened. In a split second, Mihra could barely register that his eyes had glowed bright silver before she, Dorian, and the Iron Bull were thrown bodily to the far corner of the room. She gasped, stars springing into her vision as her head hit a large bit of rubble. Heart racing, Mihra attempted to roll back to her feet, but whatever magic Solas had used was pinning her to the ground. She couldn't move.

"What is he playing at?" growled Dorian, grunting as he too failed to pick himself off of the ground. Mihra didn't respond. The last time she'd seen a mage's eyes glow as Solas's had, she'd been starting at Mythal.

It couldn't be. He couldn't be. Her failure could not be so complete as this.

Mihra's eyes landed on a crumbled piece of the chamber wall that lay a few inches away from her face. Another wave of thoughtless panic hit Mihra as she watched the delicate carvings on the stone slab quiver in the dull, wavering light from the eluvian. She could see detail to the carved birds invisible on her first inspection: they were, undoubtedly, ravens. Another small thread fell into place.

Mihra shut her eyes, pressing her forehead against the sharp edge of a bit of rubble near her cheek.

Harellan. Mihra's breathing was jagged against the cold stone slabs of the chamber floor. Solas and the elf exchanged a series of sharp phrases, but Mihra couldn't focus long enough for the translation to take effect.

A soft breeze swirled around the open-aired chamber, cutting off the elf mid-sentence. Mihra pulled her head up sharply, but she didn't need to see Solas stiffen to know the breeze was magical. Every gentle trail of air on Mihra's skin prickled like the breath of a desire demon.

For the first time, a true smile was forming on the strange elf's face as he leaned into the breeze. He leaned into the wind, eyes gleaming with unspoken triumph as he looked back toward Solas.

"Did you really think this would work?" he asked. "That you would keep him from me? Keep that from me?" At this, he nodded in Mihra's direction. "Better for you to have taken your whelp and fled, that I would not learn your secret so easily. You've grown soft, old man."

Solas made no response, but Mihra felt the Anchor spark lightly in her palm. The elf laughed again as the breeze melted away. For a moment, the only sound Mihra could hear was the elf's soft chuckle; all of the sounds of the forest outside had died with the breeze.

"Make no mistake," said Solas quietly. "If you desire war, you shall have it."

The elf stopped laughing. Silence pressed uncomfortably on Mihra's ears in the moment that followed. The elf had drawn himself up to full height, his lips pressed thin as he and Solas engaged in what Mihra could only assume was a silent battle of wills. Then he smiled again.

"Shall I?" he mused, eyes drifting to lock gaze with Mihra. "We shall see."

Solas started quickly toward the elf, and Mihra could feel ambient mana snapping toward him even as the Anchor crackled against her palm. The elf shot him one final, heated glare, then spun sharply on his heel.

"NO!"

Mihra had to blink several times before her eyes would register what had happened. Just like that, the elf had disappeared, leaving only a few feathers from his long cloak in his wake. Solas stood staring into the space he had occupied, his fingers clenched in his unspent spell. After a moment, the magic dissipated. Mihra let out a small breath, quivering, as the spell holding her fell away as well.

"Venhedis," swore Dorian, scrambling back to his feet. Mihra's stomach gave a lurch as she pulled herself slowly up, small bits of rubble cutting into her hands and knees. "What in the blighted Void do you think you're playing at?" he demanded shakily. "What was all that?"

Mihra sank a knee back down on the rubble, finding herself shaking too much to support her weight. Another wave of nausea slammed into her as she took a steadying breath. She felt sick, tainted.

Harellan. For her Inquisition. For her vallaslin. For trusting him.

Solas took a long moment to respond.

"Are you injured?" His voice was quiet, his back still turned to them. "The fanfare was an unfortunate necessity."

"Necessary for what?" snapped Dorian, his brows furrowed in concern. "What in Andraste's name have you gotten yourself into, Solas?"

"Don't."

Mihra had finally pulled herself to her feet, her staff clutched tightly in her trembling hand. Solas's face grew neutral as he turned to her, slowly, almost reluctant as he raised his eyes to meet Mihra's own.

"Tell me I'm wrong," snarled Mihra. Solas turned, slowly, toward her. A small muscle in his face flinched as he met her eyes, as if Mihra had struck him. Dorian's eyebrows were raised as he looked between the two.

"Mihra?" he asked hesitantly. Mihra ignored him, her eyes boring into Solas's.

"Say it," she repeated with clenched teeth, hoping that her knees weren't shaking as much as she felt like they were. "Please." Mihra snatched her own voice from her throat, furious at the tremor. Solas tilted his head slightly, but gave no response.

He didn't need to; the look he gave her spoke volumes.

A deep, thronging sense of panic welled up in Mihra. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think as she took a halting step backward. She had seen a god rise, had watched a lover fall, and now? Mihra took the only available recourse.

She ran.

Chapter Text

Mihra didn't know how long she had been running. She didn't care. Her feet were raw, knees torn open from the rough-hewn stone in the crawlspace they had dug to enter the ruin. Ferns and briars lashed at her legs with each step. Her muscles screamed, throwing off heat like one of Dorian's fire runes.

Mihra didn't know where she was, only that she had plunged too far into the forest for the moon to illuminate her path. Her chest burned with each new breath. Air turned to acid in her lungs until Mihra could only sputter, choke, and try again.

In every shadow lay a wolf.

Mihra bit back a cry as the branch of a small sapling smarted against her leg. She found herself filled with a harsh, dry laugh that cracked against the stiff tear tracks running down her face. Not twenty-four hours prior, Mihra would have sent out a stream of curses to the heavens. To Dirthamen, to secret her away. To Ghilan'nain, to put the wind at her feet. To Mythal, for protection. To Elgar'nan, for her betrayal.

Of course, the words rang rather hollow now.

Mihra's legs all but gave out underneath her as she broke past a thicket into a small clearing. The moon had begun its decline, leaving the sky above Mihra's sweat-soaked head glittering with stars. Gasping for breath, Mihra slumped against the ragged bark of a hemlock. As she rested, a thousand small splinters and cuts sent sharp twinges of pain streaking up her legs.

Mihra bit back another laugh as a new round of furious tears threatened to fall. To think, she'd been worried about her vallaslin. How could her people accept the help of a barefaced Andrastian herald, she'd wondered, when all the time she'd pined after He Who Walks Alone?

Fen'Harel. Solas. The Dread Wolf.

Mihra didn't know if she was laughing or crying anymore. Her fingers clenched at the soft, moss-covered dirt at her sides.

"Inquisitor."

It was instinct that pushed Mihra back on her feet before she'd taken another breath. It was instinct that wrenched her staff from her back as she sprang to the other end of the clearing, and instinct that forced Mihra to whip around toward the intruder rather than rush back into the woods and toward relative safety.

So she poised for an attack that didn't come, hovering on the edge of flight and caught in the gaze of the man whose truth she wished she'd never learned.

Solas—Mihra couldn't bring herself to use his other name, even now—watched her carefully from the edge of the clearing, unmoving, in the manner of one approaching a spooked halla. After a moment, he glanced up, scanning the sky. Mihra winced as once again a cold trickle dripped down her neck, the night's colors muting themselves. The Anchor flared at her side, unacknowledged.

"It isn't safe," Solas said quietly, turning his steely eyes back to her as their glow died away. Another harsh laugh ripped through Mihra's throat. "We must return to the others before we are noticed."

"No."

Mihra's fingernails were digging wells into the wood of her staff grip, her arms shaking. Without meaning to, a sharp burst of lighting scorched the ground between them before Mihra wrenched her mana back in check. She swallowed, deftly avoiding Solas's gaze even as she felt him try to catch it.

"I will not play your games," Mihra said thickly. "I will not be your toy, Dread Wolf." The words rang hollow even as they left her lips. If she had been the toy of the Betrayer, her part was well over and done with. She had nothing left to give him.

Solas was silent for a long moment, giving Mihra a chance to rein in the frantic pounding threatening to burst through her chest at any moment.

"Do not mistake me for the inane Dalish legend," he said quietly, his eyes glinting under his furrowed brow. "You know as well as I that the truth is never so clear-cut."

Something snapped.

"Do I?" Mihra snarled, her staff again alighting in a shower of sparks that she didn't bother to shake off. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the Dalish were exactly right about you."

"Quite the condemnation, coming from Andraste's elven Herald."

Mihra glared at him. "That's different," she said quickly. Solas's eyes flashed.

"Is it?" he echoed. "Perhaps in its gilding, yes, but to my knowledge you were given little choice before the title was placed on you."

"You are Fen'Harel!"

"As you are the Inquisitor."

"Ma harel lasa!"

At this, Solas's frown deepened.

"No," he said sourly. "I was Solas long before I became the Dread Wolf. I was given the title much as you were given the Inquisition, under circumstances you do not yet understand."

"Then tell me," was Mihra's acrid response. She took Solas's momentary hesitation as an opening, gesturing sharply in the direction of the ruin.

"Tell me that wasn't Dirthamen."

Solas paused, the skin around his eyes tightening as he inclined his head toward her. Mihra wrenched her gaze away, her knuckles white against her staff.

"Dorian said he could feel the Fade bleeding from the eluvian. My people—" at this Mihra shot another look at Solas, suddenly lightheaded. Every slight, every snide remark about the Dalish. Mihra had overlooked so much. She swallowed.

"Was it not Fen'Harel who imprisoned him?"

Solas's mournful gaze turned to ice as Mihra watched him. "Yes," he said quietly. "Hurl accusations if you like. There is nothing you will say that I have not already said to myself."

Another wave of nausea hit Mihra. "I don't need to," she said gruffly. "You've proven my point: You are Fen'Harel, in more than just name."

Solas didn't respond, so Mihra continued as she fought the raw panic rising in her chest. "If Corypheus's orb had survived the battle, I would have given it to you. I would have given it to you."

"The orb was destroyed. It is unwise to focus on the subjunctive when reality poses an infinitely greater threat."

"I TRUSTED YOU!"

Solas flinched, Mihra's throat burning as her scream echoed around the clearing. She could taste the bile rising in her throat.

"You control the Anchor," she accused quietly. "You may have lost the orb, but you still gained his magic somehow. So, yes. Tell me about current threats."

Solas frowned, his lips drawing into a thin line. "I—" he stopped, his frown deepening as he broke her gaze for a moment. Mihra's grip tightened on her staff. Solas fixed Mihra with a long, calculating look before continuing.

"The magic Corypheus wielded was never his own. When he was destroyed, what fragments of his power remained sought their point of origin." He hesitated, before giving Mihra a significant look.

Mihra's mouth suddenly felt like leather. The orb had been elven. How could everything be so obvious in retrospect?

"You."

Solas inclined his head. Mihra blinked, looking dully down at her marked hand. The Anchor's light winked mockingly through her clenched fingers. She forced her hand to relax as she looked back at Solas. A slow arrow, indeed.

"The orb Corypheus wielded was mine," Solas continued. "It's magics were always—sympathetic to my own. It was how I stopped the mark from killing you in Haven."

"So you've come to take the rest of it," she said thickly, her staff lighting as she shifted into a defensive stance. Her muscles ached. Her fingertips quivered as they tried to draw on the last dregs of her spent mana. The back of her calf hit a gnarled root as she stepped back; Mihra bit her tongue hard to stop the cry of surprise from leaving her lips.

"No."

With a gesture, the spell growing in Mihra's fist fizzled and died. Solas held a placating hand out to her, something like concern written across his face as he took a step forward. "I never wanted you involved in this. It is my fight, born of mistakes an era old."

Mihra barely heard him, her eyes scanning the edge of the clearing as she took another step backward. Solas had blocked her trail; if she ran now, it would be into the thick of brambles again.

"You had to know I'd come," Mihra replied scathingly. She needed to keep him talking. A year ago Solas would have proven a formidable opponent; facing him in open combat now, if it came to that, would be a death wish. Mihra had wanted answers; now she had them. She just needed to survive long enough to take action. "You could not expect me to turn a blind eye, not after my people are threatened."

Solas froze, his expression twisting as he looked at her. Without meaning to, Mihra hesitated, staring as Solas's hand fell limply to his side.

"What's happened?"

Something deep in Mihra's gut jerked sharply. Solas was the picture of tension: he leaned forward slightly, shoulders held high and stiff, hands unconsciously clenching. A year ago, Mihra would have known that look in her sleep. Now she couldn't be sure.

"You didn't know."

Mihra wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement, but her voice died in her throat the moment the words were gone. Solas studied her intently, his eyes slowly darkening with what Mihra would have once called trepidation.

Mihra was quiet for a long moment as her gaze raked across his expression. Every inch of his face spoke to genuine confusion, but Mihra no longer trusted her ability to read him. Since the day they met, he'd been lying to her. How could Mihra know what his honesty looked like?

But if Solas truly hadn't known—What would that mean for the elves that had disappeared? The reappearance of the elven pantheon was too significant, too well-linked to the disappearances for Mihra to believe for a second that the correlation was coincidence alone.

Mihra swallowed. "Elves have been disappearing," she said hoarsely. "First the Dalish, but now the alienages are becoming targets too. I—We found a link after the last attack that brought us here—"

Before Mihra could register movement, Solas had crossed the clearing and grabbed hold of her shoulders. His eyes darted between her own, brows contracted and lips drawn so thin that they all but disappeared at the line of his mouth.

"Where?"

Mihra tried to wrench herself out of his grasp, but his long fingers only tightened around her shoulders. Mihra glared at him.

"Northern Ferelden," she spat, finally tearing herself free as his grip slackened. "Amaranthine."

In the dim gray light of dawn, Mihra could see the blood draining from Solas's face. Her stomach lurched again as his gaze fell. Without a word, Solas turned on his heel and stepped carefully away from her. Mihra watched him warily as he returned to his position at the opposite end of the clearing.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the distant echoes of waking birds and the slow creaking of the spruce above them. Eventually the gnawing fear that had settled itself in Mihra's gut bid her speak.

If Solas hadn't known—

"Earlier, Dirthamen—" Mihra had to pause, chewing on the name that felt so unnatural in this context. Solas stiffened but said nothing, his back still facing Mihra. "He asked about the others."

She didn't voice it, but the question hung in the air between them. Solas turned back to her, his expression unreadable.

"Not as of yet. But eventually, yes."

An icy pit formed somewhere in Mihra's stomach. She swallowed. How far had she fallen that confirmation of the return of the Creators filled Mihra with fear? Then Mihra remembered Mythal, her spirit living out centuries in Asha'bellanar: a powerful figure, certainly, but not divine. She looked at Solas, still irrefutably mortal even if she didn't recognize the man wearing her lover's skin.

Her vision blurred as she glanced away.

Solas's eyes narrowed, seeming to drink in her expression. "Once the evanuris commanded armies of thousands, bound to their duty through slavery or their own misguided fealty. The battles they raged were fearsome, on a scale this continent has not seen since."

He broke off, frowning, his eyes darting between Mihra's. After a moment's hesitation, he continued. "Most of your people would be overjoyed to see their supposed gods return to them."

Mihra gave a soft snort. "Most of my people never met the last mage who claimed godhood," she said stiffly. When Mihra looked up, Solas was looking at her with a small, bemused smile playing on his lips. She looked away hastily.

"And so in an instant, you see the truth that has eluded countless of the Dalish before you," he said softly. "Ma serannas."

"Don't," said Mihra, suddenly exhausted, her head pounding as the implications of Solas's words sunk in. She took a steadying breath, then looked back at Solas.

"You think they are rebuilding their armies." Whatever admiration was in Solas's expression faded quickly, his face a mask of fury as he turned from her.

"I never thought—" he began vehemently before biting on his words. "I believed they would wait, attempt to consolidate their own power—as I did—rather than move so openly as to conscript an army."

Solas snorted, letting out a hiss of dark laughter. "Perhaps that was how it started, but the Dalish and their willful ignorance provided a large enough distraction."

