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Chapter Text

The barren dust of Mare Lamentorum stretched wide beneath my boots—pale, silent, and still. But that stillness was a lie. I could feel it in my chest, beneath the breath I didn’t need to take but did anyway. Something had changed.

The Moon had always been cold, its horizon bleak and endless, bathed in distant starlight. But tonight… tonight, the air hummed with wrongness.

A jagged rift had torn open the surface before me, raw and violent. Aether crackled along its edges—unstable, wild, an exposed nerve in the skin of reality. It pulsed like a wound, and I didn’t need Alphinaud’s voice whispering through the Linkpearl to tell me it wasn’t natural.

“Zephyr, the Rift on Mare Lamentorum is expanding faster than we anticipated. The Scions cannot reach it; your unique nature makes you the only one able to investigate directly.”

His voice crackled, distorted by interference from the rift, but I understood the message.

Of course it would be me.

I rolled my left shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of Shadowbringer across my back—the obsidian blade thrumming with Dark, as if it, too, sensed the imbalance. The soul crystal embedded in my armor pulsed in rhythm with my heart, a quiet reminder of who and what I was.

Warrior of Light. A Dark Knight. Azem’s heir.

I pulled the Mantle of Azem closer around my shoulders, and it fluttered like a living thing in the Rift’s energy, humming softly with protective magic. Venat’s final gift—one I clung to now more than ever.

I stepped forward, the dust shifting around my armored feet. The rift was… alive. I could feel it, like a heartbeat thrumming through the surface of the Moon. Echoic ripples brushed against my senses, drawn to my blessing—The Echo. It sharpened everything. The sound of my breath. The tension in the air. The soft murmur of things not meant for this world.

"The Rift isn’t just a tear," I whispered. "It’s a wound. Something is bleeding through."

The shadows that leaked from it weren’t natural. Tendrils of smoky energy slithered outward, not quite touching the ground, but corrupting everything they neared. They shimmered with something I didn’t recognize. Something I instinctively hated.

The Mantle held against the pull, even as my soul reeled.

Then the Rift pulsed again, harder this time. The tremor beneath my feet kicked up a low wave of moon-dust. I narrowed my eyes.

Something was coming.

Shapes began to emerge—misshapen, ethereal things that flickered between solid and unreal. Spirits or phantoms, I thought. Not of Eorzea. Not of the Moon. Their eyes burned with a color I didn’t have a name for.

I drew Shadowbringer with one clean motion, the blade singing as it left my back. The Darkness woven into its edge responded to the Rift, glowing faintly.

I took a breath, stepped into the darkness—and vanished.

Shadowstride carried me behind the nearest creature. I reappeared in silence, and my blade struck true. A burst of shadow cleaved through the wraithlike thing, unraveling it into nothing.

The others surged at me. Too many.

I slammed my blade into the ground and called on the void within.

A barrier of darkness bloomed around me, tendrils of my own making rising to catch their blows, reflecting their magic back in jagged arcs of blacklight. They flinched. I pressed the advantage.

With a snarl, I reached deep into my core, into that bitter pit where fury lived—and raised my hand.

Dozens of shadow-spears erupted from the ground around me, skewering the creatures in place. The screams they made were not like any I’d heard before. Not human. Not voidsent.

The spears stayed, anchored by my will. They weren’t just weapons—they were barriers, cutting the enemy’s advance and disrupting their twisted aether.

Still, they came. More of them. The Rift wanted me gone.

But I stood firm.

The Soul Resonator Pendant at my throat pulsed—a warning. Not from the Rift. From within.

Umbriel, the shadow that came with embracing my power as a Dark Knight, stirred.

I forced him back, gritting my teeth. Not now.

I tightened my grip on Shadowbringer. My pulse pounded in my ears.

The Rift shuddered beneath my feet. It widened with a sickening lurch, as if it were alive, hungry, aware of me.

Aether howled around the jagged tear, wild and raw. It spilled into the moonlight like a wound torn through existence itself. The energy clawed at me, trying to unravel the very threads of who I was.

I staggered a step back, teeth clenched, gripping Shadowbringer so tightly my gauntlet creaked.

Then it struck.

A force unlike anything I’ve ever felt—a tidal pull, sudden and absolute. There was no time to run. No space to fight. The ground fell away beneath me, moon-dust spiraling upward as the Rift swallowed everything in a cyclone of shadow and searing light.

I didn’t scream. There was no air.

Only the tearing of my senses—cold and heat, darkness and blinding brilliance, pain and weightlessness. My body felt like it was being scattered across a thousand realities, my soul unraveling.

Then—

Silence.

When I opened my eyes, the sky was wrong.

It stretched wide overhead, painted in hues of gold and blue I hadn’t seen since Etheirys. But it wasn’t home. The sun here was strange—too warm, too close. The air felt heavy with a kind of magic I didn’t recognize. Not aether. Something older.

I wasn’t on the Moon anymore.

I wasn’t in Etheirys at all.

I staggered upright, my boots crunching against grass instead of dust. Grass. Real, living earth beneath my feet. I looked around—trees in the distance, a pale stone ruin nearby, the wind carrying sounds I couldn’t place. Birds. Creatures. Life.

The Rift had pulled me through a Veil and thrown me here.

My hand flexed around the hilt of Shadowbringer, still warm from battle. The Mantle of Azem settled gently across my shoulders, the enchantment humming softly. It had carried me through the breach. Protected me. Guided me. It whispered now, faint but firm.

I stood alone, in a world not my own.

Chapter Text

The air struck me first.

Thicker than Mare Lamentorum’s sterile chill. Heavy with warmth and life. It smelled of pine needles crushed underfoot, rich soil, and something distant—wood smoke, maybe. I inhaled deeply. It tasted wild. Alive. A stark contrast to the still, empty breath of the moon.

I lowered my gaze.

Grass and earth. Not dust and metal plating. My boots had found real ground—soft, damp, and uneven. My footing adjusted instinctively, but there was no familiarity here. Even the weight beneath me felt… foreign. Not unfriendly. Just unknown.

The sun hung low—golden, unrelenting—stretching my shadow long across the terrain. Hills rolled gently toward the horizon, cut by forests and jagged rock. Nothing like Thanalan’s scorched plains, nor the silver expanse of Elpis. I wasn’t in Eorzea anymore. Not even close.

I narrowed my eyes, every fiber of me tightening.

Something was wrong—not immediately threatening, but subtly off. The aether here... I could feel it. A pulse. It wasn’t like home’s clean, structured flow. It felt raw. More primal. But it was aether, still. That meant life. That meant danger.

The Mantle of Azem fluttered slightly around my shoulders, as if responding to the ambient energy. Not hostile, but disturbed. It shimmered against the unseen—warding off whatever ghosts haunted this world’s wind.

Thedas.

That name had formed itself in my mind the moment I arrived. I didn’t know how. A lingering trace from the Rift’s magic, maybe. Or a whisper from the Echo. This land remembered being spoken about. A continent bruised by conflict. Its scars ran deep—I could feel them in the ground, like vibrations in a wound not fully healed.

My soul stirred beneath the armor.

That old ache. That longing for adventure. Umbriel stirred somewhere deep inside, but not yet awakened. Not yet needed.

Not unless I let myself waver.

I reached behind me and touched the hilt at my back. Shadowbringer. Its weight was familiar, grounding. It pulsed faintly—subtle recognition. We were still bound, sword and soul, even here. Still whole, somehow.

A glance down confirmed the rest. My armor battle-worn, ever-defiant. The Soul Crystal at my waist flickered with quiet potential. My rings still hummed with protective enchantments. The pendant across my chest throbbed like a heartbeat—not mine, but a warning. Umbriel was quiet now, but this place was soaked in power. Old power. The Fade, they’d called it, in whispers I couldn’t place. Magic lived in the cracks of the world here.

My linkpearl buzzed—like someone trying to speak through water. A voice. Faint. Distant. Alphinaud? I couldn’t tell. Not yet.

My hand flexed around Shadowbringer’s hilt as something shifted ahead—too small to see, too loud to ignore. Wind rustled the branches, but it wasn’t just wind.

I took a breath.

Every instinct screamed that I was being watched. Tested.

I took my first step forward.

I moved ever forward, cautious and alert, hoping to stumble upon a city or town before something decided I looked like a meal. The forest around me whispered with unseen life—every rustle in the underbrush, every sudden birdcall set my nerves on edge. This land didn’t welcome strangers, and I could feel unseen eyes tracking my every step. Still, I pressed on, driven by the faint hope of civilization. 

The dirt road into Lothering was rough beneath my boots, winding between towering oaks and pines whose dark branches swayed softly in the breeze. Smoke curled from chimneys scattered among timber-framed houses, and distant voices carried on the crisp air.

This town felt modest—simple folk going about their daily lives—but beneath the surface, I sensed something uneasy. The Echo tingled faintly, picking up subtle aetheric ripples, echoes of unrest I couldn’t yet fully name.

A weathered sign swung in the wind, creaking softly: Welcome to Lothering, Gate to the West.

I stepped forward, the weight of my weathered armor a constant reminder of battles past, Shadowbringer resting heavy against my back. I was a stranger here, and I knew it.

Near the town well, a group of villagers gathered, their faces worn with worry. A woman caught my gaze and tensed, hand drifting toward the dagger at her belt.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked, voice wary but curious.

“No,” I replied steadily. “I have traveled far. I seek answers.”

Her eyes sharpened with suspicion. “Answers? There’s trouble here—darkspawn in the hills, sickness spreading. The Chantry prays, but fear grips us all.”

Darkspawn. The word was unfamiliar, but I knew that kind of darkness. Maybe ike the Voidsent from my world, I thought.

A man stepped forward, rough-voiced. “You look like a soldier. Maybe you can help. We need someone who knows how to fight.”

“I have fought as a warror for years,” I said quietly. “And I will stand against whatever troubles are here as well.”

Children played nearby, their wooden swords clashing in innocent mock battle. Their laughter was fragile, a fragile light against the shadows gathering over this land. In Eorzea, children grew up hardened by war and calamity. Here, they lived on the edge of a creeping shadow that threatened to snuff out hope.

My eyes caught the crumbling statue in the town square—a robed figure holding a glowing orb. “A church?” I thought to myself, recognizing symbols that likely marked the faith that guided these people. It reminded me of the Light of the Twelve back home—symbols of hope and protection.

That evening, I found myself seated in the common room of a modest inn nestled at the edge of Lothering—stone walls sagging with age, the fire crackling in a hearth too small for the room it was meant to warm. The air smelled of old wood, sweat, and the faint tang of dried herbs. Around me, the townsfolk nursed their worries with tankards of bitter ale and uneasy conversation.

Hunters spoke in hushed tones of twisted beasts sighted in the forests to the south and east—creatures not just dangerous, but wrong. One swore he saw a wolf walking on two legs, its eyes glowing green like witch-fire. Another claimed his arrows passed straight through a creature that left no prints in the snow.

At a corner table, a weary healer—no mage, just a woman with worn hands and sharp eyes—warned of a strange illness spreading through the region. It struck swiftly, she said, taking even strong men to bed with fever and chills within hours. No poultice worked. No tonic soothed. Something unnatural brewed in the land.

Despite the warmth of the hearth, a chill threaded down my spine.

Quietly, I shifted in my chair, letting the din fade into background noise. My hand drifted beneath the plated folds of my armor, brushing the small, smooth shape of the resonator pendant resting against my chest. Y’shtola had pressed it into my hand before the battle with the Endsinger. “For when you find yourself alone and facing the unknown,” she’d said, her voice calm, but her eyes heavy with unspoken concern.

The pendant itself was a marvel of Sharlayan craftsmanship—etched with faint sigils designed to resonate with the aether of the soul rather than the body. In theory, it offered no conventional protection. It didn’t shield me from blades, magic, or curses. And yet… it thrummed softly now, like a heartbeat. A quiet reminder of the self I carried inside.

Y’shtola had described it as a kind of stabilizer, a metaphysical anchor to help prevent the mind from unraveling when caught between divergent realms, where the laws of aether and soul did not always align. Here in Thedas, where the Fade reigned and spirits danced on the edge of waking, the rules were alien. The Fade responded not to will or structured spellcraft like in Eorzea, but to emotion, belief—even madness. A soul too unmoored might be swept away, or worse, changed.

The pendant, for all its humble hum, grounded me.

It reminded me of long nights under the stars in Mor Dhona, arguing with G’raha Tia over forgotten histories. Of Haurchefant’s laugh echoing through Camp Dragonhead. Of what I’d lost—and what I still fought for.

I closed my eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. I was far from the Source, far from my people, from the very cycle of life and death I knew. I wasn’t even sure if Hydaelyn’s light reached this world. But as the pendant pulsed softly against my skin, I knew one truth remained.

I was still Zephyr Arcadin. Still the Warrior who had faced gods, sundered time, and borne the weight of Light and Dark alike.

Whatever this land held—demons, Blights, false Emperors, or the Fade itself—it would not break me.

Not while I remembered who I was.

The next morning, I found myself drawn toward the Chantry at the heart of Lothering. The modest stone building stood humble but resolute, its stained-glass windows catching the pale light and casting colorful patterns on the worn path. The scent of burning incense and candlewax hung faintly in the air, mingling with the earthiness of the town.

Inside, the quiet hum of whispered prayers filled the cool, shadowed space. I lingered near the entrance, absorbing the solemn atmosphere, when I noticed a young woman moving with a careful grace across the chapel.

She was a few years younger than me—around twenty-five, I guessed. Her auburn hair hung down just at her neck, and her eyes held a restless intensity, as if they carried secrets too heavy for this place. The soft rosary beads she fingered told me she was no stranger to faith, yet something in her stance spoke of burdens beyond mere devotion.

When she noticed me watching, her gaze sharpened, cautious but not unkind. She approached, her footsteps light on the stone floor.

“You’re new here,” she said quietly, voice laced with both curiosity and guarded weariness.

“I arrived recently,” I replied. “I seek knowledge of this land—and perhaps to offer what aid I can.”

Her eyes lingered on mine, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips—but there was something behind it. Shadows pooled beneath her gaze, the kind born of long years and hard decisions.

“I’m Leliana,” she said at last, her voice gentle but steady. She extended a hand, the gesture polite, measured. “Sister of the Chantry.”

I took it, trying to match the gesture with practiced ease, though my fingers were still stiff from the cold—and from everything else. Her grip was firm, a quiet strength behind it.

“Zephyr Arcadin,” I answered, voice low. The name felt like a shield. Familiar. Solid. Even if everything around me was not.

Leliana tilted her head ever so slightly. Not enough to call attention, but enough to tell me she noticed the strangeness I hadn’t quite learned to hide. My armor was unlike anything in the room, or perhaps in this entire land. The blade resting by my side—Shadowbringer—caught the hearthlight and shimmered faintly with aether it shouldn’t possess here.

But she said nothing. Just gestured to a nearby bench, slightly removed from the others.

“You must have questions.”

I hesitated before sitting down. Everything in this world was still too new—too raw. The way people spoke, the feel of the ground beneath my boots, even the air I breathed felt heavier. I was still adjusting, still pretending I belonged.

“I’ve heard things,” I said slowly, keeping my voice measured. “About things called darkspawn. About a sickness. This place feels... off-balance. And you…” I glanced her way, carefully, “you don’t look like someone easily thrown.”

She didn’t respond right away. Her fingers drifted to a rosary at her hip, the movement so practiced it was almost unconscious.

“I’ve seen worse,” she said eventually.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy. We were both holding back—testing the waters.

“I wasn’t always a sister,” she said finally, voice quieter now, like the words themselves needed to be earned. “I came from Orlais. A place where truth wears a mask, and a smile can be a threat.”

I said nothing. I didn’t know enough about Orlais yet to feign understanding, but her tone was enough. I recognized the weight behind it. That kind of experience doesn’t come from simple living.

“I was a bard. We gathered secrets like coins, and spent them just as easily. I’ve killed, misled, and survived things I don’t speak of. Not often.”

Her fingers tightened around the rosary again.

“The Chantry gave me another life. One where I could believe I might be... more than what I was. I’m still trying to believe that.”

There was something in her voice—fragile but steady, like someone speaking across a chasm they couldn’t see the bottom of.

“I know what that’s like,” I said softly. “Trying to live past the person you once were. Or still are.”

Leliana turned slightly, studying me—not suspicious, but discerning. “You speak like a traveler. But not from the south. Not even from the Marches. Your words have a weight to them.”

I hesitated. I was still getting used to this world, its geography, its politics. I didn’t know what a Marcher sounded like.

“I’ve been... far,” I said carefully. “Places where the rules are different. Where what you carry inside matters more than what you show.”

She nodded slowly. She didn’t press. But I could see it in her eyes—she didn’t quite believe me, not fully. But maybe she understood what it was to carry secrets like scars.

We sat there in quiet, the firelight flickering across old wood and worn stone. I let the moment stretch, grateful for silence that didn’t demand more than I could give.

After a time, Leliana spoke again, her voice softer, thoughtful. “Perhaps people like us—those who’ve walked through shadow—are drawn to one another.”

I looked down at the floorboards, then up at her again. “Maybe that’s why I’m here,” I said.

Her eyes held mine, the guarded calm giving way to something else—recognition, maybe. Understanding.

“Then you’re already further along than most,” she said quietly.

And for the first time since I fell into this strange world, the air didn’t feel quite so cold.

The morning after my conversation with Leliana, I wandered through Lothering’s modest market square, taking in the rhythms of this unfamiliar world. The scents of fresh bread mingled with pine and smoke, the chatter of merchants and villagers weaving a tapestry of daily life.

But beneath the surface warmth, I sensed an undercurrent of tension whenever certain topics arose.

Near a small group of townsfolk, I overheard fragments of a heated discussion—words like “mages,” “Circle,” and “danger” tossed around with thinly veiled fear.

A grizzled man spat bitterly, “The Circle’s tight grip keeps them locked away, but who knows what they’re plotting behind those walls. Magic’s a curse, a poison that corrupts the soul.”

Another voice, softer but no less wary, added, “The Templars watch over them—keep them in line. But there’s always those who slip through, cause havoc. It’s why the Chantry warns us to fear magic.”

I paused, absorbing this harsh reality.

In Eorzea, magic users—casters, sorcerers, black mages—were often revered, even feared, but rarely persecuted so brutally. The Scions and the Grand Companies welcomed those who wielded aether, teaching balance and restraint.

Here, magic was shackled by suspicion, fear, and strict control—mages confined to the Circle, their freedoms stripped. A constant struggle beneath the surface.

I clenched my fists beneath my gauntlets. My own magic—a Dark Knight’s shadow magic, the wellspring of my power—was part of me, but here it could make me a target.

Using magic openly would mark me as dangerous, perhaps hunted.

I swallowed the urge to test my powers in public, knowing that in this land, survival might depend on secrecy and restraint.

This world demanded a different kind of battle—not only against monsters without, but against fear and prejudice within.

And I would have to learn to fight both.

Restless. That was the only word for it.

I didn’t belong here—not in this town, not in this world. And while I had no illusions of finding a way back to Eorzea anytime soon, I wouldn’t find the answers I needed in Lothering either.

These people were afraid, isolated, and caught in the storm before the storm. The darkspawn were growing bolder, that much was clear. But something deeper stirred beneath it all—something larger than mere corruption.

I stood in the Chantry courtyard, the morning sun casting pale light over the cobbled path. Leliana stepped out behind me, her footsteps soft, almost hesitant.

“You’re leaving,” she said. Not a question—an understanding.

“I need information,” I replied. “I can’t keep reacting blindly to this world. Its history, its dangers—I need to learn what I’m facing. What we’re all facing.”

Leliana folded her arms, blue eyes sharp beneath the morning light. “Lothering is small. And isolated. But we hear things. Merchants, travelers, pilgrims—they all bring word. Rumors of Grey Warden movements, of unrest in the south. If you go looking for answers… you’ll find more than you bargained for.”

“I usually do,” I murmured.

She frowned, and for a moment I saw the edge of concern behind her composure. “Then you should go to Denerim. It’s the capital of Ferelden—northeast of here, along the Imperial Highway. If knowledge exists in this kingdom, you’ll find it there. The royal palace… even the alienage, if you care to look into the lives of elves.”

Her tone was almost bitter at the end. I didn’t press it.

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.

But Leliana stepped forward quickly. “Zephyr… I don’t want you to go.”

The words hung in the air longer than they should have. Her voice was quiet, but weighted.

I met her gaze, unsure how to answer. In Eorzea, I was always leaving—leaving for war, for answers, for the sake of others. I never stayed. Not for long.

She sighed and turned her eyes toward the rising sun. “Denerim is different. There are nobles, Templars, spies. People who don’t like strangers, especially those who don’t follow the Chantry’s rules.”

“Then I’ll be careful,” I said. “You’ve shown me enough already—for that, I owe you.”

Leliana’s fingers tightened briefly around the rosary at her belt. “Then go. Find what you need. But don’t forget that not all darkness comes in the shape of monsters. Sometimes it wears silk and speaks in riddles.”

I gave her a small nod. “Spoken like someone who knows.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I do.”

I left Lothering as the sun rose fully over the trees, a solitary figure on the road to Denerim. The path ahead was uncertain, but my steps were sure.

Chapter Text

They called it the Imperial Highway—though what empire had once laid these stones, I couldn’t say. Time and weather had cracked them, but the bones of the road still held, weaving through Ferelden’s heart like a scar from an older war. One I hadn't fought in, but could feel.

I kept moving. Always moving.

Back home, I'd marched through lands teetering on the edge of oblivion—Dalmasca, Garlemald and Thavnair—each crushed under the weight of the End of Days. But Thedas... this world bled slower. A rot that seeped from underneath.

My armor was muffled beneath travel leathers and the my mantle, enchanted to soften both presence and profile. Shadowbringer, was wrapped in coarse cloth and strapped over my back. It was impossible to hide completely—the sheer size drew stares even in silence—but better suspicion than panic.

The villages along the highway were sparse and nervous. No town criers or formal heralds—just cold glances and the weight of fear in people’s voices. Merchants moved in pairs. Farmers kept blades within reach while tilling their fields.

In one hamlet with no sign, I stopped at a roadside stand and traded a few coins for dried meat and a flask of bitter water. I kept my hood low.

A man at a nearby cart leaned over to a younger woman and said, “There’s talk that the Circle of Magi locked down its towers again. Too many whispers about maleficarum slipping away into the wilds.”

The girl crossed herself and muttered, “Let the Templars catch them. Magic’s a curse. It always was.”

The man nodded grimly. “If they’re not watched, they turn. They always turn. That’s why we’ve got the Chantry.”

I paused only long enough to memorize the words. Circle of Magi. Templars. Maleficarum.

Even without understanding the full meaning, I knew enough. Mages here were hunted. Feared. Shackled.

The Dark Knight Soul Crystal beneath my cloak pulsed faintly—not just with aether, but with something deeper. Older. Dynamis. It thrummed like a second heartbeat, resonating with my will, not the world’s flow. I hadn’t awakened to it during the Final Days like originally thought. No—Dynamis had always been there, buried within me, woven into the fabric of my soul since the beginning.

Back then, I hadn’t understood it. Couldn’t reach it. It had only stirred in moments of desperate emotion—loss, fury, defiance—but now, here in this foreign world far from Etheirys' laws of balance, I could feel it clearly. I could draw from it. Shape it. It didn’t obey the rules of magic or aether. It moved with emotion, will, conviction. And I had no shortage of those.

But that kind of power, unleashed here? They wouldn’t fear me. They’d burn me.

The days passed in fog and drizzle. I shared no campfires. No names. I kept to the edge of the road, avoiding patrols. Once, I passed what looked like a templar caravan escorting robed figures bound in enchanted manacles. None of the mages spoke. Their heads were down, their faces pale.

Fear kept them silent.

It kept me silent too.

By the fifth morning, the hills fell away to stone, and the towers of Denerim emerged from the horizon—like fists raised against the sky.

The capital of Ferelden was no shining beacon. It rose behind stout walls, jagged roofs and chimneys spearing upward like teeth. Smoke and fog clung to its flanks. It was alive, yes—but wary.

I approached the city gates at a measured pace, boots echoing on stone.

Guards stood on either side of the archway, armor crested with faded red and silver. Their hands moved to the hilts of their blades as I neared. One stepped forward.

“Stop there.”

I did.

His eyes scanned my figure—pausing on the massive object strapped to my back. Even wrapped in cloth, Shadowbringer drew suspicion. No common traveler carried a sword that size. He gestured to it.

“What’s that?”

I offered a neutral smile. “Heirloom. Ceremonial.”

“Looks more like a siege weapon.”

“Depends on the siege.”

The other guard didn’t laugh. “No sudden moves. And keep your head down.”

I inclined my head and stepped through.

Not even inside the walls yet, and already they expect me to be dangerous.

I was beginning to understand this world too well.

The Market District bustled, but not with joy. It felt like a city holding its breath. Merchants called out deals. Children darted between alleys. Chantry bells rang in the distance, solemn and rhythmic.

I moved through the flow of people, careful not to brush too close, careful to keep my wrapped blade balanced. The Mantle of Azem whispered around me, dampening my aura as much as it could.

Everywhere I looked, I saw tension—between humans and elves, between templars and civilians, between nobles and beggars. Denerim was not a city at peace. It was a battlefield waiting to remember it had enemies.

I passed a public notice board. One page was newer than the rest:

“Grey Wardens seek information on darkspawn activity near Lake Calenhad. Reward for verified sightings. Report to the Gnawed Noble Tavern.”

Lake Calenhad... wasn’t that the place mentioned back on the road?

I folded the note into my cloak.

If that’s where the mages are kept, it’s the only lead I have.

But approaching them would mean risking everything I’d kept hidden—my aether, my crystal, my soul.

Still, the only way forward... was through.

Navigating Denerim required more than armor and caution—it demanded a kind of performance. Every word, every glance, every step had to be measured.

The people here weren’t like the ones in Lothering. They were sharper. More aware. Everyone watched everyone, and no one walked without purpose.

I was still learning how to blend into this world.

The midday crowd thickened as I crossed into what I assumed was the Noble Quarter, the stone underfoot smoother, the noise quieter, and the guards more heavily armored. Even the smell changed—less sweat, more polish. More perfume.

It was then—distracted by a public speaker ranting about “Orlais meddling in Ferelden’s future”—that I turned too quickly and collided shoulder-first with a man emerging from a narrow passage.

We both staggered.

My hand immediately went to the wrapped hilt of Shadowbringer on my back.

The man’s guard stepped in at once—hand to his sword—but the older noble raised a hand to stop him. “It’s fine, Thomas. No harm done.”

I looked up fully.

The man I had bumped into wore a rich fur-lined cloak over finely embroidered noble garb. His face was dignified, if weary, with graying temples and eyes that had seen too much war and not enough peace. He studied me for only a moment before offering a polite nod.

“I trust you’re alright?” he asked, his Fereldan accent crisp and practiced. “The streets are narrow, and the people restless.”

“I should be asking you that,” I replied carefully. “My mistake.”

He smiled faintly. “A rare admission in this city.” His eyes, keen and assessing, drifted over my travel-worn cloak and lingering a heartbeat longer on the shape of my sword beneath the wrappings.

“You’re not from Denerim,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” I said honestly, “just passing through.”

“Ah.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Well then—welcome. Though these are troubled times for travelers.”

I offered a shallow bow. “I’ve noticed.”

The noble extended a gloved hand. “Arl Eamon Guerrin, of Redcliffe.”

The name meant nothing to me at first—but the surrounding guards straightened subtly, and nearby bystanders gave the man respectful space. Whoever he was, people here knew his name well.

I clasped his hand briefly. “Zephyr Arcadin.”

“An uncommon name,” Eamon mused, then offered a thin smile. “I won’t pry, but if you’re looking for work or direction, speak to the guards outside the palace district. Or visit the Gnawed Noble Tavern—not exactly the most elegant place in the city, but useful if you want to hear what Ferelden’s truly thinking.”

I nodded. “I appreciate the suggestion.”

Eamon seemed to study me for another moment—longer than I was comfortable with—but said nothing more. Instead, he turned back to his retinue. “Come, Thomas. If the King won’t listen, we’ll find someone who will.”

I stepped aside as he moved on, his cloak brushing past me like a herald’s banner. His voice faded into the crowd.

Arl Eamon. A man of influence. Measured. Watchful.

And clearly walking into something larger than himself.

I resumed my own steps—but slower now, eyes scanning the streets with new focus.

I hadn’t just crossed paths with a nobleman.

I’d stepped into Ferelden’s shadow war without realizing it.

The crowd swallowed Arl Eamon and his escort, but I didn’t let them vanish completely.

I kept moving—parallel, quiet, letting the press of bodies conceal me while my eyes tracked his silhouette beyond the noise. My armor made soft clinks beneath my travel cloak, and the hilt of Shadowbringer, still wrapped in coarse cloth, shifted against my back like a memory I couldn’t put down.

Back in Eorzea, this kind of tailing would’ve earned the suspicion of a Brass Blade patrol. Here, I wasn’t sure what the consequence would be. Still, I needed information.

Arl Eamon walked with the poise of someone used to command, but I could sense tension in the way his guard kept closer than most noble entourages. They passed beneath a stone arch flanked by city banners—the Palace District, judging by the spacing of guards and the absence of commoners. Eamon paused to speak with a knight in crest-polished armor before being let through an iron gate into one of the larger estates.

That was enough for now.

If I followed too far, I risked more than just questions. Nobility always came with a chain of loyalty—and suspicion. Especially in cities on the edge of change.

By the time I returned to the Market District, dusk had begun to color the sky in orange and steel. Lamps were being lit one by one, their flickering glow spilling out of windows and taverns.

One tavern stood out from the others—not because of charm, but because of its name.

The Gnawed Noble.

Its sign hung crooked, carved in a snide grin. Paint peeled from the shutters, and the front steps were warped from foot traffic, ale, and perhaps blood. I knew the type.

It reminded me—unpleasantly—of Limsa Lominsa’s seedier corners.

Inside, the air was heavy with drink, woodsmoke, and sweat. Tables crammed against walls, mercenaries arm-wrestling over debts, off-duty guards mumbling rumors into mugs. No one paid me much mind.

I kept to the edge of the room and took a seat against the wall. I didn’t order a drink. I wasn’t here for comfort. I was here for voices.

And they didn’t disappoint.

“—darkspawn sightings along the southern roads—says a farmer saw one near the edge of the Bannorn…”

“Blight’s just a story to most of ‘em,” said a bald man near the fire. “But the Grey Wardens are recruiting again. That’s no story.”

“They always sniff around when trouble’s coming,” a barmaid added, half-distracted.

One of the mercenaries leaned back and belched. “Pfft. Grey Wardens see danger in every shadow. Don’t mean anything.”

But it did.

*Grey Wardens. Blight. Southern roads.* The words fell into place, but the picture remained half-painted. I needed more.

I was just about to leave when a woman dropped into the seat across from me like a dagger slipping between armor plates—effortless, uninvited, and impossible to ignore.

Her skin was sun-bronzed, her dark brown hair pulled back with beads and wraps that caught the tavern light. She wore leather armor built for movement, not defense—daggers on each hip, and the confidence of someone who didn’t need armor to survive. She sat like she’d done this a hundred times—like the whole tavern was hers and I was the one trespassing.

“You don’t drink,” she said, not bothering to introduce herself first. Her voice was low, smooth, teasing. “You watch. You listen. Too quiet for a mercenary. Too clean for a smuggler. So what are you?”

I didn’t answer. Not yet. My fingers tightened under the table, brushing the edge of my armor.

Her smirk deepened. “Right, strong silent type. Let me guess—tragic past, haunted eyes, sword too big for your ego.”

“I’ve earned it,” I replied evenly.

“Mm. I’ll bet.” She leaned in just slightly, her gaze sharp now, not playful. “I’m Isabela. Pirate. Privateer if I’m feeling fancy. And right now? Curious.”

“About me.”

“Sharp, too.” She sat back again, folding one leg over the other. “You don’t belong here, love. I don’t just mean Denerim. I mean here.” She gestured vaguely around the room. “You’ve got the look of a man who’s been somewhere no one else has.”

She wasn’t wrong. My silence invited more questions, but I didn’t trust this world with the answers—not yet. And not her.

Still, something about the way she watched me told me she already knew I wasn’t from any part of Thedas she knew.

“You carry that sword like it’s part of you,” she went on, eyes flicking to Shadowbringer. “But it’s wrapped up like a secret. And you walk like a knight but don’t carry any crest. No Fereldan I’ve ever met carries themselves like that.”

“I’m not Fereldan.”

“Maker’s breath, I never would’ve guessed,” she said, voice dry as dust. “Don’t worry, I’m not exactly local either. Antiva, Rivain—wherever the wind takes me. But even I can tell when someone’s not just foreign, but wrong for the map.”

I said nothing.

She let the silence hang, then changed the subject like it was all a game. “Word is a few Wardens passed through Lake Calenhad not long ago. Quiet. Too quiet, if you ask the right people. Strange for this time of year.”

I blinked at the name—Calenhad. I’d heard whispers. I didn’t yet know where it was, but the word had weight.

She noticed.

“That ring a bell?” she asked, watching me closely.

“I’ve heard of it,” I said, careful.

“Mmh. Then you’ve heard of the Circle of Magi,” she continued. “Tower on an island, middle of the lake. Where the Chantry keeps all their little spell-flingers locked up until they’re useful or dangerous. Usually both.”

“And they can’t leave?”

She scoffed. “Not without permission from someone who wears too much metal and doesn’t smile enough. The Knight-Commanders keep the place sealed tighter than a Crows’ vault. All for the public’s safety, they say.”

“And the mages’?”

She smiled again, and this time there was something bitter under it. “That depends on whether you ask a Templar, a Tranquil, or someone who actually knows what it means to need magic to survive.”

She stood then, stretching like a cat preparing to vanish. A silver coin dropped onto the table with a flick of her fingers—payment for a drink she never touched.

“If you’re heading to Calenhad, watch your step,” she said casually. “The Templars there don’t like people who ask too many questions. And the Wardens? They don’t share what they find.”

She turned, then looked back over her shoulder, a smile curling at the corner of her lips.

“You’ve got the feel of someone who’s fought wars before. Not the kind that end with trumpets. The kind that never really end at all. Just don’t get caught up in anything you can’t walk away from.”

Then she was gone—melted into the noise of the tavern like smoke on the wind, leaving only that faint scent of spice and saltwater in her wake.

I sat there alone for a long moment.

The Circle. Templars. Grey Wardens.

They were different pieces of the same war—but only some of them knew it was coming.

I looked at the cloth-wrapped greatsword beside me. It hummed faintly—quiet and patient.

I would go to Lake Calenhad.

Not because I wanted to interfere.

Because I needed to understand.

Chapter Text

The road to Lake Calenhad wound west from Denerim, growing quieter with every mile.

I left the main trade path after the first day, slipping onto a narrower trail used by farmers and messengers. No carriages. No patrols. Fewer eyes. I preferred it that way.

The land here was wilder than the roads south of Lothering—less plowed, more tangled. Pines and moss-strewn oaks leaned in over the trail like silent watchers. Birds still sang, but there was a hush beneath it all. Something quieter. Tense.

I felt it in the wind before I smelled it: burning wood.

Not a campfire.

I followed it, hand never far from Shadowbringer's hilt.

I found the clearing behind a thicket of dry brush and brambles.

A small farmhouse—half-collapsed—was ablaze.

Orange light flickered in the windows. Smoke billowed up into the overcast sky. A body lay crumpled outside the door—face down, a templar by the looks of his armor. Nearby, a woman knelt, her robes half-burned, her eyes wild with fear and fury. Blood stained one sleeve.

She hadn’t seen me yet.

Magic crackled in the air around her—raw, unstable. Arcane sigils pulsed at her feet, shifting unpredictably. She had no staff. Her power wasn’t shaped. It was spilling out of her in waves.

I knew what that meant.

She was afraid.

I stepped slowly into view.

The woman turned, magic surging around her palms. “Get away from me!”

I didn’t move.

“Easy,” I said, raising one hand. “I’m not a templar.”

She hesitated. “Then what are you?”

I had no answer she’d understand.

She kept her eyes locked on me. I could see the desperation in them. Her breathing was shallow. Her body was shaking—but not from cold.

She was losing control.

I knew the signs.

“I’m just a traveler,” I said. “I saw the smoke.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him!” she blurted. “He came at me—said I was a danger. That I needed to go back. That I didn’t have a choice!”

“You’re an apostate.”

She flinched.

I hadn’t meant to say it so flatly, but it was true.

“I escaped the Circle two weeks ago. I couldn’t—couldn’t breathe in there. They watch everything. The Harrowing, the silence... They say it’s protection, but it’s a prison!”

Her voice cracked.

I didn’t interrupt.

A spark of her magic surged again—lightning dancing across her fingertips. Her instincts were screaming for defense.

So were mine.

But I didn’t raise my blade. I lowered my voice instead.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You say that now,” she whispered. “They all do. Then they put the collars on. Or the brand. Or they drain you dry.”

Her fear was a tide I couldn’t stop.

So I let her see it—just for a moment.

A flicker of the Dark Knight's aura beneath my cloak. Not to threaten. To relate. To show her that magic could be both wound and weapon.

Her eyes widened.

“That’s… that’s not a Circle spell.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not.”

She stared at me like I was impossible. And maybe I was.

“You’re not from here,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

A silence stretched between us, broken only by the pop of burning wood.

Then she staggered.

The energy in her body pulsed wrong—offbeat, like a crystal about to crack.

She fell to her knees. “It’s too much—I tried to hold it in, I tried—”

I moved before I could second-guess.

I knelt and reached forward, placing one hand gently over her shoulder.

And then I reached inside—not with magic, but with something deeper.

Dynamis. The soul’s voice.

It wasn’t like casting a spell. It wasn’t healing. It was resonance.

For a moment, I let her pain echo into mine—and let the storm settle into my presence.

Her magic dimmed.

She gasped—eyes wide.

And then, like a dying flame, her aura calmed.

She didn’t pass out, but she slumped forward, her head resting against my arm.

“…you’re not with the Wardens, are you?” she whispered.

“No.”

“…will they kill me if they find me?”

I didn’t lie.

“They might.”

I helped her away from the farmhouse before the roof caved in. Gave her some of the dry rations from my pack. Wrapped her injured arm. She didn’t ask my name, and I didn’t offer it.

Before dawn, she stood on her own again.

“Where will you go?” I asked.

“South,” she said. “To the Korcari Wilds. I heard stories. Old magic. Witches. They might teach me… or at least let me live.”

She turned, stopped, and looked back.

“Thank you, stranger. Whatever you are.”

She vanished into the forest.

I stood alone again, ash on my gloves, the first gray light of morning rising behind the trees.

This world was broken. Not in the way Etheirys had been—no grand cosmic unraveling. But in its fear, in its silence, in the way it crushed what it didn’t understand.

Ferelden feared mages.

And that meant they would fear me.

I turned west again.

Toward the lake.

The cold pressed in from all sides beneath the towering pines that bordered Lake Calenhad. I crouched, shrouded in shadow, watching the tall stone tower rise from the fog like a sentinel of forgotten ages. The Circle stood alone here, far from city streets and politics, a place thick with magic and secrets.

The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft ripple of water and the rustling of leaves.

Hours passed with nothing but distant calls of night birds and the occasional flicker of torchlight from the tower’s windows.

Then, from the heavy wooden doors, a lone figure emerged.

He moved with the quiet certainty of one who belonged—clad in dark red robes trimmed with black, the marks of a mage of high rank.

I didn’t know who he was. His face was unfamiliar. But the power radiating from him was undeniable.

His presence shifted the air—calming, probing—until his gaze settled beyond the waterline, toward the forest’s edge where I crouched.

He sensed me.

Before I could flee, the figure stepped from the shadows onto the mossy earth, voice low and measured.

“You’re not like the others.”

I rose slowly, hands empty to show no threat.

He regarded me with eyes sharp and cautious.

“I’ve felt something… different,” he said, “not quite mage, not quite mundane.”

I said nothing.

“Why do you hide?”

“Because I must.”

He studied me, searching for answers I didn’t offer.

“I am the First Enchanter,” he finally said, “one who walks free from the Circle’s walls when duty calls.”

His tone was neither warm nor cold, but it held weight.

“You carry power that does not follow the laws we understand. This place is no refuge for secrets such as yours.”

I met his gaze, keeping my voice steady.

“I seek only rest. No more.”

He regarded me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

“The Templars would demand your surrender if they knew. Their vigilance is unforgiving.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the tower, where I imagined armored figures standing watch, ever ready.

“But I will keep your presence hidden—for now.”

He paused.

“You may stay in the Circle for a day. I will observe and learn what I can. Perhaps there is more to your presence than I yet understand.”

We walked into the ancient stone walls together. Inside, the air smelled of incense and magic, dense and humming with unspoken tension.

Mages passed silently, their eyes wary but not unkind. This was their world—a cage and a sanctuary intertwined.

Irving led me to a small chamber, modest but infused with warmth and enchantments to ease weariness.

“Rest here,” he said. “But trust is fragile. The Templars see everything.”

I nodded, understanding the unspoken warning.

Hours stretched as Irving observed from a distance, asking careful questions about the nature of magic, about what I knew and what I concealed.

I answered sparingly, guarded.

At dawn, Irving approached again.

“You wield something ancient, something beyond the teachings of the Circle.”

His tone was thoughtful, almost reluctant.

“I will learn what I can. But be warned—this world is less forgiving than it seems.”

I was left alone once more.

The silence felt heavier now, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

The chamber Irving had offered was small and plain—stone walls, a narrow cot, and a single window looking out toward the mist-covered lake. It was hardly comfortable, but better than the cold forest.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers brushing the cloth that wrapped Shadowbringer. The greatsword leaned against the wall, taller than me even when resting, its presence impossible to ignore.

No matter how tightly I wrapped it, no one could mistake the weight, the power that hummed beneath the bindings.

I kept it close, a silent companion in this strange place.

Outside the door, footsteps echoed softly—quick glances and whispered voices.

I knew they were watching.

The mages moved through the halls with a strange mix of curiosity and caution, their eyes flicking toward the door as if expecting something.

The Templars patrolled relentlessly—clad in gleaming armor, faces stern and unreadable behind visors. They weren’t warriors of some distant land but guardians, hunters of magic’s dangers. Yet, they too looked at me with unease, lingering longer on the greatsword than on me.

A tall templar captain passed by my door twice, pausing each time. His gaze rested briefly on the wrapped hilt before continuing on.

Sleep was elusive.

Each time I closed my eyes, the weight of their stares pressed against my mind.

The greatsword that lay next to me was more than a weapon—it was a part of me, a tether to a world lost, a promise of strength in the face of the unknown.

When I finally lay down, clutching the sword’s wrapped hilt like a lifeline, the faintest echo of magic pulsed through my fingertips.

Outside, the Circle’s ancient stones whispered with secrets, and the night stretched long.

But for now, I had the weight of Shadowbringer and the cold comfort of silence.

I had spent the night inside the Circle tower, the heavy presence of Shadowbringer close beside me. The silence of the ancient stones pressed down on me, but outside, the uneasy calm was about to break.

At dawn, the distant thunder of hooves stirred the heavy air, echoing sharply against stone walls. Figures approached, armor clinking softly, voices carried on the chill morning breeze.

A group of men and women, their armor worn but well-kept, dismounted in the Circle’s courtyard. Their movements were measured, purposeful. I did not know who they were—this world was still a mystery to me—but there was a sharpness in the way they carried themselves that spoke of danger and authority.

I felt the tension ripple through the air before I saw it in the faces around me.

Mages and templars moved quickly, whispering among themselves, glancing nervously toward the gate.

The tension was palpable.

I kept to the shadows, hands never far from the hilt of my sword, though it remained still, wrapped in cloth. Even so, I could feel the eyes—furtive, wary—tracking its massive shape.

This weapon marked me as something different. Something dangerous.

Irving—the man who had sheltered me here—appeared at my side. His face was calm, but the weight in his eyes betrayed concern.

“They’re here,” he said softly. “The Grey Wardens. They come when the darkness grows.”

I did not ask what darkness. I did not know this world well enough for questions. Instead, I tightened my grip on Shadowbringer, the rough cloth cool beneath my fingers.

“They seek recruits,” Irving added. “Those willing to fight what haunts the wilds.”

The hallways filled with low murmurs, the mingled voices of fear and obligation. The Circle’s mages exchanged worried looks, the templars adjusted their armor, posture stiffening.

I watched as armored figures moved through the courtyard—tall, strong, and disciplined. They carried no weapons I recognized, but their bearing spoke of battle-hardened skill.

Later, in the Circle’s great hall, the tension thickened.

The room was ancient and vast, lit by torches that flickered against stone walls lined with tapestries depicting long-forgotten wars and faith.

A man stepped forward—a leader by his bearing. His voice was low but firm as he addressed the assembly.

“The Blight spreads,” he said. “Darkspawn rise in the wilds. We come seeking those who will stand against the coming storm.”

The mages shifted uneasily, some bristling.

One woman rose, her voice sharp and fearful.

“We are not soldiers.”

Another voice, colder, countered.

“Yet the threat does not wait for our consent.”

I listened carefully, feeling the unfamiliar weight of a world on edge. Every word carried a meaning I could not fully grasp—but the fear was universal.

I remained quiet, watching the faces around me.

The greatsword drew attention without effort. Whispers curled through the crowd like smoke.

“That weapon... it’s no ordinary blade.”

“Who carries such a thing here?”

No one dared question me openly, but the watchful eyes never left.

When the meeting adjourned, I retreated quietly to my chamber.

The corridors still buzzed with tension, the templars patrolling with sharp eyes.

Sleep came fitfully, the sword’s weight a constant presence.

The dawn light was pale and cold as I stepped through the ancient stone gates of the Circle, leaving behind the uneasy sanctuary that had held me just long enough to rest. My breath hung in the air as mist clung to the surrounding trees, the world still waking beneath a leaden sky.

I tightened the cloak around my shoulders, carefully adjusting the wrappings on Shadowbringer. Even here, away from prying eyes, I felt the weight of it—not just in my hands, but in the air itself. The sword drew attention, even when hidden. A silent warning to those who might mistake me for a simple traveler.

The Circle was a cage cloaked in tradition and fear, its walls thick with magic and mistrust. The mages and templars within lived in a delicate balance, but that balance was brittle, shattered easily by rumor and suspicion. I had no place in their world, yet I had nowhere else to go.

Outside, the land stretched wild and untamed. The woods near Lake Calenhad whispered secrets older than any city. I listened, letting the chill wind sharpen my senses as I moved carefully down the trail.

I did not know what awaited me beyond the Circle—only that the shadow of something terrible was growing. The word “Blight” had been spoken with grim weight, a darkness spreading unseen beneath the soil. A threat the people here feared more than any other.

For now, I was a stranger among strangers. A warrior of light, wielding a sword that belonged to another world, walking roads I could barely understand. My magic lay hidden—darkness held in uneasy truce beneath my skin, a secret I could never risk revealing.

Ahead, the path led back toward Denerim, the capital of Ferelden. The heart of power. The place where I might find more answers—or enemies.

Chapter Text

The year that followed was a slow unraveling of certainty.

When I first arrived in Denerim, the world had felt foreign—its laws, its people, even its magic. Now, it felt no less alien, but I’d learned to navigate its currents. I kept my head down, my ears open. I asked questions with silence, and listened when the answers came dressed in rumor and wine.

Information was currency in this world, and I became a quiet collector.

I learned the name Teryn Loghain Mac Tir—once a war hero, now a man many feared more than respected. Whispers in the taverns painted him as both savior and over zealous protector of Ferelden. The king, Cailan Theirin, was young and eager, hungry for glory. And the Wardens, shadowed figures from Ferelden’s past, were stirring again. That alone set nerves on edge.

The Chantry ruled hearts and minds with doctrine and fear. The Templars, their steel-clad hounds, enforced it with veiled eyes and blunt force. I watched their patrols through the city’s markets, saw how mages flinched at their passing. Freedom was measured differently here. Magic, especially.

I studied the Fade from what little I could piece together—dream-realm, spirit-realm, prison, sanctuary. The mages were said to be bound to it, to risk becoming abominations if they strayed. Back home, the soul and the self were woven with aether. Here, they frayed under scrutiny.

Still, I adapted.

I found work when I needed coin—guarding caravans, clearing out roadside bandits, fixing the occasional templar’s “rogue apostate” problem without asking too many questions. They didn’t ask where I came from. They only cared that I could fight—and I could fight.

At night, I’d sit in the back corners of taverns, reading borrowed maps of Thedas, tracing borders I didn’t yet understand. My aether compass was long since useless, and the Linkpearls only buzzed with broken echoes—voices of the Scions fractured by distance, time, or worse.

The Mantle of Azem still shimmered when I passed into places where the Fade ran thin. My Echo stirred in those moments, unsteady. I saw fragments of dreams not my own. Regret. Anger. Hunger. Umbriel’s voice, when it came, was quiet now—watching, patient. This world was raw with unbalanced emotion, and Dynamis bled through the cracks. It fed my soul crystal in ways I hadn’t expected, and I felt the slow evolution of something… dangerous.

And all the while, the land sickened.

News traveled like wildfire—villages swallowed by silence, travelers found torn to pieces, whole forests blackened and empty. The word darkspawn grew heavier with each telling. Farmers sharpened their pitchforks like weapons. Nobles reinforced their walls and prayed to the Maker. The Blight, once a distant nightmare out of history books and half-remembered horror stories, now crept closer with each passing month.

A storm was coming. I could feel it—not in the wind or the ground, but in the weight behind every whisper.

And I’d seen enough storms to know when the sky was lying.

Ferelden was a land steeped in fear—fear of the darkspawn, of magic, and of the unknown. I learned quickly to mask the power thrumming beneath my skin. To keep my true nature hidden even as I sensed the pulse of the Fade bleeding into reality around me.

The Circle had offered only fragile refuge, and the Wardens’ arrival had only stoked tensions. Now, the lines between friend and foe blurred beneath the ever-growing shadow.

Denerim was a web of politics, of whispered alliances and secret betrayals. Here, I would have to walk carefully, learning the ways of this world—its dangers, its customs—while guarding my own.

The coming Blight was not just a plague of flesh and blood; it was a corruption of the soul, a test of faith and will.

And I would need all my strength to face it.

The city of Denerim sprawled beneath a heavy sky, its streets alive with the mingled scents of smoke, fresh bread, and the ever-present dust of travel. A year had passed since I first arrived in this world, since I last crossed paths with Arl Eamon of Redcliffe in this same city. The memory lingered faintly, a single thread of familiarity in a land otherwise strange and uncertain.

Now, the weight of recent news pressed heavily on the city’s breath.

Whispers clung to the taverns and marketplaces, carried in cautious murmurs beneath the everyday noise. They spoke of Highever—once a proud seat of power, home to the noble Cousland family, one of the oldest and most respected in all Ferelden.

The rumors told of slaughter.

Teryn Bryce Cousland, the lord of Highever, a man known for his steadfastness and honor, was dead. Along with him, his wife, their children, and even a grandson—all wiped out in a sudden, brutal attack.

Details were scarce and shrouded in fear.

No one knew who struck or why, and the shadows of suspicion stretched wide.

I lingered near a fountain in the city’s square, overhearing an elderly man speaking in hushed tones to a small gathering.

“They say the entire family was lost that night. Lord Bryce, his wife, the children… even the boy, the grandson Oren. None survived.”

His voice trembled with the weight of the news.

“Some claim it was darkspawn, others whisper darker things—men betraying men.”

I nodded silently, understanding too well the bitter sting of betrayal—even if the full truth lay hidden.

The city’s noble families were wrapped in intrigue and mistrust, and the political game was far from kind.

Later, in a quiet corner of a dim tavern, I heard more whispered speculation.

The barkeep, a woman hardened by years of hardship, leaned close to a cloaked stranger.

“The Couslands’ fall was swift and absolute. No one saw it coming.”

The stranger’s eyes gleamed in the firelight.

“Darkspawn activity grows. The Blight spreads. The land is turning against us.”

The word “Blight” struck a chord deep inside me—a creeping corruption that threatened to consume everything. 

That night, standing on the walls overlooking Denerim, I watched the city’s flickering lights struggle against the darkness.

A year of hiding, watching, learning.

A warrior out of time, armed with a sword born of another world.

The coming storm would not care who I was or where I came from.

It would take all who stood in its path.

And I would have to decide where I belonged.

The murmurs began quietly—whispers in the taverns of Denerim, travelers’ tales on dusty roads. A great battle was brewing in the south, far beyond the city walls, in the wild and tangled Korcari Wilds.

Soldiers of Ferelden and Grey Wardens alike were gathering there, preparing to meet the rising tide of the Blight head-on.

The Blight. The word resonated through my mind like a tolling bell—a spreading darkness consuming everything, a corruption not just of flesh but of spirit and soil.

I’d watched Ferelden’s fear grow over the past year, but now the threat was undeniable.

I stood in the shadowed streets, eyes scanning the crowds as merchants hurried to finish their business, soldiers marched through town, their armor clinking with purpose.

Whispers of King Cailan Theirin’s name passed my ears—Ferelden’s young monarch, determined to lead his kingdom through the storm.

I heard of Loghain Mac Tir, the legendary commander of the king’s armies, known as the Hero of River Dane, whose tactical brilliance and fierce loyalty had earned him both respect and wary eyes.

And above all, the name Duncan—the Warden-Commander of Ferelden—came up often, tied to the Grey Wardens’ desperate struggle against the darkspawn.

My fingers brushed the hilt of Shadowbringer beneath my cloak. I had hidden my magic, but my blade—more than a weapon—marked me as different.

If I was to survive in this land, to shape its fate as I had once shaped my own world’s, I could not stand on the sidelines.

I would go to Korcari Wilds.

I would fight.

The journey was long and harsh, the road winding through dense forests and rolling hills. The air grew heavy with the scent of earth and decay, a reminder of the Blight’s slow poison seeping through the land.

At inns along the way, I heard stories of soldiers training relentlessly, Grey Wardens arriving in small groups, faces hardened by battles fought in shadows.

Each step pulled me closer to the heart of Ferelden’s mounting storm.

I kept my distance, careful not to reveal too much about myself or the strange power simmering beneath my skin. The world here was unforgiving to those who drew attention.

But I was ready.

The edge of the Korcari Wilds loomed before me, thick woods tangled with underbrush and ancient trees, shadows shifting with unseen movement.

Campfires dotted the clearing, surrounded by soldiers sharpening weapons and sharing quiet moments before the coming battle.

Among them moved men and women cloaked in dark, worn leather—the Grey Wardens.

It was there, on the edge of the encampment overlooking Ostagar, that I saw him.

A tall man with dark skin and hair like black stone, streaked lightly with age. His eyes—amber and unblinking—carried the weight of someone who had seen too many battles end in silence. He moved with calm certainty, every step measured, every gesture sparing. Not the stiff bearing of a noble or the swagger of a soldier, but the presence of someone used to command. Someone used to loss.

Beside him walked a younger man—blond-haired, around his early twenties, eyes brown and thoughtful beneath a furrowed brow. He wore armor that didn’t quite sit right, like he was still growing into it, but there was strength in his stride and purpose behind the tension in his shoulders. He scanned the camp constantly, his gaze always moving—curious, but wary. The kind of wariness that comes from caring too much.

A third figure lingered a few steps behind them. Dark brown short hair, travel-worn armor that bore no sigil I recognized, and a longsword at his back that looked far too clean to have been idle. His eyes—icy blue, nearly the same shade as my own—watched everything, quiet and calculating. He didn’t speak, didn’t move much, but something about him stood out. He had the look of someone who had lost everything and kept walking anyway.

The three of them spoke briefly with a Kingsguard at the camp’s edge.

Something was happening here. I could feel it beneath my skin—the stirring of old magic, and the shadow of something darker on the horizon.

The man with the amber eyes looked up, scanning the camp.

His gaze passed over me—and lingered.

Not in challenge. Not in suspicion.

Recognition.

I straightened instinctively. For a moment, it felt as if the air between us shifted. Heavy. Measured.

Then he turned back to his companions, and the moment passed.

But I knew that look.

I’d worn it before—on battlefields far from this world, searching for kindred spirits who might survive the storm ahead.

Whoever they were, they weren’t just travelers.

And whatever was coming… they knew it had already begun.

The camp buzzed with tension and resolve.

The man with the amber eyes approached.

His steps were quiet for someone so heavily armored, and when he stopped in front of me, I felt the air shift again—like the stillness before a blade is drawn. Up close, he was taller than I expected, his expression unreadable beneath the weight he carried in his posture. He studied me—like a soldier gauging another on the battlefield, not for threat, but for worth.

“You’re not from here,” he said at last. His voice was deep, steady. Not unkind, but sharpened with experience. “You carry yourself like a warrior, but not like one of Ferelden’s.”

I met his gaze, holding it. “I’m not,” I admitted. “My name is Zephyr Arcadin. I came from… far away. Too far to matter now.”

He didn’t flinch at the ambiguity. Instead, he nodded, as if he already knew I wouldn’t answer plainly.

“I’m Duncan,” he said, offering his name with the same directness. “Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. And right now, we could use every blade willing to stand against the Blight. Whatever else you are… you seem like the kind of man who doesn’t run.”

“I don’t,” I said. “If there’s a fight worth having, I’ll stand for it.”

He gave a short nod of approval. “Good. You’ll need that conviction soon.”

As we spoke, I caught movement in the corner of my eye—an older woman in elegant robes weaving calmly between soldiers and mages, checking on the wounded with the gentleness of a practiced hand. Her white hair was tied back, and her presence felt… grounded. Solid. Like stone beneath a storm.

“That’s Wynne,” Duncan said, following my gaze. “Senior enchanter from the Circle of Magi. One of the few who volunteered to come south. The Templars don’t trust her, but she’s proven herself more times than I can count.”

I watched her a moment longer, noting the way others deferred to her—not out of fear, but respect. There was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself, a stillness I recognized from healers on battlefields.

A swell of cheers rose in the distance, drawing our attention to a cluster of soldiers near the edge of the camp. A man in polished golden armor stood among them, smiling, his every gesture theatrical and warm. His blond hair caught the afternoon sun like a banner, and his voice rang clear as he rallied his troops with practiced flair.

“King Cailan,” Duncan murmured, his tone carefully neutral. “He’s young, idealistic. Wants to make his mark on history—sees this Blight as a chance to become another Maric or Calenhad. A noble heart… though sometimes I worry it beats too loudly.”

Cailan certainly looked like the stories wanted him to be. Regal. Charismatic. But I’d seen enough war to know that a bright smile didn’t hold a shield.

“And him,” Duncan said more quietly, nodding toward another figure standing just beyond the king’s entourage, speaking with a handful of veteran officers.

The man had the presence of a fortress—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and lined with years of battle. His expression was stern, eyes constantly moving, measuring everything around him like a man who trusted no one, not even the wind.

“Loghain Mac Tir,” Duncan said. “Hero of River Dane and the rebellion. The king’s father-in-law. And the one actually holding the army together. Cailan may command with speeches, but Loghain leads with results. He’s ruthless—but Ferelden wouldn’t be free without him.”

The way Duncan spoke made it clear: Loghain was respected, but not trusted by all.

I took it all in silently—names, faces, roles. This wasn’t just a camp. It was a storm gathering at the edge of a burning world. And I’d walked right into its heart.

Duncan looked at me once more. “I don’t know what your past holds, Zephyr Arcadin. But if you mean to stand with us… you’ll need to prove yourself."

I nodded once.

The camp was alive with a restless energy as I followed Duncan through the muddy paths toward the fortress looming ahead—Ostagar. Its stone walls rose jagged against the sky, a grim bastion against the creeping Blight.

Duncan walked with the steady confidence of a man accustomed to command, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He glanced at me once or twice but said little, as if weighing my worth silently.

“The fort’s name is Ostagar,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “One of the few strongholds between the Korcari Wilds and the southern heartlands. We hold this ground to protect Ferelden’s future.”

Inside the fortress, the murmur of soldiers mingled with the clash of steel and the scent of smoke. Duncan led me through winding corridors until we reached a hall where banners fluttered:the Theirin coat of arms consists of two mabari rampant around the shield, the symbol of Ferelden, and the blazing sun of the Chantry.

There, standing tall and regal, was King Cailan Theirin. His youthful face was marked by determination and a flicker of hope that burned brightly despite the dark times.

Behind him stood a figure of contrasting presence—Loghain Mac Tir. The man’s eyes were cold, calculating, and carried the weight of countless battles. He exuded an aura of caution bordering on suspicion.

Duncan gestured toward me.

“Your Majesty, I bring you a man who wishes to offer his aid against the Blight.”

The King’s gaze fell on me, sharp and curious. He didn’t speak immediately, but his eyes flickered to the greatsword concealed beneath my cloak. Though he could not see the full blade, the outline alone made him lean forward with interest.

“I am Zephyr Arcadin,” I said, voice steady despite the pounding in my chest. “I seek to fight alongside Ferelden’s defenders.”

Cailan’s expression brightened.

“A warrior’s spirit,” he said approvingly. “We need strength—especially now.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as if trying to see beyond the cloth wrapping.

“This sword of yours… it speaks of power, and not the kind easily wielded by common men.”

I said nothing, letting the mystery stand. Some things were better left unspoken.

Loghain’s eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade.

“Power alone is no guarantee of loyalty—or of victory. We cannot afford to trust easily, not in these times.”

The tension thickened. Cailan met Loghain’s gaze evenly.

“Yet we cannot turn away those willing to stand with us. Especially those who carry such weapons.”

Loghain’s jaw tightened.

“The Blight brings more than monsters. It brings treachery.”

I stood quietly, feeling the weight of their scrutiny. Here, in this fortress on the edge of darkness, trust was a fragile thing, earned only through blood and steel.

Duncan stepped forward.

“Let him prove himself. The battle ahead will decide what kind of ally he truly is.”

The King nodded, a spark of determination lighting his features.

“Very well. Zephyr Arcadin, you will fight with us. Prepare yourself. The coming days will test all of Ferelden.”

I bowed slightly, the greatsword heavy but steady at my back.

Duncan led me away from the bustle of the main encampment, past the rows of tents and flickering torches, toward a quieter clearing where the sound of clashing steel rang out steady and sharp.

Two younger men sparred in the fading light, their blades moving fast, their footwork deliberate but imperfect. One fought with brute strength, pressing forward with heavy swings and grit. The other moved like a shadow—more disciplined, quicker on his feet, every step calculated.

Duncan stopped beside me, arms crossed as he watched them.

“That one,” he said, nodding toward the blond youth, “is Alistair. One of our newer recruits. Half-trained Templar before I pulled him into the Wardens.”

Alistair’s blade caught his opponent’s and twisted hard, forcing a stumble. His face was taut with focus, jaw clenched—not anger, but effort. He was broad-shouldered, well-built, maybe a few years younger than me. But there was still something raw in him, something unsettled. Like a blade not yet fully tempered.

“Strong,” I murmured.

“Stronger than he knows,” Duncan replied, his voice low, thoughtful. “He hides it behind sarcasm and grumbling, but he’s got heart. And heart matters more than blood or title.”

My gaze shifted to the second man—the one recovering his footing with a quiet roll of his shoulder. He was leaner, darker-haired, and silent. His strikes were tighter, more refined. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Duncan’s tone shifted subtly as he gestured toward him. “And that is Aedan Cousland.”

The name stopped me cold.

Cousland.

The air seemed heavier for a moment.

I looked again—really looked. The same name I’d heard whispered in Denerim’s darker corners. A noble line gutted in a single night. The Teryn of Highever and his wife, murdered. Their children—their whole family—slaughtered in their sleep. That was the story. A betrayal from within. Nothing left behind but ashes and scandal.

But here, standing in front of me, was someone who bore that name. No sigils. No entourage. Just steel and silence and a survivor’s gaze.

I said nothing, but my thoughts spiraled. If he was truly a Cousland… what had he lost? What had he endured to come this far?

Duncan watched me quietly, as if he saw the recognition in my expression.

“He’s earned his place here,” he said after a pause. “More than most.”

The sparring ended with a final clang of steel. Alistair stumbled back, winded, and Aedan gave a slight nod—acknowledgment, not victory. No words passed between them. Just the quiet camaraderie of two men forged in the same fire.

I kept my expression neutral, but inside, questions flickered like coals.

Who had saved him? Why was his name still spoken in dread and disbelief across Ferelden if he stood here, breathing and armed?

And more than that… what kind of man rises from the ruin of a noble house only to walk into a war no one wants to fight?

I didn’t have answers.

But I understood the silence in his eyes all too well.

Duncan turned to me, a faint smile softening the ever-present sternness in his expression.

“If you’re willing, Zephyr,” he said, tone calm but purposeful, “I’d propose a sparring match. You and these two. It’s not just about testing strength—it's a chance to see how you work together, how you move. And perhaps,” he added, glancing sidelong at the others, “teach these men a thing or two.”

I looked from him to the two recruits—Alistair still catching his breath, Aedan adjusting his stance without a word—and felt the weight of the request settle over me. Not the fight itself. That, I could handle. But what it meant to step into a circle here, in this world not my own.

My hand drifted to the hilt slung over my shoulder, fingers brushing the coarse wrapping of Shadowbringer. The sword pulsed faintly beneath my touch—not with magic, but memory. It was more than steel. More than a weapon. It was a legacy, a burden, a truth.

To draw it here, among strangers, in a sparring match?

No.

With slow, deliberate movement, I reached over my shoulder and drew the obsidian blade free, the metal singing softly in the air. Eyes followed it—Alistair’s brow lifted slightly, Aedan’s gaze sharpened in subtle recognition. I turned it over in my hands, then stepped toward the edge of the training ring and leaned it gently against the wooden railing.

“This,” I said quietly, my voice low but steady, “is not the time for such a weapon.”

Duncan gave a single approving nod, saying nothing. He moved to a nearby rack and selected a practice blade—a plain straight sword, well-used but clean, the leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from countless hands. He offered it to me hilt-first.

I took it without hesitation. Lighter than what I was used to. More balanced. Less familiar, but still enough.

I gave it a single test swing, feeling the way it moved through the air. It lacked the weight and resonance of Shadowbringer, but it would serve. I wasn’t here to dominate—I was here to understand.

Across from me, Alistair rolled out his shoulders and gave a faint grin. “Well, this should be interesting.”

Aedan said nothing. He merely raised his sword and waited.

I stepped into the circle, the dirt beneath my boots soft but firm, the fading light casting long shadows across the ground. The blade rested easily in my hand, but my focus sharpened like a whetstone over steel.

Not just to prove myself.

But to see what they were made of.

The training grounds quieted around us, the usual chatter and clang of steel fading into the background as a handful of soldiers paused to watch. Duncan stood nearby, arms crossed, observant but silent.

The three of us stepped into the open ring—rough earth beneath our boots, the distant sounds of the Ostagar camps fading behind the tension that now drew taut between us like a bowstring.

Alistair was the first to move, predictably. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, sword held in a solid guard, eyes scanning between me and Aedan. There was eagerness in him—not recklessness, but a youthful drive to prove. His form was Templar-trained: a sturdy stance, angled blocks, broad sweeps meant to disarm or knock back rather than maim.

Aedan, by contrast, held back. His grip was lighter, more fluid. He didn’t telegraph his intentions—his feet shifted with quiet grace, shoulders relaxed, sword poised not for power but precision. He watched everything—me especially—with calculating coolness. A man who had survived betrayal and ruin, and turned it into discipline.

And I? I simply waited.

We circled slowly, the dirt beneath us kicking up with each pivot. My borrowed straight sword felt light in my hand compared to Shadowbringer, and yet it moved well. Clean. Sharp. It would do.

Then Alistair struck first.

A bold diagonal slash—too wide, too heavy. Easy to read. I stepped aside, catching his blade with mine and sliding it harmlessly away in a shower of sparks. He stumbled slightly from the overcommitment, but recovered fast.

“Not bad,” I murmured. “But don’t lead with your shoulder.”

He blinked, surprised I’d spoken at all.

Aedan took that moment to move. His strike was faster—low, aiming for my leg. I parried it sharply, the blow sending a jolt up my arm. Stronger than I’d expected. He followed with a rising slash toward my side. I twisted my body just enough to avoid it, using the back of my armguard to redirect the blade.

This wasn’t a duel—it was a dance.

And deep within me, the magic stirred.

That quiet, thrumming pull—Dynamis, the will-fueled force that slept beneath my skin. It hummed through my limbs, coaxed by adrenaline, shadow and light whispering together at the edges of control. It ached to be released, to answer. But I held it back. This was not that kind of fight.

I tightened my grip, grounding myself in the moment.

Alistair came again, more cautious now, trying to flank me as Aedan pressed forward. They were coordinating without speaking—sloppy, but improving. Their blades came at different heights—Aedan high, Alistair low. I pivoted, letting both strikes glance past me, then twisted sharply and delivered a controlled push-kick to Alistair’s midsection. He staggered backward, winded but grinning.

“You fight like a ghost,” he huffed.

I gave a faint shrug.

Aedan didn’t wait. He advanced, faster now, testing me with a flurry of strikes that came with a rhythm—left shoulder, right hip, neck. He was looking for patterns, and he’d find none. I parried each strike, barely moving my feet, letting his blade clash against mine in sparks and force. I stepped in close, too close for his sword, and locked his guard with mine.

Our eyes met—his ice blue, so close to my own.

“You fight to control,” he said quietly. “Not to win.”

I broke the lock with a swift shove and stepped back, giving him space.

We reset.

Then, almost simultaneously, both men came at me.

Alistair roared, feinting high, while Aedan circled around, blades flashing in the late light. I spun my blade low to deflect Alistair’s swing, ducked Aedan’s stab, and rolled forward between them, kicking up dirt as I came to my feet behind them.

I was breathing harder now—not from strain, but from the need to hold back. Every strike I landed was measured. Every movement restrained. If I moved the way I was trained, if I let the magic bleed into my blade even slightly, this would be over in seconds. But that wasn’t the point.

This was learning—for them, and for me.

Alistair swung again, and this time I let him connect. The flat of his blade struck my vambrace with a heavy clang. He looked surprised.

“You let me hit you?”

“You earned it,” I said simply.

He blinked. “Thanks, I think?”

Aedan didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the moment, striking at my exposed side—but I turned and caught his blade with a sharp upward block, locking us again.

“You’re reading me too much,” I told him.

He didn’t respond, but this time, his eyes narrowed slightly with amusement. Noted.

The next exchange was fast, almost brutal. Our blades met again and again, the ring of steel cutting through the air as the watching soldiers murmured among themselves. I flowed between them, redirecting Alistair’s momentum into Aedan’s path, sweeping their legs when they stepped too close, giving just enough pressure to keep them on edge.

But never too much.

Then finally, as the sun dipped just enough to cast long shadows over the training ground, I stepped back.

Breath steady. Sword still.

Alistair dropped to one knee, sweat dripping from his brow. Aedan stood straight but breathing heavily, his blade lowered, his gaze thoughtful.

“That…” Alistair said between gasps, “was humbling.”

“You’re strong,” I replied, wiping my brow with my forearm. “You just haven’t figured out how to use it yet.”

Aedan sheathed his blade slowly. “And you fight like a man who’s seen too much… but still chooses restraint. That’s rare.”

I didn’t answer.

From the edge of the ring, Duncan clapped once—slow, approving.

“Well,” he said, stepping forward. “That’ll do.”

As the match drew to a close, Duncan nodded approvingly.

“You’ve done well, both of you. And you, Zephyr… your restraint speaks volumes.”

I inclined my head in acknowledgment.

Though my magic had threatened to surface, I had kept it hidden. For now.

After sparring match Duncan asked me to follow him.

The great hall of Ostagar was thick with the scent of burning torches and polished wood, the walls echoing with hushed voices and the clink of armor. Long tables bore maps, parchments, and cups half-filled with wine and water, testament to the long hours spent in planning and counsel.

I stood quietly near the back, hands folded behind my cloak, my gaze steady as the key figures gathered at the head of the hall.

King Cailan Theirin sat on a carved wooden throne, youthful but resolute, eyes burning with the fierce hope of a ruler who believed in the future even as darkness pressed closer. Beside him, a man of imposing stature and cold precision—Loghain Mac Tir, commander of Ferelden’s armies, the Hero of River Dane, watched everyone with a calculating gaze.

Duncan, the Warden-Commander, stood nearby, his presence commanding but measured. And now, here I was—Zephyr Arcadin—still new, still an unknown, a warrior from another world stepping into a war not my own.

Cailan spoke first, his voice clear and strong.

“The Blight spreads faster than we imagined. The darkspawn grow bolder, their numbers swelling. Our scouts have confirmed their advance through the Korcari Wilds. We must hold this line.”

He pointed at the sprawling map laid across the table, fingers tracing the dense forests southward.

“We stand between them and the heart of Ferelden. Ostagar is the last barrier.”

Loghain’s voice cut in, sharp and measured.

“The enemy is cunning, and our forces are stretched thin. We must be prepared for betrayal as well as battle. There are those in Ferelden who would see us fall from within.”

His eyes flicked toward me briefly, assessing.

“We cannot afford to trust blindly, especially with those we do not know.”

I felt the weight of his words but remained silent, knowing that trust was a currency hard-earned here.

Duncan stepped forward, his tone steady.

“Zephyr Arcadin has proven himself in training. His skill with the sword is unmatched, and his knowledge of warfare... unusual for someone new to our land.”

He glanced at me.

“His aid could tip the scales in our favor.”

Cailan’s expression brightened, hope rekindled.

“Then we shall welcome him to our ranks.”

He turned to the others.

“Wynne has returned from the Circle. Her wisdom will guide us in matters of magic, which we will need against these creatures.”

Loghain’s lips tightened.

“Magic is a double-edged sword. We must control it carefully.”

The discussion continued—strategy, supplies, troop morale. The weight of impending war hung heavy.

As they debated, I studied each man and woman present—their strengths, their fears.

A year ago, I was a stranger here. Now, I stood among those who would shape this world’s fate.

The council chamber had mostly emptied, the scent of parchment, sweat, and burning oil lingering in the air like the aftermath of a storm. Only a handful remained—Duncan, King Cailan, Loghain, a few senior captains… and me.

Maps lay scattered across the war table, red and black markers showing where the darkspawn forces had clustered near Ostagar’s outskirts. Their movement was no longer guesswork—it was a wave, surging upward from the Korcari Wilds.

The room buzzed with unease, but a fire burned in my chest. Not fear.

Purpose.