The back of Mihra's neck tightened at the slight, but she pushed it away. "But what do they intend to do?" she pressed. Solas looked up at Mihra, studying her for a long moment.

"They—" he began uncertainly, before frowning to himself. Mihra shifted her weight, her staff growing heavy in her arms. Solas looked sharply toward the movement; some small part of his cheek seemed to flinch as Mihra caught his gaze again. Mihra's eyes narrowed.

"As I understand it," he said heavily, but there was another note in his tone Mihra couldn't quite catch. "Their goal would be simple." Solas hesitated again, so briefly that Mihra was sure she wouldn't have caught the breath if she hadn't spent so long by his side.

"Arlathan," he said simply, and this time there was real melancholy in his gaze as he looked at her. Mihra's breath caught in her throat. "They would see it restored, and with it a return of elven dominance."

"Is that even possible?" she breathed. A muscle in Solas's jaw twitched as he regarded her mournfully for a moment.

"Given the power."

Mihra frowned. "What does that mean?"

Again Solas studied her, and Mihra's frown deepened. The silence stretched between them in the misty damp of the morning clearing.

"Do you really hate us so much that you would deny us this?" Mihra asked hoarsely. Solas cast her a severe look in response.

"You do not know what you ask," he said bitterly. "But I would not see a new Elvhenan rise with the evanuris as its heralds and the Dalish as their bastions."

"Why?"

"Because I destroyed everything to end their barbarism before!" he snapped, eyes flashing. Mihra flinched, her grip tightening on her staff. "I will not let the result of that sacrifice be the return of the Evanuris with the Dalish as their lap dogs."

"'Destroyed everything'?" echoed Mihra. Solas cast her an uneasy look.

"It was war," he said quietly. "One that could not afford to be lost, and yet—" Solas's jaw tightened. For a moment, his gaze slid out of focus.

"You do not know what you ask," he repeated after a long moment. "Restoring Elvhenan, as they intend it, would tear this world apart. Arlathan cannot simply be rebuilt. Its magics, its people were intrinsically linked to the Fade."

Solas hesitated, his gaze falling to the ground near Mihra's feet. "To restore it, one would need to tear down the Veil. Meld the waking and dreaming world, and my people would return. But Thedas would burn."

"'Thedas would burn'?" echoed Mihra, frowning. The Solas she'd known had been many things, but he had never been prone to hyperbole. He gave her an odd look that Mihra couldn't place.

"Recall the future you witnessed at Redcliffe: that chaos was caused by a single breach in the Veil. Imagine now if its entirety was sundered."

Mihra swallowed. "It's Corypheus all over again, then."

"Worse. He stumbled, clumsily playing the role of a god. The Evanuris have had centuries of practice."

"And the Veil? How did—"

"A long story, and—in this instance—largely irrelevant," said Solas smoothly. Mihra frowned. "What matters is it was done, and—unlike Corypheus—the Evanuris would seek to sunder it entirely."

Mihra shot Solas a hard look. "Why—" she began, but her throat had run dry and she had to cough to clear it. "Why should I trust anything you say?" she asked, and hated the desperation in her voice. Solas's brow furrowed. "You've done nothing but lie to me. I don't know you."

"Because you've seen the evidence with your own eyes," he said quickly, reproachfully. "Because even now the vir'abelasan seeks to confirm my words. Because if the Evanuris are rebuilding their armies, you are uniquely qualified to stop them."

Mihra's vision blurred again. As she blinked to clear it, her eyes land on the wolf's jaw still slung around Solas's neck. Mihra's shoulders slumped.

She'd been so blind.

"Just how am I 'uniquely qualified?'"

Solas's eyebrows raised.

"You stand at the front of the only force able to defeat the last self-styled deity," he said. "Corypheus will seem like target-practice if any of the Evanuris regain their full strength, but until then—" He stopped, frowning at the stricken look Mihra shot him.

"You want me to rally the Inquisition? To fight this?"

Solas's frown deepened, but Mihra cut off his response with a violent shake of her head.

"I won't do it. I won't," she said vehemently. Solas's gaze darkened. "I will not bring an army of Andraste's faithful down on the elves. I will not pit their Maker against the elven gods."

"You will have little choice."

"I will not give the order for a new Exalted March!" hissed Mihra. "Condemn the Dalish all you like, but if there is one way to ensure they rush to the Creators' sides it would be mobilizing what they see as a human Chantry force against them."

"The Dalish have condemned themselves," snapped Solas. "They will flock to their false-gods' sides regardless of your actions. The longer you hesitate, the greater the force that will rally against you."

Mihra gaped at him, feeling as if she'd been slapped. It was a long moment before Mihra found her voice again, wading through the fury thrumming through her limbs.

"You don't know that," she whispered harshly. Solas's brows contracted. "You are asking me to commit cultural genocide on a hunch. I. Will. Not."

"Then you will fail."

"Then I fail!" spat Mihra. "But I will not give up on my own people. I will save them, or I will die trying."

Solas's mouth slammed shut as he fixed Mihra with a piercing stare. Mihra narrowed her eyes, unable to piece together the storm of emotions suddenly clouding his expression as his eyes raked across her face. As the silence between them grew, something shifted uncomfortably in Mihra's gut.

"Have caution," said Solas finally, so quietly that Mihra had to strain to hear the words. "Such declarations never come without cost."

Mihra glared at him. "Leave, then. Nothing is stopping you," she said. "But the Inquisition is mine. I will do everything in my power to prevent its involvement."

Solas shot her another pained look, then sighed as he broke her gaze. "No," he said, almost apologetically. "I cannot." Mihra stiffened, but didn't voice the question as Solas looked back at her.

"I am sorry," he said, and he almost sounded genuine. "It would have been easier if you had never found me."

Mihra narrowed her eyes, to which Solas gave another near-imperceptible sigh in response.

"I cannot leave. It—" he continued, and if he faltered from the look Mihra was giving him then Mihra herself didn't catch it. "—would be unwise. You are known to them now. To Dirthamen, almost certainly to his brother—"

"Falon'Din?" said Mihra sharply. Solas shot her a slightly reproachful look.

"If I am not mistaken, he was behind your attack on Amaranthine. Prior to tonight, both he and June had emerged."

Mihra swallowed, shifting her weight uncomfortably. Two gods, two clans missing. And a third was now at large.

She had to get to Sabrae, and quickly.

"To the point," said Solas. "You are known to Dirthamen now. Worse, he knows of your connection to my own magic, and certainly detected something of Mythal in you."

Mihra's jaw tightened. "So I'm a threat." Solas gave her a wry smile.

"I doubt his pride would permit it. Still, you will be an enigma. A curiosity. His interested will be piqued enough; one question and he will learn of your place as a figurehead. You will become interesting."

"A target."

There was something of guilt in Solas's gaze. "Certainly. They would consider you a profitable hunt, given your position and the potential power you wield."

Solas shifted, his hands drifting behind his back as he spoke. Mihra blinked as suddenly he cut a perfect figure of the man she'd known in Skyhold. The resemblance was unnerving, as if this whole discussion had been little more than their old conversations on the intricacies of the Fade. Mihra had always been impressed by the extent of his knowledge; another clue she's missed, so enamored she'd been with the apostate who'd saved her life.

"Inevitably, they would seek to use you as a vehicle for their revenge against me," said Solas quietly. "I will not allow that to happen."

Mihra stared at him, a numb sort of buzzing filling her ears in the silence that fell between them once more. Solas's gaze was a carefully-composed neutral, infuriating to Mihra as her eyes flicked between his and gathered nothing.

"I stand by what I said before," she said harshly, when she couldn't think of any other response. "We fight this alone, without the Inquisition's armies. If you think—"

"I have no intention of forcing your hand, Inquisitor," said Solas sharply. For a brief moment, Mihra swore Solas's lip had quirked, but his expression composed itself again before she could properly register it. "I suspect I would be wholly unsuccessful on that count, your sense of focus being what it is."

"So you're just—what?" snapped Mihra. Solas studied her for a moment, then lifted his shoulder in a stiff shrug.

"If you are serious in your intentions of opposing the Evanuris, then you will need my knowledge to have any hope in succeeding," he said evenly. "And if they are rebuilding their armies, then the time has passed where I can achieve anything on my own. Our goals are mu—"

"Fine," said Mihra through gritted teeth. Solas gave her a rather acrid look, but said nothing. Mihra cast a glance skyward, and was surprised to see the beginnings of the sun peeking over the canopy.

She swore inwardly. Had they really wasted so much time?

"We must return to the others," said Solas softly, voicing Mihra's thoughts even as the thinly-veiled order made her skin crawl. She cast him a withering gaze, too exhausted to care how petulant it would seem, before wordlessly turning on her heels and setting back into the forest.

Not for the first time in recent memory, Mihra found the Dalish lexicon of curses quite inadequate.

Chapter Text

If looks could burn, Mihra's would be slowly searing a hole in the back of Solas's neck as they picked their way through the undergrowth toward the ruin. She wasn't sure how he had ended up in front of her, but she also couldn't summon the energy to particularly care. Her legs were heavy underneath her, her shredded calves smarting with every step.

Mihra wasn't sure what she was doing. She had no reason to trust anything Solas said. After all the time that had passed, so much of him still seemed so familiar to Mihra; she wanted to trust, craved the old camaraderie between them. But if even a fraction of what Solas had said was true, then Mihra had never known him, not really. The man she'd fought beside and fell in love with was a shadow, if that. And he was certainly dead now.

Morning birds darted back and forth above her head. Mihra found herself incapable of anger, of the blind fury she'd more than earned the right to feel.

She was just tired. And there was no end in sight. So she found herself staring at the junction of Solas's tunic to his neck, watching the subtle movements of the linen as Solas wove his way through the undergrowth.

They were nearing the ruins again; the silhouettes of the massive monoliths of the entrance were slowly appearing through the trees. Mihra's nose twitched as the sharp scent of magefire drifted over them, her ears catching the murmur of a nearby conversation.

Preoccupied as she was, Mihra nearly crashed into Solas as he stopped and turned abruptly to her. She blinked, unresponsive as he shot her a reproachful look.

"If you wish to say something, perhaps it would be best to air your concerns before we reach the others," he said tersely. A small muscle in his neck twitched. Mihra blinked again, a beat of silence stretching between the two as Solas looked at her expectantly.

"Are you like Mythal, then?" The question came tumbling from Mihra before she was even aware she'd asked it. "A spirit, latched on to a body from our time?"

In an instant, understanding blossomed beneath Solas's gaze. Mihra's face grew hot as she looked away.

"No," said Solas softly. "Were that it that simple. I'm sorry."

A small part of Mihra's chest seemed to collapse, even through her exhaustion. "Tel'abelas," she muttered. Mihra pushed her way past Solas and toward the sound of her companion's camp. Her neck prickled. If looks could burn.

The snatches of conversation she could hear through the trees solidified into a hushed argument as Mihra closed the remaining distance to the camp.

"It's been hours, Dorian."

"You think I don't know that?"

"But you're just gonna sit here."

"Solas said—"

"A load of crap. Come on, you've got to know that—"

Bull broke off mid-sentence as Mihra emerged from a thicket at the base of a broken pillar. Dorian shot from his seat, relief written across his haggard expression.

"There you are," he breathed, rushing around the small runed fire he'd placed between him and the Iron Bull. Bull was standing too, leaning casually on the hilt of his greatsword.

"Are you all right?" asked Dorian, a hand on her shoulder as she moved toward the fire. "Kaffas," he swore, his grip on her shoulder tightening. "What happened?"

Mihra blinked and glanced down. In the morning's light she was finally able to clearly see the web of scratches spread across every exposed inch of her legs and feet, the cost of her nighttime dash through the woods.

"It's fine," she muttered, looking back at Dorian. "Nothing a bit of elfroot won't—"

Mihra stopped as she heard Solas emerge from the forest behind her. She saw Bull's gaze shoot up to him, and could have sworn the Qunari's grip on his greatsword tightened slightly.

"I've got some in my pack," finished Mihra, ducking out of Dorian's grip and moving to the other edge of camp where her pack was sitting next to Dorian and Bull's. Dorian frowned, his gaze flickering between the two elves. He cleared his throat.

"We haven't seen any sign of anyone," said Dorian to Solas. Mihra stiffened and turned to look at the elf, who had paused to linger somewhat awkwardly at the edge of the camp. "Whoever that was—and I'm hoping you'll explain that bit soon—seems rather like he's given up on the place. Nothing's touched the eluvian."

"Was that in doubt?" said Mihra sharply. Solas glanced past Dorian to her.

"A necessary deception," he said, inclining his head after a moment's hesitation. "It was crucial that you and I speak in private, at least at first."

Dorian's gaze darkened. "You what?"

"Yeah," growled Bull, looking decidedly unsurprised. "You don't pull shit like that again, not without a damn good reason. So start talking." Solas looked at Bull stiffly, then back at Mihra. Mihra set her jaw and with great purpose began rummaging through her pack for her tin of elfroot salve.

Solas exhaled sharply. "Very well," he said. "In brief: I am Fen'Harel. I fought the false gods of Arlathan in a rebellion that spanned centuries, ending only when I crafted a prison to shut them from the waking world entirely. The spells holding them have grown weak, allowing the Evanuris to return. I intend to stop them."

Mihra's fingers closed around the tin of elfroot. She pulled the container from her bag and began meticulously spreading a thin layer of the paste across her calves, relishing the sharp sting as the salve began to set.

Dorian made a sort of choking noise. "Fen'Harel?" he said. Out of her periphery, Mihra saw his gaze swing toward her. "Isn't that—?"

"The Dread Wolf," recited Mihra quietly, her eyes fixed stubbornly on her ministrations. "He Who Hunts Alone. Lord of Tricksters. The Dalish god of betrayal."

She could feel Solas's eyes on her again, but kept her head down. Dorian looked back at Solas, eyebrows raised so high they threatened to disappear into his hairline.

"Baseless superstition," said Solas stiffly.

"Right," said Dorian. "So, you're the big bad of the Dalish mythos, but you're the good kind?"

Solas let out another impatient exhale. "Simplistically, yes."

Dorian looked back toward Mihra. "And," he said, hesitating slightly. "We're okay with this?"

Mihra made a show of rubbing the last of the elfroot on her left foot, then carefully wiping her hands clean on the dewy grass and stowing the container back in her pack.

"Right," repeated Dorian slowly. There was a long moment of silence. "Then that man from earlier, the one from the eluvian—?"

"One of the Evanuris, yes."

"The Evanuris."

"Mage-kings of Elvhenan. The Dalish have incorrectly translated the word to mean 'god', but they were as mortal as any of the ancient elves." Solas hesitated for a moment. "Are," he corrected.

"And they're—bad?"

"Another vast oversimplification, but ultimately a correct one. Left unchecked, they would have destroyed the world."

"But Arlathan fell thousands of years ago," insisted Dorian impatiently. "You couldn't have—"

"You saw the sentinels at the Temple of Mythal, did you not?" said Solas. "The story of my survival is not so dissimilar."

"I—I see."

Mihra glanced up at Bull, noting his silence since the beginning of the conversation. The Qunari was watching Solas, his expression largely unreadable, but there was no overlooking his white-knuckled grip on his sword's pommel.

"There's more," said Mihra gruffly, standing. Dorian turned quickly toward her, still looking something like a startled halla. "Solas thinks they may be building an army."

"They're the ones behind the attacks?" said Bull sharply. His expression turned stormy. Mihra nodded. Bull made a low growl, rotating his shoulders as he pulled his sword out of the ground and rested it against his shoulder.

"So what do we do?" grunted Bull.

"We stop them," said Mihra.

"Good."

"How?" asked Dorian faintly. He cast another wild-eyed look at Solas, then back at Mihra.

"I don't know," said Mihra. "Yet. For right now, it will have to be enough to stop them from conscripting anyone else. Warn the clans, warn the alienages. Then we'll figure out something more permanent."

"You think we'll be able to stop this by—what? Telling them not to?"

"It's a start. What choice do we have?"