I stepped forward, the sound of my armored boots drawing more attention than I intended. Duncan glanced up, his expression tired, but attentive. Loghain’s eyes narrowed the moment I moved.

“I want to be placed deep in the fight,” I said, voice even but firm. “Where the enemy is thickest.”

The room fell still. Cailan paused mid-thought, and Duncan's brow furrowed.

“That’s a dangerous request,” he said carefully. “The taint in the darkspawn’s presence isn’t just physical. It seeps into a man’s mind, his spirit. Reckless bravery only feeds the enemy.”

“It’s not recklessness,” I replied, locking eyes with him. “It’s where I belong.”

I let the silence stretch, the tension rise like a held breath. Then I added, quieter, but with more heat:

“I’ve fought monsters, things that didn’t bleed right or die easy. I’ve stood where the ground burned beneath my feet and held the line when no one else could. The chaos of the front is where I find clarity. I don’t run from it—I need it.”

Duncan studied me, the edge of concern softening into contemplation.

But Loghain stepped forward, cutting between us like a blade.

“And yet we know nothing about you,” he said coldly. “You carry a blade like no other, wear armor that shines with foreign enchantments, and no one can name your homeland.”

His sharp gaze bored into me, hard as steel.

“I won’t risk the vanguard on a warrior whose loyalty is unproven. We already stand on the edge of disaster—I’ll not tip us over with superstition and shadow.”

I met his stare without blinking.

“I didn’t come this far to betray anyone. I came to fight.”

“Words are cheap in wartime,” Loghain replied darkly. “Especially from strangers.”

King Cailan rose before Duncan could speak, brushing aside his fur-lined cloak with dramatic flair.

“We don’t have the luxury to doubt every hand offered to us,” he said, voice bold and sure. “The Blight grows stronger every day. If Zephyr Arcadin wishes to stand where it’s bloodiest, I won’t deny him that right.”

He turned to face Duncan directly, then glanced at Loghain with a measure of challenge in his expression.

“We need more than swords—we need conviction. And I’ve seen enough to believe Zephyr has it.”

Duncan hesitated. For all his caution, I could see the gears turning behind his amber eyes. He knew men. He knew war. And he was weighing the risks against the shape of the battle ahead.

At last, he gave a slow nod.

“Very well,” he said, not without reservation. “Zephyr Arcadin will join the vanguard.”

Loghain said nothing, but his silence was colder than words.

I simply inclined my head, hiding the flicker of anticipation that stirred deep within me. This was no mere position—it was a promise.

A place at the heart of the storm.

Where blades screamed and monsters roared and purpose drowned out doubt.

Where I fought best.

Chapter Text

The sky over Ostagar was ablaze with orange fire as dawn broke, bleeding light over a battlefield already stained with too much blood. The chill of morning clung to steel and skin, but it couldn’t smother the heat rising from thousands of armored bodies packed shoulder to shoulder—each man and woman gripping their weapon like a lifeline, eyes fixed on the tree line to the south.

They all knew what was coming.

So did I.

I stood near the center of the forward line, where the ground bore the scars of endless footfall and siege—mud churned to mire, dried blood crusted into the earth. The king’s banners flapped behind me, but I needed no symbols to ground me.

I needed only the weight at my back.

Shadowbringer.

I drew it slowly, reverently. The obsidian blade groaned as it left its sheath, runes flickering with Light and Darkness both, as if sensing the slaughter to come. The soldiers nearest to me—Ferelden footmen, mostly—glanced sideways, instinctively stepping back. One muttered a prayer under his breath. Another crossed himself.

Let them.

The blade was massive, jagged and cruel in design—but in my hands, it moved like breath.

The Echo stirred faintly, letting me feel what others felt. Fear. Resolve. Dread so thick it clung to skin like sweat. I inhaled deeply.

This was clarity.

I was home.

A distant horn sounded, and the forest ahead seemed to breathe. Then came the howls—deep and guttural, like stone being ground beneath iron—and the trees split open with motion.

Darkspawn.

They surged from the treeline in droves—Genlocks leading the charge, hunched and broad with their thick shields and blunt axes. Behind them came the shrieking Hurlocks, leaner and more savage, howling as they charged with serrated blades. Further back, ogres bellowed, massive and bestial, their clubs fashioned from torn siege weapons and tree trunks. Arrows began to darken the sky.

“Hold!” shouted a nearby sergeant.

But I didn’t wait for the order.

With a calm breath, I stepped forward—and then I ran.

The impact came fast.

The first Genlock didn’t even see it. Shadowbringer cleaved through him in a single, brutal arc, splitting his shield and chestplate as if he were made of wet paper. I turned the swing mid-motion, using the sword’s momentum to batter a second one to the ground. I crushed his skull with the heel of my boot before the next came.

They swarmed me—three, then five, then more. I met them all.

Shadowbringer blurred in my grip, a black storm veined with pale aetherlight. I twisted, carving a wide arc that split through bone and armor alike. Dark blood sprayed in great fans across the battlefield. My arms moved on instinct—block, slash, riposte, crush. A Hurlock lunged with a heavy mace—I sidestepped and drove the pommel of my sword into its jaw, caving it inward before spinning into a brutal two-handed slash that bisected the next one clean at the waist.

I roared as I fought, not in pain or anger—but joy.

This was battle.

Raw. Honest. Unforgiving.

I lost myself in it.

A shriek to my left—an Emissary. One of their foul mages, its misshapen hand glowing with crackling green light. The spell flew wide as I surged forward, ignoring the heat across my shoulder. I closed the gap in a blink, Shadowbringer flashing upward in a rising arc that tore through the Emissary’s staff, arm, and chest in a single blow. It fell with a gurgle, green ichor spilling like bile into the mud.

But still they came.

The darkspawn were endless.

At some point I stopped counting kills.

I tore through their lines like a living catastrophe—my greatsword howling, my voice rising with it. I crushed skulls under my gauntlets, cracked bones with my knees, hurled bodies aside like ragdolls when they dared to grab hold of me. I felt the ground tremble and turned just in time to see the ogre charging.

It was monstrous—nearly twice my height, eyes wild with bloodlust. It roared, swinging a tree-sized club straight at me.

I planted my feet and caught the blow on Shadowbringer’s flat side, my legs skidding several feet back in the mud. The impact rocked through me—but I grinned.

“Good,” I muttered. “Let’s dance.”

I lunged under its next swing, carving a long gash across its thigh. It howled and staggered—I followed with a brutal overhead strike, splitting its forearm as it tried to block. Then I leapt, bringing the sword down with all my weight, driving the blade straight into its skull.

It collapsed like a mountain falling.

I landed hard on my feet beside it, breath heavy, blood running down my arms—not mine.

Around me, the Ferelden line was wavering. Screams rang out. Cries for healers. Orders shouted to fall back. I saw a Warden fall under a swarm of shrieks.

But I didn’t falter.

I became the storm.

I pushed forward, every step another strike, every breath another body falling. My armor—once dark—was slick with gore. The Soul Resonator Pendant at my neck flared, warning me of how close I stood to losing myself to Umbriel’s surges. But I didn’t care.

The longer I fought, the more alive I felt.

The light of Azem, buried deep in my soul, pulsed in rhythm with Shadowbringer’s darkness, a strange harmony that made me more. Not just a man with a sword.

Something else.

The Blight was a tide.

But I was a wall.

And for now, that was enough.

But even walls fall, in time.

Darkness pressed in like a living thing as Aedan Cousland and Alistair pressed forward through the wilds, blades drawn, breath ragged. The Korcari Wilds, thick with swamp mist and the stench of death, stretched out behind them like the gullet of some ancient beast. Their armor was slick with darkspawn blood, every joint aching, every step heavier than the last.

The battlefield behind them roared with chaos. Ostagar was in flames—screams rising over the clash of steel, the thunder of war drums, and the monstrous howls of the Blight.

Their mission was clear: reach the Tower of Ishal and light the beacon. A single fire, and everything could change. The hope was that it would signal Teyrn Loghain to bring the rest of Ferelden’s forces crashing down into the darkspawn horde like a hammer.

That hope clung to them like a dying breath.

“Keep moving!” Alistair barked, shoving past a tangle of underbrush as the stone silhouette of the tower loomed ahead, tall and jagged like a broken sword thrust into the earth.

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Aedan replied, tone grim, his blade dripping with blood. “We’re almost there.”

But the darkspawn weren’t finished with them.

The trees erupted with motion—howls, clattering armor, a foul stench. Genlocks burst from the underbrush, axes swinging. Behind them came Hurlocks, taller and more brutal, their blades jagged with rot, howling as they surged forward.

The two Wardens met them head-on.

Aedan ducked low, parrying a blow meant to sever his skull, then riposted with a vicious upward slash that opened the creature’s belly in a spray of black blood. Alistair slammed his shield into another, knocking it back with a wet crunch before driving his longsword through its chest with a roar.

They fought like men possessed—not for glory, but survival.

A Hurlock Alpha charged from the trees, bellowing as it raised a heavy maul. Alistair moved to intercept, shield raised, but the force of the blow knocked him clean off his feet. Aedan darted in, striking the Alpha’s side with all his strength—his blade bit deep, but not deep enough. The Alpha roared and backhanded him into a tree, the breath crushed from his lungs.

But he rose. They both did.

Bruised, bloodied, they kept fighting.

And then, suddenly, the trees cleared—and the Tower of Ishal stood before them.

Its ancient stones were cracked and moss-covered, but it still stood tall and defiant against the ruin around it. The doors had been forced open, blood smeared along the entry stones. The garrison stationed there had been overwhelmed—corpses littered the threshold—but the beacon platform above might still be intact.

“No time,” Alistair said between gasps, pushing Aedan forward. “We light it, or they die for nothing.”

They plunged into the tower.

Inside, it was worse.

The stairwells were narrow, winding, and choked with bodies—both human and darkspawn. Fires flickered in the sconces, casting jagged shadows along the stone. The air was thick with blood and rot. And the enemy was everywhere.

The pair cut their way through room after room. Archers fired from alcoves, Emissaries flung acidic fire from balconies. Aedan hurled a broken shield at one, knocking it into the stairwell below. Alistair stormed through a locked door with his shoulder and met three more Genlocks in close quarters.

Swords flashed. Blood sprayed the walls. The groan of the tower’s ancient frame echoed with each death.

Aedan fought on instinct—parry, twist, strike. A neck opened like parchment beneath his blade. A mage’s head cracked against the wall with a boot to the jaw. He screamed once in rage and kept climbing.

And then—at last—the beacon room.

The top of the tower opened to the cold morning sky. Wind howled through the broken battlements. The brazier stood in the center, piled with kindling, untouched.

Alistair stumbled to it, tearing a torch from the wall sconce.

“Hurry,” Aedan muttered, watching the stairs.

Alistair didn’t hesitate. He lit the flame, and the beacon roared to life—a brilliant pillar of orange fire, its light piercing the gloom like a clarion call.

Far below, the battlefield writhed. The king’s banners held fast, still resisting the Blight. The darkspawn forces were immense—but they were holding. For now.

And beyond that, across the bridge—

They saw them.

Loghain’s forces.

Thousands of men in formation. Horses restless. Banners fluttering.

Watching.

Waiting.

“Any moment now…” Alistair breathed.

But no horn sounded.

No charge came.

Instead, the lines began to… withdraw.

Aedan took a step forward, eyes narrowing. “No…”

The troops were turning around.

Not regrouping.

Retreating.

“Is he—he’s leaving?” Alistair said, voice breaking into disbelief. “He saw the signal. We lit the damn fire!”

Aedan said nothing, his grip tightening around his sword. His face was pale. Empty.

They stood in silence for three seconds.

Then the tower shook.

Darkspawn surged up the stairs.

The last defense had collapsed. They’d been found.

Dozens poured into the room—blades, claws, shrieks—a tidal wave of rot and fury.

Aedan and Alistair turned, shoulder to shoulder, blades flashing, teeth clenched.

They fought like men with nothing left to lose.

Blood sprayed. Screams echoed. The fire still burned behind them—their final act of defiance.

But there were too many.

A moment of pain. Of darkness.

Then nothing.

And far below, Loghain rode north.

As the battle dragged on, I felt the rhythm of war shift—subtle at first. The synchronized clash of metal faltered. The shield wall to my left began to break down, not from the enemy’s pressure, but from hesitation. Confusion rippled through the ranks like a shiver in the spine.

Then came the movement.

I caught it out of the corner of my eye—soldiers in the far lines pulling back, not retreating under duress, but withdrawing in formation. Banners were being lowered. Cavalry lines broke away, galloping toward the bridge rather than toward the fight.

A terrible cold settled into my gut.

I turned in time to see him—Loghain Mac Tir, his imposing form unmistakable even from a distance, seated atop his warhorse, golden armor glinting in the dawn light. He sat still for a moment, watching the field through narrowed eyes. Then, with one gesture—just a single sweep of his arm—he ordered the full retreat.

My breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t a reposition. It wasn’t a tactical maneuver.

It was abandonment.

Loghain was pulling the might of Ferelden's second army out of the battle, leaving the king and the Grey Wardens—his allies—to be swallowed by the Blight.

The betrayal hit like a sword to the chest.

I heard it echoed around me—soldiers shouting, disbelief in their voices. A nearby captain screamed, “They’re leaving! By the Maker, they’re leaving us!”

A sergeant to my right dropped his blade in stunned silence. Another man fell to his knees, eyes wide with horror. I watched as the King’s guard desperately tried to regroup, but without reinforcement, their lines began to collapse under the unrelenting tide of darkspawn.

I turned my eyes back to the chaos before me—Hurlocks and Genlocks surging like blackened surf, the battlefield drowning in bodies and blood. I saw King Cailan through the smoke, his armor shone even in ruin, smeared with gore and dented from relentless blows. His longsword flashed in wide arcs as he fought back to back with his knights—valiant, foolish, desperate. His voice rang out over the clash:

“Hold the line! For Ferelden!”, rallying the men even as they died around him.

And beside him—Duncan.

Wounded but unyielding, his dark eyes scanning the field for weakness. His twin blades carved deadly arcs, every movement practiced and precise. Around him, a handful of surviving Wardens fought like demons, refusing to fall despite the weight pressing in from all sides.

They didn’t know.

Or maybe they did, and chose to stand anyway.

I gritted my teeth and held the line.

Every instinct in my body told me to go to the king, to throw myself into the heart of the battle and carve a path to him. But it was too late. The darkspawn had sensed it too—the weakening lines, the leadership unraveling. They surged forward with renewed hunger, shrieking in triumph. I was soon surrounded again, swinging Shadowbringer in wide arcs, cleaving flesh and bone, blood rising like rain.

The battlefield was a maelstrom—chaos given form, a storm of screaming steel and endless death. Smoke twisted through the dawn light, thick and choking. Blood soaked the soil, pooling beneath the fallen. Screams echoed across the field—some human, some not. The stench of burning flesh mingled with mud and ash, and the sky itself seemed to darken beneath the shadow of the Blight.

I fought like a soul unchained.

Shadowbringer cleaved through the darkspawn ranks with raw fury, cutting down Genlocks like wheat, tearing through Hurlocks in gory arcs. The greatsword howled with power, drawn from the aether still clinging to this world, but burning now with something more volatile—Dynamis, raw and primal, flaring in time with my heart’s fury. Each swing left streaks of shadow and searing light in its wake, as if night and dawn warred with every stroke of my blade.

But my goal lay beyond the slaughter.

King Cailan. Duncan. The last stand.

I saw them ahead, their banners tattered, their knights dwindling. Cailan stood tall despite the odds, golden armor battered and slick with blood, shouting orders to men already dead. Duncan fought beside him, grim and relentless, his twin blades flashing like firelight in the murk. Around them, what remained of the Grey Wardens gave their lives to hold the line.

But they were not alone.

The ground shuddered beneath heavy footfalls.

Ogres.

Three of them pushed forward—towering brutes, thick with muscle and bone, their twisted hides glistening with gore. Their howls rose above the din, deep and guttural. One grabbed a Templar and ripped him in half mid-charge, tossing the pieces aside like spoiled meat. Another smashed through a line of pikemen, hurling bodies through the air with wild sweeps of its club.

I surged forward, carving my way through lesser foes—Hurlocks, shrieks, a Blight wolf leapt over a mound of bodies—I grabbed it mid-air and slammed it to the ground, crushing its spine before hurling the corpse into another darkspawn.

The first ogre turned toward me, its sunken red eyes narrowing. It lumbered forward, swinging a tree-trunk of a weapon. I ducked low, rolled under the strike, and brought Shadowbringer up in a wide arc. Sparks and blood flew as I bit deep into its thigh.

The creature roared and kicked me back, sending me skidding across the muck. Pain screamed through my ribs, but I was already moving—springing back up, shoulder-checking a Genlock aside before launching myself at the ogre again.

I leapt, driving Shadowbringer into its shoulder with all my weight. The weapon sank deep. The ogre howled and thrashed, finally collapsing onto its knees with a crash that sent a wave of dust rolling across the battlefield.

But I didn’t have time to finish it.

Because I saw him.

Cailan.

Pinned in the crushing grip of another ogre. Its grotesque hand had wrapped around the king’s chest like a vice, lifting him off the ground as he struggled, kicking and clawing. His sword had fallen. His gauntlets struck the ogre’s arm to no effect.

His scream was raw and real—not of fear, but pain.

The ogre tightened its grip.

Cailan’s armor groaned and buckled, golden plate giving way to brute force. His mouth opened, trying to shout a final order, but no sound came.

I ran.

Pushing my body past its limits, I vaulted a broken cart, slashed through a darkspawn that tried to stop me, and sprinted toward him, roaring with every step.

But I wasn’t fast enough.

Duncan was.

He came from the side, a silver streak in the fog. With no fear, no hesitation, he launched himself at the ogre, driving one of his swords upward into its throat, right under the jaw. The beast let out a choking gargle and stumbled back, loosening its grip as it toppled like a falling tower.

Cailan’s body crumpled from its hand, hitting the ground hard, unmoving.

I was nearly to them when the third ogre surged forward—but it wasn’t alone.

A massive Hurlock Warmaster followed in its shadow, towering even over the others of its kind, black armor etched with spikes, its axe nearly the size of a man.

Duncan turned just in time to meet its charge.

They clashed in a storm of steel—Duncan fast, striking with clean, masterful cuts. The Warmaster fought like a beast, hammering down blows that cracked the very earth.

I reached them at last, but too late.

A feint from the Hurlock. Duncan dodged—almost.

The axe came down, biting deep into his shoulder and through his chest.

He staggered.

Another blow. The blade caught him across the waist, spinning him to the ground.

I screamed his name, voice raw—but he was already falling.

He hit the ground with a gasp, eyes wide and unfocused, blood pooling beneath him faster than even magic could mend.

I swung at the Warmaster, catching it off guard. My strike shattered its helm, and the second buried Shadowbringer into its collarbone. It roared, tried to retaliate, but I crushed it with a final, brutal swing that split its skull clean.

Then silence.

All around me, death.

Duncan was dead.

King Cailan—limp and broken, unmoving in the dirt.

Their final stand… crushed.

My chest heaved, every breath a struggle. Not from exhaustion, but the weight of it. Of failure. Of betrayal. The knowledge that all of this could have been stopped, if not for Loghain.

The Blight was not the only monster on this field.

And still the darkspawn came.

More and more, endless. I turned, lifting Shadowbringer once more.

My arms trembled. My vision blurred.

But I would keep fighting.

Because someone had to remember.

Someone had to survive.

The roar of the darkspawn became the sky itself—screeching, bellowing, rising like a tidal wave of rot and blood. But I did not retreat. I did not falter.

I embraced it.

Shadowbringer pulsed at my back, trembling like a beast desperate to be freed. The greatsword burned against my armor, scorching with purpose. I reached for it—not with fear, but with fury. My hand clenched the hilt, and the moment it left my back, the air around me cracked.

The aether screamed.

The earth shuddered.

And I—I became the storm.

Shadowbringer came alive, the obsidian blade blazing with a crimson edge, veins of darklight running like molten rivers through the metal. With one swing, I ripped through a charging Hurlock—bisecting it from collarbone to hip, the creature’s blood evaporating mid-air from the sheer heat of the strike.

Another leap—I brought the sword down like a hammer, crushing a Genlock into the earth, splintering the bones beneath us. Shadow tendrils exploded outward from the impact, slashing through five more like they were made of parchment.

My soul cried out—and the Scarlet Delirium answered.

The aura ignited around me like wildfire: a burning shell of blood-red energy laced with writhing black. Every pulse of my heartbeat sent flares of darkness outward—my pain, my rage, my memories made manifest. The shadow beneath my boots peeled away, expanding across the blood-soaked field like a living web.

It moved with me—striking before I could. Coiling, lashing, piercing.

Shrieks dove at me from the left. I didn’t turn. My shadow rose like a spike and impaled them mid-air, their bodies twitching as the tendrils snapped their necks one by one.

A pack of Blight wolves charged in unison. I extended my free hand, and Impalement answered—seven spectral spears of voidlight erupted from the earth in a jagged ring, catching the beasts mid-sprint and pinning them in place. The last tried to leap over the trap—Shadowbringer took its head clean off.

More.

Dozens more.

The darkspawn surged from every direction, snarling, slashing, driven to madness by my defiance. I screamed back, not words—but a howl, primal and pure.

They broke upon me like waves on a cliff.

I spun, whirled, struck—each swing a stormfront, each movement a judgment. Blood sprayed the air like black rain. I could no longer feel the ground beneath me, only the raw, rising power of Dynamis flooding my veins, feeding off the anguish, the betrayal, the memory of Duncan’s broken body and Cailan’s crushed form.

And I let it in.

The Dynamis, always a part of me, buried deep beneath my soul’s careful control, finally surged forward in full. Not as chaotic instability—but as focus. As fuel.

The light and dark within me—Etheirys’ legacy and Thedas’s cruelty—merged.

Time fractured.

I moved between heartbeats—Shadowbringer severing space itself, dark sigils burning in the air where I struck. My armor, soul-bound and reforged by pain, glowed faintly now—etched in symbols from Azem's memories, orange threads lacing through the onyx plate like constellations in the void.

They could not touch me.

Not yet.

Not until the Tide of the Blight shifted again.

An Ogre crashed into my flank, swinging a massive slab of stone like a club. It caught my side and flung me ten yalms through the air—I landed hard, rolled through blood and shattered bone, and came up coughing crimson.

Ribs—shattered. Right arm—numb. My cloak, torn and smoking.

But I stood.

My pendant—the Soul Resonator—flashed violently at my neck, warning of Umbriel awakening. I ignored it. There was no room left for restraint. I was not here to survive.

I was here to burn away the dark—or die trying.

The ogre thundered forward again.

I screamed.

And unleashed Disesteem.

A hundred dark fragments exploded outward from my body—each a piece of pure shadow. They dove upon the battlefield like hunting beasts, tearing into darkspawn with furious precision. My shadow thickened, rose like a tidal wave, and devoured the ogre in a clawed maw of living nightmare, dragging it down, screaming, into the abyssal dark beneath my feet.

But the battle did not pause for awe.

They kept coming.

More. Always more.

I bled. My shoulder seized. My vision blurred. But I did not stop.

I cleaved.

I shattered.

And then the sky cracked.

The Blight screamed back.

I dropped to a knee, gasping. My vision swimming, lungs ablaze.

Around me, silence began to fall—not of peace, but of saturation. The kind of quiet that follows when the world realizes even the most defiant must break.

The last thing I saw before my knees hit the ground was the endless black tide still coming, endless, eternal.

Even the Warrior of Light had limits.

Even I… could fall.

Chapter Text

The wind was the first thing I felt.

Cool. Damp. Laced with ash and blood.

Then the pain followed—deep, crushing, everywhere at once. My ribs screamed with every shallow breath. My muscles trembled under the weight of my own body, and dried blood caked my skin like second armor.

I opened my eyes.

The sky above was gray now, dull and unmoving. The fires had burned low. The smoke had cleared. And the silence was deafening.

I pushed myself up slowly, every movement like glass grinding in my bones. My hand brushed the torn remains of my mantle, and beneath it, the Dark Knight Soul Crystal pulsed weakly against my chest—as if it, too, was recovering.

I looked around.

Ostagar was a graveyard.

Darkspawn corpses lay in every direction, twisted and crumpled in unnatural ways. Some were split in half. Others had been impaled by jagged pillars of obsidian shadow, the kind I had never conjured before. Limbs were scattered like leaves in the wind. Black blood stained the earth so thickly it clung to the fog.

And not a single one of them moved.

I staggered to my feet, clutching Shadowbringer, now half-buried in the mud, its blade still glowing with the faint pulse of some other power. My soul ached—not just from exhaustion, but from a deep, lingering wrongness.

Like something inside me had stretched, then snapped back without warning.

“What did I do?”

I didn’t remember. The last thing I recalled was falling—screaming into the dark, lungs full of blood, the Blight closing in. Then—nothing. Just silence. No dream. No voice. Just... black.

And yet I stood here now. Alive.

But alone.

My heart sank as the truth set in.

King Cailan was dead.

Duncan was gone.

The Wardens had fallen. Ferelden’s hope died here.

And yet—I remained.

I clenched my fist, grounding myself.

If I survived this... it meant something.

I wasn’t sure if it was mercy, fate, or punishment. But the war wasn’t over. Not yet.

I turned toward the bridge, its splintered remnants rising from the gorge like broken teeth. Loghain’s forces were long gone. No trace of soldiers or allies. Just ghosts.

“Alistair. Aedan.”

Their names came to me like anchors in the storm.

They had gone to the tower, to light the beacon. If anyone survived this nightmare, it would be them.

And if not—then I had no one left.

But I refused to believe that.

They had to be alive. They had to be.

I tightened the straps of my armor, wincing. My mantle was torn, my cloak in shreds. The Baldesion ring still faintly shimmered on my hand, its magic weak, but intact. I reached for the Soul Resonator Pendant—it pulsed erratically, flickering like a warning heart.

Umbriel had been close.

Too close.

But I would think on that later.

Right now, Ferelden burned, and I had to find the others before the Blight rose again.

I turned north, away from the battlefield, and began walking.

Each step was agony.

But I walked anyway.

Because I still had a war to finish.

I left the ruin of Ostagar behind me, but its stench clung to my skin—the iron tang of blood, the acrid sting of fire, the sour rot of death. The land felt cursed now, like something sacred had been broken.

I moved through the edge of the Wilds, each step slower than the last, not from exhaustion, but dread.

The tower had been key to the strategy—light the beacon, signal Loghain’s advance. But no advance had come. Only silence. And betrayal.

If there had been survivors… any survivors… it would be there.

The path was choked with corpses, most of them darkspawn. Their blackened blood had soaked into the soil, leaving it cracked and corrupted, as though the earth itself recoiled.

I passed a fallen tree scorched black, its roots still smoldering. Around it were the signs of a desperate battle—slashes in the bark, torn earth, broken arrows.

They had fought here.

Whoever had held this ground had made the monsters bleed.

The tower loomed in the near distance now, silhouetted against the murky sky. The beacon at its peak was cold, dark—the flame long extinguished.

I approached cautiously, but no movement stirred.

No sound, save for the distant caws of carrion birds waiting for their grim feast.

The ground near the tower entrance was littered with bodies. Dozens of them—hurlocks, genlocks, a few ogres reduced to burned husks. Whoever had defended this place had not gone quietly.

I stepped over a twisted corpse, its jaw broken and hanging loose, eyes glassy in death. One hand still clutched a rusted blade.

The stone steps to the tower were slick with blood.

Inside was no better.

Scorch marks blackened the stone walls. I could smell dried sweat, burnt flesh, old fear. I climbed the tower slowly, hand on the hilt of Shadowbringer, though nothing stirred.

And at the top, beneath the cold shadow of the extinguished beacon, I found it.

Lying beside the remains of a shattered railing was a battered kite shield, its blue surface scratched, dented, and flecked with dirt and gore. But I knew the sigil carved into its face.

A pair of Laurels. House Cousland.

Aedan’s shield.

I knelt beside it, my gauntlet tracing the rim.

Blood coated one edge—deep, red, and still tacky.

Human blood.

It wasn't darkspawn ichor. It hadn’t rotted or curdled. It was fresh.

My gut twisted.

I looked around. There were no bodies. No signs of Aedan or Alistair—just silence. Like they’d been swallowed whole.

I rose slowly, shield in hand.

The shield was too light in my grasp. It didn’t belong to me, but I would carry it all the same.

They weren’t here.

But they had been.

They’d made a stand.

And if they still lived, I’d find them.

If they had fallen… I would ensure the world knew how they fought.

The Korcari Wilds loomed behind the tower, vast and black and unknowable.

Whatever path lay ahead, I would walk it.

Alone, if I must.

The Korcari Wilds stretched on like a dream that refused to end—a place untouched by time, snarled by roots and memory. I moved through the undergrowth in silence, branches clawing at my cloak, wet earth sucking at my boots. The deeper I wandered, the more the air thickened—laden with decay, life, and magic.

This was no ordinary forest. It hummed with something old.

Even the wind here sounded wrong.

No birdsong. No wildlife.

Just that low, oppressive stillness.

I’d long since lost the trail. If Aedan and Alistair had come this way, their tracks had been swallowed whole by the swampy ground and creeping fog.

Still I pressed on.

The shield bearing the crest of Highever was strapped to my back, silent testimony to their presence. I had no proof they lived—only that their bodies hadn’t been left behind. And so long as that was true, I couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t.

Somewhere in this wild, rotting place, they might still be breathing.

It was after dusk when the fog began to thin and I spotted smoke curling into the sky.

Faint. Barely visible.

I froze.

Fire meant shelter—or danger.

I moved slowly toward the source, stepping over a half-sunken skeleton wrapped in roots. It was ancient. Human. Long dead.

Whatever lived here didn’t care for visitors.

I pushed through the last of the thorns, boots sinking into the damp moss of the Wilds, when I saw her.

She stood before a crooked cottage built into the twisted roots of an ancient tree—half-dwelling, half-shrine—its roof draped in moss and bone, smoke curling from the crooked chimney like a serpent.

The woman at its threshold was bent with age, but that was a trick of the eye. Her body moved with ease, wrapped in thick leathers and layered fabrics that fluttered in the wind like the wings of a great bird. Her long silver-white hair was drawn back in a heavy braid, streaked with dusk, not time. Her face bore the lines of centuries, not years—not worn, but carved, as if by purpose.

And her eyes… gods, her eyes.

Amber like a dying sun, bright and cold, sharp enough to slice through pretenses. She looked at me like one might examine a blade—testing the weight, the balance, the danger of it.

“Hmm,” she murmured, voice rasping like dry leaves across stone. “That’s not a face I know.”

I stopped just short of her, scanning the clearing around us. The trees were unnaturally still. The wind had stopped. Even the birds held their breath.

“I’m looking for two men,” I said, keeping my tone level. “Young. Both wounded. Grey Wardens.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

Instead, she took a step closer, and I felt something stir beneath my skin—a faint tremor, as if the soul within me recognized something older, deeper, dangerous. She smelled of smoke and earth and wild magic—raw and untempered.

She circled me slowly, her eyes raking over every inch of me—not with desire or judgment, but recognition, like one might study a long-lost constellation now hanging in a foreign sky.

“There is something… strange about you,” she said at last. “You carry darkness like an old friend, and yet… your soul does not belong to this land.”

I said nothing. There was no lie to give her. Not one she wouldn’t see through in a heartbeat.

Her lips curved into a knowing smile, sharp and sly.

“Good,” she said. “Secrets mean you’re still dangerous.”

She stepped aside, gesturing to the crooked door behind her.

“They’re inside. Resting.”

I blinked. “You found them?”

Her smile only deepened—not cruel, but amused, like the forest itself whispering a joke only she understood.

“No,” she said. “They found me. Or rather… the Wilds gave them up before the Blight could.”

I looked past her toward the flickering shadows within.

For a moment, I hesitated.

There was something about her that felt vast and unknowable, like standing at the edge of the Void.

But her eyes never lied.

And inside, my allies were waiting.

She turned without another word and slipped into the cottage, shadows swallowing her like water around a stone.

I followed.

The warmth of the fire welcomed me inside, but it brought no comfort.

The hut smelled of strange herbs, old wood, and smoke—not unpleasant, just... ancient. Bone charms clinked softly from the rafters. A cauldron simmered over the hearth, steam rising in lazy spirals. The place was alive in a way that reminded me of the deeper parts of the Twelveswood—old magic, quiet and watching.

The woman moved past me without a word, her long braid trailing like a tether behind her. She knelt at the fire and stirred the bubbling stew with a carved wooden spoon, her motions casual, almost careless.

“Rest assured,” she said, not even glancing back, “they’ll wake when they’re ready. The young are resilient—if annoyingly so.”

There was a dry humor in her voice, sharp as broken glass wrapped in silk.

I stepped further inside, casting a glance toward the low bedrolls in the back. Aedan and Alistair were there—breathing, still. Alive. Relief stirred in my chest like a fire being coaxed back to life.

Still, I kept my hand near my sword.

She didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps she did and simply didn’t care.

“And your name,” I asked, keeping my voice even, “if I may?”

At that, she turned her head just slightly, enough for the firelight to catch the gold in her eyes. They weren’t old eyes, not truly. Not tired or faded. They gleamed like a serpent’s—watchful, ancient, knowing.

“Names,” she said, “are weighty things.”

She dipped the spoon once more into the pot, tasted it, then smirked as if amused by some private joke.

“Power, if given too freely, tends to wander.”

She looked toward the door for a moment, her gaze distant, as though seeing something far beyond this hut—beyond this world.

“But,” she added, flicking her eyes back to me, “if you must know… some call me—Flemeth.”

The name landed like a stone in a still pool.

I’d heard it before.

Whispers in dark taverns. Murmurs passed between superstitious soldiers. Even a drunken templar in Denerim had once muttered it like a curse, then made the sign of Andraste across his chest.

Flemeth.

The Witch of the Wilds.

Legends wrapped around her like fog—layered, contradictory, dangerous.

Some said she was immortal. That she drank the blood of dragons. That she had made pacts with demons, only to consume them afterward. That she could become a beast at will. That she had daughters scattered across Thedas, each one a spell woven into flesh.

That she was not one woman at all—but many, living through centuries in a cycle of possession and rebirth.

I looked at her again, watching the way the fire played along the angles of her face.

I’d fought gods. Faced Ascians. Crossed time and space. But even I could feel it—

She was not mortal in the way others were.

And she knew it.

“I’ve heard… stories,” I said carefully.

Her smile widened. “Oh, I *do* hope they were flattering.”

“I didn’t say they were good stories.”

She laughed softly—low and amused, like a wolf howling through a smile.

“Good,” she said. “Those are the ones worth listening to.”

Then she returned to her stew, as if we were just two travelers sharing a meal on a quiet evening, and not standing on the edge of history.

A new voice cut through the quiet tension like a blade through silk.

“Mother,” it said from the shadows of the hut, dry and sharp, “must you always play games with those who stumble to our door?”

I turned.

A younger woman stepped into view, gliding out of the corner with the ease of someone used to being unnoticed until it suited her.

Pale skin, framed by thick black hair cascading around her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of polished gold—not warm, not soft, but alert and dissecting, like they could strip your soul bare if you gave her reason.

She looked to be around my age—perhaps a few years younger—but carried herself like someone who had seen far more. Her leather garments were functional, close-fitting, designed for movement in the Wilds. Around her neck hung a cluster of amulets—protection charms, most likely. Or curses, depending on who you asked.

She moved like a cat—relaxed, yes, but coiled with potential. Every step was deliberate. Calculated.

Her gaze landed on me with open skepticism.

“I suppose,” she said, tone laced with mild contempt, “you’re here for the two half-dead puppies we dragged in.”

“They’re friends,” I said simply, unflinching.

“Then they’ll live,” she replied without pause. “We’ve tended their wounds. You can thank her for that.”

She nodded toward Flemeth, who had returned to her stew with a pleased, almost grandmotherly hum.

I glanced between the two women. Mother and daughter. Though only one of them seemed to have any use for pleasantries.

My fingers brushed the cloth-wrapped hilt of Shadowbringer across my back, more from habit than threat.

“You’ve no need to fear,” Flemeth said, voice light and faintly amused. “If I wanted you dead, you’d have never found the hut.”

“I didn’t mean to find it,” I said, carefully.

Her smile widened. “Exactly.”

I chose to sleep outside that night.

The hut may have been warm, but I preferred the open sky. Besides… I didn’t trust them. Not yet.

But they’d saved Aedan and Alistair. That counted for something.

I lay back on the moss-covered ground, the trees towering above me like silent sentinels. The sky overhead was thick with clouds, moonlight struggling to shine through.

The stars here were wrong.

I stared at them anyway.

No constellations I knew. No familiar glimmer of the night sky of Etheirys. No comforting gleam of Hydaelyn’s aether.

Just cold, distant lights in a world that wasn’t mine.

The wind rustled the leaves gently. A wolf howled far off. The Wilds were alive, breathing, waiting.

And I was still here.

Trapped.

And yet... they were alive.

Aedan. Alistair.

That was enough—for now.

“You do not sleep.”

The voice came from behind, low and even, with a hint of irritation that I hadn't yet earned.

I didn’t flinch.

Morrigan stepped out of the dark like she belonged to it. She carried herself differently out here—more at ease beneath the trees than in the confines of her mother’s hut. She stood a few feet from me, arms crossed, watching.

“I do,” I said. “Just not easily.”

She tilted her head.

“Because you do not trust us, or because you expect your enemies to arrive under cover of night?”

I shrugged. “Both.”

She smirked, clearly amused. “Paranoia suits you. Though I daresay, if Mother had any intention of eating you in your sleep, you’d already be digesting.”

“I’m still not convinced she hasn’t.”

That earned a soft laugh. “She has that effect, yes. But if it eases your mind, she has little interest in corpses. Only in what can still be... shaped.”

Her gaze lingered on me—searching, but not invasive.

“You’re not from the Imperium. Nor Orlais. Your mannerisms are wrong. Your sword even more so.”

I didn’t answer.

She crouched beside the fire pit, plucking a twig from the ground and drawing idle shapes in the ash.

“You aren’t the first stranger to wander into the Wilds, you know,” she said softly. “But most are torn apart by beasts, or swallowed by the fog. You, however…”

She looked at me.

“You do not belong. And yet the forest let you pass.”

I met her gaze evenly. “What do you think that means?”

She grinned—a flash of teeth, cunning and sharp.

“I think it means you are either a fool, or something far more dangerous.”

She stood again, brushing off her hands.

“Either way, the Blight stirs. War is coming. And if you are truly a friend to the Grey Wardens… then perhaps you’ll find some use after all.”

She turned, walking back toward the hut.

But before she vanished into the shadows, she paused.

“You should sleep,” she said over her shoulder. “You’ll need your strength. The world doesn’t get kinder from here.”

Then she was gone.

I looked back up at the stars. Still foreign. Still wrong.

But not so distant now.

I kept to the edge of the clearing, wrapped in stillness, away from the firelight of the witch’s crooked hut. The Korcari Wilds whispered around me, the trees groaning faintly in the breeze. Night had truly settled now, silver moonlight filtering through the fog like faint hope.

Inside, the two young Wardens rested—alive, barely. I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring for them, or for Ferelden, but for the first time since Ostagar… I didn’t feel alone.

The door creaked.

I turned.

Flemeth stepped into the clearing, silent despite the brittle bones hanging from the doorframe. She moved with the ease of a woman unconcerned by time.

She said nothing at first, only sat across from me on a moss-covered stump.

Her eyes were clear in the moonlight. Sharp. Unyielding.

“The Wilds are quiet,” she said finally.

“Too quiet,” I muttered. “Like the land’s waiting to breathe again.”

“Oh, it breathes,” she replied. “Just not for us.”

Silence fell again between us.

I didn’t trust her. But I wasn’t afraid of her, either. That part of me—the fear of old power—had burned out long ago.

Still, she was... different. She watched people the way one might study an open wound. With morbid curiosity and clinical interest.

“You’re not surprised I’m still alive,” I said.

She smiled, folding her hands across her lap. “No. Death doesn’t cling to you as it does others. And your soul… refuses it.”

I looked at her sideways. “You see souls?”

“I feel them. Taste them, if I’m inclined.” She leaned forward slightly.

I stiffened, but said nothing.

She chuckled.

A long pause.

Then she said softly, “Your soul is old. Older than even I, perhaps. And I have lived… many lives.”

Her words stirred something cold in my chest.

She stared up at the moon. “This world, Thedas… it is not young. It has seen ages rise and fall, gods bound and broken, false divinity and true horror. But you… you carry something older. More whole. A fragment of a truth this world has never known.”

I looked at the sky with her, silent.

So she felt it. The core. The orange ember. The seat of Azem. The soul I had been born with, shattered across time and remade in battle.

“I don’t know what you think I am,” I said finally. “But I’m not a god.”

“No,” she said, turning her eyes to me again. “You are something far worse.”

My hand twitched toward Shadowbringer, still wrapped on my back.

She noticed, and smiled.

“Don’t bristle. I mean only that gods fade. Fade into myth, into stone, into dogma. But a soul like yours? It persists. It moves. It learns.”

I turned back toward the hut.

“And what are you?”

“Curious,” she said. “And cursed to remember more than most should. The old magics still speak to me, even when I wish they wouldn’t.”

She reached down and picked up a small stone from the earth, rolling it between her fingers.

“Most mortals are bound by the shape of their lives. You are bound by the echo of many. I imagine that makes choices… complicated.”

More than she knew.

Finally, I asked, “Why help the Wardens?”

She studied the stone a moment longer. “Because the Blight is more dangerous than even the fools in Denerim realize. The Darkspawn are the symptom, not the disease.”

She looked at me. “And because something is coming. Something that calls to power. Yours included.”

I frowned. “You think I was brought here on purpose?”

She tossed the stone into the firelight, where it landed with a soft thud.

“I think nothing is truly random in a world built on stories.”

A wolf howled in the distance.

I rose, the weight of her words still lingering.

“You talk a lot for someone who claims not to care,” I said.

She gave a raspy laugh. “And you say little for someone who’s been reborn with fire in his veins.”

She stood, brushing off her skirts.

“One day, Zephyr Arcadin, we will speak again. Perhaps when the world is burning. That seems to be when you shine brightest.”

She turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“Oh, and if your soul is older than Thedas itself…” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “…try not to let it fall apart. This world is fragile. It won’t survive the storm inside you.”

Then she was gone, back into the crooked bones and soft firelight of her hut.

I sat alone, hand resting on the cloth-wrapped hilt of Shadowbringer.

The moon was bright overhead, but its light felt distant.

Everything inside me stirred.

She knew.

Not everything—but enough to see the shape of what I was.

And still, she hadn’t flinched.

I stood once more at the edge of the Wilds.

The air was thick with old magic, that strange scent of rot and life interwoven. This place had never welcomed me—and I hadn’t expected it to. Not after Ostagar. Not after watching a king fall and a hero die while the sky burned red with fire and blood.

The shield of Highever, still bearing the scratches and bloodstains of the Korcari Wilds, hung from my hand.

I traced the engraving on the rim—a pair of laurels.

Aedan Cousland’s family crest.

The shield was more than a weapon’s mate. It was an anchor—proof that he’d survived. Proof that he might yet rise.

But I couldn’t wait.

Not with the taste of betrayal still burning behind my teeth. Not with Loghain Mac Tir’s name being whispered in every soldier’s dying breath.

I needed answers.

I needed to see what was left of Ferelden’s crown with my own eyes.

Morrigan met me outside the hut, arms folded as though she’d been expecting me.

She eyed the shield, then my face.

“You’re leaving.”

“Your mother saved them,” I said, gesturing back toward the door. “They’ll wake. When they do, I need you to give this to Aedan.”

I held the shield out.

Morrigan didn’t take it immediately. She looked at it as though it might bite her.

“Do you believe he’ll want to remember the night his entire army was slaughtered?” she asked coolly.

I stared her down. “I believe he’ll want to remember who he is. And that someone is waiting for him to stand up again.”

Her gaze flicked up to meet mine—no smirk, no sharpness this time. Just thought. Cautious respect, maybe.

She took the shield, tucking it under one arm with surprising care.

“I’ll tell him you came through here.”

“Tell him more than that,” I said. “Tell him… if he and Alistair plan to face the Blight—if they want to do something about all this—then they can find me in Denerim.”

“And if they do not?” she asked.

“Then they’ll die. Like the rest.”

I turned to leave but found Flemeth standing at the path’s edge.

She had no staff, no walking stick, no visible weapon. But she still blocked the way like a mountain.

“You leave quickly,” she said, watching me with quiet mirth. “Most men would take longer to recover from witnessing the end of a kingdom.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“No,” she said, “you’ve been worse. That’s why you’re still alive.”

The wind pulled at her silver hair as she stepped aside, letting me pass.

“But do remember this, Zephyr Arcadin of the shattered stars—Thedas is not ready for what walks in your shadow.”

I didn’t answer.

But I saw her smile as I left.

The journey back north was grueling.

The Wilds gave way to broken earth, then marsh, then rolling stone hills that sloped toward the Imperial Highway like the bent spine of a forgotten titan. I moved under cover when I could, avoiding roads, slipping through abandoned paths.

I’d learned enough in my year here to know how Ferelden viewed things they didn’t understand.

And I was very much one of them.

The people feared magic. And even without my blade revealed—even without Shadowbringer unwrapped or Dynamis stirring in my blood—there was something in me that drew attention.

I could feel it.

As though the land knew I didn’t belong.

By the time I reached the outskirts of Denerim, the wind carried rumors like poison on the breeze.

“The Grey Wardens turned traitor.”

“King Cailan’s body was found beneath the broken tower.”

“Loghain returned alone. And now he’s regent.”

That word made my teeth grind.

Regent.

I remembered the last thing I saw before I was overrun by darkspawn at Ostagar—Loghain’s army pulling away, their banners fading like cowards retreating from justice.

It hadn’t been strategy.

It had been treachery.

And now, the traitor sat on the throne’s edge, ruling by proxy through his daughter, Queen Anora.

The gates of Denerim hadn’t changed since I last saw them.

But the guards had.

Their armor was dented. Hastily patched. Their eyes suspicious.

They stopped me when I reached the gate, eyeing the wrapped length of Shadowbringer on my back.

“Just passing through.”

“Name?”

“Zephyr. From the south.”

“You’re lucky. Lot of deserters from Ostagar are being arrested. The regent’s not in a forgiving mood.”

Regent.

The word again. Like rot in the lungs.

“Noted,” I said.

They let me through.

I didn’t look back.

Denerim had grown restless.

Markets buzzed, but not with trade—rumors, fear, conscription orders. The taverns were full of bitterness and spilt ale. Soldiers wandered, unsure of who they truly served. Even the Chantry bell felt like it rang hollow.

But I moved quietly through it all. Listening. Watching. Waiting.

And wondering when the two Wardens would find me again.

Because the storm hadn’t passed.

The Blight had only just begun.

And I was not done fighting.

Chapter Text

From the journal of Aedan Cousland

Year 9:30 Dragon – Just days after Ostagar

I was alive.

Barely.

“Ugh… where—?”

My throat felt dry, my chest bruised with every breath. I pushed myself upright—too fast. The world tilted, swam. My vision shimmered like heat on steel, but I forced it down, anchoring myself with a grunt.

A shadow moved by the hearth. A woman—young, clad in layered leather and deep purples—stood watching me. Her long black hair was tied loosely behind her, and her face was sharp, all angles and cool disdain. Eyes like polished amber met mine when I stirred.

“Ah. The sleeping Warden wakes.”

Her voice was lilting, bemused. Familiar.

I blinked hard and tried to piece the fragments together. The last thing I remembered was the roar of the ogre… the beacon… the flames. Then—Alistair. Duncan.

My stomach clenched.

“Where is—Alistair—? Duncan—?”

The woman crossed her arms, head tilting in a way that reminded me faintly of a hawk sizing up prey.

“The one with the ill-timed jokes is outside. Brooding, I imagine. The other…” Her eyes sharpened, voice flattening. “The older one who fought like a demon and slew the ogre… He is dead.”

The words struck like a mace to the chest.

I stared at her, cold dread blooming in my gut.

“Duncan’s… dead?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t gloat. She simply nodded, solemn in her own distant way. There was no pleasure in the admission. Just truth.

“And… the King?”

Another voice answered before she could.

“Also dead.”

I turned sharply. An older woman had entered the hut—tall and robed in layers of crow-feathered cloth and what looked like bone. Her hair was white as snow, but her eyes… gods, those eyes. They gleamed with a wild, ageless light, far too alive for someone who looked carved from the pages of a myth.

“I found what was left of your battlefield,” she said, her voice like a wind through dry trees. “Charred earth. Ruined men. Bodies stacked like timber. You and your friend were the only ones left breathing.”

I felt my hands tremble. Duncan… Cailan… All of them. Gone. And for what?

“I—who are you?”

The older woman tilted her head, lips curling ever so slightly in amusement.

“I am Flemeth, known to some as the Witch of the Wilds.” Her tone danced with irony and weight, as if daring me to question it. “And this is my daughter, Morrigan.”

The name landed with sudden clarity. I looked again at the younger woman, this time truly seeing her.

“You were there,” I said slowly. “A few days before Ostagar. We were sent into the Wilds—Alistair, Daveth, Ser Jory, and me. We met someone… You.”

Morrigan nodded, uncrossing her arms at last.

“Yes. You trespassed on our woods, took what you came for, and left.” She smirked faintly. “You were lucky my mother took a liking to your cause.”

“And the treaties…” I murmured. “You let us take the Warden treaties.”

Flemeth chuckled softly, brushing a strand of white hair over her shoulder. “Let is such a curious word. But yes. I saw the shape of things to come. This Blight will not end by the hand of cowards.”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to make sense of it all. It felt like a lifetime ago. We had all been so certain, so bold. And now… ashes. Duncan gone. Cailan betrayed. Only Alistair and I left to carry a torch that had burned everything around it.

I looked around, a heaviness sinking into my chest.

There was still someone missing.

Morrigan stepped toward the door, then paused.

“Oh. Before I forget.” She reached behind the frame and pulled something free—a battered, blood-stained shield. She held it out to me. “He said this was yours.”

I took it slowly, breath catching.

My shield. From Highever. Still dented from the battle at Ostagar. Still streaked with ogre blood.

I stared at it, stunned. My mouth moved before the thought fully formed.

“He…?”

“The tall one,” Morrigan clarified. “Black armor. Big sword. Zephyr, was it?”

My breath caught.

“He’s alive?” I asked hoarsely.

Morrigan shrugged lightly. “Alive enough to leave. He went north. Said he was heading for Denerim. Asked me to tell you, if you woke.” Her gaze held mine. “He said… if you’re still planning to fight the Blight, you’ll find him there.”

I sat heavily, hands wrapped tight around the leather strap of the shield. Zephyr had survived. Somehow, impossibly, he had made it out.

And he was waiting.

“…Then we’ll find him,” I murmured.

Flemeth smiled, thin and knowing.

“Yes,” she said, voice drifting like smoke, “you will."

I stood a little while later, legs still unsteady but strength returning with each breath. Alistair was outside, she’d said. I had to tell him. About Duncan. About the King.

And about Zephyr.

The heavy wooden door creaked as I pushed it open, letting in the scent of wet earth and dense trees. The Wilds. Still thick with mist and the buzz of unseen life.

Alistair was sitting on a log near the edge of the clearing, armor stripped down to just his gambeson, his sword stabbed into the earth beside him. He didn’t look up when I approached.

“I take it you spoke to our hosts?” he said quietly.

“I did.”

The silence stretched, taut and heavy.

“Duncan,” he said at last, barely audible. “He’s really gone, isn’t he?”

I sat down across from him, the shield resting on my knees.

“He is.”

Alistair closed his eyes. “I keep thinking maybe I missed something. Maybe there was a chance we could’ve—” He shook his head. “But there wasn’t. Was there?”

“No.”

He took a long breath, jaw clenched.

“And Cailan. Teyrn Loghain left him there. Pulled back his entire force and left us to die.”

“Cowardice,” I said bitterly. “Treachery.”

“Yeah,” Alistair muttered. “That too.”

I hesitated, then held out the shield. “This… was found at the beacon tower.”

Alistair glanced at it, recognition flashing across his face.

“Wait, that’s yours. From Highever.”

I nodded. “Morrigan said someone retrieved it from the tower.”

“Who?”

I met his gaze.

“Zephyr.”

Alistair’s head snapped up. “Zephyr? He’s alive?”

“She said he made it out. Said he left for Denerim, told her to give me this. He’s waiting for us.”

A complicated mix of emotions passed through Alistair’s face—disbelief, relief, something close to guilt.

“I thought he was dead,” he said after a moment. “I saw him fighting. Thought he was buried under the rest. How in the Maker’s name did he survive?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But he did.”

Alistair let out a breath. “That stubborn bastard. Of course he did.”

We sat there a moment, the knowledge sinking in like light piercing through smoke. It didn’t undo the grief, but it gave us something—someone—to hold on to.

Eventually, we returned to the hut to discuss what came next.

Inside, Flemeth was tending to a small cauldron over the fire, stirring lazily with a bone-handled ladle. Morrigan leaned near the wall, watching us both with narrowed eyes.

“You’ll be leaving soon, I assume?” she asked.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Alistair said. “We have to gather what remains of the Wardens, seek out help… warn the Bannorn, the Arl…”

Morrigan didn’t reply right away. Instead, she turned her sharp gaze toward me.

“This Zephyr you mentioned,” she said slowly. “You said he survived the battle.”

I nodded. “That’s what you told me.”

“I told you he walked out of the Wilds, yes,” she corrected. “But I did not say I understood how.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Morrigan’s arms folded again. “He was not wounded. Not like the rest of you. Burnt and bloodied, yes—but his strength never left him. Not once. He carried your shield as though it weighed nothing.”

I frowned. “He’s strong.”

“I have met strong men,” she replied coolly. “And I have met things that wear the skin of men. He stood in a place where a dozen others had died screaming, and he did not fall.”

She stepped closer, voice quiet but insistent.

“There is something… not of this world about him.”

Alistair snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

“I am exactly what I claim to be,” Morrigan snapped, then glanced to Flemeth. “He, on the other hand, is something else. His armor reeked not just of ash, but of something older. And his sword…”

She trailed off, eyes narrowing in thought.

“What about his sword?” I asked.

Morrigan hesitated, then looked toward her mother.

Flemeth spoke without turning.

“It is not a blade forged in this land,” she said, voice like crackling fire. “Its essence hums with war and sorrow from another realm entirely.”

I stood, heart pounding.

“You’re saying… he’s not from Thedas?”

Flemeth smiled faintly, still not looking at us.

“I am saying, child, that your friend walks paths no mortal has charted. And if he is truly yours… you would do well to follow him.”

The morning mist still hung thick outside, clinging to the leaves and curling under the eaves of the hut like a ghost reluctant to depart.

Inside, Flemeth stirred the contents of her cauldron with the patience of one who had seen centuries pass. The scent of herbs and ash hung heavy in the air.

Alistair sat by the hearth, strapping the last of his armor back on. I adjusted the weight of my shield, newly returned, still bearing the scars of Ostagar. Morrigan watched us with thinly veiled disdain from her usual perch near the doorway, arms crossed, foot tapping.

“We’re ready,” I said at last. “Thank you for helping us, Flemeth. For saving us.”

Flemeth’s eyes sparkled as she finally turned from the cauldron. “Yes, yes. You’re welcome. But before you leave, there is something else we must address.”

Alistair looked up warily. “More surprises?”

“Of a sort.”

Flemeth gestured lazily with one long-fingered hand.

“You will need help if you are to reach Denerim alive, much less fight this Blight. The Wilds are the least of your worries now—there are darker things in motion. Shadows moving behind the curtain of this world.”

She tilted her head toward Morrigan.

“My daughter shall accompany you.”

There was a pause.

Then:

“Absolutely not,” Morrigan snapped. “Mother, no.”

Flemeth didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”

“I am not some stray hound to be leashed to their side!”

“You are more than a hound,” Flemeth replied mildly. “And that is precisely why you must go.”

Alistair blinked. “Wait. She’s coming with us?”

“I would rather walk into the Deep Roads barefoot than suffer her company,” Morrigan growled.

“Charming,” Alistair muttered.

I raised a hand. “Why send her with us? We can manage—”

“No, you cannot,” Flemeth interrupted, voice calm and absolute. “The two of you are Wardens, yes, but young, untested. What little training you received died with your mentor. You do not yet know the shape of what hunts you.”

She stepped closer, her towering form suddenly imposing despite her age.

“Morrigan has walked these lands longer than either of you. She knows the paths that the dead and forgotten take. She can wield magic that the Chantry dares not name. And she can fight.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes. “You do not care about their Blight, Mother. What are you not saying?”

Flemeth’s smile thinned to something unreadable. “There are threads tangled around this one,” she said softly, looking not at me, nor Alistair—but past us. “The one who bears the sword not born of this world.”

We both froze.

“…Zephyr?” I asked, cautiously.

Flemeth said nothing. Her gaze was far away, almost… reverent.

Morrigan turned toward her sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“I have seen many things in my time,” Flemeth said at last. “But he—he is a thread that does not belong in this tapestry. And yet, here he is, tugging at it all the same.”

She returned her eyes to Morrigan.

“Should the time come when his soul is tested—and it will—you will be there.”

Morrigan’s face twisted in frustration. “Tested how? What does that even mean?”

“You will know,” Flemeth replied simply.

“No, I won’t!” Morrigan snapped. “You’re doing it again—talking in riddles and half-meanings. If this is about your visions or your little glimpses through the Veil, you could at least—”

“Morrigan.” Her voice turned sharp. “You will go. That is final.”

Silence followed. Thick. Uncomfortable.

At last, Morrigan exhaled through her nose and turned to us.

“Well then,” she muttered, “let us be off before I grow old and turn into a crone like her.”

Flemeth smiled, clearly unbothered. “Too late for that.”

Alistair made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a cough.

I stepped forward.

“…Thank you,” I said quietly. “I don’t know what your game is. But if she can help, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“Oh, I am quite certain you do not know my game,” Flemeth said, turning back to her cauldron. “But you will play it all the same.”

Flemeth gave us one final glance. “Go. But remember—this world has teeth. You will not face only the Darkspawn before this is done. Nobles. Templars. False kings and fallen heroes. Beware them all.”

As we stepped out of the hut and back into the Wilds, I glanced at Morrigan walking ahead of us, her staff slung over her back, muttering under her breath.

Alistair leaned closer and whispered, “You think she actually wants to help us?”

I looked once more at the door behind us. Flemeth stood in the shadows, watching.

“…No,” I said. “But I think she wants us to help her.”

And maybe, just maybe… to help Zephyr.

Though what kind of help someone like him needed, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Thus our journey began.

Two untested Wardens.

A witch we didn’t trust.

A kingdom fallen into chaos.

And a dark tide rising from the south.

But we weren’t done yet.

We were going to Denerim.

To find Zephyr.

To rally what allies we could.

And to face the Blight… before it consumed all of Ferelden.

Chapter Text

From the journal of Aedan Cousland

Year 9:30 Dragon – On the road from the Wilds

We reached Lothering just as the sun began to bleed into the horizon.

Smoke drifted from distant rooftops, and the stench of fear hung in the air like rot. Refugees lined the road—some from the south, others from villages already lost to the Blight. The world was falling apart. And no one seemed to know who to blame.

Except, of course, us.

The few who dared speak rumors did so in hushed tones:

“The Grey Wardens murdered the King.”

“Loghain was forced to flee.”

“The Blight was a lie to seize control.”

Alistair and I kept our hoods drawn low, while Morrigan moved through the village like a shadow—disdain in her eyes, silence on her tongue.

We made our way toward the Chantry, drawn by the faint sound of bells and the hope—faint though it was—that we might find shelter. Or at the very least, answers.

But peace was the last thing waiting for us inside.

Shouts echoed off the stone walls, angry and sharp. The wide front hall of the Chantry was in disarray—benches overturned, candles scattered. A group of rough-looking men had forced their way in, cornering a Chantry sister near the rear storeroom. Behind her, the heavy wooden door stood closed, bolted tight.

She stood alone between them and the supplies, robes muddied but her spine straight, hands raised in quiet defiance.

“We have wounded to tend,” she said firmly, voice clear despite the tension. “This food is not for you. You’ll not take it from those who truly need it.”

“Take your pious hands off it, woman!” one of the looters snarled. He brandished a short sword, rusted but sharp. “You think your Maker will protect you?”

“No,” she said, eyes steady. “But I will protect them.”

Before the bandit could reply, I stepped into the light.

“You’ll go no further.”

The looters turned at once, startled. One squinted, then sneered.

“Who in blazes—?”

Alistair moved to my side with a sigh. “You again,” he muttered. “Can’t even walk into a holy place without a fight waiting.”

Another thug laughed, hefting a club. “You don’t look like Templars. Just a couple of overgrown squires playing hero.”

“And yet,” I said, drawing my sword in one smooth motion, “here I stand—and you should be worried about that.”

There was a heartbeat of hesitation. Then they rushed us.

The fight erupted in a blur of steel and curses. One man swung wild—I sidestepped and cracked the flat of my blade into his ribs. Morrigan hurled a bolt of arcane fire that scorched the sleeve off another before he even reached us. Alistair parried two blows at once, then shoulder-checked one of them into the wall.

A sharp cry echoed through the Chantry as a looter went down clutching his leg, another dropping his weapon and scrambling back as my blade stopped inches from his throat.

And then… it was over.

The looters lay sprawled across the floor—groaning, bruised, but alive. One crawled toward the door before collapsing with a whimper. The sister hadn’t moved. She stood there, quiet and watchful, like a flame that refused to be snuffed out.

I wiped my blade on a fallen cloak and turned to her.

The Chantry sister stepped forward, brushing a strand of vivid red hair from her pale face. Her blue eyes met mine—calm, piercing, and thoughtful.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “No. Thanks to you.”

Alistair looked around, brow furrowed. “This is happening everywhere?”

“More than I care to admit,” she said softly. “With so many refugees and no soldiers left to guard the roads, desperation drives men to cruelty.”

Morrigan snorted. “Cruelty requires no desperation—just the excuse.”

The sister ignored her, turning back to the storeroom door.

“You stood for what was right,” she said softly. “The Maker must have sent you.”

“I doubt the Maker even remembers this place,” Morrigan muttered.

The sister ignored her and offered a small bow. “I am Leliana. Once of Orlais. Now I serve the Maker here.”

“I’m Aedan. This is Alistair, and the ever-charming one is Morrigan.”

“You’re… Grey Wardens?” she asked quietly.

Alistair hesitated. “Not so loud—”

Leliana’s eyes widened. “But… I heard the King is dead. That the Wardens—”

She trailed off.

“What have you heard?” I asked carefully.

She looked between us, unsure. “That the Grey Wardens turned against the King at Ostagar. That Teyrn Loghain was forced to flee the battle. Some say he’s declared the Wardens traitors.”

I clenched my jaw. “That’s a lie.”

“I believe you,” she said quickly. “I—Maker forgive me—I had a vision. A dream. The Blight spreading. Darkness covering the land. I was told I must stand with the Grey Wardens.”

Alistair gave her a skeptical look. “You were told?”

“I know how it sounds,” Leliana said, voice trembling. “But I’ve never been more certain.”

“She is mad,” Morrigan said with a sigh.

I stared at Leliana for a long moment, then nodded. “We need all the help we can get. If you’re willing…”

Leliana smiled, visibly relieved. “Then I am yours.”

We’d just stepped out of the Chantry, the warmth of candlelight and stone replaced by the cool edge of wind rolling through the village.

As we made our way toward the edge of town, the sharp clang of metal striking metal drew our attention. Not the rhythm of a blacksmith’s hammer—no, this was duller, angrier. Muffled voices drifted up ahead, a growing crowd clustered near something just outside the palisade wall.

We exchanged a look and made our way toward it.

There, surrounded by a loose circle of gawkers and guards, stood a large iron cage. Thick bars. Reinforced hinges. Whatever was inside, the people of Lothering wanted it contained.

Within the cage, seated cross-legged in the dirt, was a massive figure.

A crowd had gathered near a large iron cage, bolted to the ground beside a weathered barn. Inside sat a massive figure—hulking, still, and silent. His skin was the color of ash, and his eyes burned like gold caught in twilight. His hair shorn short to the scalp, and his shoulders were wide enough to make even Alistair look small. Heavy manacles bound his wrists, though he didn’t struggle. He simply… sat. Still. Silent.

A Qunari.

His eyes—bright gold—tracked us as we approached, unblinking.

“A Qunari,” Alistair muttered beside me, low and wary. “I didn’t think I’d ever see one this far south.”

“They caught him at a farm standing above the old couple who owned it,” one of the nearby guards said as we approached. His tone held a mix of discomfort and satisfaction. “He was standing over their corpses. Covered in blood.”

“No proof he did it,” added another, a younger man who looked less convinced. “But no one’s willing to let a giant like that just walk free.”

I stepped closer to the bars. “Has he said anything?”

“Hardly a word since they locked him up,” the older guard said. “Didn’t even fight when they shackled him.”

I frowned, stepping forward until I was just outside the cage.

The Qunari didn’t so much as flinch as we approached. He sat in the dirt, legs folded, back straight, eyes trained on nothing in particular. Just waiting.

I stepped closer. His gaze shifted to meet mine.

“You are not afraid,” he said, voice low and even.

“Should I be?” I asked.

He tilted his head slightly. “Most are.”

I studied him—his armor was tattered, his sword gone, but his presence was intact. A coiled storm.

“I heard what happened. Did you kill them?”

“Yes.”

The bluntness hit harder than I expected. Behind me, Alistair muttered, “Well, that answers that.”

“Why?” I asked.

“They lied to me. They claimed they had found no items of mine , no aid to give, but I saw it—their lies. Their words were false.”

His voice did not rise. There was no anger in it. Only certainty.

“You killed them for lying?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“They broke the truth. In the Qun, that is betrayal. Deceit is a crime. They were judged accordingly.”

Morrigan scoffed. “And here I thought I was the cold one.”

I tried to make sense of it, but I couldn’t. “They were frightened. People lie out of fear.”

“To lie is to reject order. In my people’s eyes, that is worse than fear.”

“And what did you expect to happen next?”

“I expected justice. Instead, I was caged.”

I frowned. “Why not fight back? Escape?”

“I did not resist. I told the truth. It did not matter. So I waited.”

“Waited for what?”

He looked up, toward the clouds. “Death. It comes to all. If it was to come for me here, so be it.”

He turned his gaze back to me, steady and unwavering.

“But if I must die, I would do so in battle. With purpose. Not rot behind iron.”

I was quiet for a long moment, weighing the words. I didn’t like them. But there was something in his manner—no madness, no guilt. Just clarity.

“I’m fighting the Blight,” I said. “Gathering those willing to stand against it. If I release you… will you fight with us?”

The Qunari was silent for a breath. Then another.

“I will follow,” he said finally. “And kill Darkspawn. Until death claims me.”

Alistair groaned behind me. “Maker’s breath. Of course. We already have a wild apostate and a witch with attitude. Why not toss in a blood-streaked zealot for flavor?”

Morrigan crossed her arms, lip curling. “Let me guess—another wounded soul seeking redemption and purpose? At this rate, we’ll be recruiting mabari with identity crises.”

I gave them both a look, then turned to the guards. “Open the cage.”

The older of the two guards blinked. “You’re serious?”

“He’s coming with us,” I said. “We need warriors.”

“And if he turns on you?” the younger asked.

I glanced back at the Qunari. “Then we’ll stop him.”

The cage door groaned open. The Qunari stepped out with fluid grace, moving like a predator loosed from a too-small cage. He stood tall—easily a full head above me, broader than anyone in our group.

“I am Sten, of the Beresaad,” he said simply.

“I’m Aedan,” I replied. “You’re with us now.”

He nodded once. “Then lead.”

We turned back toward the village. The people who had gathered to gawk now kept their distance. Even in freedom, Sten wore silence like armor.

And yet… he followed.

Another sword. Another burden. Another mystery.

But maybe—just maybe—another chance at saving this crumbling world.

Our group had grown again.

A templar-turned-Warden.

A noble with no home.

A wild witch.

A prophet from Orlais.

And now, a silent Qunari.

It made no sense on parchment.

But the world wasn’t made of sense anymore.

Only war.

And we were heading into the heart of it.

The fire crackled low, fighting the wind that pushed through the trees.

We’d set camp just beyond Lothering’s farthest farms, away from the bulk of refugees and watchful templar eyes. Morrigan had already wandered into the woods to hunt or scowl at trees—whichever best suited her mood. Sten sat near the edge of the firelight, unmoving, sharpening a blade that looked more like a cleaver than a sword. Leliana hummed softly under her breath, tuning an Orlesian lute with delicate fingers.

I sat beside Alistair, our backs against a fallen log, the smell of roasted hare wafting up from the spit.

We hadn’t spoken much since we left the Chantry. Too much death. Too many ghosts.

But the silence had stretched long enough.

“I think we should head to Redcliffe,” I said, poking at the fire.

Alistair looked over. “Redcliffe?”

“You said it yourself. Arl Eamon supported the Grey Wardens. If anyone can help us, it’s him.”

Alistair nodded slowly. “It makes sense. He’s powerful, well-respected, and if he believes us, he might be able to rally the other nobles… or at least protect us from Loghain’s wrath.”

The name left a sour taste in my mouth.

“He’s already poisoned the nobility with lies,” I muttered. “We’ll need more than words to clear our names.”

“And what then?” Alistair asked, shifting his weight. “Say Eamon believes us. Say he helps. What’s our next move?”

“Denerim,” I said firmly. “We’ll need allies. Real ones.”

Alistair leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You think the others will still be there?”

I didn’t answer right away. Because the person I meant wasn’t others—it was him.

Zephyr Arcadin.

I hadn’t seen him since Ostagar.

And while part of me feared he had fallen like the rest, another part—some stubborn fire deep inside—refused to believe it. I'd seen the way he moved, how even the ogres hesitated before facing him. His blade was a tower of black steel. His presence carried weight.

If anyone could have survived it, it was Zephyr.

And if we were going to have a hope of fighting this Blight, of surviving what was to come, we needed him.

I said his name aloud. “Zephyr.”

That made Leliana pause mid-strum.

Her fingers stilled on the strings of her lute, and she looked up slowly. “Zephyr Arcadin?”

I blinked. “You know him?”

A soft breath escaped her lips—almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “Yes… I met him in Lothering. Just over a year ago, before everything began.”

She set her lute aside gently, as though she didn’t trust her hands to stay steady. Her gaze drifted, searching the air for memory.

“It was during the first wave of refugees from the south. People were scared. Starving. I was singing hymns in the Chantry to calm them when he walked through the door.”

Her voice dropped slightly, threaded with reverence. “He looked like he had stepped out of a legend. Tall. Silent. Worn traveling leathers. A greatsword nearly as long as he was tall, wrapped in cloth as if to hide its presence—or maybe to protect us from it.”

Alistair gave a skeptical snort. “Considering what that sword can do? That’s probably accurate.”

Leliana smiled faintly but didn’t look at him. Her attention was far away—drawn inward, into some private memory she didn’t seem ready to share.

“He never said where he was from. But he spoke like a soldier… and carried himself like a knight. Not like a Chevalier. Older. Like something out of the Chant—before time forgot the names.”

She trailed off, and her cheeks flushed pink before she turned slightly, busying herself by adjusting the lute’s strap. But we’d all seen it.

Alistair leaned over, eyebrows raised at me in mock surprise. “Oh-ho. Someone made quite the impression.”

“I’m merely recalling the truth,” Leliana said quickly, her voice just a little too defensive. “He was… different.”

I watched her carefully. “Different how?”

She hesitated. “When I told him I had visions… messages from the Maker… he didn’t laugh. He didn’t look at me like I was mad. He listened.”

That surprised me more than anything. Zephyr, in my brief time with him, had been guarded. Stern. Almost detached. That he’d given Leliana his full attention said something.

“And he told me,” she continued, “that if the Blight ever reached Ferelden, I would have a part to play. That I should be ready.”

She looked down at her hands as if the memory warmed and unsettled her at once. “No one had ever said something like that to me. Not like they meant it.”

“You’re saying he predicted the Blight?” Alistair leaned in, brow furrowed. “Wait, wait. Are we saying the grumpy mountain of a man with the mystery sword and weird accent was… prophetic?”

She glanced up, her expression soft. “Not predicted. Knew. As if he carried the weight of it already.”

I raised a brow. “He said all that, just like that?”

She nodded slowly. “His words stayed with me. Even now.”

Her voice trailed off again, the barest smile touching her lips—but her eyes were distant, rimmed with something close to longing. Or regret.

Alistair leaned back with a smirk. “Alright. So the mysterious, brooding warrior with the sword of doom and the aura of doom shows up, says a few cryptic things, and vanishes like a storm cloud. Now that sounds like Zephyr.”

“He wasn’t doom,” Leliana murmured. “He was… calm. Sad, perhaps. But kind.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes.

She nodded. “He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. His words… they stayed with me.”

Leliana didn’t say anything more. But her hands lingered on her lute just a little longer before she picked it up again and resumed playing.

And though she plucked a gentle, hopeful melody… I noticed she kept glancing east—toward the Blight, and whatever road Zephyr had taken.

Morrigan returned shortly after with a pair of rabbits slung over one shoulder. She looked at our faces, the grim tension in the firelight, and arched a brow.

“Did someone die?” she asked.

Alistair shrugged. “Not yet. Give it time.”

She scoffed and tossed the game down.

“Good,” she muttered. “I’d hate to think I’d wasted my evening while you were busy brooding.”

I smiled faintly.

In another life, in another time, maybe we would’ve laughed more. Maybe there would have been time for rest.

But for now?

We were just survivors.

Marching toward something dark and unknowable, clinging to plans like driftwood in a storm.

Morning, just outside Lothering

The fire had long since died, leaving behind little more than warm ash and curling smoke. Dawn crept over the horizon in soft golds and silvers, casting light through the trees and over our small camp nestled along the worn road. The air was still, but carried that crisp clarity that always came before travel.

I was the first to rise.

Old habit.

I checked our packs—repacked them tighter—and resecured the straps on my sword. The sword drank in the morning light, its edge humming faintly with the promise of coming battle.

Alistair grumbled from under his cloak. “Is it morning already? Feels like we only just got to sleep.”

“It was morning five minutes ago,” Morrigan muttered from where she sat cross-legged, already awake, sipping from a cup of something herbal and pungent.