Mihra saw Solas's expression twist irritably, but he said nothing. Good. Mihra wasn't sure she could handle another 'Skyhold-or-death' debate with him. She cast a glance at the sky; the sun was now peeking above the swaying treetops surrounding them. They needed to move.

"We stick to our original plan," she continued. "Harding's waiting for us with Sabrae. We get to them, and—I don't know—convince the clan to shelter in Kirkwall while we come up with a better option."

"What about him?" asked Bull. Mihra glanced at the Qunari, who had returned to staring stonily at Solas. When Mihra hesitated, the Iron Bull turned to her.

"Do you trust him?" he asked, and Mihra thought she heard a touch of impatience in his usually easy-going tone before Bull turned his gaze back to Solas. Solas cocked his head, for a moment watching Bull as carefully as he was being watched. His eyes then slid to Mihra's.

Mihra swallowed, looking down. "For now," she said quietly. Bull made another noise in his throat, but gave no further comment. Dorian cast stricken looks between the lot of them. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed.

Mihra shook herself, scrubbing at her face to try and rub some life back into it. With tensions running this high, the trek back to Sabrae would be a long one. Beside her, Bull pressed Mihra's pack into her arms as Mihra opened her eyes again.

Greatsword still balanced over his shoulder, the Qunari raised his single visible eyebrow at her.

"Come on," Bull said. He clapped her roughly on the shoulder as he moved past her; Mihra stumbled a bit to keep her footing, but steeled herself as she nodded and followed him. Dorian extinguished his fire with a light hiss as Mihra and Bull unceremoniously began picking their way through the forest once more.

If there was one benefit to travelling so exhausted, Mihra supposed it was that she no longer felt her pride sting as Bull took the lead on guiding their party toward the Dalish camp. Mihra travelled silently by the Iron Bull's side, trying to block out the sound of the steady stream of questions Dorian was shooting at Solas. A small, petty part of her was at least pleased that Solas seemed as unhappy answering the interrogation as Mihra was listening to it.

"It's not possible for you to have survived this long. You've got to be possessed, or something like it. Fen'Harel must be a spirit and you—Solas—are its host?"

"And what of Mythal's sentinels? You never doubted their survival, as I recall."

"It's not the same, and you know it. Mythal was reeking with old magic; if there was ever a place where someone could survive the ages, it was there. But you—you ran halfway across Thedas with us for over a year! There were no old spells keeping you alive then. If you were really that old, your body should be dust by now. Magic can't surmount biology, not on that scale."

"Not an unreasonable assumption, given your knowledge. But modern magic is only a shadow of what Arlathan achieved."

"So your story is that you just wandered the countryside all this time?"

"No."

"What, then?"

"I was asleep."

"You were asleep."

"Uthenera. A state of deep slumber perfected by my people. It allowed me to pass my time in the Fade, undetected, until I was compelled to return to this world."

"'Compelled'?"

"An alarm, of sorts, triggered when the bonds holding the Evanuris began to weaken."

"And then you—what? Saw the hole in the sky, decided to abandon your old enemies and join up with the Inquisition?"

Solas was quiet for a long moment. Mihra found herself clenching her jaw.

"Something like that."

That was too much.

Teeth gritted, Mihra twisted her left hand, activating the Anchor with a flick of her wrist. She dug her heels into the soft, moss-covered dirt and twisted toward Dorian, brandishing her open palm toward his startled look.

"It's his," she said sharply, letting the Anchor spit across her palm for a moment before cutting off the magic with another snap of her wrist. There was some grim satisfaction watching Dorian's face grow a shade paler, even as she had to artfully dodge Solas's gaze. Dorian cast a stricken look to where Solas stood beside him.

Wordlessly, Mihra turned and moved toward Bull, who had stopped a few paces ahead. She met the Qunari's eyes grimly, but was grateful when Bull once again refrained from conversation.

It was a long while before any of the party said anything. Noon had come and passed before Dorian was bombarding Solas again, but by that time Mihra was too tired to care. Energy seemed to penetrate her exhaustion in waves: one moment Mihra's thoughts grew blissfully blank as she slipped through the forest with Bull, the next it was as if she could barely move for the intensity she needed sleep.

Mihra was in the latter stage as she realized she and Bull had stepped out of the forest into a large, circular clearing. Mihra blinked, for a moment wondering why Bull had decided to pause, when—

"Shit."

"No," Mihra whispered, taking a few steps further into the clearing.

They were too late.

Scattered around Mihra were the burnt remains of campfires, araval tracks where the wheels had sunken into the soft soil. There, forgotten in the grass, lay a bowstring. There, half buried in the mud, a small carved halla.

She heard Solas and Dorian emerge into the clearing behind her, Dorian's heated protest silenced with an uncomfortable sort of sputter.

"Oh."

Mihra dropped her pack at her feet, moving swiftly across the grassy clearing toward the closest campfire. She held a hand over the ashes.

"Warm," said Mihra, looking wildly up at her companions. "These fires were burning hours ago. We missed them by inches."

"Then they're close?" said Dorian. "They can't have gotten far in a few hours. We could—"

"No."

Mihra looked past Dorian. Solas was standing, arms crossed, at the edge of the campsite. He gave her a pointed look. Mihra's response was cut off by a low growl from the Iron Bull.

"I'm getting real tired of you pulling truths out of your ass when it suits you, Solas," the Qunari said dangerously. "You've got something to say? Say it."

Solas didn't react, only uncrossed his arms in an emphatic gesture.

"This is why you must return to Skyhold and rally the forces at your disposal," he said. "This is not a war that can be won in increments. You can ill afford to chase them in the field; the Evanuris will have you beaten at every step."

"If you know what happened—" Mihra began, but she was cut off by an impatient sigh from Solas.

"At a guess? Dirthamen discovered the location of this clan—likely with the aid of his brother—and did little more than present himself to them before they came clamoring into his service. The rest is simple: one of the many forms of magic lost with Arlathan involved warping the Fade such that two distant physical points came into contact. The remnants of these spells are preserved in functional eluvians, but a crude form would permit rapid travel over some distance."

"Where?" asked Mihra. "Where would he take them?"

Solas's mouth twisted as if he had tasted something sour. "How should I know?" he replied bitterly.

"Where the hell is Harding?" growled Bull. Mihra tensed, suddenly ashamed as she realized she had given little thought to the dwarf since the previous afternoon. The dark look on Solas's face did nothing to alleviate her tension. Mihra cast another glance around the campsite, as if Harding would suddenly appear if she looked hard enough.

"Spread out," said Mihra. "She probably didn't camp with the clan last night. She might not even know what happened."

Dorian's jaw was tight as he nodded. Mihra unclipped her staff from her pack.

"Reconvene here in an hour if we don't find anything," said Mihra

It was almost a relief to step back into the shelter of the tree canopy as Mihra retreated from the abandoned campsite. The mossy ground still held the morning's cool dew even in the warmth of mid-afternoon. They were still near enough to the coastline to feel the steady breeze the sea pushed inland. Under any other circumstance, Mihra would have called the day pleasant.

Instead, she swept northward from the campsite, eyes peeled for any sign of Harding and all the while fighting back the vague nausea welling in her gut. Harding had to be fine. Lace Harding was a figurehead of the Inquisition in her own right. If anything happened to her because of a stupid call on Mihra's part—

Solas might be right, Mihra thought miserably as she doubled back to search a new area. What did she think she was doing? Corypheus alone had taken everything the Inquisition had to defeat, and now she faced nine. Mihra wasn't thick enough to think the Creators could be reasoned with by nature of shared heritage. She would never forget the look Abelas had given her when she'd suggested something similar at Mythal.

But she clung to the hope that at least some of them could be reasoned with. Something had to be true of the legends. For all the past years had shown her otherwise, Mihra had to believe that the Dalish had gotten something right.

The irony was not lost on Mihra that she was praying for accuracy of Dalish legends while Fen'Harel himself was at her side.

Not every legend, then.

Mihra was pulled from her thoughts as the distance echo of voices filtered through the trees behind her. Shouting voices. In the direction of the campsite.

Mihra broke out in a run.

Chapter Text

It took entirely too long for Mihra to scramble back to the abandoned camp. She was thankful, at least, that the elfroot of that morning had all but healed her calves, enabling Mihra to slip through the underbrush with relative ease.

She crashed into the clearing moments later—staff lit and ready, with a bolt of lightning already dancing across her fingertips—only to be greeted by a wide grin from Dorian.

"She's fine," Dorian crowed.

Mihra didn't immediately hear him. "Who yelled?" she demanded, craning her neck to get a better look over Dorian's shoulder. Dorian blinked.

"Bull, I think—" he began distractedly, before lashing out a hand to grab Mihra's forearm. "She's fine."

"She's—You found her?" sputtered Mihra, the spell sparking out harmlessly as Dorian squeezed her arm. He stepped aside, giving Mihra a clear line of sight to where a pale, somewhat shaken Scout Harding was resting against a boulder. Bull was crouched beside her, conversing seriously. Mihra jogged over to meet them.

"Inquisitor," said Harding as Mihra approached. With an uneasy twinge, Mihra noticed a long gash across the dwarf's forehead. "I am so sorry. I don't—"

"What is it?" said Mihra, more sharply than she meant as Mihra noticed the lines of tension drawn across the Harding's expression.

"The clan was here. I told them to be on alert, and they seemed to be responsive, but—"

Mihra quickly held out a quelling hand. "Don't. There's nothing you could have done. This is bigger than any of us thought."

"Yeah," said Harding uneasily. "Bull was saying." Not for the first time that day, Mihra felt a surge of gratitude toward the Qunari mercenary. She wasn't sure she could listen to Solas's explanation again.

As if on cue, the elven mage emerged from the forest to their west. A part of Mihra took immense satisfaction at the look of shock that crossed his face as he saw Harding. He crossed the clearing quickly, making a beeline toward them.

"Scout Harding," he said, cautiously, as he tried and failed to erase the surprise from his expression. Mihra wasn't sure if it was a credit to Leliana's training or Harding's own personality, but the dwarf seemed totally at ease as she nodded toward him, her prior discomfort melting away quickly.

"Solas," she replied. Then, after a moment's hesitation: "That's still what we're calling you, right?"

Solas's lip twitched, amused. "It is."

Mihra had to shake herself, suddenly unnerved by how eerily normal this all seemed. Her eyes landed on Harding's forehead again, where the smear of elfroot she had dabbed on her laceration was just beginning to knit the skin back together. Seeing Mihra's look, Harding shrugged and touched a finger to the cut.

"It's nothing," she said. "I must have fallen, hit my head on something."

"You don't remember?" asked Mihra sharply. Harding winced.

"No," she said ruefully. "Everything's fuzzy, actually. It was just before sunset when I reached the camp last night and—and I know I met with the clan. They knew there was danger, that you'd be following me with an update."

Harding moved to rub her temple but, wincing as her hand brushed against her still-raw cut, decided against it. She looked back at Mihra sheepishly.

"They were—a bit suspicious, so I set camp a few paces away. And, then, well—things got weird. Although," here Harding glanced at Bull. "Seems like I may not have gotten the weirdest half of it."

"Did you see what happened?" asked Mihra, leaning forward. It was almost too much to hope for. Harding grimaced.

"All I remember," she said slowly. "There was some sort of commotion, early this morning. As in, a lot of noise from the camp, so I tried to get a closer look. I—I think I managed to get a glimpse of them packing up their landships, but I was stopped by two of their hunters. They said something—in elven, I think, because I couldn't understand any of it—and then—"

Harding's shoulders slumped as she let out an irritated sigh. "The next thing I knew, I was being shaken awake by Bull, and all of this had happened." She gestured around the clearing, then rubbed her unmarred temple with another exhale. Mihra held back a frown, trying to prevent her disappointment from bleeding into her expression.

"Was it a spell, do you think?" Mihra asked quietly. Harding hesitated.

"I don't know," she admitted. Harding bit her lip, then shot a glance toward Mihra. "There's one more thing. The hunters, the ones who stopped me before I blacked out? I didn't recognize them. They weren't in the camp when I met with the clan earlier."

Mihra frowned. "They could have been on a hunt when you approached the camp the first time." Harding gave Mihra a significant look.

"Maybe," she said noncommittally. Mihra crossed her arms and looked to her other companions. She took a breath.

"Thoughts?"

"This was fast," said Bull. "Too fast, if we're buying the story about elven magisters popping out of a thousand-year-old coma."

"These are hardly magisters, Bull," scoffed Dorian. The Iron Bull gave him a blank look.

"Ancient mage heads-of-state, apparently on a power trip? That's a magister."

Dorian rolled his eyes, but held up a hand in submission. Mihra shook her head.

"It might not be too fast," she muttered. "Not if he introduced himself as Dirthamen. The Dalish—We tell campfire stories about this happening one day, about the pantheon returning to us. He'd have to offer up some proof, obviously, but once he convinced the clan he was telling the truth? They'd follow whatever he said."

Bull shook his head. "I don't care if they were willing. This was too fast a turnaround if we're assuming he has no idea what's happened in the last centuries. How did he know where the clan was? How did he single out this group of elves as the best target? It's too fast."

"He had help," said Solas softly. A vein in Bull's neck started pulsing violently, but otherwise the Qunari made no indication he'd heard the mage. Solas nodded toward Harding.

"It seems Falon'Din predicted his brother's reappearance, and prepared. It is possible the unknown hunters were already in Falon'Din's service, and were sent as agents to ease the new clan's transition."

"You're saying that transportation spell of yours works across coastlines?" asked Dorian shakily. "Because the other clans should still be in Ferelden, otherwise."

Solas shrugged. "A ship, then."

"Leliana's been watching the coast for weeks. If a large group of elves had crossed the Waking Sea, we'd know about it," said Mihra quickly.

Solas frowned, then inclined his head. "Then he may have chosen a select few—a small enough group to avoid detection—to make the crossing with him, rather than his entire force. But Falon'Din himself is certainly on the northern coast."

"Right," snapped Bull, rolling his eyes. "Convenient. How can you possibly know that?" Solas fixed him with a piercing look.

"Falon'Din made his presence clear last night," Solas replied coolly. Bull snorted.

"Must have missed that memo," he said sharply as Solas's jaw tightened.

"These petty attempts at provocation only waste your time and mine."

"Believe me, Solas, if I were trying to provoke you, you'd know."

"Enough!" snapped Mihra, cutting off Solas's retort. "Both of you." Bull folded his arms, but made no further comment. Mihra watched him for a moment. Something in his expression was reminding her distinctly of his Ben-Hassrath days. Mihra wasn't sure she liked the nostalgia.

It would be something Mihra would have to address later, she thought, sharing a glance with Dorian.

"To the point," began Solas delicately. "Falon'Din has made himself known. To those familiar with his magic, it—"

"The breeze," said Mihra suddenly, realization dawning on her. "Dirthamen—His whole demeanor changed after that wind blew through the chamber." Solas looked at her sharply, eyebrows raised, but nodded.

"An old trick," he said sourly. "Intended both as a means to strike fear in his enemies and to pass information to his allies."

An uneasy silence fell on the clearing. Mihra rubbed her temple, scrubbing the side of her eyes.

"So this—Falon'Din—" began Dorian, haltingly. Mihra shot him a sideways look. He returned it apologetically. "I think I'm going to need a primer on these names before the day's out," he winced. "So Falon'Din must have given—Dirthamen—a location, either a meeting point or to the clan directly. Either way, if they're working in tandem now, it explains how quickly he was able to reach the elves here."

Solas inclined his head. Bull stood up sharply and stalked away from the group, toward the pile of their bags that had been deposited unceremoniously at the far end of the abandoned campsite. Mihra watched his retreating form for a moment before she noticed Harding was looking at her.

"We need to get word to Skyhold," said Harding. The back of Mihra's neck tensed as she caught Solas's sharp look her direction. Mihra ignored him.

"No," she said tersely. "We are on our own here, at least for now."