Sten stood apart from us, motionless and watching the road ahead, as if he’d been up before any of us, and simply hadn’t moved.

We didn’t speak much as we packed up camp. Too many miles ahead. Too much weighing on all of us.

By the time the sun had fully broken the tree line, we were on the road again—boots on dirt, weapons strapped, and Redcliffe on our minds.

And whatever waited for us there.

We reached Redcliffe just as the sky began to die.

Clouds like bruised skin hung over the mountains, streaked with flame from the setting sun. The air reeked of stagnant lake water, ash, and something fouler—rot, just beneath the surface.

The village lay quiet.

Too quiet.

The dirt roads that should have been full of carts, tradesmen, or children chasing goats were deserted. Shutters were bolted. Candles flickered behind tightly drawn curtains. The only movement was the wind, dragging mist in from the lake like pale fingers across the hills.

“This is wrong,” I muttered, hand drifting toward my sword hilt.

“Redcliffe is a major holding,” Alistair said beside me, brow furrowed. “There should be guards at the gate. Farmers, travelers—something.”

Leliana turned in a slow circle. “Perhaps the people are at prayer?”

Morrigan scoffed. “Or perhaps they’ve been eaten.”

“Charming,” Alistair muttered.

We made our way into the center of the village. What we found was a lone man, bald, hunched, and sharpening a pitchfork with shaking hands. He looked up as we approached—eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he hissed. “Not unless you plan to fight.”

“Fight what?” I asked.

He stared at me like I was mad. “The dead.”

I blinked. “Come again?”

“Every night,” he rasped. “They come. Shamblers, moaning, clawing at the doors. They’ve taken people—families. The soldiers, they all left. The Arl’s men. Called back to the castle. And us?” He laughed bitterly. “They left us to die.”

Alistair stepped forward. “What about Arl Eamon? Is he in the castle?”

The man’s face twisted. “Sick, they said. Dying maybe. No one sees him. No one knows.”

“Who’s in charge now?”

The man spat into the dirt. “Bann Teagan’s supposed to be keeping things together. But he’s gone too—rode out days ago to try and find help. He said he’d be back. He’s not.”

The sun had nearly vanished now. The shadows stretched long and wide.

The man stood, eyes darting toward the crumbling hill road that led up to the looming keep.

“Leave. Get out while you still can.”

Then he ran—pitchfork in hand, vanishing into one of the shuttered homes.

We made camp near the Chantry, such as it was. The building’s doors had been reinforced with scrap metal and timber. A few villagers—men and women too old or too stubborn to flee—sat inside, whispering prayers and clutching children close.

Sister Hannah, the Chantry’s caretaker in the absence of the Revered Mother, gave us space near the altar. Leliana knelt beside her, whispering hymns. Morrigan stayed outside, muttering curses at the chill.

Alistair pulled me aside near a support beam, lowering his voice.

“This is bad. And it makes no sense.”

“You’re telling me.”

“If Arl Eamon is truly dying, then someone else has to be in command at the castle. And whatever’s happening there is affecting the whole village.”

“You think this is tied to the undead attacks?”

“I do. We should find Teagan. He’s level-headed. Loyal. If anyone knows the truth, it’s him.”

I nodded. “And if he’s dead?”

Alistair grimaced. “Then we’ll have to break into that castle ourselves.”

That night, we stayed in the Chantry, sleeping in turns. Morrigan kept watch outside, Sten leaned against the door like a stone statue, and Leliana’s soft singing kept the children from crying.

But even with the fire burning bright and blades close at hand… I couldn’t sleep.

Not truly.

Because as midnight came, and the wind shifted—

—I heard the first scream.

Then came the moaning.

And outside, the dead began to walk.

Chapter Text

The scream tore through the stillness like a sword through flesh.

I bolted upright inside the Chantry, my hand already on my sword hilt before my eyes fully opened. Across the room, Alistair was up just as fast, grabbing his shield. Sten didn’t need waking—he was already on his feet, massive blade drawn. Morrigan kicked the door open, and cold night air flooded in.

The moaning came next.

Low. Wet. A chorus of agony.

I ran outside.

The dead were coming.

They shambled into the village from the shoreline and the shadows beneath Redcliffe Castle’s cliff-face, dragging broken limbs, clawed hands twitching. Dozens of them—maybe more—staggered through the mist.

And behind them, something bigger.

The villagers scrambled to man the crude barricades they’d built earlier that day—makeshift walls of overturned carts and broken wagons. A few brave souls held torches and rusted farm tools.

This wasn’t a defense.

It was a funeral march.

“Form a line!” I shouted, forcing my voice to rise above the panicked cries of villagers and the mournful wails of the wind howling through Redcliffe’s narrow streets. “Men with weapons at the front! Archers, get to the roofs—focus fire at the chokepoints!”

I could see the dread in their faces, the tremble in some hands. These weren’t soldiers. Just farmers and tradesmen with old swords and axes. But they moved—because they had to.

Alistair and I took the center, braced behind a makeshift barricade of overturned carts and furniture, sharpened stakes wedged between cobblestones. His shield gleamed dully in the torchlight, already nicked from the last skirmish. He gave me a nod, tight and grim.

Leliana stood just behind us, bow already drawn, the tip of her arrow catching a glint of fire. Her eyes darted between buildings and rooftops, scanning for any straggler in need of help. Her mouth was a hard line, but her hands didn’t shake.

Morrigan stood farther back, cloak billowing behind her as if caught in wind only she could feel. Her staff was already glowing faintly, veins of dark purple pulsing from tip to base. She muttered in a guttural language under her breath, and the air around her crackled.

And Sten… Sten had taken the far left flank of the street, where the path sloped toward the docks. He stood with his greatsword already resting across his shoulders, like a silent sentinel. Alone. Unshaken.

The moaning came first—dozens of voices, guttural and low, echoing like something out of a nightmare. Then we saw them. A tide of shambling corpses spilled around the bend in the road, eyes blank, limbs twitching and jerking in unnatural rhythm. Some were armored, others still in tattered rags or merchant’s clothes, faces bloated and gray.

“The dead move fast,” Leliana murmured.

The first corpse lunged across the barricade—and Alistair met it with his shield, slamming it back so hard its neck cracked audibly. He followed up with a clean sword stroke, cutting the thing down in a heap of clattering bones and gore.

That’s when the smell hit.

The wall of rot slammed into us—thick, choking, rancid. It curled through my throat like smoke, made my eyes water and my stomach lurch. Sweat mixed with the stench, coating my skin in a clammy sheen. Somewhere down the line, one of the younger men gagged and threw up.

More corpses surged forward. I swung in a wide arc, cleaving through two at once. Behind me, Morrigan’s staff flashed, and a fireball arced overhead—then detonated midair in a bloom of flame and bone fragments.

Arrows rained down from the rooftops. Some found their marks. Others glanced off bone or rotten mail. A few of the villagers fell, dragged screaming into the horde.

“Hold the line!” I bellowed, cutting down another ghoul. “Don’t let them break through!”

Sten’s blade moved like lightning, great sweeps and crushing blows that turned corpses into pulp. He didn’t shout, didn’t falter. Just killed, over and over, like death itself given form.

For every undead we dropped, three more seemed to stumble into place. The Blight wasn’t just coming anymore—it was here.

And we were its first wall.

The next few minutes were madness—raw, frenzied chaos that blurred the line between man and monster.

Blades clanged like war drums, steel ringing out with every desperate parry and strike. Fireballs shrieked overhead, scorching the night sky in bursts of orange and green. Arrows zipped past my ears like vengeful spirits, one close enough to slice a strand of hair from my brow. The very air seemed to howl with fury.

I ducked low beneath a lunging corpse, a woman in a tattered gown stiff with dried blood. Her face was half-rotted, but her lips still moved, mumbling some ancient prayer as if memory alone drove her. Her hands reached for my throat—bony, trembling, stubborn. I slammed my elbow into her jaw, spun behind, and drove my blade through her spine. She crumpled like wet parchment.

I had no time to breathe.

A snarling ghoul, mouth stretched unnaturally wide, came at me with jagged teeth and broken nails. I stepped into the swing and buried my sword in its chest, the impact sending a jolt through my arms. It gurgled and spasmed on the steel. I tore it free and kept moving.

To my right, a boy—gods, barely fifteen—screamed as he jammed a rusted pitchfork into the ribs of something that had once been a knight. The thing growled, dragging itself forward with clawed fingers even as the boy drove the weapon deeper, his face twisted in horror and determination. I reached him just in time to cleave the creature’s head from its shoulders.

"Back behind the line!" I shouted at him. He didn’t hesitate—he ran, pitchfork still in hand, blood spattering behind him.

Alistair stood beside me, shield raised high, sword moving in tight, efficient arcs. His face was flushed, jaw clenched, hair soaked through. "I hope you’re not keeping score," he panted. "Because I swear I’ve taken down—"

A corpse lunged at him mid-sentence, and he met it with a roar, slamming it back with his shield before skewering it through the gut. "—a lot!" he finished.

Further back, Morrigan’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Her staff glowed with flickering green light, and a torrent of eldritch fire erupted from its tip, engulfing a pack of ghouls in screaming flame. They shrieked, flailing, melting into slag. The flames caught on nearby wooden crates and debris, casting eerie dancing shadows across the battlefield.

Leliana crouched low behind the central barricade, her bow moving like a second limb. Every arrow found its mark: a skull split, a spine shattered, a claw severed mid-swing. Her mouth was tight, her eyes calm—but every so often, I saw her lips move in silent prayer.

Sten held the far left alone, a solitary juggernaut in the dark. His greatsword hewed through rot and bone with deliberate, brutal precision. He didn’t speak, didn’t grunt, didn’t even breathe heavily—just moved like a war machine, efficient and implacable. Bodies piled around his boots like discarded armor.

A shriek pierced the din—a woman, crying for her child. I turned and caught sight of her just behind a crumbled stone wall, cradling a boy no older than six, blood on his face. A corpse staggered toward them, unseen. My legs moved before my mind caught up.

I vaulted over the barricade, slammed into the creature with my shoulder, and knocked it flat. My sword drove down hard, splitting its chest open like wet bark. I hauled the woman and child to their feet. “Go!” I barked. “Run—get to the Chantry!”

She nodded, sobbing, and bolted into the night.

Another ghoul caught me off guard, tackling me into the mud. Its weight was staggering—bones grinding, breath reeking of rot and bile. I twisted beneath it, caught its arm before it could sink its claws into me, and headbutted it hard enough to break its jaw. The moment it reeled, I drove my blade up through its jaw and into its skull.

I stood, panting, caked in blood that wasn’t mine.

We fought in blood and shadow.

The wounded cried out, the dying reached for the sky, and still the dead surged forward like a tide that would never break.

My arms ached. My lungs burned. The grip on my sword was slick with sweat and gore. But I didn’t stop. None of us did.

They just kept coming.

One of them—larger than the rest, bloated and grotesque—lurched out of the darkness with a guttural howl. Its skin sagged like melted wax, riddled with open sores that leaked black ichor. Its eyes were pits of oily shadow, and steam hissed from its maw as it roared. With unnatural speed, it charged the barricade, its bulk slamming into the wood with the force of a charging bull.

The entire wall buckled.

I barely had time to brace before it collapsed in a shower of splinters and shattered shields. The force of the impact threw me from my feet—I hit the ground hard, my back slamming into the cold, blood-soaked mud. The wind rushed from my lungs in a stunned gasp, stars flaring behind my eyes.

Before I could move, two more corpses tumbled over the wreckage, landing atop me. Their weight was staggering—rotting flesh, bloated organs, heavy armor warped and fused to their skin. Their claws tore at my chestplate, one set raking across my cheek, the other gripping my arm like a vice. I snarled, twisting, struggling to get my blade up—but they pinned it down with ravenous force.

Their breath was hot with rot, lips peeling back to reveal jagged, mossy teeth. One leaned in, jaws opening wide to bite.

Then—

A blade sang.

Steel flashed in the dark. One corpse’s head snapped back, cleaved nearly in two by a powerful downswing. Blood and bile sprayed into the night. The weight lifted as the second corpse was kicked off me, tumbling aside.

A hand grabbed my collar and yanked me to my feet with practiced ease.

Alistair.

"On your feet, Cousland!" he barked, not even sparing a glance as he raised his shield and caught a heavy blow from another attacker, deflecting it with a grunt.

"Thanks," I panted, wiping blood from my eyes as I stepped into the fray beside him. My sword came up and arced down, severing a corpse’s head from its shoulders. The body fell twitching at our feet.

“That’s one!” Alistair grinned, his voice wild with the adrenaline of battle. “Try to keep up!”

We fought back-to-back, our blades carving wide arcs through the encroaching dead. Steel met flesh. Bone cracked. My body moved on instinct, the rhythm of war taking hold—strike, turn, block, lunge. We were a storm of metal and fury, spinning and cutting, shouting warnings and curses.

The mud turned red beneath our boots. My arms felt like lead. My shoulders ached with every swing. But still, I fought.

Behind us, Leliana had run out of arrows. I saw her draw a dagger and join the line, face grim, red hair streaked with gore. She ducked beneath a clawed swipe and rammed her blade into a ghoul’s ribs, twisting as it fell.

Morrigan’s spells came slower now—no longer the grand blasts of fire, but sharp, short bursts of lightning and flame. Her lips moved constantly, chanting incantations under her breath. Sweat poured down her temples, her eyes wide and focused. Her last fireball arced out and exploded with a muted thoom, hurling three bodies back into the trees.

Sten… even Sten was slowing. The great Qunari warrior’s breath came heavier. Blood ran down his arm, soaking the leather of his pauldron. But he did not falter. With every swing of his blade, another corpse fell, until they were stacked around him like a brutal monument.

But it wasn’t enough.

The line was buckling. Villagers screamed behind us. One man—Thomas, I think—was dragged down, his screams abruptly cut off. Another fell, arrow still clutched in his trembling hands.

They were everywhere.

There was no end.

I could feel it. The weariness creeping in. The sting of a thousand cuts, the raw burn in my lungs. I didn’t know how much longer we could hold.

And then—

Silence.

Like someone had sucked the sound from the world. The clash of blades. The moans of the dead. The screams. Gone.

I froze mid-swing, panting. My sword dripped with blackened blood. Around me, the others stopped too, their bodies tense, wide-eyed.

And then—the last corpse fell.

A sickening wet crunch echoed through the clearing as Sten’s blade finished its arc, cleaving the creature in half. Its body hit the mud with a final, heavy thud.

No more came.

Just… silence.

I turned slowly. Smoke drifted from the shattered barricades, curling into the gray morning sky. Morrigan leaned on her staff, chest heaving, strands of hair clinging to her face. Leliana dropped to her knees beside a fallen child, murmuring a prayer as she closed the boy’s eyes.

Alistair exhaled, shoulders sagging as he planted his shield into the dirt. “Is it… over?”

Sten didn’t answer. He stood still as stone, staring into the distance, the tip of his greatsword buried in the earth.

The villagers—those who had survived—stumbled out from behind broken walls and shattered carts. Bloodied, ash-covered, trembling. A few sobbed. Some collapsed beside loved ones. Others just stood there, staring at the carnage, at the blood-soaked ground.

But they were alive.

We had held the line.

Just barely.

The first to speak was one of the elderly farmers.

“I-It’s over?”

I nodded grimly, wiping gore from my sword. “For now.”

That’s when we heard the hoofbeats.

A column of riders approached from the western road—tired, dust-covered, and fewer in number than they should have been. At their front rode a tall man in dark red and gold, his face grim and his mustache windblown.

“Teagan,” Alistair breathed.

We stepped forward to meet him.

The bodies were still warm when Bann Teagan rode into the village. His horse’s hooves splashed through half-congealed blood and mud, and the stench of rot and burnt flesh clung to the morning air like a curse. He dismounted in one fluid motion, his dark cloak whipping around him as he stepped forward, boots crunching over shattered bone and broken arrow shafts.

His eyes swept across the ruined square—splintered barricades, scorched rooftops, and dozens of corpses twisted in their final agony. His expression tightened into something between horror and helpless fury.

“Maker’s Breath…” he muttered, voice hoarse. “I came as quickly as I could.”

I wiped my blade against a torn tunic and sheathed it with a grim finality. “You came just in time to see what’s left.”

Alistair folded his arms, armor streaked with black blood. “Where’s the help?”

Teagan’s jaw clenched. “None to be found. The Bannorn are fractured. They argue and posture while Loghain consolidates power behind their backs. Some have already declared for him. Others are too frightened to speak out.”

My heart gave a hard, frustrated lurch. “So we’re on our own.”

“For now,” Teagan said, turning to look at what remained of the villagers—children huddled in the arms of soot-streaked parents, wounded men propped up near the Chantry doors, the frightened faces of people who had barely survived the night. “But you bought them time. That matters.”

Morrigan approached, leaning heavily on her staff. Her robes were singed and torn, her eyes shadowed with fatigue, but her voice remained sharp as ever. “You mentioned the Arl. What of him?”

Teagan’s gaze darkened. “He fell ill nearly a fortnight ago. Sudden. Violent. Nothing like a common sickness. At first, we suspected poison—there were whispers, servants questioned, food tasters recalled—but nothing proved conclusive. Then… the attacks began.”

“The dead,” Leliana said softly, stepping beside me. “They rose shortly after, didn’t they?”

“Yes.” Teagan nodded grimly. “Not all at once. It began with strange sightings—shadows moving through the trees, voices in the night. Then we lost patrols. And then… the village was overrun.”

“And you think this is connected to the Arl’s illness?” I asked.

Teagan didn’t answer right away. He looked to Morrigan. “You’re a mage. You’ve seen magic used to corrupt, to dominate. This… this feels like that.”

Morrigan’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Necromancy. Blood magic. Perhaps even possession. It reeks of unnatural forces.”

Sten stepped forward from where he’d been silently watching. His armor was scored with gashes, and he still held his sword loosely at his side. “This is not the work of your Chantry demons alone,” he said, voice low. “Something deliberate guides them. This was an assault, not an accident.”

Teagan nodded. “The timing was too perfect. The Arl is incapacitated. The Blight looms. Redcliffe is in chaos. Whoever or whatever is behind this… chose their moment well.”

Alistair swore under his breath. “It just keeps getting worse.”

Teagan turned to us then—his face a mask of concern, but also of decision. “You’re the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, aren’t you?”

We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to.

“Then you’ll have to do what the rest of us can’t.” Teagan’s voice was heavy with meaning. “Come inside. The chantry is still secure… for now. But if we’re going to stand against this darkness, you’ll need to understand what we’re up against.”

The battle had ended. But no one slept.

Some of the villagers sat in a daze on the Chantry’s cold stone benches. Others wept, too exhausted or numb to hide it. Sister Hannah moved from person to person, administering bandages, blessings, and quiet words of comfort.

The stench of the dead still clung to us.

Teagan had returned, but brought no soldiers, no allies. Just more grim news.

Arl Eamon was not recovering.

And no one knew why.

Alistair and I sat in a corner, sharpening blades we didn’t want to use again so soon. Morrigan leaned against a pillar, her eyes half-lidded, pretending not to care. Leliana hummed a hymn softly as she cleaned her bowstring.

It was almost peaceful—until the Chantry doors burst open.

She stepped in like a ghost from a half-remembered dream.

Arlessa Isolde—dressed in a mud-stained cloak over noble silks, her blonde hair tangled and streaked with sweat. Her hands trembled. Her eyes darted across the room until they locked on Teagan.

“Teagan!”

He was on his feet in an instant, concern etched deep into his face. “Isolde?”

She looked ready to collapse, but stayed standing out of sheer will.

“You must come,” she said, breath catching in her throat. “You must come now. Eamon... he worsens. And our son—Connor—he…”

Her voice faltered.

“He needs you.”

The silence in the Chantry was deafening.

Teagan stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Why didn’t you send for me sooner?”

“I couldn’t. They—” She paused, visibly shaken. “The... things in the castle. They roam at night. Servants—possessed. Slain. We’ve kept to the upper floors. Locked doors, prayed. I had to come myself. I slipped past.”

She looked around, eyes wary.

“I only have a little time.”

Teagan looked back at me, then at Alistair, his jaw tight. “I need to go. If Connor’s in danger—if Isolde’s managed to escape—there might still be time to help them.”

I stepped forward without hesitation. “We’ll come with you.”

Isolde raised her hand in a sudden, sharp gesture, stopping me mid-stride. “No.”

The tremble in her limbs was gone. Her voice was no longer the desperate plea of a grieving mother—it was the firm tone of a noblewoman used to being obeyed.

“No,” she repeated, stronger this time. “They’ll know something’s wrong. You’re strangers. Armed strangers.”

Alistair frowned. “And Teagan’s not?”

“Teagan can pass through the gates,” she said. “He’s the Arl’s brother. No one will question him entering his own home.”

“She’s right,” Teagan murmured, nodding slowly. “I can walk into the main hall and ask questions, assess the situation. If I play it carefully, I can see what’s really happening.”

“You’re suggesting we just... sit here and wait?” I asked, incredulous.

“You’d walk into that place alone, knowing something’s wrong?” Leliana asked, her voice quiet, tight with disbelief.

Teagan offered a smile, faint but steady. “I’ve walked into worse. Besides, I need to see it with my own eyes. Perhaps I can stop this.”

Morrigan scoffed under her breath, muttering something in a fluid Antivan dialect I didn’t quite catch—but I suspected it wasn’t a compliment. She folded her arms, staff glinting faintly in the firelight.

I glanced between them all, frustration twisting in my chest. “And what happens if they see through your act? If this power—whatever’s controlling the dead—strikes you down the moment you step inside?”

“Then you’ll know something’s gone wrong,” Teagan said, his voice steady. “And you’ll act accordingly.”

Alistair stepped forward, his brows furrowed. “Maker’s Breath, Teagan. This is madness.”

“Perhaps,” the Bann said with a weary smile. “But if madness stands between us and what’s left of this family, then I’ll walk through it.”

He turned to Isolde, who looked ready to collapse from the weight of her guilt and terror. Gently, he touched her shoulder. “I’ll find him. And I’ll do what must be done.”

“I just want my family back,” she whispered. “If it’s not too late. But if not…” She trailed off, and her lips trembled.

Teagan didn’t promise anything. He simply nodded.

Sten grunted from where he stood at the edge of the chamber, arms crossed like a living statue. “This smells like a trap.”

“It might be,” I said quietly.

“Then why send him in alone?”

“Because if we all go,” I answered, “we lose the element of subtlety. And without that… we’ll be storming the castle without knowing who or what waits inside.”

The room was still.

Finally, Teagan buckled his sword at his side. “Give me until nightfall. If I don’t return by then, assume the worst. Break through the gates if you must.”

I nodded reluctantly.

“We’ll be ready,” I said.

Isolde gave a curt nod, already pulling her cloak tight. “Wait at the village. I’ll see that the gates remain open long enough for Teagan to slip inside.”

Teagan clasped my shoulder. “If the Maker wills it, I’ll return soon. If not... you’ll have to find another way in.”

With that, he left with Isolde, disappearing into the misty morning road leading up to the castle.

And we were left again… waiting.

Hours passed.

The sun rose.

Villagers buried the dead. Rebuilt barricades. Sharpened pitchforks and prayed.

Still no word from the castle.

Late in the afternoon, a scout returned. One of the surviving villagers who had kept watch on the path.

He ran into the Chantry, gasping.

“The gates are open again,” he said. “But... Teagan hasn’t come back.”

My hand gripped the hilt of my sword.

“That’s it,” I said. “We’re going in.”

We crossed the drawbridge in silence.

The castle gates had been left ajar—just wide enough to let a man slip through. No guards stood watch. No banners fluttered. The torches lining the inner courtyard were cold and unlit.

Redcliffe Castle was silent as a tomb.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes. “Too quiet.”

Alistair grunted. “You noticed too, huh?”

Sten reached back and unslung his blade. “Steel,” he said simply.

I nodded.

“Keep together.”

We entered.

The entrance hall was a bloodbath.

Furniture overturned, torn tapestries littering the floor, streaks of blood smeared across the stone walls. A body lay facedown in the middle of the chamber—dressed in a servant’s uniform, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

Leliana crossed herself and muttered a prayer.

“This wasn’t a raid,” I said, staring at the scene. “This was slaughter.”

The deeper we went, the worse it became. Corpses in armor lay beside butchered kitchen staff. Some of the dead looked weeks old, others recent. A few had claw marks across their faces.

That’s when we heard it.

A low, guttural growl from the far end of the great hall.

Something shambled out from the dark.

And it wasn’t human.

The creature had once been a knight, or perhaps a squire. What remained of its armor was fused to blistered, mutated flesh. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural green fire, and its mouth twisted in a perpetual scream.

Then it charged.

We barely had time to react. Alistair took the brunt of the charge, shield raised, boots skidding backward across the stone. I rolled behind it, slicing up into the exposed side. Morrigan’s lightning crashed down on it, while Leliana peppered it with arrows.

It shrieked and buckled—but didn’t die.

Not easily.

When it finally collapsed, its body hissed, releasing a cloud of foul-smelling vapor.

Morrigan coughed. “An abomination.”

I stared at her. “What?”

“A mage, overtaken by a spirit from the Fade. This... this is no simple possession.”

Alistair wiped blood from his brow. “Then we have a bigger problem than we thought.”

The deeper we went, the more creatures we encountered. Some were clearly possessed—twisted staff-wielding mages, bodies bloated by power. Others were more animalistic, driven only by bloodlust. Most wore remnants of castle livery.

These had once been Eamon’s household staff.

And now they were monsters.

In a ruined side chamber near the library, we found a survivor—a terrified woman hiding beneath a broken table.

She clutched my leg when I reached for her.

“You have to help him!” she sobbed. “The Bann—they took him!”

“Teagan?” I asked.

She nodded furiously, tears streaming. “He came to the throne room—and he knelt! Knelt! And that thing, that child... he just smiled!”

“What thing?” I asked, crouching beside her.

“Connor,” she whispered. “He’s... not right. He speaks in voices. They come from the walls. And he... he made the knights walk off the tower.”

Alistair looked sick.

“He’s possessed,” Morrigan said grimly.

Leliana’s voice trembled. “But he’s only a child…”

“And powerful,” Morrigan replied. “That’s the most dangerous kind.”

We left the woman with instructions to hide in the chapel.

Then we made for the throne room.

The doors were open.

And Bann Teagan stood there—alive. But swaying like a drunkard, eyes glassy, smile vacant.

At the far end of the room, seated on the Arl’s throne, was Connor.

A boy of maybe ten years.

His skin was pale. His eyes glowed faintly. And his smile…

...it wasn’t his.

“I have guests!” he said brightly, voice echoing like something from two mouths at once. “How lovely!”

“Connor,” I said carefully. “What’s going on here?”

Teagan turned to us, dancing awkwardly as if caught in a puppet’s strings. “The boy... he’s fine! He’s just playing!”

Then he laughed—a hollow, horrible sound.

Connor stood.

And when he spoke those last words, the very walls of the throne room seemed to pulse—rippling like disturbed water.

A shimmer overtook the air, casting a sickly glow across the stone. The edges of the room warped, became hazy, as though we had all been dragged halfway into the Fade. A pressure settled on my chest, thick and suffocating. My breath came short, and for a moment, I was no longer certain where reality ended and dream began.

Connor stood in the center of it all, small and fragile in his ornate velvet tunic, his hair tousled like any boy’s after sleep. But his eyes—his eyes were voids. Not empty, not vacant. Full. Brimming with something vast and ancient and utterly wrong. Magic bled from his skin in faint violet wisps, dancing along his arms like tendrils.

And then his lips moved.

The voice that came forth was not his own.

Low. Serpentine. Playful, almost childlike, yet laced with a terrible intelligence.

“I like games.”

The Fade shimmer fractured with that single utterance—an unseen force tugged at the seams of reality—and then Connor vanished.

Not walked. Not fled. He simply ceased to be, leaving behind a shadowy afterimage that sizzled like smoke before fading into nothing.

For several seconds, no one moved.

The magical haze dissipated slowly, dissolving into cold silence. The chamber lost its unnatural light. We were back in the real world.

Teagan collapsed to the marble floor with a strangled groan, sweat pouring down his brow. The grotesque grin that had twisted his features—something hideous and lifeless—was gone. His limbs shook as though his muscles remembered the possession even if his mind didn’t. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his hand trembled as he tried to push himself upright.

“Teagan,” I said, kneeling beside him.

His eyes fluttered open. They were clear now—no hint of enchantment remained.

“What happened?” he murmured hoarsely.

“You were controlled,” Alistair said grimly. “Possessed. That thing… it used you.”

Teagan’s face paled. “Connor…”

“He’s gone,” I said. “Vanished into the castle. Whatever’s inside him, it’s grown stronger. Bolder.”

Alistair’s hand tightened on his shield. “We can’t let him escape. Maker knows what it’ll do next.”

Morrigan swept her gaze across the throne room, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring faintly. “He’s still within these walls. I can feel it—like a foul wind in a sealed room. The demon has not left.”

“Then we hunt,” Sten rumbled, stepping forward. His greatsword glinted with fresh blood from the earlier skirmish, his posture that of a warrior stalking prey.

I stood and turned toward Leliana. Her bow was still drawn, though her expression had turned grim.

“Check the wounded. There may still be servants hiding, or knights injured during the chaos. Help whoever you can.”

She nodded briskly. “I will do what I can. And… I will pray. The Maker’s hand must still rest upon this place, if even one life can be saved.”

With her gone, the rest of us prepared to move.

Teagan leaned heavily against a pillar, still recovering. He looked up at me with haunted eyes.

“It was watching through me,” he said quietly. “I remember... nothing clearly, but I felt it. Its hunger. It was—” He paused, swallowing thickly. “—like standing at the edge of a cliff in the dark, knowing something below was waiting to pull you in.”

I nodded grimly. “Rest. We’ll handle this.”

He didn’t argue.

We pressed deeper into the castle, Morrigan at my side, her staff lit with a soft pulse of arcane light. Alistair followed with his shield raised, boots crunching faint debris from the earlier battle. Sten brought up the rear, silent, alert.

The air grew colder the deeper we went. It wasn’t just the lack of light or the chill of ancient stone. It was a magical cold, the kind that sank into your bones and whispered lies into your ears. The kind that told you this wasn’t your world anymore—that the rules had changed.

“This is not simply possession,” Morrigan murmured. “This demon… it is reshaping the boy’s world around him. Warping the castle to suit its needs. We are not hunting a host. We are hunting a nexus.”

“You mean it’s altering reality?” Alistair asked, scowling.

“In pockets, yes,” she replied. “Through Connor’s magic, it gains influence. And with every passing moment, it roots deeper.”

“Then let’s rip it out,” Sten said.

I agreed.

Whatever this thing was—desire demon, pride demon, something even fouler—it had claimed Connor. But it hadn’t claimed us.

And so we advanced, deeper into the corrupted halls of Redcliffe Castle, each step a march through the jaws of something ancient, malicious, and all too eager to play with us.

The deeper we descended, the more the very air felt wrong.

The castle’s grandeur faded into decay, stone walls slick with condensation and smeared in places with dark, unidentifiable streaks. Old blood, maybe. Or something else. The torches sputtered low, casting warped shadows that danced like they had minds of their own. Every step we took echoed too loud, like the halls wanted to remember our passing.

Behind us, the door to the upper floors slammed shut on its own.

Morrigan sneered, eyes scanning the corridor ahead. “The Veil is thinner here. Something has twisted the castle’s very bones.”

“Feels like a crypt,” Alistair muttered, tightening his grip on his shield. “Not even a good crypt. A bad one. One with spiders.”

Sten said nothing, but his stance shifted into readiness. His blade gleamed faintly in the low light, always slightly ahead of us, like it too sensed the threat.

We moved as one down the corridor, each breath growing shallower, the silence thick enough to smother thought. Then—

A scream. Raw and shrill. A woman’s voice, echoing from below.

Leliana gasped, already moving. “Someone’s alive!”

We followed, boots pounding against the stones. The hallway veered sharply left, and a heavy door barred the way forward. Sten stepped up and, with a single heave, smashed it inward. It crashed open with a thunderous groan, revealing a stairwell descending into blackness.

The dungeons.

The heavy wooden door creaked open on rusted hinges, the iron banding groaning under years of strain. A wave of foul air rolled out to meet us—rank with decay, old blood, and mildew. The torches sputtered as if recoiling from the stench. Morrigan raised a hand, and a small flame hovered above her palm, casting a guttering orange glow into the corridor.

I led the descent. Magic was thick here—twisted, raw, tainted.

At the base of the stairs, we found the cells.

Iron bars warped like they’d been melted and reshaped by clawed hands. Chains rattled where nothing moved. The cells themselves were a nightmare—filthy, splattered with blood, bones half-dissolved into the straw. And in one, a woman hunched in the corner, her gown torn, her skin pale as death.

“Isolde?” I breathed.

She stirred, barely lifting her head.

Alistair rushed forward, unlocking the cell with a ring of keys from a fallen guard’s belt. He caught her before she collapsed.

“Thank the Maker,” she gasped. “It’s Connor… he’s not Connor anymore.”

“We know,” I said gently, kneeling beside her. “We’ve seen it.”

Morrigan crossed her arms. “The boy is possessed. The signs are clear. The demon is powerful—but still tied to the child’s soul. That makes it vulnerable. Kill the boy, and the demon dies with him.”

“No!” Isolde’s voice cracked. “He’s still in there. My son is still in there! He didn’t mean to call the demon. He just wanted to help Eamon…”

Her fingers clawed at Alistair’s arm. “There must be another way.”

I exchanged a glance with Morrigan. She didn’t argue. Not yet.

“We’ll find him first,” I said carefully. “Then we decide.”

From somewhere above us, laughter echoed again.

This time, it came from every direction. A child’s voice. Connor’s voice.

“I don’t want to play anymore…”

Then the walls trembled. And the dungeon lights flickered out.

We were plunged into darkness.

Morrigan’s fingers curled, and flame danced along her palm.

Sten moved to the front again. “He knows we’re coming.”

“Yes,” I said grimly, rising to my feet. “And we’re done chasing.”

We pressed forward—toward the heart of the nightmare.

The dungeon was carved deep into the stone of Redcliffe Castle, far from sunlight and decency. Chains lined the walls. Rotting straw clung to the damp floor like patches of mold. The sound of dripping water echoed through the hall, irregular and hollow—like the slow heartbeat of a dying man.

We stepped inside, boots squelching in filth. There, in a narrow cell set against the far wall, a man crouched in the half-darkness. His robes, once gray, were now little more than tatters. Dried blood ringed his cuffs and ankles where shackles had rubbed skin raw. His hair was a matted mess, long and unwashed, and he looked up slowly when he heard us approach.

“I was wondering when someone would come,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in days.

Alistair moved forward, hand still on the hilt of his sword. “Who are you?”

The man straightened as much as the chains allowed. His eyes, though sunken, carried a strange calm. “My name is Jowan.”

The name meant nothing to me—but at my side, Morrigan stiffened as if struck.

Her voice, when it came, was low and sharp. "A blood mage.”

That made me glance at her.

Jowan flinched.

“I—It’s true,” he said, voice shaking. “I used blood magic… once. To escape the Circle. But that was a long time ago. I didn’t hurt anyone here. I only wanted to help.”

Alistair’s frown deepened. “So what’s a blood mage doing locked in Redcliffe Castle’s dungeon? You don’t exactly seem like a guest of honor.”

“I was brought here,” Jowan said, glancing between us. “By the Arlessa. Lady Isolde.”

That caught our attention.

“You’re the reason Connor is possessed,” Alistair growled.

Jowan’s expression contorted with guilt. “Not—not directly. I didn’t summon the demon, I swear it. But… yes. I taught him. When his magic first manifested, Isolde panicked. She didn’t want the Circle to know—she was terrified they’d take her son away. So she sent for me. Secretly.”

“And you taught him?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Only the basics,” he said quickly. “How to contain it. Suppress it. He was a bright boy, and he was scared. But I didn’t—Maker’s breath, I didn’t think it would go this far.”

“You’re a fool,” Morrigan spat. “You tried to stifle power with ignorance. You left him vulnerable—and now a demon wears his face.”

“I tried to warn her!” Jowan shouted, the chain rattling as he jerked against it. “I begged Isolde to send for help, for the templars, anyone. But she refused. Said no one could know. When the Arl fell ill, Connor grew desperate. He thought he was to blame. And then… something answered him.”

He bowed his head.

“I don’t know how it got in. But I felt the shift. The wrongness in the air. And then… he wasn’t Connor anymore.”

I crossed my arms. “And what did Isolde do then?”

“She turned on me,” he whispered. “Blamed me for everything. The guards dragged me down here. I haven’t seen the sun in days.”

Alistair scoffed. “You expect us to believe you had nothing to do with the possession? A blood mage, teaching a boy how to hide magic from the Circle, conveniently around when a demon shows up?”

“I’m telling the truth,” Jowan said. “I wanted to help him. I cared about the boy. But Isolde's fear… it made everything worse.”

Jowan met my gaze. “I didn’t choose this. None of us did. And if you’re here, then maybe… maybe you can end it.”

There was silence.

He looked at me again.

“I’ve told you everything,” he said. “I just want to be free.”

I stared at him for a long moment. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe there was still a man inside that pitiful form worth saving. But the weight of his actions—or his inaction—couldn’t be ignored. Whatever good intentions he might have once had, it was too late to undo what was done.