"We're what?" yelped Dorian. "Why?"

Mihra was acutely aware of Solas's eyes on her now, but she continued to ignore him. At the other end of the campsite, Bull was watching the exchange closely, his arms folded.

"Because," she continued stiffly. "Calling the Inquisition into action would cause more problems than it would solve. I haven't done everything I could to help the elves of Orlais and Ferelden only to rip the ground out from under them now. I won't condemn the continent to another war. Not yet."

"We are already at war," said Solas darkly. Mihra shot him a withering look. Dorian scratched the corner of his eye, looking a shade paler than normal.

Harding was still watching Mihra, patiently.

"Then we need to get word to Skyhold," she repeated. "And quickly."

Mihra frowned at her. Then, after a moment's thought, she froze.

"Fenedhis."

Harding nodded grimly. "To Kirkwall, then."

"What is it?" asked Dorian and Mihra scrubbed her face.

"Cullen," said Mihra. "He's going to send the whole damn army to Kirkwall if we don't stop him."

Dorian hesitated. "And we're sure that's a bad thing?" he asked delicately. He looked at Solas. "If the pattern holds, then the city should be their next target, right?"

"Most likely," said Solas.

Dorian fell silent at the look Mihra shot him.

"Cullen said he'd wait six days for a message from us," Mihra continued, looking at Harding. "Is that—?"

"We've still got enough time for a raven, if it's fast," she replied quickly. "And if we're fast," she added with a lopsided smile. Mihra nodded.

"Carvhalo said the city would be sixteen hours from where we came ashore."

"Given the ground we covered yesterday, I'd say we're about eight hours out now," said Harding.

"Then we walk fast, and don't stop until we are at the city gates."

Mihra turned to walk toward her pack only to see Bull hoist his over his shoulder and set off into the forest without a moment's pause. She shot a sidelong look at Dorian as Bull's retreating form disappeared into the shade of the tree canopy. Dorian met her gaze grimly.

"That's going to be a nasty little wrinkle to iron out, isn't it?" he muttered. Mihra sighed.

"We'll deal with it," she replied quietly, all-too-aware of Solas's attentive listening. The secrecy was not entirely warranted—Bull had made no secret of his anger—but Mihra wasn't entirely ready to welcome Solas back into the fold of her companions. "In Kirkwall."

"Well," said Dorian dryly, resuming his normal tone. "Varric's certainly in for a surprise, isn't he?"

Chapter Text

Kirkwall's eastern gate glowed orange with torchlight as Mihra's party stumbled toward it a few hours past sunset that evening. There were only a handful of times Mihra could remember feeling more relief at the sight of a human settlement: one of those times had been the discovery of Skyhold.

The heavy doors of the city gate were cracked open to allow the occasional foot traffic through, though from the look of the sleepy city guards manning the post, travelers had been few and far between. Dimly, Mihra recognized the lasting marks of the siege of Kirkwall a year prior. Scorch marks lashed up and down the heavy wooden doors. To her left and right, Mihra could see the sections of the city wall still crumbling and damaged from Starkhaven's trebuchets.

Three guards stood posted at the gate, the most experienced-looking of the three visibly starting as Mihra and her companions approached. As he straightened, Mihra noticed one of his peers move to rest her hand on her sword pommel, her eyes narrowed behind her helm.

"Hold," said the older officer, holding a hand out to Dorian. Dorian glanced at Mihra, who scrubbed an exhausted hand over her face. Seeing the gesture, the officer frowned and turned toward Mihra.

"What's your business here?" he asked Mihra stiffly. Mihra blinked, an uneasy prickle running down her neck that she couldn't immediately place.

"An inn," she said cautiously, her eyes sweeping across the guards' faces for the cause of her tension. "It's been days since out last—"

"Find it somewhere else," snapped the woman with her hand now gripping the hilt of her sword. Mihra frowned, peering back towards the other two guards as the officer silenced the guardswoman with a sharp gesture. Mihra's eyes narrowed.

There it was.

The two guards standing on either end of the city gate weren't looking at her, or even at Dorian. Their eyes were fixed on Bull. Mihra looked over her shoulder and shared a brief glanced with Bull before turning back to the officer.

"Is there a problem, ser?" she asked, before quickly correcting herself. "Serah?"

"I'd ask you the same question," was his terse reply.

"The Qunari have no business in Kirkwall," piped the sandy-haired guard standing opposite to the woman. "Not anymore."

"Quiet," hissed the officer. Mihra exhaled, trying to push aside the prickle of irritation growing in her stomach.

"Are you going to let us in?" said Mihra, more harshly than she meant to. But she hadn't slept for over two days, and so couldn't work up the energy to particularly care. The officer turned back to meet her eyes, his orange-emblazoned chestplate glowing in the torchlight.

"That depends," he said coldly. "What is your business here? All of it, and best be truthful this time."

Mihra felt her jaw tense, but Dorian jumped in before she could say anything. "Varric Tethras is a friend of ours," he said quickly. "Surely he can vouch for us."

The officer narrowed his eyes. "Tethras had many friends," he said dismissively. "From many circles, not all of them wholesome. Which one are you from?"

Mihra bit back an exasperated sigh as Dorian hesitated. The officer's gaze turned back to her icily, then up at Bull.

"What say you, Qunari? You have yet to speak for yourself."

A muscle twitched in his neck as Bull adjusted the strap holding his greatsword to his back. Immediately, all three guards had their hands on their swords.

"You expecting poetry?" Bull grunted, looking at the officer. The officer's frown deepened.

"Elgar'nan," snapped Mihra, fully aware of her companions and the three guardsman turning to stare at her. "We mean Kirkwall no harm. If you have a problem with Bull, take it up with Varric. Beyond that, our business is our own."

The officer drew himself to full height. "On the contrary," he said. "I see two elves, a human, and a Qunari—all equipped for battle—stumble to my gate hours past when any typical traveler should be on the road. They proceed to evade every question posed to them. Tell me: should I not be suspicious?"

Mihra stiffened and turned very slowly to glance over each shoulder as Dorian said, "No need to get your feathers ruffled. We've been on the road for days; we're exhausted. As my friend here said, I'm sure Varric can smooth over any wrinkles for you. In the morning."

Only half listening, Mihra had to hold back a smile as she finished taking inventory of her companions. Harding had disappeared from sight, Mihra could only presume to find them a suitable alibi. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, she was filled with admiration for the scout.

"Wait—" said the sandy-haired guard by the gate. "I know that accent. He's Tevinter!"

In almost perfect unison, both the officer and Dorian gave a load groan.

"You know, to the rest of the South I hardly have an accent at all."

"Quiet, all of you!"

The officer glared at Dorian. "Only one reason I can think of for a Tevinter to be this far south."

"Do tell. Though I'll point out—present company being what it is—that it's highly unlikely I'm a slaver."

At this, Solas gave a loud snort from behind Mihra. The officer swung his gaze toward him. When Solas offered no further comment, the officer let out an impatient exhale.

"Your names, then."

Mihra shot Dorian a look that quickly silenced the mage before he could say anything. She had faith that Scout Harding would be able to resolve this for them, and didn't want to surrender their anonymity without cause.

The officer let out another frustrated sigh. "Fine," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Take them to the Guard-Captain, if you won't turn them away," called out the guardswoman.

Faith in Harding notwithstanding, Mihra found herself quickly losing patience with the whole situation. At the very least, the Inquisition had dealings with Kirkwall's Guard-Captain in the past.

"You do that," she snapped. Dorian shifted, touching Mihra's elbow lightly. Mihra shook him off.

The officer's eyes narrowed. He swept his eyes over Mihra and her companions, his gaze lingering on Bull, then again on Dorian, for a full two seconds longer than the others.

"Kurt," he barked. "Sanders. Escort them to headquarters, and have the Guard-Captain decide what to do with them. None of them leave your sight until she says otherwise, understood?"

"Understood, serah," said the sandy-haired guard even as the guardswoman's expression twisted nastily under her helmet.

"Did you just get us arrested?" muttered Dorian as the group was ushered through the city gate. Mihra rubbed her eyes.

"Harding will figure something out. At least we're in the city now."

"I noticed."

In retrospect, an armed escort through the city streets was perhaps not the best method to maintain anonymity. As they were led up a seemingly endless flight of stairs, Mihra noticed more than a few curious heads peering out of windows to get a better look at their party. And if Bull noticed the number of doors that were quickly slammed shut at their approach, he made no mention of it.

Eventually the guards led Mihra and her companions into what was obviously the city's wealthy district. The last straggling merchants of an evening bazaar paused packing their stalls to watch Mihra's group move through the square up toward a prominent, white marbled building standing tall in a sea of similarly distinguished architecture. Sharp, glinting beaks of golden gargoyles flashed overhead as they were lead into the building's entry courtyard.

A very small part of Mihra was now regretting that she hadn't taken up Varric's offer to visit Kirkwall in an official capacity before this. She had no clue where she was, or how long it might take Harding to track them down. From the richly embroidered Kirkwallian heraldry covering the wall hangings, it looked like they were being lead into the center of the city's governance. Was that typical?

Mihra frowned, rubbing the back of her neck to try and alleviate the knotting tension at her shoulder. The guardswoman tensed at the movement, her hand twitching toward her sword pommel as she and Mihra met eyes. Mihra sighed and let her hand fall.

At least Mihra was fairly sure their anonymity was still intact. That was something.

"You'll wait here until the Guard-Captain can deal with you," said the guardswoman icily, gesturing through an open door to a sparsely adorned room with a single table in its center.

"We'll be right outside," said her fair-headed partner.

"So don't try anything," the guardswoman finished nastily.

As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, Mihra wasted no time before sinking into one of the roughly-hewn bench seats pushed underneath the central table. She rested her elbows heavily on the tabletop, staring at her lap.

"Bit of a departure from our usual methods," said Dorian, his tone a forced light as he leaned against the edge of the table and peered around the room curiously. "Can't say this has ever happened to me before."

Mihra couldn't help the wry twitch of her lips as she felt Solas settle himself into the bench cattycorner from her.

"I aim to please, Dorian."

Dorian snorted, but his response was cut off as Bull scraped one of his horns loudly against the room's ceiling as he attempted to lean against one of the walls. Bull straightened, scowling, but made no further comment.

A long moment passed where no one spoke to each other. The muffled murmur of guardsmen voices outside the room's door was stupefying. More than once, Mihra had to catch herself as her head began to dip toward sleep. She rubbed her thumb idly over her left palm, brushing across the parts of her hand that still prickled with energy from the night before.

Mihra didn't realize that she had fallen asleep in earnest until Solas nudged her foot under the table. Mihra's hand slammed down against the table as she straightened, blinking, casting a dark gaze in the elven mage's direction until Solas looked pointedly toward the door.

The tenor of the voices outside had changed, becoming sharp and insistent where once they had been soporific. Mihra shifted in her seat, swiping a hand over her face to clear her eyes as the door swung open.

"You know, when I got that letter from Ruffles I assumed I would be coming to you, not that you'd just show up on my doorstep a few days later."

"Varric!"

"Master Tethras, you cannot—"

Varric waved away the protests of the guardswoman still standing post outside the door impatiently. He quickly slid his foot in the doorway, blocking the guard's attempts to shut the door.

"Kid, make yourself useful and go get Aveline. I know for a fact she doesn't leave her office for another hour or so, at least."

The guardswoman scowled, but with a pointed look from the other guard reluctantly stomped off toward what Mihra could only assume was the Guard-Captain's office. As Mihra craned her neck to watch her retreat, she noticed Scout Harding's familiar form inspecting a posted parchment innocently at the other end of the main room. Varric chuckled, then turned back to Mihra.

"Seriously, though, would it have killed you to give a little warning? I get travelling incognito, but this whole thing could have been avoided if—" Varric seemed to choke on his words as he caught sight of Solas sitting in the corner.

"Oh. Well—shit. Wish I could say it was good to see you, Chuckles."

"And I to you, Varric."

Varric looked back at Mihra. After a moment's hesitation: "Why do I get the feeling that—"

"Varric."

Varric winced theatrically, then glanced over his shoulder as the imposing form of a broad-shouldered, flaming-haired woman came into view. She dismissed the sandy-haired guard with a gesture, one hand on her hip and the other immediately going to massage her temple as she approached. Mihra noted the insignia on her chestplate marking her as a commanding officer. The Guard-Captain, then.

"Why is it," she began through gritted teeth. "That whenever anything even the slightest bit off happens in this city I can always trace it back to you?"

Varric gave a sort of guilty chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "After beating the rest of Kirkwall into submission, Aveline, you need me to keep things interesting."

The woman—Aveline—was not amused. "Who are they?" she demanded.

Varric cast a glance back toward Mihra. "I take it you aren't here in any official capacity?" he muttered. Mihra shook her head, her eyes flickering from the Guard-Captain's form.

"If it can be avoided—"

Varric sighed and looked back at the Guard-Captain.

"Aveline—" began Varric endearingly. The woman scowled at him, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"Varric."

"Look—Let's all just close the door, take a seat, and calmly introduce ourselves. You'll get your answers and my friends here will be free to—do whatever it is they are planning on doing."

"You can't be serious."

Varric winced again. "Please?"

The Guard-Captain's scowl deepened as she glared at Varric for a long moment. Mihra watched as the woman's critical gaze drifted over Mihra and her party. Then with a sharp exhale, the woman stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her with a sharp snap.

"You owe me," she growled, shaking a finger at Varric. "And I'm only doing this because you've kept better company as of late, and chances are one day it'll be someone actually important."

A beat of silence passed, during which the atmosphere seemed to seize up with unspoken tension before:

Dorian let out a bark of laughter as Varric sputtered and went into a mild coughing fit. Mihra refrained from elbowing Dorian, choosing instead to look at the rough-hewn wood of the table top as she fought the rush of blood to her cheeks.

"What?" asked the Guard-Captain suspiciously. Varric gave a final cough and wiped a hand over his eyes. He gestured toward Mihra vaguely.

"This is Mihra Lavellan, the—"

The woman's gaze snapped to Mihra quickly, nostrils flared and face a shade paler than it had been before.

"What?" she sputtered, then seemed to catch herself. She inclined her head. "My lady—"

"Please," said Mihra quickly, standing up. She shot Varric a reproachful look. "Officially, I'm not here, so we can dispense with the titles. I'm Mihra Lavellan."

"Aveline Vallen," said the woman automatically.

"I know who you are," said Mihra, dipping her head. "Our forces returning from Kirkwall last year were impressed with your handling of Starkhaven's incursion, Guard-Captain."

"I could say the same for your men. Though if we are dispensing with titles, it's Aveline."

"Mihra, then."

Varric was rubbing his temples as his eyes flickered between the two women.

"Have a problem, Varric?" asked Aveline, her waspishness from earlier returning.

"Me? No. It's just when I imagined this meeting, I thought there'd be more explosions."

Dorian laughed. "Give it time: I'm sure we can arrange something."

"He's kidding, Aveline," said Varric quickly. "Sparkler, tell the Guard-Captain you're kidding."

Aveline rolled her eyes, then turned back to Mihra, regarding her for a moment. She exhaled, her palms pressed against the tabletop as she leaned forward.

"I respect that you're travelling anonymously, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't ask at least one question. Is Kirkwall in danger? I know Varric's type—Maker, I was part of it for years—so I know the warning signs."

Mihra blinked, her thumb worrying a knot in the table as she contemplated the Guard-Captain. She glanced at Varric, who had broken out of his theatrics to look at her with a sort of veiled trepidation. Seeming to sense her question, Varric nodded as Mihra looked back at Aveline.

"Not the city," said Mihra delicately. The Guard-Captain frowned, pushing off from the table to fold her arms across her chest. Mihra sighed. "But we think there will be an attack on the alienage."

Aveline's frown deepened. Mihra caught a significant glance exchanged between the Guard-Captain and Varric.

"When?"

Mihra hesitated, before shooting Solas a pointed look. His lips grew thin as he shifted, folding his hands over each other. "It difficult to say with precision. I suspect we have days, possibly a week. Within the month, certainly."

"Who? How?"

Mihra held back a hiss, pulling back her hand as a sliver of wood from the table embedded itself under her thumbnail. She pressed her fingers together, watching as a small bead of blood collected under the nailbed. Mihra brushed it away as she looked up.

"I am sorry," she said quickly, before any of her companions could speak. Her mind was racing. For all she wanted to trust this woman—from Varric's stories to the Inquisition's interactions with her—Mihra did not know Aveline Vallen. "But we're still trying to get our bearings. I don't have the answers you're looking for, not yet."

Next to her, Mihra felt Dorian stiffen slightly. Mihra's jaw tightened, praying his expression didn't betray his surprise. Mihra glanced at Varric as he cocked his head at her from his position behind Aveline, but said nothing.

"I promise, as soon as we have information to share, it'll be passed on to you and yours. But until then—"

Aveline was frowning again. "There's something you aren't saying." Mihra sighed.

"You're right," she said simply.

The Guard-Captain glanced over her shoulder to look at Varric. For a moment, the two seemed to have an unspoken conversation, before she turned back to Mihra. Mihra returned her gaze evenly.

"Go, then," she said brusquely. "Do what you came here to do; I won't stop you, out of respect for your organization."

Mihra swallowed, once again pushing back the nausea that was all too close to the surface these days. "Thank you."

Aveline nodded, still frowning. "But this is my city, Inquisitor," she continued. "I won't allow the guard to stay on the sidelines if its people are in danger."

"Of course not, Guard-Captain," said Mihra quietly. "I—I'm sure we'll be in touch, soon."

"Then we have an understanding," said Aveline stiffly, opening the door and gesturing Mihra's group on their way. Mihra swallowed, stepping over the bench seat as her companions filed their way out of the room. She caught Varric's eye as she passed him.

"I assume they'll be staying with you, Varric?" asked Aveline as she moved back toward the still-open door to the Guard-Captain's office. Varric shot a surveying look towards Mihra.

"Not really sure where else they'd go," he said.

"Good."

At this, Aveline snapped her office door shut behind her, leaving Mihra, Varric, and the rest of the party standing somewhat awkwardly in the center of the sleepy guard office. At the far corner, Harding broke away from her reading and went to join them.

"Harding," said Mihra breathlessly. "Did you—?"

"Already sent," said the scout smoothly. "But you'll probably want to send a follow-up tomorrow, knowing the commander."

"Maker's balls," muttered Varric, looking wildly between Mihra and Harding. "You'd think the world's ending by the way you lot are—" He stopped mid-sentence at the stricken looks the group shot him. Sighing, Varric scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Shit. Fine, all of you, follow me and we'll get sorted for tonight. Then someone owes me a damn good story."

Chapter Text

Mihra was warm, the soft blue grasses of the high plains tickling her cheek as she basked in the sun's heat. Sunlight coursed through her, burning away days of muck and grime as it set fire to the inside of her eyelids. Mihra smiled as she turned her face more fully into the sun, the leather in her armor throwing up the spicy scent of embrium oil as she moved.

Somewhere above her, someone laughed. "Quit grinning like an idiot, lethallan, and help me," the voice teased. "Keeper will have our skin if we don't find her."

Mihra hesitated, eyes still closed, as something shifted deep within her chest. She felt the ground tense as someone landed to her left with a light thud.

"Come on, mav'lin," said the voice as something nudged her thigh. Doubt dissolving with the touch, Mihra held back a grin, mischievous as she lashed out her hand to grab at the offending foot.

Mihra frowned when her fingers snatched at emptiness. The Anchor prickled, sparking to life as her hand closed into a fist around it. With a hiss, Mihra felt the mark grow, crawling upward by tendrils through her hand to her wrist, her forearm, her elbow.

To her left, Mihra felt someone take a step back.

"Mihra?" asked the voice which was all but carried away by the sound of the spitting Anchor. Mihra began pulling herself upward, hands clutching the grass as she gritted her teeth against the Anchor's power.

"It's—I'm fine, I—"

Mihra wrenched her eyes open, taking a sharp inhale as her eyelids broke free of the grit which had sealed them shut overnight. For a moment, her entire body was tense as she clenched and unclenched her left hand, trying to push aside the echoes of pain from the Anchor.

She blinked blearily as her eyes adjusted to the relatively dim light of the room around her, raising a hand to block the single beam of sunlight streaming in from the uncovered window. Mihra was curled into a plush red armchair, a rough woolen blanket thrown over her and radiating heat from the roaring fire to her right. Mihra swallowed, pushing the blanket down to free herself of the decorative fringe brushing against her cheek.

She scrubbed a hand over her face, brushing the grit from her eyes roughly as she straightened from her place in the chair. Mihra swallowed again. Everything ached as she shifted to put her feet on the ground.

"Welcome back," said a wry voice from the far corner of the room. Mihra turned to see Varric sitting at a table against the wall, quill in hand, smirking slightly as Mihra scratched the back of her neck.

"We figured it would be better to leave you there," said Varric, setting down his quill. "Considering you were out before you hit the upholstery."

"I—Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Mihra rested her elbows on her knees as she scrubbed her face vigorously again. She heard Varric's footsteps approaching.

"Bad dreams?"

Mihra pulled her hands away from her face, shrugging. The next thing she knew a hot cup was being pressed into her hands.

"The Hanged Man's not much for anything that isn't ale or mead, but I pulled a few strings."

Mihra rested her nose against the steaming cup, breathing in the bitter steam from the tea. She exhaled slowly.

"Thanks, Varric."

"And one of these days you'll stop thanking me for being a decent person," said Varric, settling himself in a chair at the other side of the fireplace. "Though, given the people you've been dealing with, maybe your metric is off."

Mihra shot him a glance as she pressed the mug to her lips. "The others filled you in, then."

"Which part? The one about the elven gods springing back to life, or the part about Chuckles being one of them?" asked Varric. He snorted, glancing toward the window. "You know, I wish any of it surprised me, but this is you we're talking about."

Mihra grimaced, then drained the cup of tea in one gulp. She sputtered, coughing as the tea caught in her throat.

"What is—?"

Varric raised an eyebrow as Mihra swallowed, shuddering at the building aftertaste. He rolled his eyes as he slid off his armchair, plucking the empty mug from Mihra's hand and sniffing it delicately as she rubbed her throat.

"They're training a new man for the morning shift down there. You'd think he'd have gotten the picture, but—" Varric shrugged, setting the mug down on a table and gesturing around the room. "Welcome to Kirkwall."

Mihra snorted, which halfway turned into another cough. "Thanks."

It was at this moment that Mihra noticed the conspicuous absence of the rest of her companions.

"Where are—?"

Varric laughed, somewhat uneasily as he settled himself back in his armchair and steepled his fingers at Mihra.

"Wells, let's see: Tiny's downstairs—has been since sometime midmorning. I'd be more concerned if he was anyone other than our thick skinned Qunari warrior. And as far as I can tell, Chuckles hasn't emerged from his room all day. That might be something to worry about, but, really, it's your call whether or not you even want to touch that headache. Harding and Sparkler both said they had errands to run—not entirely sure what business our Tevinter friend has in the city already, but I'll bet Harding is making a run to the Inquisition outpost."

Mihra scrubbed her face roughly. So everyone was scattered. She supposed she should be grateful, that at least half of her companions were finding ways to be productive even as Mihra herself had no idea what she should do next.

Mihra swallowed, the crackling of the fire growing louder as she resisted the sudden urge to curl into a ball in her chair.

She knew nothing. With Corypheus, she'd had a small army of advisors and academics feeding her information, indicating productive courses of action when they became apparent. But now she didn't even know enough to tell if the metaphor was accurate, let alone what she should be doing next.

Mihra wondered dully if she shouldn't go to Solas and try to eek more information from him, but the thought of interacting with him sent her stomach on edge. She swallowed again, resting her elbows on her knees.

She was the Inquisitor, damn it. She was better than this.

"Look—" said Varric suddenly. Mihra flinched, looking up at him. Varric smiled, though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "I want to check up on a few things in the city—pull a few strings that might make your job here easier. But before you go any further with this, there's someone you need to meet."

Mihra straightened, latching onto the idea like a lifeline. "Of course. Your contacts have been invaluable before."

At this, Varric let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah, Hawke says hello too. Though I doubt Fenris would let her come within a mile of you again, after last time."

"But seriously—" he continued. "If you plan on doing anything in the alienage, you'll need Daisy on your side. Gives you a chance to get a lay of the land, too."

Mihra nodded. If she was going to try to rally Kirkwall's elves, she may as well start with one that Varric knew. And the nickname was familiar to Mihra, even if she couldn't quite recall the context. "Introduce us."

"Sure. Give me a few minutes to get some stuff together, then we'll walk down."

Varric stretched as he slid out of the chair again, crossing the room to start sifting through the stack of parchment he'd been working on when Mihra had awoken. Mihra's eyes landed somewhat guiltily on an unused scrap of paper resting near an inkwell on the main table.

"Do you mind?" asked Mihra, gesturing at the paper as she stood and took a step toward her. Varric cast a brief glance over his shoulder and snorted.

"If there's one thing I have a gross surplus of, Freckles, it's paper. Take what you need."

Mihra felt her cheeks color, her hand raising to brush against her jawline as she sat down. She hadn't heard Varric use that name for her since Haven, since before they'd closed the Breach the first time, let alone since she last saw him.

"They've faded," she replied automatically.

Varric gave her a look, but said nothing before he resumed his shuffling. Mihra felt the heat in her cheeks intensify as she looked down at the paper in front of her. Allowing herself a split second to regain composure, Mihra set the quill to paper.

Cullen:

I don't know how much Harding's message said, so I'm going to assume you know nothing. We're in Kirkwall, and safe. Varric is helping us organize things here since it looks like I won't be making it back to Skyhold anytime soon. Hopefully we'll be staying here a few days, so we can stay in contact until then. But even if we are successful in Kirkwall, the larger threat is still out there. Whatever happens, it doesn't end here.

Which brings me to the part where I tell you what we know.

Here Mihra's hesitation caused a large pool of ink to collect on the parchment. She hastily dabbed at the spot with the edge of her sleeve, holding back a groan as the ink ran into her last line. Her clan had only ever used ink in highly ceremonial writing, choosing to utilize sharpened sticks of charcoal for more everyday use. Years had passed and Mihra had never quite mastered the use of human quills. She quickly scribbled out the last few words again, away from the inkstain.

There's no easy way to say this, and—believe me—I know how it sounds. And I need Leliana to fact check everything I say here, because I'm only running off of Dalish legends and I'm not so ignorant as to believe the Dalish can provide the whole picture.

It's the elven gods. They're waking up, or reemerging from imprisonment, or something . I've met one already, in the forest to the west of Kirkwall, but I've reason to believe a total of four out of nine have come back, or, in one case, were never really gone to begin with. Two of them might be tied to the attacks in Ferelden, and the one I met three days ago was likely behind the disappearance of the Sabrae clan near Kirkwall. The fourth is—

Mihra was careful to pull the quill away from the parchment this time, taking a moment to collect herself, steady her hand. Somehow, putting this all to paper was making it real in a way it hadn't been yet.

Solas. We met him at the elven ruin where the third god—Dirthamen—emerged. I'm not sure why he was there, but for the moment we've allied with him again. Solas claims to be Fen'Harel, and from the interaction between him and Dirthamen I'm inclined to believe him. This isn't like Mythal—Solas claims we're dealing with the actual, physical beings who sparked the elven legends. And he claims that in Arlathan they were something more akin to magisters than deities. Either way, Solas believes their ultimate goal would be to restore the old elven kingdoms, which—

Mihra stopped again, then crossed out the last word and added a period. 'Which would spell out the end of modern Thedas' didn't sound like quite the phrase to get her advisors to stay put, at least for the moment.

Right now, the only thing I know is that marching out the Inquisition's forces to deal with the threat would either spark a mass expulsion of elves across the continent or get most of our people killed. Or both. I need time to understand how to fight this—until then, I'll be moving incognito, trying to keep the pantheon from taking much note of me or the Inquisition.

I need Leliana's people and anyone else we can spare researching for me until I return. Any of our elven agents should be able to tell you why I'm less than inclined to trust what Solas says. I need any and all information—the older the better—the Inquisition can pull about our pantheon, specifically Fen'Harel. I need our mages watching the eluvian at Skyhold like hawks: if it starts behaving irregularly in any way, get it as far away from the castle as you can. The mirrors can act as gateways between wherever our gods were trapped and the waking world. Be cautious.

I cannot emphasize the need for secrecy enough. Do not reveal any of this to anyone outside of our most trusted circles. This cannot be Thedas's fight—it can barely be the Inquisition's. If word gets out we will quickly have the blood of thousands on our hands, even if we are successful. We—

Mihra frowned, then quickly tore off the end of the parchment, crumpling the last paragraph in her fist as she hastily scribbled out a new closing.

Until I say otherwise, consider this issue our most confidential.

ML

Mihra paused, scanning what she had written. She would have Harding send a detailed follow-up to Leliana specifically, but for now this would have to serve to placate those at Skyhold. Something in the pit of her stomach twinged as Mihra folded the parchment in half just as she heard the scraping of Varric's chair as he stood up.

Mihra tucked the letter in her waist pouch as Varric looked at her. "Ready?"

She nodded, standing.

"The alienage isn't far, but Kirkwall isn't the easiest to navigate your first time. The last thing I need is Aveline breathing down my neck because I let the Inquisitor get mugged in an alley."

Mihra felt her cheeks color as she followed Varric from the room. "The Guard-Captain—I didn't realize you two were so close."

Varric shrugged. "She made the crossing from Ferelden with Hawke and then got dragged across the city trying to keep our illustrious Champion out of trouble. And she single-handedly clawed the city guard into legitimacy," he said by way of explanation. "Hawke had a way of finding the craziest people in the city and forcing them to thrive."

As the crossed the main room of the tavern, Mihra caught sight of Bull nursing a large mug at a dingy corner table. The other patrons seemed to be giving the Qunari a wide berth, as the tables immediately adjacent to him were conspicuously empty in the otherwise well-population tavern. Bull looked up sharply as Varric and Mihra moved across the room. Mihra nodded at him, which seemed to answer whatever question he'd had as the Iron Bull returned to examining a blank square of wall that had been occupying his attention.

As Varric and Mihra exited the tavern, Mihra noticed with another twinge that it was nearly midday. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so long.

"I suppose we owe her a better explanation, then," said Mihra. Varric shot her a sideways look. "The Guard-Captain, I mean," Mihra clarified quickly.

"I can fill her in," said Varric. "Judging from your reception last night, it might be slightly better if she hears this from me."

Mihra shook her head. "No, I owe her an apology for being so evasive. This isn't the time to be losing allies."

Varric gave her an odd look, then chuckled. "Careful with that altruism. Aveline's fine, but you can't let anyone else catch the scent of blood."

Mihra paused, shooting a glance at Varric. She frowned as she darted forward to match his pace again as he wove through the crowds gathered in a makeshift market outside of the tavern.

"Noted," said Mihra. Her voice seemed to catch in the ambiance of the street hawkers, however, so Mihra doubted Varric had heard her as she was led toward what Mihra presumed was the alienage.

Chapter Text

The stairway leading down to the Kirkwall alienage was a narrow, twisting passage carved around lingering siege rubble from the Starkhaven occupation a year prior. Mihra was forced to pick her way single-file behind Varric as the two delicately descended toward the small city square of the alienage proper. The midday sun had begun to bake the stone buildings, filling Mihra's nose with the dusty smell of warm clay. As they drew closer to the alienage, however, it was clear that the shape of the streets funneled the rancid smell of stagnant canals into this lowest district of Kirkwall.