“We’ll decide your fate later,” I said. My voice was quiet, but final.

He slumped back against the wall, the chains rattling softly.

Without another word, we turned and left him there—alone in the dark with his regrets.

The dungeon door groaned shut behind us.

Eventually, we reached the Arl’s private quarters. The heavy door creaked open to reveal a lavish chamber torn asunder by magical residue. Books and furniture were scattered. A shattered mirror hung crooked on the wall.

On the bed, pale and motionless, lay Arl Eamon Guerrin.

Isolde knelt beside him, eyes rimmed red with tears.

She looked up when we entered. “You saw him, didn’t you? Connor.”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “And what’s inside him.”

She nodded slowly.

“I knew... I knew something was wrong,” she whispered. “When Eamon fell ill, Connor grew erratic. Angry. I feared what his magic might do. But I couldn’t bear to send him away.”

She looked at her husband’s comatose face and then at us.

“So I kept it secret. And now this.”

Her voice cracked. “He was just trying to help.”

“He made a pact with a demon,” Morrigan said coldly. “There is no child left.”

“There is!” Isolde cried. “I’ve seen him—Connor—peeking through the cracks. Begging. Screaming. The demon wears him like a cloak, but he’s still in there.”

“Then we need a way to drive it out,” I said.

“There is one,” Morrigan said, tilting her head. “Enter the Fade, locate the spirit, destroy it.”

Alistair raised a brow. “That’s not something we can just do. It requires a mage. Powerful. Skilled. And blood magic.”

We all looked at each other. Then back toward the dungeons.

“Jowan,” I muttered.

Isolde paled. “No. You can’t seriously mean to—he’s dangerous!”

“You brought him here,” I snapped. “You trusted him once.”

She bit her lip. “There must be another way.”

“There is,” Morrigan said. “Kill the boy. End the possession before it spreads.”

Isolde gasped. “You’d murder him?”

“I’d save your husband. Your castle. And your people,” Morrigan replied coolly.

I closed my eyes.

We had a decision to make.

We stood in silence for a long time.

Isolde sat quietly by her husband’s side, whispering prayers to the Maker. The room stank of old magic—of desperate choices and shattered hope. I could still hear Connor’s laughter echoing faintly in my ears.

Finally, I turned and said, “We need to speak to Jowan.”

Morrigan smirked. “Oh, now we seek the apostate’s wisdom?”

“I’ll listen to anyone who can give us an option that doesn’t end with a dead child,” I replied.

Back in the dungeon, Jowan was right where we left him—sitting in the corner of his cell, arms resting on his knees.

He looked up as we approached.

“Did you see him?” he asked. “Connor?”

“We did,” I said grimly. “He’s possessed. The demon must be destroyed—but we want to save the boy.”

Jowan swallowed. “Then there’s only one way I know.”

He shifted, wincing at the iron shackles on his wrists.

“There’s a ritual—a way to send someone into the Fade, physically. Not just in dreams. They can confront the demon directly and banish it. But... the spell requires blood magic.”

Morrigan folded her arms, watching him carefully. “Go on.”

Jowan licked his lips.

“I can perform it. But it needs a blood sacrifice. Someone must die—their essence fuels the connection to the Fade.”

Isolde’s voice rang out behind us. She’d followed us down into the dungeon.

“Use me.”

We all turned.

She stepped into the torchlight, her face pale but resolute.

“I brought this upon my family. Upon my son. If a life must be given... let it be mine.”

“No,” I said sharply. “We’re not there yet. Jowan—is there another way?”

He hesitated. “Yes. Maybe.”

Alistair crossed his arms. “Maybe?”

Jowan nodded. “The Circle of Magi in Lake Calenhad. They have the lyrium, the mages, the knowledge to do the ritual safely. No one would need to die. But... it’ll take time. And I don’t know if Connor—or the demon—has that time.”

Isolde’s eyes welled with tears.

“You would trust the Circle now?” she asked bitterly. “After I tried to protect my son from them?”

“I trust that they may be our best chance to save him,” I said. “Without making another sacrifice.”

“And if they refuse?” Morrigan asked. “Or if they’re delayed? That thing in Connor won’t wait patiently.”

Alistair looked at me. “So what now, Aedan?”

Three options. No good answers.

Kill Connor now to end the threat.

Let Isolde sacrifice herself, and have Jowan use blood magic to enter the Fade.

Travel to the Circle and try to do it the right way... if time allows.

The lives of the boy, the Arl, and maybe all of Redcliffe depended on our next move.

After Jowan explained what he could do—how he could try to weaken the demon’s grip on Connor by placing a temporary barrier—I made the call. We'd go to the Circle of Magi, seek a way to save the boy without bloodshed. But I also knew something else: if we were going to deal with demons, Fade rituals, and unstable mages… we’d need all the strength we could get.

We stood around the war table in Redcliffe’s great hall, the torchlight casting flickering shadows across our weary faces. The air still smelled faintly of blood and smoke, even after the fires had been extinguished. Connor was locked away upstairs, sedated by Jowan’s magic—barely more than a stopgap to delay the inevitable.

Time was running out.

“I’m not going to kill a child,” I had said. And I meant it. But words alone wouldn’t stop a demon.

“So, the Circle of Magi,” Alistair said, folding his arms across his chest. “We ride to Lake Calenhad, beg them to send a mage capable of entering the Fade, and hope they don’t see this as an opportunity to exert their authority over a noble family.”

Morrigan snorted softly. “That’s a generous summary. I imagine they’ll demand a writ from the Chantry, a formal apology from Isolde, and perhaps a blood sacrifice or two.”

I looked at the map sprawled across the table. The road from Redcliffe to the Circle was long. Two, maybe three days if the weather held.

“I know the risks,” I said. “But we need their help.”

Teagan frowned thoughtfully, tracing a route along the parchment with his finger. “You’ll have to take the East Road through Lothering’s outskirts. That’ll take you through the Bannorn and near the main road to Denerim.”

The moment he said it, the idea formed in my mind.

Denerim.

Zephyr.

I glanced up. “Then we’re making a stop.”

Alistair’s brows furrowed. “A stop? You realize time is not a luxury we have, right?”

“I know,” I said. “But if we’re going into the Circle—possibly facing Templars, bureaucracy, and a Fade ritual—we’ll need every advantage we can get.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes, curious. “You intend to recruit someone?”

“Yes.” I tapped the map with two fingers. “Zephyr Arcadin. He’s in Denerim.”

Surprised, Leliana nodded slowly. “He was in Denerim the last I heard. Something about gathering information.”

“The one who cut through half a dozen darkspawn the day we met him?” Alistair asked, voice skeptical but intrigued. “I thought he disappeared after the battle at Ostagar.”

“He told Morrigan if we ever needed him, we’d find him in the capital.” I looked between them. “Well—we need him.”

“Diverting to Denerim will cost us time,” Teagan reminded gently. “Even if you move swiftly, it’s half a day east and then north again to Lake Calenhad. You’ll be adding at least a day’s ride.”

I turned toward Jowan, who stood nearby, arms wrapped around himself like a penitent. “Can you hold the barrier that long?”

His face was pale, gaunt. “If I don’t sleep, and if I keep channeling... I can give you four days. No more.”

“And if he fails,” Morrigan said sharply, “the demon consumes the boy entirely, and you’ll be returning to a corpse.”

“I won’t fail,” Jowan whispered. “I swear.”

I looked around at the group again. “If we face a demon in the Fade, I want Zephyr at my side.”

There was a pause—then Alistair nodded slowly. “All right. I didn’t particularly want to argue with him anyway.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him again,” Leliana added, though there was something cautious in her voice. “There’s something about him... like the wind before a storm.”

“I will not waste breath opposing this,” Morrigan said. “But know that if we arrive late and the boy dies, I will speak of this again.”

“Fair,” I said. “But we’re going.”

Teagan stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Take what you need from the armory. Horses, food, supplies. And Maker guide you.”

The next morning, we broke camp before the sun touched the horizon.

The castle grounds were silent. Jowan worked quietly through the night, carving the circle beneath Connor’s bedchamber. When he was finished, sweat clung to his brow, and his fingers trembled like he’d aged ten years. He said nothing as we mounted up, only giving a nod and whispering, “Be quick.”

We rode hard across the Southron Hills. The landscape blurred past—rolling fields of barley, rain-drenched farmlands, the occasional patrol from Bannorn holdfasts. Rain fell intermittently, soaking our cloaks and turning the roads to mud. None of us complained. We had too little time and too much at stake.

At night, we made no campfires. Morrigan complained about the cold. Leliana hummed softly to herself. Alistair rode in silence, his shoulders tense.

For a long while, we rode in silence—each of us lost in thought.

It was Alistair who finally broke it.

“You really think he’ll say yes?”

“Yes,” I said, without hesitation. “He said he wanted something to fight for again. This might be it.”

“He seemed more like the ‘show up when it matters’ type,” Alistair muttered. “And less the ‘let’s run errands for the Circle’ type.”

Ignoring Alistair, I couldn’t stop thinking about Redcliffe.

About Connor.

About what it would mean if we failed.

Chapter Text

We reached Denerim by dawn two days later.

The city was a gray monolith on the horizon, rising like the jagged edge of some ancient blade. Smoke from hearthfires curled into the sky, mingling with the morning mist. The spire of Fort Drakon loomed above it all, black and merciless, stabbing into the clouds like a prison’s crown. Crows circled it like scavengers waiting for the dead.

The gates were already open, the guards half-asleep and barely glancing at us as we passed through. Inside, the Market District was alive with motion. Horses clattered along the cobbles. Merchants shouted over one another. A pair of city guards dragged a drunk out of a tavern by his boots while a group of barefoot children ran laughing through the mess of carts and crates.

We dismounted near a smith’s stall bearing a rusted iron wolf over the door, tying the horses where the alley offered some shade. None of us said it aloud, but we were exhausted. The confrontation in Redcliffe had left little room for rest—and now came the second half of the journey.

“We should split up,” Leliana offered, brushing dust from her cloak. “If Zephyr’s here, someone must have seen him. A man like that doesn’t disappear easily.”

“I’ll check the taverns,” she continued, clearing her throat. “He always struck me as the quiet-in-a-corner type.”

Alistair raised a brow and leaned toward me. “She said that a little too fast, didn’t she?”

“She did,” I murmured.

Leliana flushed and shot us a look, adjusting the strap of her quiver with exaggerated care. “Oh, hush.”

Alistair grinned and turned to Sten, who stood near the horses like a weathered statue, arms crossed, impassive as ever.

“What about you, Sten? Care to poke through a few alleyways for mysterious swordsmen with tragic pasts?”

Sten glanced at the crowd, then at us. “If this man is as formidable as you suggest, he will not hide. He will be seen.”

Morrigan, from behind her hood, gave a thin smile. “Spoken like a man who’s never met Zephyr Arcadin.”

“I will walk the perimeter,” Sten said simply, and began to move.

Alistair raised a brow and leaned toward me. “I’ll try the upper markets. Someone dragging a sword the size of a boat mast will have drawn attention.”

Morrigan didn’t say anything. She simply gave us a dark look and melted into the crowd like she’d been born of it.

I lingered near the fountain at the center of the square, listening to the splash of water and the droning buzz of commerce. I scanned every face, every shadow—but I was starting to think this was a fool’s errand. What if he hadn’t come here at all? What if—

Then I saw him.

He stood beneath a half-cracked stone archway beside a faded old tavern that leaned like it was drunk. There was no flash, no moment of triumph. Just stillness.

Zephyr Arcadin.

He wasn’t armored, wasn’t even glaring dramatically into the distance. Just speaking to a fruit vendor, a pale peach in one gloved hand, a few coppers changing hands. But even still, even without his obsidian armor or the glare of a battlefield, he was unmistakable.

Tall. Silent. Wrapped in a dark traveler’s cloak worn at the seams. His greatsword, still bound in its worn cloth wrappings, stood over his back like a second spine. And his hair—dark brown laced with silver—caught the rising sun like spun moonlight.

I took a breath and stepped forward.

“Zephyr!”

I turned at the sound of my name—low, but clear enough to rise above the market’s clamor.

Aedan.

His voice hadn’t changed. Still steady. Still carrying too much weight for someone so young.

I lowered the peach and met his eyes. He looked older, more tired. There was blood on his collar that wasn’t fresh, and his armor was unpolished, dirt lining the edges. Not the proud Grey Warden of our last farewell—no, this was a man chased by consequence.

Then I saw the others—Leliana slipping past a cart of dried fish, her bow hidden beneath her cloak, and Alistair weaving through the crowd with that same uncertain stride, like he still wasn’t used to being looked at like a leader.

And then I saw the Qunari.

He stood at the edge of the square, arms folded, face unreadable, watching me with eyes like smelted iron. I had never met him before, but I felt his gaze settle on me with the weight of judgment.

Even from a distance, I recognized what he was—Beresaad, a soldier cast from stone. His expression betrayed no emotion, but his stance shifted subtly, almost like… recognition. Not of me, but of strength. A mutual acknowledgment passed between us like a shared nod between distant warriors.

But Leliana—

She had stopped in her tracks.

She stared at me like she hadn’t expected to see me again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. For a heartbeat, we simply looked at one another.

Then she blinked, color rising to her cheeks, and moved again—quickly, as though to hide the reaction.

Alistair, to no one in particular, muttered, “Oh… that explains the harp songs.”

Leliana elbowed him sharply in the ribs without even looking.

I smirked despite myself.

“So you’re alive,” I said, stepping out from beneath the archway.

Aedan stopped a few paces away, hesitant, as if unsure whether to greet me like a friend or a weapon.

“And you’re still impossible to miss,” he said, nodding toward the wrapped Shadowbringer on my back.

I shrugged one shoulder. “Hard to blend in when you carry half your nightmares with you.”

He smirked faintly—then let it drop.

“This isn’t a social call.”

“No,” he said. “We’ve come from Redcliffe. A boy—Connor—is possessed. His father, Arl Eamon, is ill. His mother begged us to save him. The only way we see out of this without bloodshed is to reach the Circle of Magi.”

I nodded slowly. Possession. A child. Mages.

“And yet you came here first.”

Aedan hesitated, then looked me in the eye.

“Because I’ve fought beside you. If there’s a demon, and it comes to the Fade… I’d rather have you with us.”

I exhaled through my nose, considering the weight behind his words. I’d seen what demons could do. I’d walked the edges of the Fade, heard its whispers clawing at my soul, always looking for a crack in the armor.

Behind him, Leliana watched me closely. Alistair crossed his arms, waiting but patient. Sten stood like a statue behind them all—watching me still.

I reached up and adjusted the cloth bindings on Shadowbringer, then tugged my cloak tighter around me. My fingers brushed the pendant at my chest—the Soul Resonator, still warm.

“Then let us not waste time.”

Aedan nodded.

We moved.

By noon, we left Denerim through the southern gate.

The city disappeared behind us like a bad dream—towers fading into fog, the smell of iron and stone washing away with each breath of open wind. We followed the road toward Lake Calenhad, where the Circle Tower stood on the horizon like a needle through the sky.

The road was quiet. No travelers passed us, no wagons trundled by. Just the occasional bird overhead and the low whistle of wind through the trees.

There was peace in motion. Marching forward was simpler than thinking. The others spoke now and then—Aedan exchanging strategy with Leliana, Alistair cracking quiet jokes, Morrigan occasionally scoffing from the rear.

Sten walked several paces behind me, never too close, never too far. He said nothing. But I could feel his gaze when it fell on me, studying my steps, measuring my silences. A fellow warrior didn’t need to speak to assess worth.

I wasn’t sure if he’d found it yet—but I knew he would.

Even now, I could feel the distant pulse of the Fade. Closer than it had been before. Like a breath against the back of my neck. Something was waiting for us at that tower, something old and hungry. The kind of thing that knew my name without ever hearing it.

The kind of thing Umbriel might wake up for.

But I wasn’t afraid.

Not anymore.

I glanced to my side—Aedan marched with that same stubborn grit, eyes forward.

Leliana’s braid fluttered in the wind as she scanned the woods with bow in hand. When her eyes met mine briefly, she smiled—small, genuine, then looked quickly away again.

And Alistair?

He grumbled about sore legs, but walked anyway.

The lake spread before us like a pane of cold glass—vast and wide as any inland sea, its surface broken only by the wind and the slow churn of unseen currents. It glittered under the midday sun, but the light felt muted, dulled—as though the sky itself were holding its breath.

And I could feel it. That strange, low hum beneath the world. The subtle pressure just behind my eyes and beneath my sternum. It wasn't danger. Not exactly. But it was close. Familiar. The kind of tension I had only felt in the moments before a Voidgate tore itself open in the heavens, when the very air turned still and thin, and the aether twisted into something too ancient to understand.

The others didn’t seem to notice.

Aedan was focused on the tower ahead—its hunched silhouette rising from the lake like the shattered crown of a fallen god. Leliana moved quietly beside him, eyes scanning the shoreline for threats. Morrigan remained aloof, her gaze half-lidded but her posture alert, her expression unreadable as always. Alistair trudged along behind them, muttering about how the Circle always gave him the creeps.

But I stayed quiet. My steps slowed the closer we drew to the dock.

I had been here before.

I remembered the steps. The stone. The flickering torchlight that never dimmed. The smell of dust and spell residue, iron and candle wax. I remembered the whispers, the Fade-echoes that clung to the walls like mold. And I remembered the way the tower had responded to me—recognizing something in me that didn’t belong. As though it had known I wasn’t of this world.

Even now, a full turn of seasons later, the sensation stirred at the back of my mind. A prickling awareness. A magnetic pull.

The tower remembered me, too.

I shifted my grip on the strap across my chest. Shadowbringer remained bound and wrapped in thick canvas, its enchantments suppressed but not silent. The sword did not hum—not yet—but the soul crystal embedded in my armor flickered faintly at my chest. Aether curled around me like a half-forgotten echo. Whatever lay dormant in the Circle Tower was stirring again, and it recognized me.

The dock creaked under our boots as we approached. An old man with a knotted beard and a deep hood stood beside the ferry, carving lazy strokes across the surface of a wooden post with a dull knife. He looked up, squinting.

"Another lot heading to the Tower, are ye?" he rasped. "Best not linger. Place’s been... odd lately. Mages restless. Lights in the windows, strange weather. They say the Fade's leaking again."

Morrigan made a dismissive sound. “It always is.”

“Still,” the ferryman muttered, eying me now. His gaze lingered longer than I liked. “You— You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

I met his eyes but said nothing.

“Thought I remembered,” he went on, scratching his temple with the hilt of his blade. 

Aedan cut in, voice gentle. “We should go. Time’s short.”

The ferryman didn’t argue. He turned and climbed aboard the flat-bottomed boat with a grunt, gesturing for us to follow. The vessel rocked with our weight as we took our places. I sat near the front, staring at the looming silhouette of the Tower as the boat slipped away from the dock.

The water grew darker as we drifted toward the center of the lake. Not just in color, but in feeling. The kind of dark that whispered, not roared. The kind that sat at the bottom of a well, waiting.

I watched the clouds gather overhead—slowly, like a hand curling into a fist. A single streak of lightning flashed in the distance. No thunder followed.

The Tower loomed closer with every stroke of the ferryman’s oar.

Its stones were ancient, weather-worn and blackened in places by something far more primal than fire. I remembered the upper levels clearly—the way the air shimmered with unstable magic, the way the wards had hummed when I passed through them.

I glanced behind me at the others—Aedan, stoic and sharp-eyed. Leliana, who knew far more than she ever let on. Alistair, hiding his hurt behind forced humor. Morrigan, whose aura crackled faintly now that we were nearing the shore. Sten just stood silent as always. 

They didn’t know what they were walking into. Not really.

But I did.

And I would go first.

The boat bumped gently against the Tower’s dock. The water around it rippled like oil. No greeting party waited for us. The doors stood half-closed, just as they had the night I entered alone. Even the scent in the air was the same—ozone, iron, and something like dust from a long-forgotten tomb.

Aedan stepped off first. The others followed, boots clacking against wet stone.

I remained still for a moment longer, staring up at the towering structure that had once been a crucible.

When we reached the large double doors of the Circle Tower, a makeshift encampment met us—not the sort meant for comfort, but for survival. Rough tents of canvas were stretched taut against the stone walls, their edges frayed by wind and time. A central firepit smoldered, casting dull orange light over the somber expressions of the Templars who lingered around it.

There were six of them—knights clad in iron and fatigue. Their armor was scorched, dented, or hastily repaired. They stood with weapons unsheathed, not at ease but at the ready. Like hounds too long on edge, their eyes snapped toward us the moment our boots hit stone. One reached instinctively for the haft of his warhammer.

At their center stood a man who did not move.

Knight-Commander Greagoir.

He was broader than I remembered—thick in chest and neck, face cut from granite and aged with grief. His dark red cloak hung from one shoulder, frayed at the hem, and his hands rested lightly against the pommel of his sword, planted tip-first in the ground. His gaze followed us the entire way, unwavering.

I knew that look. The same I had worn on a dozen battlefields. The look of a man standing at the edge of too many sacrifices, counting what’s left before something else must burn.

“If you’ve come seeking the Circle’s help,” he said as we approached, voice flat and cold, “you’re too late. The Tower is lost. The mages are dead, or worse.”

No formal greeting. No questions. Just the truth, laid bare and sharp.

Aedan stepped forward before anyone else could speak. “We came to request their aid. There’s a boy in Redcliffe possessed by a demon. If we don’t act soon—”

“There are demons here,” Greagoir barked, his voice rising with sudden fury. “Dozens. Maybe more. The Circle is no longer a place of learning or healing. It is a war zone. We’ve lost men—good men—and those that remain can barely hold this ground.”

He gestured toward the Tower behind him. The massive arched doors were sealed with iron braces, arcane sigils glowing faintly across their surface. Not just barred—but warded.

My eyes drifted upward to the high windows. They were shattered, glass panes long since gone, black smoke curling from the cracks like exhaled breath.

“But the First Enchanter might still be alive,” Aedan pressed. “If we have any chance of saving him, or anyone inside—”

Greagoir’s jaw clenched visibly, the muscles in his neck twitching beneath his collar. “You think we haven’t tried? I’ve sent men in. Templars. Senior knights with years of experience facing abominations. Only one came back.” His eyes darkened. “He screamed until his throat bled, and then begged us to kill him.”

I said nothing.

Not yet.

Because I had stood in these halls before.

A year ago, in another life, when I had first fallen into Thedas through the Veil like a broken star. They had rooms full of tomes and diagrams, and a ritual chamber that left my skin prickling. But they meant well.

And now this place, once full of chatter and incense and whispered invocations, was a fortress overrun by the very horrors they once trained to contain.

Greagoir’s eyes flicked to me—just for a moment. And I felt the tension spike in the air around him.

It was subtle. A flicker. A hesitation.

He didn’t know what I was. But he sensed it.

The way all warriors of faith do when they meet something that shouldn’t exist.

I felt it, too. His unease. His instinctual mistrust. A part of me—the shadow, Umbriel’s whisper—stirred beneath my ribs, coiling in silence.

There was always something about Templars. A static in the air. Their Lyrium-soaked presence grated against my aether like oil in water. A reminder that they were trained to sever magic from the soul—to unmake what they didn’t understand.

I turned my eyes away before it lingered.

Beside me, Morrigan muttered under her breath, “Fanatics.”

“I heard that,” one of the Templars growled.

“Good,” Aedan snapped before Morrigan could say anything else, his voice sharp as ice. “Then perhaps you’ll also hear this: if you sit here clutching your swords like frightened children while innocents suffer, then your vows mean nothing.”

I raised a hand, stepping between them. “Enough. This helps no one.”

“We need a way inside,” I said at last. My voice cut through the tension like a blade. Calm. Final.

Greagoir stared at me. “You’d die within minutes.”

“Then I’ll die standing,” I replied. “But we won’t know unless we try.”

He studied me for a long moment. Not like a man reading another. But like one measuring an earthquake before it splits the ground.

“…You’ve been here before.”

It wasn’t a question.

I met his gaze. “Once.”

“Then perhaps you know better than most how little mercy the Fade has to offer.”

“I’ve seen worse,” I said quietly. “And I’ve come out the other side.”

Greagoir’s silence stretched.

Then he finally exhaled. The weight in his shoulders seemed to drop a fraction.

“If you truly intend to enter, then speak with the Knight-Enchanter in the library tent.” he said at last.

He looked again at the sealed doors behind him.

“But if you fall,” he added, voice low, “I will not risk more lives trying to save you.”

I nodded once.

I wouldn’t ask him to.

The Circle Tower was colder than I remembered.

Not in temperature—though the air did bite through armor and cloth—but in presence. In silence. In weight.

Even from the first step inside, I felt it pressing down on us like snow before an avalanche.

A year ago I stood on these very stones, welcomed by mages who spoke in hurried awe of Ferelden’s efforts to stabilize the Fade. I’d slept in the upper library, surrounded by scrolls that hummed with an energy both familiar and foreign.

Now… that song was gone. Cut off. Silenced.

The walls themselves shimmered faintly in the torchlight—residual mana bleeding through the cracks in the stone like old blood. What remained clung like cobwebs, dull and half-mad. A spiritual afterimage of all that had once been. 

The deeper we went, the worse it became.

Blood painted the walls in erratic smears—some hand-shaped, others clawed. Bones lay charred or scattered across the floors in patterns that spoke not of battle, but of chaos. Desperation. Betrayal.

And then… the sounds.

Whispers. Not quite words, but intent. Mocking and hateful.

The Fade was leaking through, not in rips—but in steady drips, like rot sinking into wood.

Every few steps, I’d feel them. Souls.

Not like those I had seen in the Void or even the Lifestream. These were different—torn free in terror, not peace. There was no flow, no return to source. Only jagged ends where light had been. They’d been devoured.

Whatever had done this hadn’t just killed them. It had unmade them.

I walked with my hand up near Shadowbringer, but still didn’t draw it. Not yet.

Not while I could still hear them watching.

The first floor was little more than a graveyard.

What furniture hadn’t been destroyed had been fused into the walls—melted by some magical heat. Statues of apprentices stood frozen in postures of agony.

On one stairwell, a spirit burned in place, unable to move forward or back, stuck halfway between existence and nothingness. Morrigan studied it as we passed, her eyes narrowed in both disgust and intrigue.

We didn’t speak much.

There was no room for speech here.

Sten fought beside me in heavy silence, his blade sweeping with brutal precision. We moved in rhythm—me low and fast, him wide and heavy. We didn’t need words. I liked that about him.

Morrigan, on the other hand, delighted in unleashing her fire on anything with claws or too many teeth. Flames curled through doorways ahead of us, often before we saw what waited beyond them. I could feel her magic brushing against mine now and again, curious—probing even. She could sense that I didn’t use mine. That I was holding it back.

Leliana kept close to Aedan, bow drawn, her steps sure and quiet despite the blood-slick floors. Her prayers were whispered now, not sung, but I still heard her voice carry like a thread through the dark.

And Aedan…

He led from the front, sword in hand, moving not like a hero but like a man who had to survive. Not reckless, but relentless.

Every strike of his blade spoke of control—refined, intentional. Not flashy, but effective. He checked corners. He guarded his companions. He took hits for others without thinking. He didn’t revel in battle. He endured it.

And in that, I saw the weight on his shoulders. The mark of someone who would go far—if the world didn’t break him first.

We reached the main study hall and paused.

It used to be one of the brightest parts of the tower—lined with open shelves, sunlit from above by enchanted skylights that mimicked the sky even on rainy days.

Now, it was choked with shadows.

Books had been torn from their bindings and floated mid-air, spinning violently in a localized vortex of corrupted mana. A broken harpsichord lay overturned, its strings pulled taut by something invisible, humming with soundless vibrations.

We didn’t speak.

I finally drew my blade—not fully. Just enough to feel the familiar pull of its aether, cold and balanced.

Even wrapped in canvas and bound in enchantments, Shadowbringer pulsed against the corruption like a heartbeat.

Something ahead hissed.

The demons that surged forward were not like the ones I’d fought in other Fade-touched places. They were twisted. Improvised. As though built from whatever fragments of fear or pain had been available.

One wore the robes of an apprentice. Another moved with too many arms.

I moved in, sweeping low with the flat of my blade, crushing one against a broken desk. I didn’t call on magic. Didn’t need to. Every motion was clean. Controlled.

Until one tried to speak to me.

I froze for just a breath.

Then I drove my blade through its chest, and it died with a wet, static scream.

Morrigan glanced over her shoulder at me. Curious. Maybe concerned.

I gave her nothing.

As we moved on, I glanced once toward the spiraling stairwell at the back of the hall.

A year ago, I’d stood there under moonlight, listening to a young mage explain his theory about sentient dreams. I remembered the way his eyes lit up, how he sketched notes in the margins of his book because the Tower’s rules forbade certain phrases.

I wondered if his ashes were among the ones in the air now.

And I wondered what waited above.

The second floor changed everything.

Gone was the eerie silence of abandoned halls and scorched bones. Here, the air throbbed—taut with living magic, desperation, and madness.

Ash floated like snow from shattered chandeliers and burning bookshelves. Books still smoldered on their spines. The blood on the walls hadn’t even finished drying. It clung to the stone like a warning, still warm, still fresh. The stench of charred flesh and burned lyrium curled in my nostrils like a poisonous mist.

And the screams—no longer echoes from the past, but present, panicked, real.

Then we saw it.

A corridor ahead glowed with crackling light. A shimmering magical barrier—weak but determined—stood between us and a maelstrom of writhing forms. Beyond the barrier, I counted at least a dozen demons: shades, abominations, even a bloated rage demon pacing like a caged wolf. They snarled and hissed, clawing at the unseen ward, unable to breach it—but they would, eventually. Magic was not infinite.

And then came the voice.

“Hold the line!”

It was hoarse. Weary. But it carried the command of someone used to being obeyed.

We surged forward.

The barrier dropped the instant we reached it, and the hallway exploded into violence.

Spells ignited. Ice clashed with flame. Steel cut through shadow and flesh. The roar of demons echoed off the walls, but I barely heard it.

I moved—silent, swift, lethal. No taunts. No warcries. Just motion. One step. One breath. One strike.

The sword in my hands wasn’t Shadowbringer—not yet. I had left it wrapped and slung across my back, sealed with enough enchantments to fool all but the most perceptive mages. This blade was of Thedas—a longsword I had forged with local ore and fire. It sang well enough. And it killed just fine.

I cut down a shade as it lunged at Leliana, its claws mere inches from her face. She shot me a grateful nod and dove past me into cover, loosing an arrow into a shrieking abomination’s throat.

Sten fought beside me, a fortress of silent fury. Morrigan danced across the battlefield like a storm in human form, fire leaping from her hands with wicked delight. Alistair’s shield locked with a demon’s claws in a burst of sparks before he drove his sword upward into its gullet.

And Aedan...

He fought with a grim sort of grace. Not elegant, but efficient. Brutal. Focused. There was anger behind every swing—anger buried beneath resolve. A burning need to fix what had been broken. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch.

He’s growing, I thought. Faster than most.

And then, finally—stillness.

The last demon fell to Sten’s blade, its malformed skull splitting apart with a wet, final crunch. The hallway was littered with smoldering corpses and burnt pages. Our breath came in ragged bursts. My sword was slick with black ichor, still steaming.

At the far end of the hallway, near the source of the protective barrier, stood a tall, elderly mage. Her grey hair was pulled back, her long blue robes frayed and bloodied. She leaned on a staff aglow with a mix of healing light and raw determination.

Her eyes were sharp, watchful. Exhausted, but far from broken.

“Wynne,” Aedan said, stunned. “You survived.”

The old mage blinked in disbelief. Her mouth parted slightly, then curved into a faint smile, though her shoulders didn’t relax.

“I always do,” she said quietly.

Then her gaze swept over the rest of us.

She recognized Alistair next, and something in her face softened. There was relief. Genuine. Vulnerable.

“Maker’s breath,” she whispered. “They told me... you were all dead. Ostagar—King Cailan, Duncan, the Wardens... they said the Grey Wardens were wiped out.”

“We should have died,” Alistair said, voice low. “But we didn’t. And now we’re here to end this.”

Wynne exhaled slowly. “Then the Maker is not yet done with you.”

Her eyes flicked past Morrigan—who offered only a raised eyebrow and an unimpressed smirk—and landed on me.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.

But she lingered.

There was a stillness in her expression. Not fear, not quite. But the sort of caution that comes from experience. Her gaze narrowed—studying. Measuring. Sensing.

She didn’t know what I was. But she knew I was not just another mercenary with a sword.

And that was enough.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t pry. But the tension didn’t leave her shoulders until she looked away.

“Some of the apprentices are still alive,” she said instead, voice tight. “Barely. I’ve been holding this hallway as long as I could, giving them time to flee down to the lower vaults. Most didn’t make it.”

“You’re alone?” Alistair asked.

Wynne nodded grimly. “The others... they’re with Uldred. Or worse. The senior enchanters, the First Enchanter himself—they’re trapped above.”

“Then we’re going up,” Aedan said, sheathing his blade.

Wynne’s eyes sharpened. “Be careful. The demons grow more cunning by the hour. Uldred... he’s done something terrible. His hunger has twisted the very foundation of this place. If Irving still lives, he must be protected. The Circle’s future may rest on him.”

She stepped forward, joining our ranks without hesitation.

“Let’s finish this,” she murmured.

I fell to the back of the group as we continued. My steps were silent, blade resting across my shoulder. The weight of Shadowbringer on my back pulsed faintly—its slumbering energy aware of the proximity to Fade-touched ground.

Something was coming.

The moment we turned the corner toward the Harrowing Chamber, the temperature shifted. The air thickened—tainted with copper and rot, as if reality itself recoiled from what lay ahead. Mana pulsed like a second heartbeat through the stone beneath our feet. Wynne slowed her pace and raised her staff, lips drawn thin, eyes set forward.

“That’s the door,” she said, her voice low. “The Harrowing Chamber. If Irving is alive… he’s beyond that threshold.”

But before we could take another step, a sudden voice echoed from a side corridor—ragged and broken, like wind howling through shattered glass.

“Kill them… all of them… mages lie. They twist the world. They let them in…”

The words made the hair on my arms rise.

We halted, weapons lifted, eyes scanning.

Then I saw it—off to the left, a faint shimmering in the air like light refracted through water. A magical barrier, raw and unstable, pulsed within the ruined chamber beyond the archway. Furniture had been blasted apart, books scorched, stone blackened by spellfire. The scent of scorched metal clung to the air.

Within the barrier, a lone Templar knelt amid the wreckage.

His armor was half-destroyed—plates torn from his limbs, breastplate dented inward, one greave cracked entirely down the side. His helm lay to the side, twisted as though torn from his head. Blond hair clung to his forehead, matted with blood and sweat, and his gauntleted hands were clenched so tightly that blood had started to drip between his fingers from where the nails bit into his palms.

He rocked slowly on his knees, whispering to something no one else could see.

Wynne froze.

Her voice was brittle with emotion. “Cullen…”

She stepped forward slowly, hand outstretched. “It’s me. You remember, don’t you?”

I remembered him too, though I’d barely exchanged more than pleasantries with the man during my stay here. A younger Templar then, awkward but earnest. He used to bring books to the apprentices too timid to ask the senior enchanters. He'd once given his cloak to a girl mid-panic spell, simply because she couldn’t stop trembling. He’d sat beside her in the corridor until her breathing steadied.

That was the man I remembered.

But the one before us now?

He wasn’t simply afraid.

He was shattered.

“They whisper,” he rasped, not looking at us, his head still bowed. “Even now… their voices… can’t shut them out. I—I hear them… in the walls. In the blood. They’re in the mages. Even Irving… even Wynne…”

His gaze flicked up sharply then, eyes wide and hollow, whites showing too much. He stared straight through her. “You’re not Wynne. You’re just something wearing her face.”

Wynne flinched. I don’t think it was from fear.

Alistair raised a hand as if to speak, but I stopped him with a subtle gesture. No sudden movements. Not here. Not with someone barely holding onto the frayed threads of his own sanity.

“You’re all tainted!” Cullen shouted, his voice breaking into a tremor. “Tainted! The Circle’s fallen… the Veil is torn and no one is who they were!”

He staggered to his feet inside the barrier, arms spread, as though daring us to deny it. Blood from his clenched hands pattered quietly onto the floor.

“I should have stopped them. Should’ve ended it before it spread. I should’ve… I should’ve—”

He choked, stumbling back down to his knees.

“Maker forgive me…”

Wynne’s hand trembled slightly where she held her staff.

I stepped closer—not into the barrier, just near enough for him to feel me.

He looked up, his breath ragged.

And for a moment… I saw something in his eyes.

Recognition? No. Not of me.

Of pain.

A mirror, cracked and smeared and broken—but familiar all the same.

This wasn’t madness.

It was grief made monstrous. A soul hollowed out not by choice, but by survival. He had witnessed something in this place—something that scraped the mind raw and left him clawing at the walls of his own thoughts.

I’d known that silence before. I’d walked through it. And I knew it never truly left.

“Leave him,” I said quietly.

Wynne turned to me, surprised. “But—”

“His battle isn’t over. But it isn’t ours to fight.”

She searched my face, looking for something—an explanation, maybe. She didn’t find one. But she didn’t argue either.

She just nodded, slowly.