The only relief Mihra felt upon stepping into the alienage was that the temperature dropped a few degrees, a convenience owed in large part to the spreading branches of the vhenadahl that sheltered the bulk of the central square. Mihra felt her stomach constrict as her eyes drifted over the tree, obviously the target of some attack not long ago. Wounds in the bark had been carefully closed with a thick, tar-like paste; crudely constructed lattices held damaged limbs in place to allow the massive oak time to heal and grow strong again.

The attention placed on the curation of Kirkwall's vhenadahl was obvious, and gave Mihra some comfort. She'd seen enough bastardized vhenadahls throughout Orlais to last a lifetime. Mihra had always found something to respect in this tradition for which the Dalish had no equal.

The small gathering of people milling around the square gave no particular notice to them as Varric led her to a nondescript door on a building all but threatening to collapse into the canal below. Varric tapped sharply on the door, looking up at Mihra as if to say something when he was interrupted by a resounding crash from within the tenement.

"Ah—A moment!" cried a garbled female voice from behind the door.

Mihra glanced at Varric. "Should we—?" Varric shook his head, holding out a placating hand.

"This is normal for her," he said, just as the door was wrenched open.

"Varric!"

Mihra felt her breath hitch in the back of her throat as she took in the sight of the dark haired elven woman leaning breathlessly on the open door. Dirthamen's marks were etched proudly across her face, his highly styilized raven motif hovering on her forehead.

Varric had neglected to mention that his alienage contact was Dalish.

"Daisy, you're—smoking—" began Varric painfully, gesturing to her shoulder which was, indeed, emitting a thing line of dark smoke.

"What? Oh!"

She patted her shoulder several times in rapid succession, effectively dampening whatever spark had begun to take root in the dark fur draped over her shoulders. Varric ran a hand over his face.

"It's nothing, really, I was just—" The woman glanced over her other shoulder into the apartment behind her. "Well, never mind that now. Hello!"

Mihra blinked, taking a few seconds to digest that the last greeting had been directed at her. The woman smiled at her.

"I haven't seen you around before. Did you just come to Kirkwall? Do you like it? Are you a friend of Varric's?"

"I—am. Yes."

Varric chuckled. "Now's the part where you invite us inside, Daisy," he said patiently. The elven woman started, then swung the door wide.

"Right, sorry!" she said, beckoning them inward. "I'm Merrill, by the way," she said as Mihra followed Varric into the dingy apartment. Mihra's gaze immediately landed on a wide-eyed young boy lingering awkwardly by a large desk placed squarely in front of the room's fireplace. Catching her look, the boy's eyes grew even wider as his gaze raked over Mihra's form. Mihra touched her vest self-consciously: weather-worn though her attire was, its make was still much finer than anything this boy likely had seen on another elf.

"All right, Eren, that'll be enough for today," that Merrill kindly, still standing at the open door. "Make sure to drink something warm before bed tonight; it'll help with the nightmares."

The scrawny boy set his jaw and nodded, then scrambled past Mihra and Varric without a word. Merrill shut the door after him.

"Eren's a sweet boy," she said to Varric, moving across the room and righting a chair that had been knocked over. Mihra glanced around, noticing that much of the room's sparse furniture had been pushed to the corners. "But he still gets—"

Merrill stopped, casting Mihra a startled look. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I still don't know who you are!" she tittered.

"Right, that one's actually on me," said Varric quickly. "Daisy, meet the Inquisitor."

Merrill did something of a classic double-take, her wide eyes shooting to Mihra's expectantly. Just as quickly, something shifted in the back of her eyes as she crossed her arms and cast a mild glare at Varric.

"I'm not an idiot, Varric," she said, exasperated. "I know the Inquisitor's Dalish!" Merrill looked back at Mihra, wincing sympathetically. "Forgive him. He can hardly say a word without telling a joke, or playing a prank, or—"

Varric shot Mihra a horrified look.

"Daisy."

"What?"

Mihra took a step forward. She knew she would have to face this sooner or later.

"I am still myself, but I—lost my vallaslin about a year ago," said Mihra, grateful at least that her voice was steady. She inclined her head. "Mihra Lavellan, Merrill. It's a pleasure."

For a moment, Merrill seemed at a loss for words. "I am an idiot," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, then darted forward to grasp Mihra's hands. "Aneth ara, lethallan."

Mihra blinked, numb for a moment before she realized her lips had quirked upward. "Aneth ara," she echoed. Whatever she had expected, it hadn't been this. Even among Dalish, to invoke 'lethallan' so quickly was atypical. Merrill squeezed her hands and stepped back, smiling widely herself.

"Why come to Kirkwall?" she asked, before adding hurriedly: "Not that I'm complaining! It's wonderful to finally meet you! When I heard Varric was in Ferelden—I was born there, you know, but my clan moved north to escape the Blight, and—"

Whatever warm daze Mihra had found herself in dissolved immediately.

"You're from Ferelden?" she asked sharply, shooting Varric a pointed look. The dwarf seemed to put two and two together and his complexion went a shade paler.

"…Yes?" ventured Merrill cautiously.

"What's wrong?" she asked, more insistently as she noticed the second round of looks Varric and Mihra exchanged.

"Shit," muttered Varric. "You know, when Sparkler mentioned the Dalish last night I didn't think he meant those Dalish. He didn't get into specifics."

"Varric?"

"I'm sorry, Merrill. This is—" Mihra cast a scathing look at Varric, who was rubbing his temples. Merrill folded her arms, looking decidedly uneasy now. "—tactless, but there's no good way to ask. Are you from the Sabrae clan?"

Mihra noticed a muscle in Merrill's temple tighten as she glanced down at Varric, then back to Mihra.

"I am," said Merrill stiffly, her gaze flickering between Mihra's eyes. Mihra exhaled, scratching behind her ear as a way of shooting another pointed glare at Varric. Varric groaned.

"Daisy—" he began gently. "You need to sit."

"Elgar'nan, Varric, I'm not a child!"

Varric looked at Mihra helplessly. Mihra frowned. This was his friend, after all. What could Mihra do that wouldn't be better off coming from him?

"I only know the bare details, and she needs to hear it all. She needs to hear this from you," Varric muttered by way of explanation. Mihra's eyes widened.

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here."

Mihra glared at her dwarven companion. "Dammit, Varric," she hissed, wiping a hand across her face as she turned to Merrill. Varric scratched the back of his neck, then crossed the room and carried back a small stool to place next to Merrill.

"Daisy," he cajoled. Merrill glared at him for a long moment, then folded her arms and sat, looking expectantly at Mihra.

"Will someone please explain what's going on?"

Mihra sighed and ran a distracted hand through her hair. Not wanting to feel as if she was on ceremony, Mihra pulled another stool from the edge of the room and sat as well. She scrubbed her face, unwilling to make eye contact with Merrill or Varric.

"There have been—attacks," began Mihra haltingly. "Targeted, coordinated attacks on elven communities throughout northern Ferelden. The Inquisition—I first became aware of the pattern roughly a month ago now."

Recounting the events of the past month, building up to the disappearance of Sabrae, came easier to Mihra than saying it outright. And Mihra knew she needed to start building allies somewhere, if she was going to shun those that the Inquisition had mobilized a year prior.

So she began at Skyhold, detailing the reports that had come in on Amaranthine, on Ralaferin, on Thelrahel. It helped that Merrill turned out to be a generous audience, responding appropriately to keep Mihra speaking. At some point she noticed Varric watched her with as much intent as Merrill; Mihra suspected this was a more complete accounting than he heard from Dorian last night. Mihra took her time describing the passage north, how the Anchor had sparked to life independently for the first time in well over a year, how it had eventually led them to the ruin.

Mihra sighed, resting her head against two of her fingers. "We had to make a decision: either go toward whatever was causing the Anchor to react so strangely—and maybe find the source of the attacks—or meet up with Sabrae and attempt to defend them against a threat we knew nothing about. So we went with the former."

Merrill nodded, cupping her elbows in each hand as she stared at the embers in her fireplace.

"They're gone, aren't they?" she asked quietly, looking up at Mihra. "Taken, like the others?" Mihra swallowed.

"Yes."

Mihra couldn't quite place Merrill's expression as the elf looked back at the dying embers. "But not dead?" she asked, though this time her voice wavered.

Mihra hesitated for a split second. "No."

"And now you think whoever did it is coming here."

Mihra and Varric shared a glance. "Yes," said Mihra slowly. Merrill shot from her stool, bending down to rapidly stoke the coals in the fireplace, throwing sticks from her meager firewood pile to coax the embers to a burn again. Varric cast a sort of stricken look toward Mihra.

"Daisy—" he began, but Merrill had already straightened and turned to face Mihra.

"Did you learn anything? At the ruin, I mean."

"I—Yes. We did."

"Can you stop them?" Merrill's eyes were wide as she watched Mihra, but her voice was steady again.

"I'm going to try."

"I'll help," said Merrill automatically. "Of course I'll help."

Something in Mihra's chest twisted. It would be so easy to stop here, to gloss over why this was all happening, and who was behind it. But Mihra had already lied once to the Guard-Captain. Merrill was an elf—more so, she was Dalish. It was her culture at stake here, as was Mihra's own. She deserved more than an evasive lie.

"This isn't the worst of it," said Mihra slowly. Merrill frowned. "We learned—far more at the ruin than I ever—" Mihra paused, exhaling sharply. "I know who is behind the attacks. I met one of them; it's that reason alone that the entire Inquisition isn't converging on Kirkwall as we speak."

It was at this moment that Mihra noticed the Keeper's ring on Merrill's finger, its polished sylvanwood gleaming in the light from the fireplace. Almost unconsciously, Mihra rubbed the knuckle of her right hand where she had worn her own ring for so many years. Like so many things, Mihra's had been lost at Haven.

"It's—them. The Creators."

Merrill blinked, for a long moment looking at a complete loss for words as her hands drifted down from where she had folded them tightly across her chest.

"What?" she said blankly, casting an unintelligible glance to Varric. Mihra held out a hand.

"I know. Believe me, if I could justify this any other way—"

"How can that be possible?" asked Merrill cautiously, looking between Varric and Mihra as if she expected them to reveal the joke any moment.

"I—don't know the specifics. I wish I did; it would make all of this easier. But when I met Mythal last year she—"

"What?"

Mihra paused, holding back a frown as she looked at Varric, who raised his hands guiltily in submission. Merrill turned her wide-eyed stare to Varric.

"I never quite figured out how to have the 'we met your god' conversation with you, Daisy. I wasn't even there, I just saw the aftermath. And the dragon alter."

"Mythal is real, and you didn't think to mention it?" said Merrill shrilly, her hands falling fully limp at her sides. "Varric, how could—?"

"It was all I could do to stop you from running off to the Wilds when I mentioned the temple's sentinels! How was I supposed to say there was a piece of one of your gods running around?"

"'A piece?'" echoed Merrill faintly, looking back at Mihra.

"Mythal—as she was—is gone. A piece of her, something like her spirit, lives on in Flemeth. Asha'bellanar," said Mihra quickly. "It was she who I met last year."

"Asha'bellanar?" said Merrill. "But I met her! She—Hawke brought her amulet from Ferelden and we—She can't be Mythal!"

"She isn't," said Mihra. "Not fully, but whatever is left of Mythal lies in her. I know it."

Mihra glanced at Varric, ready to ask him exactly how much he had told her about what happened at the Temple of Mythal when Merrill gave a small gasp.

"The Well of Sorrows?" she asked Mihra. Mihra blinked, looking back at Merrill, then nodded slowly.

"Maybe not something to include in your book, Varric?" Mihra asked weakly, glancing toward Varric again. "I don't particularly want that common knowledge."

Varric snorted. "No one would believe me if I did, anyway."

Mihra looked back at Merrill. "The vir'abelassan came at a cost that, looking past the flowery language of the temple, created a bond between myself and whatever remains of Mythal. Flemeth is her embodiment, without a doubt."

Merrill was at a loss for words as she slowly sank back to her stool.

"If Mythal is real—" she began haltingly.

"Suddenly everything else starts feeling real, too," said Mihra. "I know." Merrill looked at her for a long moment.

"Then the Creators are returning?" she whispered. Mihra swallowed.

"Yes," said Mihra. "But they've gone—wrong—" she continued quickly at the look on Merrill's face. "They aren't the gods from our stories, they're—"

"We could learn so much," said Merrill breathlessly, eyes distant, only half listening. "This is what we've been—"

"No," said Mihra, forcefully enough to give Merrill pause. "I met Dirthamen at the ruin west of the city. Our legends speak of his wit, his intelligence, but I know of no accounting of his aggression. I saw a predator in that ruin, not a teacher. Whatever we thought ours gods were, he was not it."

Merrill paused, her brow furrowing slightly. She at least seemed to be willing to listen to Mihra now. That was something. Mihra took a slow breath.

"We believe the Creators are amassing an army of our people. To what specific end, I'm not sure, but I know it won't be accomplished without massive resistance from the rest of the continent. The Dalish are few, and the city elves aren't warriors. None of us can withstand a war."

"They could be trying to unite us!"

"People died in Amaranthine," said Mihra. "Not so with the clans that have been taken. Tell me: which would be more likely to follow the word of a Creator? The Dalish are raised under the old pantheon, but in the cities? Half of your neighbors, likely more, are Andrastian. The only attack that ended in deaths was the one where part of the population would protest! Is that the action of a benevolent unifier?"

Merrill gave a sharp exhale, running a hand through her hair. For a long moment, there was no sound but the popping of wood in the fireplace. Mihra glanced at Varric, feeling very much as if she was losing this argument. Varric, too, seemed to be at a loss, though his gaze kept flickering to Merrill, who was staring steadily at her hands.

"Will that happen here?" she asked finally. Mihra released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

"Given the chance, yes."

Merrill covered her face with her hands for a moment. "This isn't right," she said insistently. "After all our people have been through, now this?"

Mihra had no comfort to give, so she stayed quiet as Merrill took a slow, deflated breath and looked up.

"All right," said Merrill. "I said I would help, and I meant it. People—Everyone deserves a choice."

A beat of silence passed before Mihra realized Merrill's concession.

"Thank you," breathed Mihra. Merrill nodded, staring into her hands again. Mihra gave a heavy exhale, feeling a bit lightheaded.

She'd done it; she'd convinced one of her own to stand against the pantheon. For a moment, she felt like beaming at the first real victory she'd had in months.

Then Mihra caught Varric's questioning look, and she realized the bomb she'd forgotten to drop.

She'd said nothing of Solas.

Mihra took advantage of Merrill's momentary distraction to raise a brow in question to Varric. Merrill had so narrowly agreed to help them: Would her cooperation continue if she knew they worked alongside Fen'Harel?

Varric seemed to catch Mihra's implication. He rubbed his chin uneasily for a moment, then pointedly broke Mihra's gaze without a clear answer.

Mihra decided to take that as a 'no.' So her own silence continued. Fen'Harel would have to be a bridge that was crossed later. Maybe it was better this way.

A long moment passed before Varric broke the quiet. He stood, his stool scraping noisily on the hard-packed dirt floor of the apartment. Merrill jumped, swiping a hand over her eyes before looking toward the small crack in the wall that served as the apartment's window.

"Oh!" she said thickly. "It's late. I didn't realize—"

"Don't, Daisy," said Varric gently, patting Merrill on the arm as the elf stood and glanced a bit helplessly around the room. Mihra mirrored her motions, standing and taking a step toward the door with Varric. "Are you going to be all right?" he asked.

Merrill gave a small, forced smile. "I'll be fine, Varric."

"Make sure you drink something warm before bed, then."

Merrill giggled, almost despite herself. "For the nightmares?" she asked. Varric shrugged, but Mihra noticed his nannying seemed to have the desired effect on Merrill's demeanor.

Just as they made to leave, Mihra caught Merrill staring curiously at her, eyes narrowed as if stuck in distant thought. Varric noticed this look just as his hand rested on the doorknob. He raised an eyebrow and glanced up at Mihra.

"Cat got your tongue, Daisy?"

Merrill blinked. "What? What would a cat want with—?"

"Forget I mentioned it," said Varric hurriedly. Merrill blinked at him, then turned her gaze back to Mihra.

"I'm sorry," she said slowly. "This may seem a bit silly, but—Have we met before?"

Now it was Mihra's turn to blink. That was unexpected. "I—"

"Your face. It seems so familiar, but I can't place it!" said Merrill. Mihra raised her eyebrows, ignoring Varric's suddenly very curious look.

"I don't see how," said Mihra slowly. "I was born and raised to clan Lavellan. I'd never even been to Ferelden until—"

Merrill frowned. "The last Arlathvhen, then?" she pressed.

Mihra felt the ghost of a smile pull at her lips, despite herself. "I was there, but I was young. My magic manifested during the second week, much to—"

"You're the little girl who set fire to one of the Illasan aravels!"

Mihra blinked. "I didn't realize I'd made such an impression," she said slowly, feeling her cheeks go warm. Merrill giggled.

"Only to me, who was tasked to watch you until we could pull your Keeper out of hahren'al! Do you remember?"

Mihra blanched. "That was—? I didn't realize."

"You were such a frightened little thing, then," said Merrill. "Eyes as big as saucers, terrified you'd be thrown out for a little spark."

"I spent all week repairing the sails, and the rest of Arlathvhen running errands for Hahren Gairel to make up for it."

"It could have been worse, couldn't it? You were only ten, after all. Better than the lectures they made the Firsts sit through."

"I was twelve."

"Were you really?"

Varric coughed lightly, at which point both Merrill and Mihra paused and looked at him. "One of my many talents is to recognize when I'm no longer needed," he said, his eyes glinting in poorly hidden satisfaction. "I'll be back in a few hours when I've had a chance to pull a few strings. You two bond or—whatever it is Dalish do."

Before Mihra could say otherwise, Varric slipped through the door and shut it firmly behind him. Mihra glanced uncertainly at Merrill, who was smiling widely now, her previous duress now seemingly gone.

"I'll put the kettle on," she said, retreating quickly to the back half of the small apartment. "Sit. Make yourself comfortable!"

Mihra looked around herself, then looked to the door a bit guiltily. There had to be something more productive she should be doing, but without Varric she had little way of navigating the city or knowing who she should be talking to. And without her other companions she wasn't in a position to make plans. Mihra had a very nasty suspicion that this had been what Varric intended all along.

For the moment, then, Mihra decided to stay. A small part of her couldn't deny how good it felt to be near one of her own again.

Chapter Text

"No!"

"Yes. I'd never seen Keeper so furious; we'd spent ages looking for that halla."

"He never said anything?"

"Nothing. Embarrassed, I expect. He hadn't been with us long. Anyway, Keeper waits until late that night, then drags me out of bed to go catch them red-handed. Doesn't tell me a thing, so I have no idea why we were stumbling toward Wycome in the wee hours of the morning."

"Oh, no."

"Imagine my surprise, then, when we stop at this old farmstead outside the city and Keeper motions toward this—this run-down paddock, inside of which there's a halla—practically glowing in the moonlight—and there's this little girl running around the halla's legs squealing."

Merrill sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, peeking through the cracks between her fingers at Mihra.

"Elgar'nan," she breathed.

"Of course, then I see Bin—oblivious as ever—chattering away at the girl's lithe, golden-haired mother. As we got closer, I recognized her: she worked for one of the shem merchants we had traded with in Wycome. Bin sees us approach, and he goes as white as the halla. Keeper's positively radiating fury—I didn't know what was about to happen—but then the little girl picks that moment to try and climb on top of the halla."

Merrill gasped; Mihra felt a lopsided smile creep onto her face despite herself.

"Was she all right? What happened?"

"Oh, she nearly got trampled, easily. I'd never heard a halla trumpet like a hart before. The girl's mother saw it happening just as quickly as we did, runs over—Keeper's already got her staff out, ready to douse the field in healing magic, Bin looks like he's going to collapse—"

Merrill shook her head from behind her hands again.

"—But the second the girl's mother comes within eyeshot of the halla, she calms, becomes positively docile, and the toddler just plants herself on her back like the proudest little queen in Thedas."

"What?"

"I know. Keeper and I look at each other, then Deshanna just walks up to the mother and offers her a place in the clan. The five of us stumble back into camp just after sunrise—the little girl still riding the halla—and proceed to pack up camp and be on our way. I've never seen an outsider earn her vallaslin as quickly as she did."

Merrill laughed as Mihra's smile grew. "Not so much for Bin, though. I don't think Keeper's given him more than three words since."

Merrill giggled again. "I can't imagine what Marethari would have done. Lecture, probably."

"Marethari is Sabrae's Keeper, then?"

"Hm? Oh—" For a split second, a shadow seemed to cross Merrill's face. "No. She was, I mean, but she—she died, years ago now."

"I'm sorry," said Mihra automatically. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's all right," said Merrill quickly. "It's just—I don't think my clan has a Keeper. I left long before Marethari—and we didn't have a Second."

"We'll find them, Merrill."

Merrill gave Mihra a weak sort of smile. "I'm not sure they'd want to be found," she said earnestly, picking at a spot on her sleeve. "Not by me, anyway," she added quickly. Mihra glanced at the fireplace, where the now-runed fire continued to burn even as Merrill's firewood pile had been depleted.

"If it's any consolation," said Mihra slowly. "I'm not sure my clan would want anything to do with me now, either."

At this, Merrill gave a small laugh. "Don't be silly; you're the Inquisitor! You've done so much for, well, everyone but especially the—"

"Yeah, but then there's—well—" Mihra gestured to her face uselessly. Merrill frowned.

"But they couldn't blame you for something you couldn't control! If the mark on your hand—"

Mihra blinked. "The Anchor didn't take my vallaslin."

It was Merrill's turn to blink. "Then—?"

Mihra sighed, but the words were drawn from her throat before she could think twice. "It was a choice. A monumentally stupid one, in retrospect, but—there it is."

Merrill made a valiant attempt to hide her alarm, but failed. Mihra looked down. For a long moment, the only sound was the occasional hiss of the fire.

"I'm a blood mage," said Merrill suddenly. Mihra looked up at her sharply, eyebrow raised.

"You're a—?" Mihra began, startled, but Merrill's eyes were fixed on a bare scrap of wall somewhere above Mihra's shoulder.

"And I made a deal with a spirit to try and—fix—a piece of our history, but Marethari intervened and—" Merrill shuddered, her tone wavering. "And then she died, and I didn't, so—"

Mihra found herself floundering for a response as Merrill's voice died in her throat. A long beat of silence passed with neither elf making eye contact with the other. Finally, Merrill gave a small sniff, tracing a circle with her finger in the dirt floor. Mihra found herself staring at the motion.

"Do you ever think about going back?" asked Mihra quietly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Merrill shift, shooting Mihra a weak smile almost despite herself.

"To a clan? No. I'd have been a terrible Keeper, even if they'd take me."

Mihra set her jaw and nodded. She could feel Merrill watching her, as if she was on the cusp of saying something more, when there was a sharp knock on the door. Merrill jumped, then scampered across the room like some sort of woodland creature as Mihra hastily swiped a hand over her eyes.

"Varric!"

Mihra turned, meeting eyes with Varric as he peeked into the run-down apartment through Merrill's arms.

"Come on," he said, eyes twinkling. "Got something to show you. The others are waiting."

Mihra shot from her stool and crossed the room quickly. "Did they find something?" Varric waved a hand at her.

"Nothing so dramatic," he said easily. "Just something I put together to make this easier on everyone involved. You'll see. It's a good thing I remember how you people operate, is all I'm saying."

"Varric?"

Merrill turned to look at Mihra, a hard sort of glint in the back of her eye. "I'm coming, too," she announced. Mihra nodded.

"Of course. You have every right to be involved."

Merrill flashed her a wide, almost relieved sort of smile, which Mihra couldn't help but echo slightly. When she glanced down, she noticed Varric hastily hide a smirk of his own. Mihra only just resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Come on," repeated Varric, turning heel and leading the pair of them out of the alienage.

Mihra swore to herself that one day she would commit to memory the geography of this layered city, but as of that moment Mihra's only image of Kirkwall was an endless cascade of stairs. Whatever triumph Mihra felt when she recognized the street near Varric's tavern was short-lived as the dwarf made a sharp right and began ascending another, rather more grandiose, set of stairs up toward the city's higher districts.

It was at least clear to Mihra that the physically higher districts in Kirkwall were also those that housed the more elite citizens. Slowly, the buildings transitioned from simple brick and stone to chiseled marbles and granites, ivy flowing elegantly off of rooftops and ornate patterns laid into the cobblestone roads.

Merrill seemed to realize where Varric was leading them before Mihra did: as they rounded a corner into a quiet square, she frowned.

"Varric, why are we—?"

"You'll see, Daisy. It isn't as if he's using it. Not that he ever spent much time there."

Merrill was smiling pleasantly when Varric led them to an ivy-framed doorway of one of the large mansions of the district. Mihra frowned.

"Another friend of yours, Varric?"

The dwarf chuckled. "If you're really feeling that social, find me later," he retorted as he took a perfunctory glance around the square to check for eavesdroppers. "After you, Inquisitor." He motioned toward the door in a gesture that—coming from Varric—was just as teasing as it was respectful. Mihra cast him a curious look, then pushed the door open.

And stepped into what Mihra could politely call the most run-down foyer she had ever stepped foot in, including the haunted chateaus of Orlais.

"Well," she said dryly as Varric and Merrill followed her in. Her voice rang out, almost metallically, in the empty space of the dusty foyer. "Truly, Varric. You've outdone yourself."

Varric rubbed his temples. "All right. Look, even I can't undo years of neglect in the span of a few hours. Broody was quite the housekeeper, I'm sure you can tell."

"Someone lived here?"

"Well, 'lived' is a generous term. It doesn't matter; call the battered exterior camouflage if you have to. The good stuff is farther in."

Varric motioned toward an open door that was barely hanging on its hinges. Mihra cast him another dubious look, then began gingerly poking her way through the rubble and further into the building. As she emerged into a large room—Mihra could only assume it had originally been intended as some sort of ballroom—it was only after Mihra heard the cadence of familiar voices filtering through an open door that Mihra accepted Varric hadn't been playing some sort of poorly-timed, elaborate prank on her.

"Ah, there she is!" came a warm greeting as Mihra pushed through into the far room.

"Dorian," said Mihra. "What—?"

Mihra had to stop as her gaze swept around the room, then spin around to give Varric an odd look. Varric laughed.

"It was nothing. Mostly I wanted to make sure that this building suddenly being used again didn't attract the wrong sort of attention. The Hanged Man really isn't the place for sensitive work. After that, the rest was a piece of cake."

"Varric," said Mihra, shaking her head, but she could feel the lopsided grin forming on her lips. "This is—Well, it's a bit disturbing, really. Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

Merrill was peering curiously over Mihra's shoulder now, so Mihra stepped into the room fully to better take in the replication.

A large, ornate fireplace set in the center of the back wall cast the room in a warm, flickering light that bounced off of the marble walls. A large, polished table stood in the room's center, on top of which was sprawled a thick vellum map of the continent. Smaller, detailed maps of Kirkwall and the surrounding area were nailed to the exposed wall and framed with rich, dark wooden bookshelves.

Dorian was standing at the farthest of these bookshelves, his finger on a book spine as if in mid-perusal. He grinned at Mihra.

"Uncanny, isn't it? Part Haven, part Skyhold. Dear Master Tethras knows us too well."

Mihra shook her head, still amused. "Where's Bull?"

Dorian rolled his eyes. "Checking the perimeter," he said delicately. "He's convinced the building is going to collapse on top of us. But this is Tevinter architecture if I've ever seen it. It'll outlast all of us: remarkable piece of history, really."

Varric chuckled, wincing. "Don't let Broody hear you say that," he said, sharing a knowing glance with Merrill. Dorian frowned.

"Who?"

"Broody. He owns—well, not technically, I guess—this place. Has a bit of a nasty history with Tevinter. Hearing that might just make him tear it down once and for all."

"Oh. I see."

"You really don't."

"Hello," said Merrill warmly, nodding to someone behind Mihra's right shoulder. Mihra turned quickly, not having noticed earlier where Solas stood almost hidden by the edge of the fireplace's ornate mantle.

Mihra's blood suddenly ran cold as Solas nodded stiffly at her.

"Greetings."

"Solas," said Mihra bluntly. "A word?"

Solas looked at her, then inclined his head as she gestured toward the empty doorway behind her. Mihra turned and stepped out of the room quickly, her head buzzing even as she tried to ignore Merrill's wide-eyed look at her retreat.

Mihra walked quickly across the dark ballroom's cracked tiles, wrenching open a door at random and motioning Solas inside. Solas waited until the door was shut behind her to speak.

"Inquisitor?"

Mihra closed her eyes, still gripping the door handle for a moment before turning to him.

"She doesn't know."

In the dim light, Mihra could see Solas frown. "Then why bring her—?"

"She knows enough," she said quickly. "She knows about the attacks, and who's behind them. She just doesn't know about you."

For a moment, Solas seemed to chew on his words. Mihra felt a stirring of apprehension grow in her chest.

"Ah," he said. "I see."

The silence that then fell in the room pressed uncomfortably against Mihra's ears as she waited for him to elaborate. There had to be something more: She and Solas had barely shared a glance over the last few days without also sharing an argument.

"I barely got her to agree to help us in the first place. If I told her everything now, she'd walk," said Mihra heatedly, finding that the silence made her irritable. Solas observed her carefully, his pale face glowing in the dusty light.

Another beat of silence passed before Solas spoke. "Her assistance is valuable, I take it?" His question sounded almost like a prompt, but Mihra couldn't hear the irritation she had been expecting.

"Well—yes. She's Dalish, but has lived in the alienage here for years. We need her on our side."

Again, Solas seemed to swallow whatever he had been about to say. Mihra's eyes narrowed as he instead returned her gaze coolly. Another long moment of silence passed between them, though Mihra barely noticed through her suspicion.

She almost preferred their shouting match two nights prior to this: each tiptoeing around the other's ego.

Solas must have been thinking something similar. Another beat of silence passed before he made a small, impatient sort of sigh in the back of his throat, breaking the room's stillness.

"What were you expecting, Inquisitor?" he asked quietly. "Do you wish me to scold you? To remind you of the danger in not trusting your allies? I have seen your machinations, and know you to be capable where it counts. Did you expect praise? Congratulations for learning to adapt, knowing that you cannot fight every battle and win? You and I both know that any approval from me would serve no purpose."

Mihra scowled. "That isn't—"

"What, then?" said Solas impatiently.

Mihra raked a hand through her hair, watching glowing trails of dust float in the space behind Solas's shoulder.

"This is impossible," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else, but Mihra saw Solas's jaw tighten in irritation just the same. "I will tell her. Eventually. It would be unfair not to, but until then I need—"

Mihra swallowed, trying very hard to ignore it as Solas's brows shot up in unison.

"I have no intention of announcing myself to your Dalish ally," said Solas slowly. "To do so would accomplish nothing."

"Fenedhis, Solas, that isn't enough!" snapped Mihra. Solas frowned. "I told Merrill everything, so she's—she's going to be looking out for—"

"You worry she will discover the truth for herself."

Mihra found herself glaring at the moth-eaten edge of the room's stained carpet. "You were never—typical—even before all this," she began haltingly, ignoring at Solas's eyebrow raised yet another inch. "But I think—even if I had been looking, before—You were different at Skyhold. You've changed, become more—harsh—or more ancient. I don't know. But I need you to—not be that thing."

"You're beginning to sound like Sera."

Mihra shot him an odd look, frowning. Was he—teasing her? But Solas's expression was, as ever, unreadable. Mihra let out a sharp breath.

"You and I both know you're more than capable of concealing Fen'Harel, when it suits you," she said heatedly. "I'm saying now needs to be one of those times. Take that as you will."