There was guilt in her expression. And sorrow. And perhaps, buried beneath both, a flicker of shame.

We turned away from the trembling figure behind the barrier and continued toward the Harrowing Chamber in silence.

Behind us, the broken muttering of a once-gentle man echoed through the stone.

“They let them in… they let them in…”

The final stair groaned beneath our boots as we ascended, the weight of magic and death pressing against our lungs like thick fog. I reached the top first, my senses flaring in warning before my eyes confirmed what instinct already knew—

It was a trap.

Not the kind made of steel and rope. Not an ambush of blades waiting in shadow.

No… this was theatrical. A spectacle arranged for us. A stage set for horror.

The grand Harrowing Chamber stretched before us, vast and circular, ringed in ancient stone scorched black from magical backlash. Spires of red crystal jutted from the floor like claws breaching from beneath, pulsing with an unearthly rhythm.

And in the center, encircled by a wide corona of ethereal flame, knelt the surviving mages of the Circle—dozens of them. Apprentices and senior enchanters alike, shackled by tendrils of blood-magic, heads bowed, eyes blank, lips trembling with prayers that would never reach the Maker.

I could feel it even before I saw him.

The rot. The corruption in the air. Like breathing in grave-dirt.

Then he turned, slowly, as though savoring the moment—and there stood Uldred.

I had never met him before. I didn’t need to.

Whatever he had once been—respected enchanter, political voice, master of the Circle—that man was gone. What stood in his place was something else entirely.

He looked almost human, if you stripped away all humanity.

His flesh shimmered unnaturally, stretched too thin over shifting muscle. His eyes burned—not with rage, or madness—but with clarity. Twisted, but deliberate. I saw it in how he moved, how he smiled.

It wasn’t simply possession.

This was coalescence.

A soul interwoven with demonkind so fully that the line between man and monster had been obliterated.

The aether around him was a storm of wrongness. I’d seen chaotic flows before but this was deeper. Fundamental. Like the laws of magic had been rewritten in his presence.

“You’re just in time,” he said, voice layered, stretched, like a choir of voices speaking through his tongue—some high, some guttural, others barely more than whispers.

Aedan stepped forward, blade gleaming in the oppressive light. “You have First Enchanter Irving?”

“Oh yes.” Uldred extended a pale hand toward the edge of the circle, where a crumpled form lay slumped against a half-melted pillar. “And soon, you’ll join him.”

Irving. Still alive, though barely. His robes were torn, his face gaunt. But he was breathing.

Beside me, Wynne gasped—a sound somewhere between fury and heartbreak. “Uldred, stop this madness!”

“Madness?” His laughter rang out, and the flames around the room surged. “No, dear Wynne. This is liberation. I’ve seen the truth beyond the Veil. The Fade offers freedom. Power without limit. Without the Chantry’s leash. And now…”

His eyes glowed brighter. “Now I will show you.”

His spine arched. His fingers clawed at the air. The room shuddered.

And then—

He changed.

I heard the bones crack, reshaping themselves like wet wood bending beneath fire. His flesh split and reformed in pulsing waves, tearing open along his ribs to reveal the thing inside.

Wings—twisted, too many, some leathery, some skeletal—burst from his back.

Horns spiraled upward from a warped skull that no longer resembled anything human. Jaws split where cheeks had once been, lined with rows of teeth that glistened like carved obsidian. Magic rippled around him, chains of flame and venomous green power coiling like serpents around his shifting body.

He let out a roar, and the very stone beneath our feet cracked.

The others moved in unison—Aedan and Alistair surging forward with blades drawn, Sten charging like a wall of iron. Leliana nocked an arrow, Wynne and Morrigan raised their staves, spells already taking shape in the air.

And I…

I didn’t move.

Because something was wrong.

The air warped.

My breath caught.

The world tilted—

—and without warning, everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the Harrowing Chamber.

No roar of demons.

No Circle.

No Fade-ravaged mages.

Just silence.

And wind.

I stood alone, and all around me was snow.

The cold bit through my armor, but it wasn’t real—not entirely. I knew this place. Every cracked stone. Every iron arch.

The Vault.

The great cathedral in the heart of Ishgard.

And I was standing just outside its shattered doors.

My heart pounded once. Then again. Slower.

Because I remembered what this place meant.

My worst memory.

My greatest failure.

The moment I couldn’t protect someone I loved.

The moment the light failed—and all that was left was the darkness.

And then—

The shadows in the snow moved.

I knew what was coming.

But I couldn’t look away from the door.

Not again.

Chapter Text

Perspective: Aedan Cousland

I blinked. The battlefield was gone.

No Uldred. No abomination. No flame, no screams, no blood slicking the stones beneath my feet. Just… silence. A silence so total it rang in my ears.

And then—

Music.

Gentle strings. A soft harp. Laughter.

I stood not in the Circle Tower but in Castle Highever’s great hall. And I knew it—not just from memory, but from every scent, every sound, every feeling. The rich scent of lavender oils that Mother insisted on. The faint creak of the eastern stained-glass window, always loose in the breeze. The dull clink of silver plates being set for a feast.

Sunlight poured in through tall arched windows, warm and golden, casting cathedral shadows across marble that gleamed beneath my boots. Rich crimson banners hung from the rafters, the heraldry of the Cousland family polished and proud. I smelled roasted pheasant, fresh bread, Andraste’s grace—even tea steeping in the distance.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

My breath caught. My pulse stumbled in my chest.

“…Mother?”

She stood at the far end of the hall, just as I remembered her. Her silver hair pinned up with her favorite comb. The sapphire gown Father had gifted her on their last anniversary. Her eyes were soft and shining as she smiled at me, as if I had never left, never changed.

“You’ve grown so much,” she said, her voice rich and loving, arms spreading wide. “Your father and I are so proud of you, Aedan.”

My knees nearly gave out.

Because behind her… was Fergus.

My brother.

He was laughing, talking animatedly with a woman who could only be Oriana—his wife. Oren darted between their legs, a toy sword in hand, his tunic slightly too big. His laughter was high and bright and utterly real.

And then—

“Took you long enough, little brother.” Fergus grinned and strode toward me, clapping me hard on the back. “Late again. You haven’t changed a bit.”

His voice. His smell—leather and oak and steel polish. The warm weight of his hand on my shoulder.

I could feel him.

My brother. Alive. Safe. Whole.

“You made it just in time,” Mother said, stepping beside us, smoothing my hair with one hand. “The king arrives tonight. Your father’s been waiting to see you before the toast.”

“I…” My throat burned. I couldn’t breathe.

This isn’t real.

And yet—it felt more real than anything had in weeks. I looked to the side, and there was Father.

Teyrn Bryce Cousland. Regal in his ceremonial armor, beard trimmed, gaze proud. Just like before the night it all fell apart. He wasn’t a bloodied corpse. He wasn’t calling my name with his final breath. He was here.

“It’s good to see you, son,” he said. “We were beginning to think the Blight had claimed even you.”

I stepped back.

“Where’s… Alistair?” I asked, trying to hold onto something outside this dream.

They hesitated.

There.

That was the crack.

“You don’t need to worry about others,” Father said. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”

“You came back,” Fergus said again, smiling too wide. “You finally gave up that foolish Warden business. Just in time to take your place as heir.”

“No,” I whispered, voice shaking.

But Oriana took my arm gently. “The battle’s over, Aedan. You’ve done enough.”

“No.”

“Stay with us,” Mother said. “You’ve fought enough. Rest. Let us take care of you for once.”

“No!” I jerked back from her hand. “You’re not real!”

They all paused.

Then Oren dropped his toy sword.

The clatter echoed like thunder.

His face twisted—his eyes blackening, mouth splitting ear to ear in a too wide smile. Oriana’s form rippled, her skin stretching, cracking. Father’s eyes burned with golden fire. Fergus opened his mouth and screamed without a sound as blood poured down his chin.

“You should have stayed,” they all said in unison, their voices layered and inhuman. “You should have let yourself forget.”

The illusion shattered.

Walls bent. Light fractured. The hall dissolved into mist and ash, ripped apart by shrieking wind. I staggered, boots landing on cracked black marble. The warmth was gone. Now there was only cold and flickering torchlight dancing across the twisted plane of the Fade.

And I was not alone.

I turned.

It stood there, bloated and yawning, shifting shape like molten wax trying to hold form. One moment a portly man in scholar’s robes, the next a shriveled hunchback dragging oversized arms, then a creature half-melted, bones poking through veined skin.

The Sloth demon.

“Ahh…” it groaned, half-amused, half-bored. “Another little fly buzzing through the dream. Why can’t you just sleep?”

I reached for my sword—my hand grasped nothing.

No blade. No armor. No allies. Just my fists and the rage burning behind my eyes.

“Let me out,” I growled, jaw clenched.

It chuckled, the sound like gravel in a wet throat. “Oh no. Not yet. That was a good one, wasn’t it? Highever, the way it was. Fergus, alive. Your sweet little nephew, laughing. Mother, warm and soft and proud.”

It leaned in, face splitting into a grin of mismatched teeth.

“You almost stayed.”

I didn’t answer. My breathing was ragged. My chest felt tight.

“Perhaps,” the demon mused, beginning to circle, “you’d prefer another dream. One where you stayed in bed that night. One where you warned them in time. One where you died in Fergus’s place. Or…”

Its grin deepened, crueler.

“…one where you joined Howe.”

The mist thickened. I saw flickers—blood on my hands. Father at my feet. A crown of thorns in my grip.

“Don’t fight so hard,” the demon whispered. “None of this matters. The Blight will kill you. The Darkspawn will eat what’s left. Why not be with your family again? Why not sleep?”

I clenched my fists, trembling.

Because I wanted to.

Gods help me, I wanted to.

But I wasn’t done.

And I wouldn’t let it end like this.

“I’ll walk through every damn lie you show me,” I snarled, stepping forward, eyes blazing. “And I’ll find the others. And I’ll tear you apart when I do.”

The demon only yawned.

“So much trouble for such little meaning. Very well. Let’s see how long you last.”

The ground split beneath me.

The next dream took me before I could scream.

The Fade was not made for walking.

Every step was treacherous, not because of terrain but because of truth. There was none. Time and space bent, and meaning unraveled into fog.

I wandered through strange pockets of distorted reality—red-tinged hallways, endless staircases, burning libraries. Echoes whispered my name, sometimes mine, sometimes someone else’s. My own voice mocked me more than once.

But eventually, through persistence and raw will, I found something—someone.

Alistair’s Dream

It was a Chantry courtyard.

Clean stone. Polished statues of Andraste stood at serene attention. The gardens were lush, too perfect—trimmed hedges in the shape of templar symbols, soft birdsong drifting lazily on the breeze. A banner hung from the central tower, gold thread glinting with the words: In Obedience, Purpose.

And standing at the center, in armor polished brighter than I'd ever seen, was Alistair.

He looked... happy. Genuinely, childishly happy. Like a boy who'd finally been told yes after a lifetime of being told no.

He turned the moment he saw me, grinning from ear to ear. "Aedan!" he called. "You're just in time! The ceremony's starting—they're going to make me a full Templar!"

I froze.

The words were harmless on the surface. But they hit like a blow.

Not because they were evil, or cruel. But because I knew Alistair. I knew what being raised in the Chantry had cost him. I knew how he used to speak of the Templars with bitterness wrapped in sarcasm, how he'd resented the control, the isolation, the training. How Duncan had rescued him from this.

And yet here he stood, in a place he should have loathed, thrilled.

"Alistair," I said, carefully. "Where are we?"

He blinked at me, as if the question didn’t make sense. “The monastery, of course. Where else?”

He gestured at the courtyard, the people moving in the background—smiling, peaceful Templars who offered respectful nods as they passed. I even saw Knight-Commander Greagoir standing at a distance, hands folded behind his back, proud.

“I thought you'd be proud of me too,” Alistair said. “They said I was worthy. They said the Wardens were a mistake. Duncan... he came to me. He told me this is what I was always meant to be. That this is where I belong.”

I stepped closer. “Duncan's dead.”

He paused.

Something flickered behind his eyes, the smallest tremor. The smile didn't fade—but it faltered.

“No, he's not,” he said, almost too quickly. “I just saw him this morning. He’s inside, waiting for me. Said he'd stand beside me when I take my vows.”

My throat tightened. “We were at Ostagar, Alistair. He fell.”

His gauntleted hands clenched at his sides. “No. That’s not right. He was never supposed to die. He promised he’d be there.”

The world shimmered around us, the illusion wavering like heat haze. The Templars in the background blurred, their smiles stiffening, freezing in place. I heard the distant chant falter.

“You always said you hated it here,” I said softly. “The rules. The cold beds. The way they treated you. You said the Wardens freed you.”

His voice was barely a whisper. “But it would’ve been simpler this way. No Blight. No Wardens. No blood. Just purpose. Obedience. A clear path.”

I reached out, touched his shoulder.

He flinched like I’d struck him.

“They didn’t love you here, Alistair. They used you. Hid you away. Called you ‘that bastard’ behind your back and lied to your face. Duncan—Duncan gave you a choice.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t—don’t say that. Don’t make me choose again…”

The courtyard around us dimmed.

The birdsong warped, notes bending like something underwater. The perfect sky above cracked faintly, spiderwebs of darkness bleeding through.

“Alistair,” I said, my voice firmer now, “this isn’t real. The Fade has you. The Sloth demon is feeding on your longing. Your hurt. Your need for somewhere to belong.”

The light flickered.

A sound echoed across the dream—a voice like wind and oil: Stay. Obey. Sleep. Forget.

His head snapped up. His eyes blazed gold for a moment. “No.”

He wrenched his arm back, breathing hard. “No. I’m not some bloody puppet. I’m a Grey Warden. Duncan—he gave me everything. He believed in me. And you’re right—I hated this place. I hated every second I spent here.”

The dream twisted violently. The sky screamed open like a wound, collapsing into darkness. The Chantry shattered around us like glass.

In its place: a flat gray nothingness, torches flickering in the haze, runes burning faintly in the mist. The real Fade. The Sloth demon’s domain.

Alistair fell to one knee, panting, sweat beading down his forehead. His armor cracked, shimmered, and faded into his Warden gear. He looked up at me—his usual half-smile returning, albeit shakier now.

“Well,” he said, “that was horrible.”

I extended a hand.

He took it.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I really... really wanted it to be real. Just for a moment. A life where I was just normal. Where I didn’t have to lose Duncan. Or face a bloody Blight.”

I didn’t speak.

I just helped him to his feet.

“We’ll find the others,” I said.

He nodded. “Let’s make that bastard regret dragging us into dreamland.”

And we moved on, deeper into the Fade, toward the next broken soul we needed to save.

Leliana’s Dream

It began with music.

Soft, intricate notes of a lute drifting through perfumed air. Candlelight shimmered across marble floors. Curtains of lace billowed in the breeze, and the scent of rosewater clung to the air.

It was Orlais.

A noble estate, by the looks of it—familiar, opulent. Silk and velvet dressed the walls. Gilded masks hung like watching eyes, and laughter echoed from unseen parlors.

And there, in the center of it all, sat Leliana.

She was dressed in fine Orlesian court attire: a flowing crimson gown embroidered with golden lilies, a delicate lace veil pinned into her auburn hair. The mask she wore was elegant—half-hidden, playful, dangerous. She plucked at her lute, smiling coyly at a room full of invisible admirers.

Across from her, lounging on a plush settee, was Marjolaine.

The woman was as graceful and dangerous as I remembered from Leliana’s stories—long dark curls, a hawkish beauty that could seduce and wound in the same breath. She wore black and silver, a glass of wine in hand, one leg crossed over the other like a queen presiding over her court.

“Oh, chérie, play that song again,” Marjolaine purred. “The one you wrote for me after our first night together in Val Royeaux. It made me ache.”

Leliana smiled—but there was something hollow in it. Her fingers hesitated on the strings.

“Isn’t this lovely?” Marjolaine said, standing to cross the room with feline grace. “No more danger. No more cloaks and daggers. Just us, the life you always dreamed of.”

I stepped forward, but Leliana didn’t see me.

She only had eyes for Marjolaine.

“Is this real?” Leliana asked softly, voice laced with uncertainty. “It feels like… something I once knew. But like a story I read in a book, long ago.”

Marjolaine touched her cheek. “Why ruin it with questions, mon trésor? Your past life—Ferelden, the Wardens, the Maker’s will—it was all penance for things you never truly did. Here, you are free. I forgive you. You forgive me. That is what love is, is it not?”

Leliana’s expression flickered—pain flashing in her eyes.

I stepped closer. “Leliana. This is a lie.”

She looked at me then, startled—as if seeing me for the first time. Her mask vanished like smoke.

“Aedan?” she whispered. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Marjolaine’s expression darkened.

“Oh, now he returns,” she said, voice dripping venom. “The Warden who stole your song, who made you believe you were something more than a bard. Who fed you lies of destiny.”

“Leliana,” I said, ignoring Marjolaine. “Do you remember what really happened?”

She stood, slowly. “She betrayed me,” Leliana said, her voice brittle. “Used me. When I found out about her plans—when I tried to stop her—she turned me in to the guards. She framed me. She wanted me dead.”

Marjolaine clicked her tongue. “And yet, here I am. Offering peace. A chance to rewrite the story.”

She cupped Leliana’s chin, forcing her to look at her. “You could have everything. The court. The acclaim. Me.”

The music shifted—no longer sweet, but haunting. The candles dimmed. Blood bloomed like ink across the walls. The petals in the vases wilted and rotted. And Leliana’s gown—it began to tighten like a noose, lacing itself tighter across her throat, her arms, her ribs.

Marjolaine’s smile sharpened. “You want to be forgiven, don’t you? You still ache for it.”

Leliana’s breath hitched.

I moved quickly. “She doesn’t need your forgiveness. She’s already made peace with who she is. With what she’s done.”

Marjolaine hissed. “She is nothing without me. A discarded tool. A failed bard, rejected by the very court she once served.”

Leliana looked down at her hands.

They were bloodstained.

Her lute had vanished—replaced with a poisoned dagger.

“I wanted to forget,” she whispered. “I wanted to believe I was innocent. That the Maker had chosen me for something greater. That it meant something. But sometimes, I wonder if He ever listened at all.”

I stepped to her side, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “The Maker may be silent. But you chose to rise anyway. You chose to fight. That means something.”

Marjolaine’s illusion wavered. Her form flickered, her beauty twisting. Her eyes turned black, her mouth stretching unnaturally wide.

“Stay,” the Sloth demon hissed through Marjolaine’s decaying form. “Stay and forget. You are nothing without me. You are mine.”

Leliana’s eyes sharpened.

She stepped forward.

“No,” she said, voice steel. “You are *not* her. You’re a parasite feeding on doubt.”

She reached into her cloak, pulling forth a thin, gleaming dagger—the same she once used in Orlais. Her hand didn’t tremble.

“This is my story. And I’ve already lived it.”

She drove the blade forward.

The demon screamed as the illusion cracked like a stained-glass window shattering. Marjolaine's form split open like paper, revealing a hulking, bloated thing beneath—a Sloth demon with sagging flesh and a crown of thorns.

Leliana didn’t even flinch.

The dream dissolved around us, leaving only the mist and cold of the Fade.

She turned to me, breathing hard, hair damp with sweat. Her expression was distant—but resolute.

“I had forgotten how easily the past can wrap itself around your throat,” she said softly.

I met her eyes. “But you didn’t let it.”

She gave me a small, sad smile. “I still dream of her, you know. Of what might have been. Of a life where I was loved, and not just used.”

“You’ve found more than that now,” I said. “And you still have more to do.”

She nodded, squaring her shoulders.

“Let’s go,” she said. “The Fade has had enough of my memories.”

Wynne’s Dream

The Fade shimmered and rippled—like the surface of a calm lake disturbed by a stone. When it settled again, I found myself standing in a grand, golden-lit hall of the Circle Tower.

Only, it wasn’t the cold, austere place I remembered.

Here, everything was warm. Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows. Laughter echoed in the halls. Mages walked freely, robes fluttering behind them, heads unbowed by fear. There were no Templars in sight. No Chantry statues looming over them. No harrowing chambers or phylacteries locked in iron vaults.

Just… peace.

I saw her then—Wynne, standing at the center of it all like a beacon. Her back was straight, her eyes calm, and her hands moved gently through the air as she guided a young apprentice through a simple healing spell.

The child beamed as the spark caught, a bright swirl of life magic blooming in her palm. Wynne smiled, resting a proud hand on the girl's shoulder.

“I never thought I’d see it,” she murmured, turning toward me. “A Circle without chains.”

I hesitated. I knew what this was. A dream. A prison. But it was beautiful, and part of me didn’t want to say the words that would shatter it.

She walked past rows of apprentices—all of them safe, confident, free. A handful of older mages approached her for counsel, some laughing about spell results gone awry. There was joy here. Life. Legacy.

And yet—there was a strange unease just beneath her voice.

“I used to believe this could never be,” she said quietly. “That we were meant to live in fear. That freedom was dangerous for mages. But now… look at them. We’ve made it work.”

“Wynne,” I said gently, “you know this isn’t real.”

Her eyes flicked toward mine. For the briefest moment, something flickered—doubt.

But then she stiffened. “Isn’t it? Maybe this is what should have been. Maybe the Fade has simply shown me a future we can still earn.”

“It’s not the future,” I said. “It’s the Fade. The demon’s holding you here. Keeping you trapped.”

I saw her jaw tighten. Her hand curled into a fist. But she said nothing.

Not yet.

And then, from the far end of the hall, he entered.

A young man—early twenties, with sandy brown hair and sharp hazel eyes. His smile was hers. The same quiet strength, the same kindness. He looked at her and said simply:

“Mother.”

She froze.

All the warmth drained from her face. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

He walked to her, gently clasping her hands in his. “You did everything right. I had a good life. I wanted to meet you. To thank you.”

Her eyes shone with tears.

“I… I only saw you once,” she whispered. “You were so small. I wasn’t allowed to hold you.”

The boy smiled. “But I remember you. Somehow. You were there, in the way I thought, in the way I felt. You were my mother even if we never met.”

Wynne’s breath hitched. “I dreamed of you. So many nights. Wondered what kind of man you’d grow into.”

“You don’t have to wonder anymore,” he said. “I’m here.”

I stepped forward. “Wynne, he’s not real. I’m sorry—but he can’t be.”

She turned, slowly. Her face was pale. “Do you know what it’s like,” she said, “to give up the only child you’ll ever bear? To live decades with that silence in your heart? And now, here he is. Happy. Talking to me.”

“I know what it means to lose family,” I said. “But staying here won’t bring him back. And the Fade—this place—it’s not mercy. It’s a trap.”

The boy’s smile flickered. “Don’t listen to him,” he said. “You’ve suffered enough. You deserve this, Mother. Let go. Stay.”

The warmth in the hall grew stifling. Too golden. Too perfect. The walls began to hum faintly—like they were straining to hold shape.

Wynne’s hands trembled. “Just a moment longer. Please. Just… one more moment.”

“I know,” I said. “But we need you. I need you. Alistair, Leliana—the world. We can’t fight the Blight without you.”

She looked up. The boy’s form had begun to waver, glitching at the edges like a fading candle.

He looked confused now. Frightened.

“…Mother?”

Tears streamed down her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I will always love you. And I hope… if there’s something beyond this, something true… we’ll meet there.”

She touched his cheek one last time—and then stepped away.

The dream screamed. The light burst. The tower shattered like glass, and the boy’s cry echoed as he dissolved into mist.

We were back in the Fade.

Wynne dropped to her knees, breathing heavily, tears streaking her cheeks.

“His name was Rhys,” she whispered.

I knelt beside her.

And for a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she wiped her eyes, rose slowly, and nodded.

“Let’s find the others.”

Morrigan’s Dream

The Fade warped again, and when the world settled, I found myself surrounded by trees—towering, ancient, whispering in a wind I could not feel. It was a forest I didn’t recognize, but it felt alive. The ground beneath my feet pulsed faintly with power. Magic lingered in the air like perfume—cloying, old, seductive.

And there, in the clearing ahead, stood Morrigan.

She looked different somehow. Not in form, but in bearing. Her shoulders were no longer burdened by suspicion or calculation. She stood tall and at ease, her gold eyes soft with something I had never seen in them before.

Peace.

Before her sat a fire crackling in a stone-lined pit. And beside it—Flemeth.

Not the gnarled crone I had once seen rising like fire from dragon’s flesh, but a younger version. Elegant. Serene. Dressed in flowing emerald robes, hair braided like a queen’s, her voice warm as summer dusk.

“Ah. The intruder,” Flemeth said as I stepped into the glade. “You always come at the most inconvenient moments.”

Morrigan didn’t even glance at me. She was seated cross-legged before the fire, a cup of tea in hand, her posture relaxed—unthreatened. “Did you come to drag me away?” she asked coolly. “To remind me of duty, or peril, or some grand cause I should risk myself for?”

“No,” I said carefully. “I came to remind you of yourself.”

Flemeth laughed—a silken, knowing sound. “Oh, how noble. How tiresome. You think she is lost? This place is truth, child. She has simply remembered what she always longed for.”

Morrigan looked at her then, a softness in her expression I had never seen in waking hours.

“She understands me,” Morrigan said. “She praises my mind, my strength. She does not command, or mock, or scheme behind my back. She trusts me.”

“She’s not real,” I said quietly.

“Does that make the feeling less?” she snapped back, and for a moment her mask cracked. “Do you know what it is to ache for a mother’s love and receive only riddles and suspicion? To wonder, always, whether you are a daughter… or a vessel?”

Flemeth smiled faintly, sipping her tea.

“I was always proud of you, my dear,” she said.

“You never said it,” Morrigan murmured.

“You never needed to hear it,” Flemeth replied. “You were strong enough to rise regardless.”

Morrigan stood slowly, eyes locked on her mother. “But I did need to hear it. I spent my childhood striving to prove myself to a shadow. To earn praise from lips that only ever shaped commands.”

“Yet here you are,” said Flemeth, “strong, brilliant, free. I kept you from weakness. From foolish sentiment. From… pain.”

“You kept me from truth,” Morrigan said, her voice rising. “From understanding who I truly was—beyond your plans, your games. You never gave me choice.”

She turned to me then, and I saw the recognition behind the fury—like a storm breaking behind tired eyes.

“This is not real,” she said. “Even this. Even her. I see the cracks in the dream.”

Flemeth rose now, regal and composed.

“Do you?” she asked. “Or is this the only place you have ever been allowed to truly feel loved? What harm is there in staying? You could rule here. Learn secrets. Escape the path of destiny.”

Morrigan’s fists clenched. Fire coiled at her fingertips.

“You speak as though I am a child still clinging to her mother’s hem,” she growled. “But I am no longer yours to guide—or deceive.”

The sky above the forest darkened. The trees twisted. The wind grew harsh.

Flemeth's smile faded into something sharp.

“Very well,” she said. “Reject comfort. Embrace suffering. It was ever your way.”

The image of her began to peel away, flesh burning like paper until there was only shadow and flame—Flemeth’s true self, the ancient thing that dwelled beneath the mask of the woman.

Morrigan did not flinch.

She turned to me, fire dancing in both hands.

“Let us burn this illusion down,” she said, her voice like thunder.

We moved together—Morrigan’s magic igniting the trees in bright, roaring flames. The forest screamed, warped, tore at itself. Flemeth’s voice became a wail of rage and disappointment that echoed like wind through dying leaves.

And then, all at once—

It was gone.

Just silence. And her.

Morrigan stood panting slightly, shoulders rising and falling. The Fade shimmered dimly around us, the warmth of the illusion replaced with its cold, unforgiving reality.

She looked at me.

“Remind me,” she said, “never to listen to my better instincts again.”

I smirked. “Noted.”

We walked on, her steps light but her expression darker than before.

Whatever peace the dream had offered her—it had also reopened a wound.

But Morrigan was still standing.

And that was more than enough.

Sten’s Dream

The Fade twisted again, and when it reformed, I found myself standing in a landscape of endless twilight. Gray skies hung low over blood-soaked fields. The scent of iron and ash filled the air, thick and unyielding. All around me were the signs of unending war—shattered weapons, broken banners, and the low moan of wind across barren plains.

And in the middle of it all stood Sten.

His massive frame was hunched slightly, his muscles taut with fatigue, his greatsword—long and curved in the Qunari style—dripping with phantom blood. Around him were the bodies of faceless foes—shifting shapes of shadow and armor that dissolved the moment they fell, only to rise again from the edges of the battlefield.

A never-ending cycle.

He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to.

I could feel it—the weight of his shame, the burden of a name left behind, and the sting of dishonor that had driven him to slaughter an innocent family in a moment of confusion and rage… a moment he never allowed himself to forget.

He was punishing himself here.

Fighting endless enemies without identity. Enemies who could never wound him, but who would never stop coming. Because the greatest wound he bore was within.

I approached carefully, but he sensed me all the same.

“They come again,” he said, voice low and harsh. “They always come again.”

Another faceless wave surged toward him—dozens of figures, screaming without words. Sten let out a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and charged.

The dream twisted with his fury. Each swing of his blade sent echoes through the air like thunder. He moved like a force of nature, precise and efficient, but the weariness was starting to show. The dream did not allow him rest.

He cut down the last of them in moments. They vanished in smoke and bloodless sighs. And then silence returned.

I stepped into the clearing as he planted his sword in the ground, panting.

“You’ve fought this battle before,” I said. “Many times.”

He didn’t look at me.

“They were weak. But still they come. I have not yet atoned.”

“For what?” I asked. “You’ve spoken of your crime. You’ve sought redemption. You’ve helped save lives.”

“They were harmless,” he growled. “Unarmed. I acted without the Qun. Without clarity. There is no redemption. Only duty, renewed.”

He knelt beside his blade, resting his hand on the hilt, head bowed.

“This place… it reflects what I deserve.”

“No,” I said quietly, stepping closer. “This place reflects what you *believe* you deserve.”

His eyes narrowed.

“There is no difference.”

“There is,” I said. “The Qun teaches that every being has a role. That the sword serves the will of the whole. But here, you’re not serving anyone. You’re punishing yourself.”

He said nothing.

“The Beresaad sent you to learn of this land, of its people. You are meant to return. To teach them what you have seen. What you have become. But if you die here—if you keep fighting phantoms—you’ll never return. You’ll never be more than this shame.”

He turned his head slowly. I met his gaze—those dark, sharp eyes that always seemed to pierce straight through people.

“They were farmers,” he said, voice like gravel. “They offered me food. Hospitality. And I repaid them with death.”

I didn’t look away. “You did. And that cannot be undone. But you have changed. You’ve stood against evil. Fought beside mages and elves and humans. Protected strangers. Defended the helpless. You have honored them, Sten… every day since.”

The battlefield stilled.

No wind. No shadows rising.

Sten looked out across the horizon, as if seeing it for the first time. For a long moment, he was quiet.

And then—he stood.

Not with exhaustion, but with resolve.

He pulled his sword free from the earth. The steel gleamed, unmarred now, as though newly forged.

“No more phantoms,” he said.

“No more self-inflicted war.”

He looked at me, the faintest hint of clarity softening the harsh lines of his expression.

“If I am to reclaim my name,” he said, “it will be on a battlefield that matters. Against enemies who threaten the world—not ghosts of my past.”

I nodded.

He strode toward me, the dream unraveling behind him in threads of smoke and dust. The battlefield faded, the sky brightened slightly. And for the first time since I’d known him, Sten’s shoulders were not weighed down by invisible chains.

“Let us find a *true* battle,” he said.

And together, we walked on.

The Final Door

With the others freed and slowly gathering their strength, the oppressive haze of the Fade began to thin, if only slightly. The torments that had held our companions hostage were broken, their illusions shattered.

The demon—Sloth—waited behind a looming door of blackened wood and glistening bone, pulsing like a diseased heart. It knew we were coming.

And yet…

There was one more door. Subtle. Almost concealed from sight, tucked into the curving wall of this surreal realm like a shadow pretending to be part of the stone.

I didn’t see it at first. It wasn’t loud like the others. No fiery torment like Sten’s battlefield, no dramatic theatre like Leliana’s or Morrigan’s. Just a stillness that made my skin crawl.

But the Fade whispered differently here.

The magic clinging to the frame made the hairs on my neck rise—cold and quiet and ancient. Like it was hiding something that didn’t want to be seen… or something that had been sealed away.

And etched faintly above the archway, in twisting threads of dream-script, was a name:

Zephyr.

I stared at it for a long moment.

Leliana was the first to step forward. Her gaze lingered on the door, soft with unease. And something else.

“…He didn’t fall asleep with us, did he?” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

Morrigan folded her arms, eyes narrowed at the door like it had insulted her. “That hardly matters. In the Fade, memories and barriers are thin things. A sliver of dream, a drop of will, and one can be drawn in just the same—especially if something wants you.”

Her expression shifted, sharp and calculating.

“And something clearly wanted him.”

Wynne stepped up beside me, clutching her staff like a tether to reality. Her wise eyes swept over the runes, lips tightening.

“There’s pain in there,” she said softly. “Something deep and long buried. This magic is old. Older than the Veil.”

Leliana took a step forward, then hesitated.

“We’ve traveled with Zephyr for a week now. Fought beside him. And yet…” Her voice caught slightly, “…I feel like I hardly know what lies beneath his silence.”

She touched the door. Her fingertips passed over the surface like a prayer. Her eyes dimmed for a heartbeat. “It feels cold. Not cruel… but lonely.”

Sten stood a little further back, arms crossed. “If it is his trial, he must face it,” he said, voice deep and firm. “But no soldier stands alone by choice when allies are near. He has fought for us. We will do the same.”

I turned to Morrigan. “Can we enter it? Help him, like the others?”

Her brows drew together, and she hissed through her teeth.

“Ordinarily, no. The Fade is personal. Intimate. But… this door wants to be opened. That in itself is strange. As though a part of him left the latch undone.”

“And what would do that?” I asked.

She hesitated. “…Guilt. Regret. Or perhaps a plea. Even if he cannot say it aloud.”

That surprised me.

Morrigan’s voice held no scorn. Just quiet recognition. Understanding, maybe. I remembered her dream—Flemeth’s embrace, her desire to be seen, accepted. Perhaps something in Zephyr’s silence echoed her own fears.

Leliana turned to me, her expression uncertain—but determined. “We should go in.”

“For Zephyr,” Wynne added. “He would not hesitate for us.”

I looked again at the door.

It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat muffled by stone.

In the short time I’d known Zephyr—this strange, quiet warrior from a world not our own—I had seen glimpses of the storm he carried inside. The weight behind his eyes. The practiced kindness that never reached too deep, like he was holding the world at arm’s length.

And Leliana—she saw him. That much had become obvious.

There was something between them. A warmth growing slowly between the cracks of broken things.

“I don’t know what we’ll find in there,” I said finally. “But we owe it to him to face it. All of us.”

Wynne nodded, setting her hand on my shoulder.

Leliana swallowed and gripped her bow tighter.

Morrigan sighed. “Let us hope we do not regret prying open this particular wound.”

Sten gave one firm nod.

And together, we stepped forward.

As I reached for the door, the surface rippled—shadows bleeding like ink into the air.

Behind it, the Fade shifted.

Waiting.

Watching.

And from somewhere deep within… something stirred.

Chapter Text

The Fade – Zephyr's Dream

The Fade shifted again.

But this time, it didn’t ripple with shadows or roar with malice. There was no sloth demon lurking beneath the surface, no sweet illusions to lull the mind. Instead, there was a stillness.

A stillness like a held breath before a great revelation.

The ground beneath our feet solidified—not like the dreamstone we’d walked across before, but something other. Ice-cold stone, smooth and worn with time. The sky overhead was not a storm of thoughts or nightmares, but a deep, colorless expanse. Pale snow drifted down in fine, powdery sheets, soft and slow.

And before us… rose a city of light and frost.

Towering cathedrals loomed into the sky, built from glasslike stone and veined with magic that pulsed like moonlight. Spires crowned the heavens, some twisted and some perfect, each more elegant and ancient than the last. Everything about it defied logic or reason—Thedas had nothing like this. Not the White Spire of Orlais. Not the ancient elven ruins. Not even Tevinter’s most decadent marvels.

It was beautiful. And wholly alien.

Wynne stepped beside me first, her voice barely above a whisper. “This… isn’t Thedas.”

“No,” Morrigan agreed, eyes narrowed. “This is not of our world.”

Sten grunted, his gaze scanning the structures warily, hand close to his blade. “I do not like this place.”

Leliana said nothing, but I saw the tension in her shoulders—the curiosity burning in her eyes. She kept glancing forward, ahead of us.

And then we saw him.

Zephyr Arcadin stood at the center of it all. Not quite as we knew him. He looked… younger, in a way that went beyond years. His hair, still bound in a braid streaked with silver, was neater, cleaner. His armor—black as the void with silver lines etched into it—gleamed as if freshly forged. His greatsword rested at his back, humming softly with power.

But more than that, his face… was open. No furrowed brow. No storm in his eyes. No weight dragging at his every breath. He was relaxed, confident—but not arrogant. The man we knew wore shadows. This one basked in light.

And he wasn’t alone.

Around him stood a crowd—dozens of figures, all dressed in unfamiliar styles and wearing expressions that spoke of camaraderie, respect… and awe.