Mihra didn't give Solas a chance to respond as she wrenched open the door behind her and slipped out of the room without another glance, all the while fighting the flush of warmth threatening to spread into her cheeks. Ultimatums had never been her strong suit, and this one had hit somewhat close to home.

Mihra did notice, at least, that Solas had made no motion to follow her as she went to rejoin the others. She wasn't entirely sure what to make of that.

Chapter Text

 The morning dawned grey and bright through the dusty window of Varric’s abandoned manor. Mihra—having spent a restless, largely sleepless evening counting the threads unravelling from her time-worn bed curtains—figured that the blue light filtering into the room was as good an indicator as any that she could get up.

 Her muscles ached as she pulled herself upright, as if the night’s tension had bathed them in acid. She stretched, rubbing the small of her back as she tried to calm the persistent buzzing in her head that had woken her time and again.

 The dry floorboards were cool on her feet as Mihra crossed the room to shrug on her tunic and refasten the bits of her armor she’d allowed herself to sleep free of for the first time since leaving Skyhold.

 The rest of the manor was silent as Mihra picked her way delicately back toward Varric’s uncanny replica of Skyhold’s war room. She still couldn’t decide whether she was grateful for the familiarity or not: certainly having a space to strategize lent Mihra the sense of legitimacy that had disappeared to moment she’d determined to work outside of the Inquisition’s infrastructure. Yet despite Solas’s vocal protests to the contrary, Mihra had no desire to spearhead another war.

 Still, Mihra was beginning to realize the naiveté of that sentiment. And having a replica of the war room was hitting the nail a bit too precisely on the head.

 The fire on the far wall still glowed dully as Mihra entered the war room, the soft sound of her footsteps growing entirely muffled as she stepped onto the thick carpet. Mihra ran a hand through her hair absentmindedly, her eyes landing on a map of the Kirkwall alienage nailed to the wall on her left as she moved to pull her hair back into its characteristic plait.

 She had to start somewhere.

 Mihra stepped lightly around the table, willing herself to commit the map of the alienage to memory. The district was settled on low ground, but was highly cordoned off from the rest of the city. As far as Mihra could tell, the only major entrance was the path she herself had taken the day before. Mihra made a mental note to ask Merrill about this later: if there truly was only one entrance, it could provide a choke point from which to defend the rest of the district.

 But Mihra hoped it wouldn’t come to that. From what Varric had told her, the alienage was only just crawling out from the weight of suspicion thrust at it in the aftermath of the Qunari uprising. The last thing the elves here needed was to feature prominently in another assault.

 Could they be relocated, then? If the elves weren’t in the city, would Dirthamen or his like even know where to look for them? It might only be a temporary solution, but it might buy Mihra some time.

 More time. That seemed to be the crux of it. If Solas’s war was coming, more and more it seemed like a war to be won by inches. Again.

 The dying fire’s embers finally grew too dim for Mihra to make out the lines of the maps she was inspecting. With a small gesture, Mihra coaxed the coals back to flames.

 Mihra stiffened as there was a slight shift in the corner of her eyes. In the newly well-lit room, she could see what her gaze had missed before. Mihra hesitated, suddenly feeling as if she’d intruded on something—she wasn’t sure. Private, Mihra supposed, though the thought sent a small pang of melancholy through her gut.

 It was Solas—asleep—his head tilted and resting lightly against the headrest of the chair he’d settled himself in. He was still fully dressed, an open bottle of wine sitting abandoned on a nearby table, an empty glass sitting forgotten just beside it. His lips were pulled into a worn frown, forehead creased toward some unseen tension.

 Mihra realized she was staring, and her frown deepened. She shook herself, then made a small show of removing a large map of Kirkwall and its immediate surroundings from the wall and spreading it across the main table. With another uneasy glance at Solas’s sleeping form, Mihra bent over the map, running her finger down the main road to the city’s east.

 She narrowed her eyes, lifting her hand with a soft scoff. Someone had scribbled all over this map, to a degree which made some areas nearly illegible.

 On closer inspection, the notes read almost like a diary: words had been scratched out with varying degrees of vehemence, scribbled over, doodled on. One particular spot near the alienage had become almost completely illegible behind all of the writing. Mihra thought she could read the words “home” and “uncle” both scribbled out furiously, the space between the words filled in with a crude drawing before even that had been halfheartedly crossed out. It was almost like reading one of Sera’s reports. She’d have to ask Varric about it later.

 Something else caught Mihra’s attention as she swept her eyes over the map. Some distance to the east of the city, the map’s previous owner had circled a small space: “Dalish.” A line extended away from the circle, up higher toward the peak of a mountain: “Ruins—undead, spiders. Old elven graves (DON’T TOUCH). Flemeth??? Darkspawn. Demon (old battle?? Ask Merrill DON’T)—should be gone now, but watch.”

 Mihra frowned. Ruins sounded promising, certainly something to mention to Merrill later if they were big enough to move people to. And if they really were elven—well—that could go either way at this point, and worth investigation.

 But there was something more—Flemeth?

 What was the chance—?

 Mihra exhaled slowly, tentatively freeing the parts of her mind holding the vir’abelasan in check, searching for any connection between Sundermount and Mythal. The spirits of the Well crashed into the forefront of her mind like a thunderclap, chaotic and unintelligible as Mihra gritted her teeth in an attempt to focus the voices.

 Yes—a connection: faint, distant, but reaching out like a tendril to the spirits of the Well. Something tied Mythal to this place.

 If Mihra could somehow get a message to her—to Mythal—therein might be a strategy Mihra could could rely on. If she’d been willing enough to help against Corypheus, then she might be willing to do it again.

 Mihra felt herself press the palms of her hands into the table, leaning forward as she attempted to squeeze more clarity out of the vir’abelasan. There was something more, something big, nagging, but Mihra couldn’t quite grasp—

 From the corner of the room, Solas let out a sharp breath, twisting where he sat. His foot hit the leg of the nearby table, causing the glass on top of it to slip sideways and crash onto the fireplace’s stone hearth. Mihra’s eyes snapped open with a ragged sort of breath, her concentration broken.  

 Frowning, Mihra shot a glare toward Solas’s still sleeping from, but her irritation dissolved as she saw the twisted expression on the elf’s face. His hand had balled into a tight fist, clenching at the chair’s upholstery.

 That probably wasn’t good.

 Mihra hesitated.

 “Solas?”

 Solas seemed to flinch, but his eyes remained closed. Mihra hesitated again, then stepped around the table toward him. “Solas?” she repeated, more assertively.

 Solas’s eyes snapped open with another sharp inhale. He met her gaze, a flash of emotions flying across his face before he seemed to gather his bearings. Mihra frowned, finding herself fighting a sudden heat at the back of her neck as Solas stood and in one fluid movement crossed the room to inspect the map of Kirkwall’s alienage on the wall.

 “What’s happened?” asked Mihra sharply. Solas didn’t look at her.

 “A moment,” he murmured, before giving himself a sharp nod.

 “Solas.”

 “I’ve become aware of a potential complication,” he said tersely, finally turning to look at Mihra. “One that bears immediate investigation, or the consequences could be catastrophic.”

 Mihra blinked. “How catastrophic?”

 Solas raised an eyebrow. “At best, it could provide your enemies a back door into the city. At worst—“

 Mihra slashed her hand through the air, feeling the breath go out of her lungs. “An eluvian?” she whispered harshly. “Here?”

 Solas tilted his head, frowning. “Not originally, certainly. It must have been moved sometime in the last thousand years. I won’t be able to determine the risk it poses until I see it.”

 “We go now,” said Mihra quickly, straightening. “Where?”

 Solas raised an eyebrow at her. “At a guess?” he said wryly, gesturing at the map behind him.

 Mihra gritted her teeth.

 “Of course it is,” she growled. “Come on.”

 Mihra had the presence of mind to scrawl a note to their other companions before she and Solas set out for the alienage. Kirkwall’s upper district was barren this early in the morning, just barely after sunrise, save for the handful of merchants beginning to set their stalls for the day. As they made their way into the city’s lower reaches, the streets slowly became peppered with other early risers: dockworkers, traders, fishermen.

 “We should move quickly,” said Solas quietly, returning the gaze of a group of dour-faced weavers. “We are attracting attention.”

 “I noticed,” muttered Mihra, tugging uncomfortably on one of her gloves and feeling somewhat grateful she hadn’t had the time yet to beat the muck from the road off of her armor. They rounded another corner, and Mihra caught sight of the looming profile of a jagged peak to the city’s east.

 Could that be Sundermount? It was bigger than the map made it out to be.

 Out of the corner of her eye, Mihra saw Solas shoot her a wary glance. Mihra blinked, scratching the back of her head as she looked away.

 “I found mention of old ruins on the mountain,” said Mihra by way of explanation. She chewed on her thoughts for a moment, glancing up at the peak’s hazy silhouette again when Solas didn’t respond. “Do you know of anything that would tie Mythal to Kirkwall?”

 Solas shot her a sharp look. Mihra met his gaze evenly, holding back a frown.

 “I know of nothing that could be of any use to us,” he replied coolly. This time, Mihra did frown.

 “Well, I felt something,” she said. “Even if the connection is small, if we could reach out to her—“

 “Mythal cannot help us.”

 “She’s done it before,” Mihra continued stubbornly, but then stiffened at Solas’s expression. “Wait, ‘will not’? Or cannot?”

 Solas had fixed her with a critical look, a vague sort of frown playing on his lips. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Mihra scrubbed at the side of her face as she glanced back toward the mountain’s silhouette.

 “Merrill would know what’s up there, at least. Her clan camped on the mountain for years, from what she told me.”

 Under the pretense of scratching the corner of her eye, Mihra glanced toward Solas. After a brief moment, he seemed to tear his gaze away from Mihra to cast a disinterested glance toward Sundermount. Mihra let her hand fall, supressing another frown as she looked back toward the dusty street.

 “If you are correct, then there may be wards in the ruins we could utilize to protect those from the alienage willing to relocate. But I would not expect anything more.”

 Mihra narrowed her eyes, picking up her pace to keep up with Solas as they descended the final staircase into the alienage. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding the question. What makes you so sure that—?”

 But Mihra’s words fell flat as Solas stopped sharply at the foot of the alienage’s steps, clearly no longer listening. He gave her a sideways glance as she too stopped at the foot of the steps.

 “It seems I was correct. There is an eluvian nearby, though the signature is very odd.”

 Mihra’s frown deepened, feeling the question of Mythal getting buried. “Solas—“

 Solas’s brow twitched irritably. “Surely your attention is best spent on the issue at hand,” he said, an edge settling in his tone that hadn’t been there before. “You do not need me to remind you of the danger an eluvian could pose. Other questions can—and surely will—be answered in due time.”

 Mihra scowled at him, but begrudgingly conceded the point.

 “Well, before we start barging into people’s homes looking for it—“ began Mihra, nodding in the direction of Merrill’s ramshackle tenement. “Let’s at least try to give them a familiar face.”

 Solas’s gaze followed her own, but it didn’t escape Mihra’s notice that he seemed visibly relieved that Mihra had decided to drop the subject. “Your Dalish friend, I take it?” he asked innocently enough, but Mihra knew him too well to not recognize the comment as further attempts to distract her from Mythal.

 She felt her jaw tense, a small prickle of irritation skittering across the back of her neck, but chose not to take the bait. “She might know where to start looking, at least.”

 When Solas didn’t immediately respond, Mihra stepped around him to move briskly across the alienage square. A breeze rustled the creaking branches of the vhenadahl above her. It was still early enough in the morning that the sun-baked heat she experienced the previous day had yet to set in.

 Mihra was almost at the door when a familiar voice chirped up behind her.

 “Oh, hello! I didn’t expect to see you so early.”

 Mihra started, her hand hovering over the door as she turned toward the voice. “Merrill?”

 “Good morning,” she responded brightly, shifting the small basket in her arms. Mihra glanced behind Merrill to confirm that Solas was walking toward them, eyeing the vhenadahl warily as he passed it. Some of Mihra’s unease from the previous evening began to set in, but she pushed it aside.

 “Hello again,” said Merrill warmly as Solas approached. “I’m so sorry, but I didn’t catch your name last—?”

 “Solas. My apologies.” If his response seemed a bit stiff to Mihra, it was only from her own nerves.

 “Oh!” Mihra felt her throat constrict at the glimmer of recognition she saw in Merrill’s eyes, before: “I think Varric mentioned—“

 Merrill glanced between Solas and Mihra, who straightened quickly and fought back a rush of heat to her cheeks.

 She had to talk to Varric about this someday.

 Solas’s expression must have changed similarly, as Merrill seemed to wilt at the sharp spike in tension. Again, she shifted the small basket in her arms to rest more firmly against her hip.

 “Why don’t we continue this inside?” asked Merrill, fishing a rusted metal key from a string looped around her neck. “Have you eaten? I was going to join you at Fenris’s in a few hours, anyway, but I’m sure I can manage—“

 “That’s not necessary, Merrill, but thank you,” said Mihra quickly, moving to hold the door open for Merrill as she slipped inside. Mihra shot Solas the briefest glance before following her into the apartment.

 “You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Merrill said to Solas cheerfully, setting her basket to the right of her modest fireplace. “Creators know I’ve never quite grasped how to keep it neat in here.”

 Merrill’s eyes flashed in amusement as she glanced toward Mihra. “It’s certainly a change from aravels, isn’t it?”

 Mihra snorted lightly, understanding the sentiment better than Merrill could have known. Still, it wasn’t the time. “This isn’t really a social visit, Merrill.”

 Merrill tilted her head. “Well, no, I didn’t think it could be, really,” she said earnestly. “But you two look like fish out of water, I thought I might help.”

 “Var’athim,” said Solas smoothly. Merrill’s brows shot up as she looked at Solas. “We mean you no discourtesy.”

 “It’s no trouble,” she said, peering at him curiously for a moment before seeming to shake herself. “But you two look fit to burst. What’s happened? Varric would be here if it were something disasterous.”

 Mihra scratched her palm absently as the Anchor prickled against it. “Nothing’s happened, really. Yet. We’re—looking for something.”

 “In the alienage?”

 Mihra hesitated, glancing at Solas who inclined his head in apparent assent.

 “Last night, I felt the presence of an ancient, powerful elven artifact as I wandered the Fade. Given current events, it would have been unwise to forgo further investigation.”  

 The change in Merrill’s manner was subtle, but immediately present. Mihra had to hold back a frown as Merrill’s hands drifted up to cup her elbows. Though her head was still tilted toward Solas, she suddenly seemed to be leaning away from him.

 “What sort of artifact?” Merrill asked cautiously, but Mihra got the distinct impression she knew more than she was letting on. Out of Mihra’s periphery, she saw Solas frowning. Clearly Mihra had not been the only one to notice this.

 Realizing Merrill’s question had gone unanswered for a beat too long, Mihra shook herself. “They’re what the Creators have been using to—return,” she said, a bit lamely. Merrill turned her attention to Mihra, arms still cupped tightly against her chest. “It would look a bit like a mirror, but no reflection, and—“

 Mihra’s voice died in her throat at the blood seemed to drain completely out of Merrill’s face. The Dalish woman stared stonily over Mihra’s left shoulder. As Mihra hesitated, she became suddenly aware that Merrill’s whole frame was quivering.

 “Merrill?” asked Mihra gently.

 For a moment, Merrill seemed not to hear Mihra, before—

 “Damn that thing,” she said hoarsely, still staring over Mihra’s shoulder with glazed eyes. Another moment passed before Merrill blinked, gave Mihra a very startled look, then turned on her heel and retreated to the back rooms of her apartment without another word.

 Mihra glanced at Solas, who snapped a very stern gaze back toward her.  

 At this point, it was becoming hard for Mihra to tell whether she was a magnet for this sort of thing, of Varric was.

 It was probably both, to be honest.

 There was nothing to do but follow. So Mihra and Solas did so, in almost perfect unison, both with varying degrees of apprehension plastered on their face.