Some were tall and willowy, with silver hair and pointed ears, dressed in robes that shimmered with celestial threads. Others wore gleaming armor carved with runes we couldn’t recognize. And at the front, beside Zephyr, stood a young elven boy in pale blue—his face sweet, wide-eyed, filled with wonder. Beside the boy was a tall woman in pristine white with a bearing like a queen and power coiled in her every movement.

Then…

There he was.

Standing just behind Zephyr was a man—silver-haired and strong, radiant in polished chainmail trimmed with gold. His face was youthful but noble, his eyes lit with affection and unwavering trust. His smile was not timid. It was bright, full of joy. Full of him.

He looked at Zephyr the way I’d seen lovers look at each other during quiet moments in camp.

“Who is that?” Alistair asked softly, a thread of wonder in his voice.

Wynne frowned. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Leliana whispered, her voice barely audible. “Or I think I do. I’ve heard Zephyr speak a name… softly, when he thought no one listened.”

Morrigan’s arms were folded, her gaze sharp. “So this is the heart of him. Not battle. Not pain. But this.”

A single bridge stretched out before us, carved from white marble and suspended above a chasm glowing with soft violet light. On the far side waited a ship—floating, its hull woven from gold and sapphire, hovering serenely upon glowing threads of aether. It looked impossible, like a dream inside a dream.

An elderly man stood aboard the deck, robed in white and deep blue, hands clasped. A priest, or perhaps some dignitary of this unknown world.

Zephyr and the silver-haired man—Haurchefant, I would learn later—stepped to the bridge’s edge. They exchanged a glance, then a smile.

And they ran.

Not to battle. Not toward death. But toward victory.

And for a moment, the others behind us—Leliana, Wynne, Morrigan, Sten—they said nothing. All of us simply… watched.

But then the wind shifted.

Above them, from the towering cathedral roof, something moved.

A figure emerged from the shadows—a knight, tall and blinding, encased in white armor carved with cruel, inhuman precision. His helm bore no face. Only light. In his hand formed a spear—not of metal, but of condensed magic, swirling with power that made the Fade itself scream in silence.

A flicker of danger. A heartbeat held.

The air cracked.

Zephyr’s pace changed.

So did mine, though I knew I could do nothing. I took a step forward, reaching instinctively. It was useless, but I couldn’t stop myself.

The spear launched—like a comet wreathed in sunfire.

Haurchefant looked up—and in that second, he knew.

He shouted—not a name, but a warning, desperate and raw. “ZEPHYR—!!”

He surged forward, faster than anyone in armor had the right to be. His shield came up, body twisting as he moved to intercept the blast.

But before the spear could land—

Zephyr appeared.

Not ran—appeared.

One moment he was behind Haurchefant. The next, in front, his hand locked around the other man's shield arm, yanking him down and aside.

The spear slammed into the marble, exploding into light and shattering stone.

Gasps rang out. The crowd behind them recoiled.

But they were unharmed.

Zephyr turned, brushing dust from Haurchefant’s shoulder, his expression gentle.

And for the first time, we saw it—

A smile. A real one.

No pain. No mask. Just… peace.

Haurchefant stared at him, breathless.

“You… how did you…?”

Zephyr only shook his head, the smile softening.

“You didn’t need to save me,” Haurchefant whispered, his hand trembling. “I would have gladly—”

“I know,” Zephyr said quietly. “But this time… I wasn’t too late.”

And then something passed between them—some quiet bond, forged not in tragedy, but in triumph. This was not a memory of death.

This was a memory of what could have been.

Of life.

We stood silent. All of us.

Wynne’s eyes shimmered. “This isn’t a memory. It’s a dream made of regret.”

Alistair didn’t speak at first. He stood beside her, arms slack at his sides, his eyes fixed on Zephyr and the silver-haired knight—Haurchefant—with a tension I rarely saw in him. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Almost reverent.

“A perfect lie.”

And it was. We all felt it—beneath the cold air and crystal clarity of the dream, beneath the sunlight streaming through that impossible stained glass, beneath the laughter and the gentle snow.

A sadness that didn’t belong.

Because this wasn’t real.

It was better than real.

Zephyr stood with Haurchefant, their fingers just brushing as they leaned close, heads tilted in shared joy. The knight’s silver hair glittered in the soft light, and Zephyr’s laughter—actual laughter, not the quiet chuckles or tired smiles we were used to—echoed through the hall.

They were surrounded by friends. Companions from another world. Not us. Not Leliana, not Morrigan or Wynne or Sten. These people were dressed in garments of gold and starlight, their weapons humming with power that made the Fade itself tremble. Their faces were full of hope, peace, camaraderie.

This was a home.

One we’d never seen before.

And yet… I could feel how desperately Zephyr wanted this.

Wynne stepped forward slightly, her brow furrowed in both awe and sorrow. “This place… it’s built on longing. A dream layered over grief. You can feel it in the magic.”

Morrigan, arms still crossed, gave a soft grunt of agreement. “Even the Fade trembles with the force of it. That is no ordinary knight beside him. That man… his presence radiates through the illusion. He is not simply a figure of longing. He is the core of it.”

“The one he lost,” Leliana whispered, almost to herself. Her hands were still clasped over her heart. Her eyes never left Zephyr. “That’s what this is.”

A silence settled over us. Even Sten was still, his brow furrowed as he examined the scene with a warrior’s eye—but his silence said more than words.

“He’s never said anything,” I muttered. “About this. About him.”

“He wouldn’t have to,” Wynne said gently, standing beside me. “Pain this deep… it doesn’t need words.”

“He tried to save him,” Leliana whispered. “That moment—he changed it. In real life, he must have failed.”

The image replayed behind our eyes. That race. The spear. The scream. The shield. The look of joyful disbelief on Haurchefant’s face.

And Zephyr’s relief.

“I don’t want to break this,” I admitted aloud, and the words shocked me.

Because I didn’t.

Not this time.

Not after all the things we’d seen Zephyr endure. Not after watching him bleed and fight and protect us, even as his eyes stayed distant, half-buried in ghosts.

Here, in this illusion, he was whole.

Happy.

Healed.

But Morrigan was right. So was Wynne.

This was a lie.

A perfect, beautiful, cruel lie.

The Fade changed again—not with a jolt, but a gentle transition, like the tide slowly pulling back from the shore.

Gone was the stone bridge, the frozen sky, and the aetherial ship suspended by unknown magicks. Gone was the tension, the threat of the white-armored knight, and the moment Zephyr had rewritten in his soul. Instead, warmth.

Golden light filtered through cathedral-height stained-glass windows, depicting winged knights, roses in bloom, and a sunburst crest none of us recognized. The panes bled hues of crimson and sapphire across the polished marble floor like spilled paint. A nearby hearth crackled softly, firelight dancing along the stone walls. There was music—soft strings and flutes—and laughter.

We had stepped into a celebration.

The hall was vast, though not cold. Grand and refined, but never unkind. Banners hung from the vaulted ceilings—rich blue velvet trimmed in silver, bearing a crest that was not Fereldan or Orlesian in origin. Silver chandeliers sparkled overhead, and the long dining tables were set with fine cutlery, gold-edged plates, and goblets filled with deep red wine. The scent of roasted meat, spiced root vegetables, and sweet almond pastries lingered in the air.

Everything here was soft. Warm. A gathering not of politics or power—but of family.

And at the center of it all—

Zephyr Arcadin.

He was almost unrecognizable at first—not because his face had changed, but because the weight had lifted. There was no armor clinging to him like a second skin. No war-worn expression or haunted stare. He stood proudly, shoulders back, a faint smile curving his lips—not guarded or practiced, but effortless.

He wore elegant Ishgardian formalwear. Deep navy fabric embroidered with silver filigree along the cuffs and hem, the chest bearing a discreet crest stitched in grey thread. His long braid had been tidied, tucked with silver ribbon, and a fur-lined mantle was draped over one shoulder.

His eyes still gleamed the same pale, icy blue—but they no longer looked tired.

Beside him stood a man I now recognized instantly. Haurchefant Greystone.

He was dressed in attire that matched Zephyr’s. His silver hair was pulled loosely back, a few strands falling across his brow. He laughed as he raised his goblet, leaning toward Zephyr like the rest of the room had ceased to exist. And the look he gave him—gods, it was pure. Not just love, but certainty. A love that had endured across lifetimes, and now stood whole again in this dream.

And then, just behind them, was an older man. Dignified, with regal bearing and a face lined not with age, but grace. His beard was trimmed, hair touched with white, and he wore a long coat lined with crests and badges of honor. His posture radiated nobility, but there was nothing cold or aloof in his eyes. Only pride.

He stood with a hand on each of their shoulders.

“That must be—” I started, then stopped as the man spoke.

“To love,” the elder declared, lifting his goblet high. “To courage. And to futures long denied… now rightfully ours.”

The hall erupted in cheers. Goblets clinked. Plates were raised. Laughter blossomed.

And then the man turned slightly toward Haurchefant and said with gentle affection:

“My son. My brave son. And the man who saved him. I could not ask for a finer match.”

The companions behind me stilled.

“Son?” Alistair said, his brows knitting. “That’s his father?”

“And this is what Zephyr longs for most,” Morrigan added, arms folded, her expression unreadable. “Not power. Not conquest. But… this.”

The celebration moved on, unaware of us—ghosts in a dream not meant for our eyes.

Zephyr laughed, a low, easy sound as he shook his head at Haurchefant’s teasing. The two leaned close—too close for mere friends—and the way Haurchefant looked at him, one hand gently resting on the back of Zephyr’s neck, thumb brushing over his braid, was something sacred. Something earned.

And then he approached us.

Haurchefant.

He stepped lightly across the marble floor, weaving through revelers as though dancing to music only he could hear. There was an ease to him, an unshakable serenity that clung like the warmth of a midday sun. Every face turned as he passed—some smiled, some raised their goblets, others simply watched with eyes full of affection. But he didn’t pause for any of them.

He was coming for us.

And unlike the rest of the figures in this memory-turned-dream, he saw us.

Not as specters. Not as intruders.

As guests.

When he finally stood before us, he wore a soft smile, touched with curiosity but absent of fear. His voice, when it came, was smooth—like sunlight filtered through windblown silk.

“Strangers,” he greeted, with a slight bow of his head. “I welcome you—though you walk in shadows, and I fear you do not belong here.”

Even his voice was filled with calm. A reassurance so effortless it brushed past the armor around my heart and made it ache. The Fade should’ve swallowed us, unrecognized. He should have drifted by like the rest of the illusion. But he knew. Somehow, he knew.

Behind me, Morrigan bristled slightly, her arms still crossed, but she didn’t speak. Sten shifted but said nothing. Even Leliana, who had been whispering prayers under her breath only moments before, had fallen utterly silent.

And I... couldn’t find the words.

“I know why you are here,” Haurchefant said gently, eyes searching ours, warm and knowing. “But before you act—before you draw your blade against this dream—know this…”

He turned his head, just enough for us to follow his gaze.

Zephyr stood at the edge of a fireplace now, in easy conversation with the older nobleman—Count Edmont, we now realized—with Haurchefant’s hand briefly brushing the back of his own. Zephyr laughed at something, a real laugh, unguarded and bright. The kind that shattered the memory of every grim expression he’d worn since the day we met him.

“Look at him,” Haurchefant said. “Truly look.”

We did.

And for a moment, we understood.

“He is happy,” Haurchefant whispered. “Truly. For the first time, perhaps, in all his long and burdened life.”

The breath caught in Leliana’s throat. I heard it. Wynne closed her eyes.

“He blames himself,” Haurchefant continued, his voice lower now. “For everything. For those he couldn’t save. For those he did… but too late. He carries their deaths on his back like stones in a river, dragged with every step. Even in your world… he would never tell you this.”

He looked straight at me.

“But here… he doesn’t have to.”

There was no judgment in his tone. Only sadness. Only love.

“He grieved for me. I know that. I felt it… even from beyond the veil. He mourned me more than he ever allowed himself to say. And in the end, when he fell… when the burdens he carried grew too heavy…”

He trailed off.

“He was alone, wasn’t he?” I asked, voice hoarse.

Haurchefant nodded. “In body. Never in heart.”

He looked to Morrigan. “You are correct. This place is not real.”

Then back to me.

“But it is not false, either. It is a song unsung. A path not walked. It is the reflection of a future stolen, not denied. It is what could have been—what should have been—had fate shown mercy.”

Morrigan’s mouth pressed into a thin line. She said nothing.

Alistair shifted beside me. “We’re going to have to break this… aren’t we?”

“I think so,” I said, though my voice shook.

Wynne’s eyes were wet now, her voice quiet and trembling with wisdom far older than mine. “Not yet. We must understand it first.”

We turned back to the gathering.

Zephyr clinked his glass with Edmont’s, who said something that made him roll his eyes and laugh again. Then—without hesitation or self-consciousness—Zephyr leaned into Haurchefant’s side. The touch wasn’t romantic for the sake of show. It was natural, like a river finding its course.

“I did not think he could look like that,” Leliana whispered, hand clutched at her chest.

“Neither did I,” I admitted.

Because I remembered his eyes in the battlefields. Cold. Focused. Wounded.

I remembered the nights around the campfire, when he stared at the fire like it held a truth he couldn’t quite name.

I remembered how rarely he slept.

But here?

Here he wasn’t just smiling—he was alive. At peace.

He wasn't a warrior. Not here.

He was just… Zephyr.

I saw life in his eyes—something I'd never seen, even when he stood among us, blade drawn and fury unleashed. That had been power. This was peace.

I understood, in that moment, why this dream was so dangerous.

And why waking him might be the cruelest thing we’d ever have to do.

The warmth hadn’t left.

The golden haze still lingered over the celebration like the last rays of a summer evening. Laughter rang through the vaulted hall, silver chandeliers shimmering as if each crystalline teardrop held a frozen sunbeam. The long tables gleamed under candlelight—laden with feasts fit for an emperor. Spiced lamb basted in honey glaze, thick loaves crusted in salt and herbs, goblets overflowing with deep red wine. Minstrels played soft strings near the hearth, and noblemen and knights danced with ladies in flowing gowns beneath Ishgardian banners, their faces alight with joy.

And yet…

Something beneath all that beauty shifted.

Not in the food, or the laughter, or the flickering flames.

But in the space between those things.

There was a wrongness there. Small at first—like a discordant note in a perfect song, too brief to catch. Like a shadow between flickers of light. A ripple beneath still water.

I felt it most clearly when Haurchefant turned back to Zephyr.

He had left us with that quiet grace of his—a parting smile that made it hurt to look at him, because it was the smile of someone who had forgiven more than he should ever have had to. And yet, now, as he walked back across the stone floor toward the banquet table… his steps were too perfect. Each movement too timed, like a dance already choreographed.

Even his laughter—free as it was—came at regular intervals, like a heartbeat engineered to comfort. Like a sound programmed to soothe.

Morrigan’s voice came low, as if she too felt the growing distortion. “It’s starting to crack. He has been here too long.”

Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, eyes narrowed not with scorn but with wariness. She stood near me, half-shrouded by one of the tall stone pillars draped in heavy tapestries bearing House Fortemps’s sigil. And for all her knowledge of magic, of the Fade, of illusions and horrors and ancient truths… she seemed unsure.

“We’re not alone anymore,” she murmured, more to herself than to any of us. “The dream is beginning to notice.”

Zephyr hadn’t seen us. Not yet.

He was seated now between Count Edmont and Haurchefant at the long table that dominated the heart of the hall. He looked radiant. His posture was relaxed—genuinely relaxed, for the first time in what felt like forever.

No tension in his shoulders. No grimace hidden behind quiet words. No scars blazing with forgotten flame.

He leaned into Haurchefant’s side, laughing at something Edmont said—and the older man smiled proudly, placing a steadying hand on Zephyr’s arm like a father would.

None of them seemed to notice the world outside their little triangle of joy.

“I can't blame him,” Alistair muttered beside me, breaking the silence. His tone was heavy, his arms slack at his sides. “Compared to what he's been through… this is paradise.”

There was no bitterness in his words. Only awe. And something dangerously close to longing.

But Wynne’s expression had changed.

She stepped forward slowly, brows furrowed, her eyes flicking between the guests, the tables, the firelight, the dream. Her healer’s senses, her age-honed insight—they saw past what the rest of us wanted to believe.

“This isn’t paradise,” she said softly. “This is… a mausoleum built out of joy. A prison shaped like a wish.”

She turned her gaze on Zephyr. “It’s all the things he’s lost. The life he was never allowed to have. And the Fade has given it to him, perfected—because that’s how it keeps him here. That’s how it feeds.”

Even she sounded uncertain. Even she didn't want to be right.

Leliana stood a little farther behind, a hand at her lips. Her expression was unreadable—haunted, maybe, or grieving. Like she was watching someone she loved die a second time.

“This is the kind of dream that never lets go,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My gaze was locked on Zephyr—on the gentle way his fingers wrapped around Haurchefant’s hand. On how Edmont laughed with them both like a man who had known them for years, not weeks.

And I realized something else.

Something terrible.

He didn’t look like someone who knew this was a dream.

He looked like someone who believed—completely—that this was real.

That this was his life.

That this was his reward for enduring everything else.

And in some way… didn’t he deserve that?

I tried to step forward but stopped myself. Maybe it was Haurchefant’s presence. Maybe it was guilt. Or fear. Or the sacredness of what we were witnessing.

Because that’s what it felt like now.

Sacred.

To see Zephyr like this. To see him happy.

This was a man who had survived.

And been allowed to live.

“He’s whole here,” I said quietly.

Wynne’s voice cracked like thin ice. “That’s what makes this so dangerous.”

Then Zephyr rose to his feet, still holding Haurchefant’s hand.

They stepped onto the open space between tables, and as if on cue, the guests parted for them, smiling. Applauding. Blessing them.

There was no shame in how Zephyr looked at him. No fear in how he stood close. His hand settled on Haurchefant’s cheek, and he smiled with a softness that made my chest ache.

He loves him.

And he doesn’t care who sees.

That realization hit me like a blade to the ribs.

I saw Wynne look away. Alistair's throat moved like he was swallowing something hard. Leliana just closed her eyes.

Morrigan? She did not speak. Her arms remained crossed, her brow furrowed, and for once—for once—she seemed to have no clever words.

“What do we do?” Leliana finally whispered.

My voice felt heavy as stone. “We try.”

Wynne turned to me, cautious. “Try what?”

“To talk to him.”

I finally stepped forward, slow and measured, afraid that even a breath too loud would shatter the illusion and bring ruin down upon us all.

“Not to force him awake,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Not yet. But we have to try. Because he won’t survive this forever.”

Wynne nodded once. The others followed, reluctant but resolved.

As we moved closer to the banquet table, closer to the golden dream Zephyr clung to like a drowning man to driftwood, I knew one thing beyond all doubt:

This was going to break him.

Or us.

Maybe both.

But it had to be done.

I stepped forward, unsure whether the polished marble beneath my boots was truly solid or merely the Fade’s idea of permanence. My steps were soundless—swallowed by music, laughter, the hum of illusion. The kind of silence that wasn’t quiet. A silence made of smiles too wide, flames that danced too steadily, air that smelled too clean.

The Fade resisted—not with violence, but with something worse.

Welcome. Comfort. Peace.

It wasn’t an illusion meant to fool. It was one meant to heal—to trap not through deception, but through truth that could never be. The dream didn’t collapse when I walked toward him. Instead, it bloomed brighter, richer. The chandelier overhead flared to life with a warm gold light. Strings swelled in harmony. A window cracked open behind me to let in birdsong and wind sweet with summer rain.

It knew I was here.

But it wasn’t afraid of me.

Not yet.

Zephyr sat with a goblet of dark wine in hand, leaned casually back against the plush chair between Edmont and Haurchefant. A noble feast stretched before them—platters of steaming venison and pheasant, cheeses dusted with snow-fine spices, bread fresh from invisible ovens.

Then he looked up—and saw me.

A single thread of the illusion pulled taut. His smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. That perfect, serene expression wavered like a candle guttering in the wind.

“…Aedan?” His voice was softer than I remembered. It echoed as though through layers of velvet, not quite reaching me in full.

I stopped just short of the long banquet table, reluctant to breach whatever threshold separated his peace from my intrusion.

“You remember me,” I said, carefully.

He blinked. Confused. Not afraid. “Of course I do. But… what are you doing here? You—you shouldn’t be here.”

The dream twitched. I felt it—not in the marble, or the chandeliers, or even in the air—but in him. A faint pulse beneath the skin of the world.

“You’ve been asleep,” I said. “Caught in a Fade trap. A Sloth demon. This—this vision, this place—it’s not real.”

He recoiled—not with fear, but rejection. His smile returned, tight and practiced. “Aedan, don’t. Not now.”

Behind him, Haurchefant leaned forward, silver eyes cool but not hostile. “You’re upsetting him,” he said, still with that summer-wind voice. “He is safe here.”

“I’m not here to upset him,” I said, quieter now. “I’m trying to wake him.”

Haurchefant tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

That word lingered—Why?—and it wasn’t mocking. It was genuine. Honest. A knife wrapped in silk.

I turned back to Zephyr. “This isn't real.”

He looked away. At the wine. At the fire.

But he didn’t disagree.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Look at this place. Look at him. I don’t have to fight anymore. I don’t have to bury friends. I don’t have to see one more light snuffed out in my name. I saved him, Aedan. This time, I saved him.”

His voice cracked on the last word, just barely.

And I saw it. The heartbeat of the dream. The scar beneath the surface.

He knew.

But knowing was not enough.

“You never saved him,” I said, gently. “You couldn’t. No one could. What happened… it happened. This world is built on ashes of a moment that never came. It's made of longing, not truth.”

Zephyr’s jaw tightened.

His hand around the goblet trembled. Wine sloshed over the rim. He didn’t notice.

“Do you want me to go back to that war?” he whispered. “To the Blight? To death after death, always almost winning? Always too late to stop someone from falling?”

I didn’t speak. I let the silence answer for me.

“Do you want me to walk out of this and wake to another battlefield?” His voice grew firmer. Bitter.

He rose to his feet slowly, one hand braced on the table. Edmont said nothing, though he watched him with fondness.

Haurchefant stood as well, stepping beside him like a shadow come to life. He placed a hand on Zephyr’s shoulder—steadying him.

Protecting him.

“I don’t want to wake up,” Zephyr admitted, finally. “Not if it means remembering the things I had to do. The lives I failed to save.”

“And what about the ones you can still save?” I asked. “The world outside this room? The lives hanging by threads waiting for someone like you?”

He closed his eyes.

And from across the table, Haurchefant—the echo of him, whatever soul-shaped dream the Fade had constructed—spoke with quiet finality.

“…You’re not ready,” he said, eyes never leaving mine. “And he’s not either.”

With that, something unseen shifted. The room flared—not in anger, but in brilliance. As if the dream itself, the Sloth demon hiding behind it, had decided to reinforce the illusion rather than fight us directly.

The fire roared higher in the hearth. Flowers bloomed between cracks in the marble. The candles overhead blazed like stars. Laughter redoubled—louder, more exuberant, more forced. Like the dream was trying to drown out the truth in joy.

Behind me, I heard Morrigan hiss through her teeth.

“It strengthens the dream,” she said. “The Sloth demon fears his awakening.”

“But it also fears his choice,” Wynne murmured. “It knows that once he chooses to leave… it loses its hold.”

“Then we don’t force him,” I said. “We show him what this is."

Zephyr had turned away.

He stood now in front of the hearth, wine still in hand, his shoulders hunched. Haurchefant remained beside him, ever calm. But now, his eyes didn’t follow the rest of the illusion. They watched me.

Measured me.

Like he knew what was coming.

The others—Edmont, the revelers, the music—all swirled around them like a carousel of memory and longing.

But they were still.

“I don’t know if I can,” Zephyr said suddenly. His voice was rough again, deeper, closer to the one I remembered from the battlefield.

I stepped forward, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded beast.

“You have to decide now,” I said. “Just… remember who you are. Who you’ve fought beside. What you’ve survived. That strength—that’s not a dream. That’s you.”

He didn’t look back. But his hand let go of the goblet. It shattered on the stone.

A heartbeat later, the room dimmed—just slightly. The wind outside faded. The music faltered.

A moment of weakness.

A fracture.

Not enough.

But enough to know…

He had heard me.

And somewhere deep inside that dream-crafted heaven…

A seed of doubt had begun to bloom.

Zephyr had not moved for what felt like hours. He remained seated at the long table beside Haurchefant and Count Edmont, hands curled around a glass of untouched wine, long gone warm. His back slouched in the way of someone who no longer bore a blade but instead carried something heavier. Not once did his gaze rise from the linen-clad table.

He looked like a ghost of himself.

We lingered in the shadows of the hall—unseen by the guests, unheard by the soft orchestra, ghosts ourselves in this beautiful lie. Wynne, Morrigan, Leliana, Sten, and I had all stayed silent after our last attempt. The words had run dry. And in truth, I didn’t know if I had the right ones anymore.

He knew.

He knew this wasn’t real. That much was clear in the subtle tremble of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled tight against the stem of the glass. He was no longer resisting because he was fooled. He was resisting because… because this dream had offered something he could never reclaim.

Peace.

Forgiveness.

Love returned.

And maybe—gods forgive me—maybe he deserved this one small lie after everything he’d been through.

But even paradise, if born of illusion, must eventually give way to truth.

And it was Haurchefant who stood.

The lordling of House Fortemps pushed his chair back, its legs rasping softly across the marble, and turned toward Zephyr. His expression bore none of the warmth we’d seen before—no practiced joy or borrowed elegance. This was the real Haurchefant, or at least… the echo of him Zephyr remembered truly. No longer the image of perfection, but something deeper. Real.

He placed a hand on Zephyr’s shoulder, steady and warm.

“It’s time, Zephyr.”

The Warrior of Light looked up slowly, as if waking from a distant dream inside another. His eyes met Haurchefant’s first—then flicked briefly to the far end of the table, where we stood half-invisible, quiet witnesses.

He blinked once, lips parted. “Time… for what?”

There was fear in his voice. Real, trembling fear. Not of death. Never that. But of loss.

Haurchefant knelt down beside him, so their eyes were level.

“To face the truth,” he said gently. “There are others who need you. Ones who still live.”

Zephyr’s hands shook as he pulled them back from the wineglass. His voice caught on the first word. “But… I saved you. Here, I—I did it right. I was fast enough. Strong enough. I made it in time.”

“I know,” Haurchefant whispered. “I know you did.”

“But if I leave—” Zephyr’s voice cracked. “I lose you again. I lose everything again.”

Haurchefant’s smile trembled, just slightly, and his eyes shone with something fierce and aching. “Zephyr,” he said, resting a hand against the side of his face, “you never lost me. Not truly.”

Zephyr let out a shaky breath, his composure crumbling in front of us. “I failed. I wasn’t enough. I thought I was. I thought—”

But Haurchefant stopped him with a quiet, intimate touch—thumb brushing the line of his jaw. “You loved me,” he said, voice trembling now too. “That was enough.”

And then, at last—just once more—they leaned in.

Their lips met in a kiss that was neither desperate nor fleeting. It was quiet. Still. Reverent. The kind of kiss that carried weight, that didn’t beg to change fate, only to honor what was shared.

None of us spoke.

Not Morrigan, not Wynne. Not even Leliana, who I heard behind me let out the faintest of gasps. The bard, who had never known Zephyr long, still pressed a hand to her mouth as if to keep her own grief from spilling out.

When the kiss broke, Haurchefant leaned forward to rest their foreheads together, and whispered something so soft we almost missed it.

“Now go, Zephyr. The world still turns. And it needs you.”

Zephyr swallowed. His hands reached up, trembling, to hold onto Haurchefant’s shoulders—one last moment, one final tether.

But he didn’t speak.

Instead, he nodded.

The dream shivered.

Like a mirror cracking under frost, the illusion began to fracture. The color drained from the world—softly, like dusk stealing the sky. The distant music began to slow, then distort—harp strings unraveling into echoes. The warmth in the air turned chill, then frigid, and the elegant guests around us flickered in and out of focus.

I watched Count Edmont begin to fade—first at the edges, then entirely, like smoke.

And Haurchefant… Haurchefant looked at Zephyr for a long moment, his own smile faltering at last. But not from regret. From peace.

His body blurred with white light.

And still, he smiled.

Then he was gone.

Zephyr remained frozen for a moment longer—eyes closed, hands clenched. When they opened again, the air around him shifted like shattered glass. The polished banquet table vanished. The marble floor cracked beneath his feet.

The manor crumbled into nothing.

And the world changed.

The Fade reeled.

We weren’t standing in a dream anymore.

We were on a cold, snow-lashed stone bridge—wind tearing through our cloaks, ice crunching beneath our boots. Thunder growled overhead, and behind us loomed a towering cathedral of white stone and steel. The Vault.

Where it all began.

Where Zephyr failed.

Where Haurchefant died.

The silence was deafening. The sky a bruised gray, the air thin and cruel.

Zephyr stood in the center of the bridge, facing the airship. His shoulders were hunched, his braid windswept, his fists clenched at his sides.

I could feel it pulsing around us. The Echo. The pain. The grief. The memory he could never escape.

And yet… he had returned.

This time, he did not turn away.

He faced it.

And as we moved closer behind him, I realized—

The dream wasn’t over.

This was the final test.

The bridge was silent.

Snow swept across the broken stones in slow, dragging gusts, the storm above groaning with the weight of memory. The sky no longer bore the golden hues of the dream, but heavy clouds the color of ash. Thunder rumbled, distant and low, like a drumbeat of inevitability.

Zephyr stood ahead of us again—alone.

There was no longer hope in his step.

His stance was taut with dread, armor braced against the cold, but we could see it now—how he hesitated. How the memory shackled him even now. His gauntleted hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. His head lowered, not in prayer, but in grief.

Across the bridge, the brilliant Garlean airship hovered, a monstrosity of gold and crimson and holy fire. Its engines throbbed with eerie harmony, like a choir of false angels. And at its edge, waiting at the edge of the Vault’s walkway, stood a tall man clad in pristine robes and burnished ceremonial armor. Archbishop Thordan VII—his face calm, composed, cruel. He lifted a hand in a priest’s benediction. Not beckoning… judging.

To Zephyr’s right, a figure sprinted to catch up.

Silver hair, gleaming in the stormlight. Blue eyes that held both fierce joy and a hint of unshakable sorrow.

Haurchefant.

“He’s still here…” Leliana whispered behind me. “But—no. This is different.”

We had seen this scene before.

Earlier, within the dream, Zephyr had saved him. The memory had been rewritten—repainted in warmth and triumph, a dreamer's desperate illusion.

But now… now we were seeing the truth.

And we couldn’t look away.

“This is no longer the dream,” Wynne said, her voice unsteady. “This… this is the moment he tried to bury.”

Zephyr surged forward.

Not like a knight, not like a soldier, but like a man outrunning his own terror.

His blade—Shadowbringer—was drawn, its black edge catching flickers of light from the sky. Lightning cracked above as the enemy knight—a monstrous figure in white armor—rose to meet him, spear in hand. A conjured weapon of blinding white aether, crystalline and jagged, formed above the enemy’s head, burning with holy wrath.

And still Zephyr ran.

Haurchefant was just behind him, feet pounding the stone, shield drawn.

“Zephyr!” he shouted. “Wait!”

And then—the spell was cast.

The enemy hurled the spear.

The air rippled, torn by divine force. The magic streaked across the bridge like a falling star, too fast, too bright. I flinched. So did Alistair. Even Morrigan let out a sharp breath, hand twitching toward her staff.

“No—!” Leliana shouted.

But she couldn’t stop it. None of us could.

Haurchefant saw it first.

He didn’t hesitate.

He threw himself forward with all his strength, his shield lifted high. His boots skidded across the stone as he leapt between Zephyr and death. The force of impact flared across the bridge in a burst of searing white.

We saw the shield shatter—glass-like fragments flung in all directions.

The spear punched through the defense, through steel, through flesh.

And Haurchefant—his body arched with the blow—was lifted from the ground and hurled back.

He hit the bridge with a crack of armor and bone, blood spraying across the stone.

“NO!!” Zephyr’s scream echoed across the mountainside.

He caught Haurchefant before he hit the ground fully, falling to his knees, cradling him with shaking arms. The silver-haired knight's breathing was already shallow, his mouth stained red.

“Not again… not again…!” Zephyr was panicking, hands pressed desperately to the wound. “Stay with me—gods, stay with me!”

The blue-robed Elezen boy—Alphinaud—rushed to his side, casting spell after spell, his voice cracking with fear. The aether shimmered, but fizzled uselessly against the wound. The magic simply refused to bind.

"Why isn’t it working?!” Alphinaud cried, voice on the edge of sobs. “He—he’s supposed to be okay—we were supposed to—”

But Haurchefant reached up, bloodied fingers brushing Zephyr’s cheek.

And he smiled.

Even dying, he smiled.

His voice, hoarse and wet with blood, rasped—

“Oh, don’t look at me so, Zephyr…”

And then—those words.

“A smile… better suits a hero.”

Time stopped.

We stood frozen, not just by the weight of the moment, but by the breaking of something sacred. The lie had been stripped away. The illusion undone.

“Maker preserve us…” Alistair murmured.

Leliana’s eyes were brimming. Wynne could barely stand.

Even Sten looked away.

And Zephyr—

Zephyr collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to Haurchefant’s. We couldn’t hear his words, but we felt them. The raw grief in every shuddering breath. The trembling in his arms as he held on. The way his body curled over the fallen knight like a shield too late.

Alphinaud sobbed beside him, barely able to breathe.

The white-clad knight, turned without a glance and leaped onto the airship, vanishing into the skies.

And all around us… the world began to dissolve.

Not gently.

The sky cracked.

The air filled with a sound like shattering glass and a thousand whispered regrets. The bridge crumbled into mist. The cathedral behind us warped into impossible angles. The snow turned to ash.

And through it all—Zephyr held Haurchefant’s body, unmoving, as the world fell apart.

Then, finally—he raised his head.

Eyes rimmed red.

His face was hollow, stripped bare of defenses. But behind the pain was a flicker. Not of hope.

Of resolve.

He stood, slowly, laying Haurchefant’s body down with trembling reverence. Alphinaud remained on his knees, weeping silently.

Zephyr turned toward us.

And for the first time in this dream-world…

…he saw us.

His hands clenched.

He stepped forward.

The dream had ended.

And the truth had returned.

We stood with him now—not as witnesses to a lie—but as the ones who would walk beside him through the wreckage of memory, toward whatever lay beyond.

Chapter Text

Perspective: Aedan Cousland

I came back to myself like a drowning man breaking the surface.

The first breath was ragged, desperate. Cold air stabbed into my lungs like icy knives, heavy with the reek of dust, blood, and something older—something rancid and unnatural, as though the stones themselves had been steeped for centuries in rot. It was so real after the warm, too-perfect air of the Fade that for a heartbeat my body rejected it, and I doubled over coughing.

The taste of corruption coated my tongue, metallic and bitter. My head throbbed with the pressure of returning to a body that felt both alien and worn down, as if I had been fighting for days on end without rest. My arms ached. My legs trembled when I shifted. Every breath reminded me of just how mortal this form was compared to the dream’s weightless deceit.

And then… I remembered.

The Fade.

The demon.

The trap that had been set for each of us.

And Zephyr.

My eyes flew open, forcing the world into focus. The Harrowing Chamber bled back into reality around me—not all at once, but in ragged patches, as though I were watching two images fade over each other. The great stone floor lay cracked and gouged, blackened by old burns and smeared with fresh blood. The ancient runes carved into it still pulsed faintly, their light sickly and uneven, as if even they were exhausted.

We were not alone.

Wynne had collapsed against a pillar, her breath shallow, one hand still curled as if holding a staff that was no longer there. Alistair was sprawled on his back a few feet away, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut against whatever he’d been forced to see. Leliana knelt near the far wall, arms wrapped tight around herself, her lips moving in soundless prayer. Morrigan was already on her knees, spine rigid, golden eyes scanning the chamber with sharp, calculating movements. Sten had rolled onto his side, pushing himself upright with the stubborn steadiness of a man refusing to show weakness, even in exhaustion.

We were back.

But the danger… the danger had not gone anywhere.

A shadow fell over the room—no, not a shadow. A presence.

I forced myself to look toward the center of the chamber.

Uldred still stood there.

Or rather, the thing he had become.

If there had ever been anything human left in him, it was long gone now. His frame was a twisted mass of sinew and blackened bone, his flesh crawling with threads of dark energy that pulsed in time with his breath. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. He watched like a spider watches its prey, patient, letting the web settle before striking.

No one made the first move.

Our strength hadn’t returned—not truly. We were here in body, yes, but the Fade’s hold had left its mark. My own limbs still felt as though they belonged to someone else, my heartbeat slow and uneven in my chest.

A low groan drew my attention to Wynne, who was slowly straightening against the pillar, rubbing the side of her head. Leliana’s prayer had slowed, though her hands still gripped her own arms tightly. Morrigan’s gaze wasn’t on Uldred at all. She was looking past me. Through me, almost.

Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth set in a thin line.

I turned.

Zephyr.

He lay crumpled on his side, half in shadow. One gloved hand was pressed to his chest, the other limp on the cold stone. His braid had come loose in the Fade, strands of black and silver spilling across his back and cheek. The wound along his face—something old, something from before we’d even met him—stood out starkly in the chamber’s dim light.

But it wasn’t the injury that made my chest tighten.

It was his expression.

There was no battle-ready fury there. No quick spark of wit or sharp glare to cut down the moment.

Only… emptiness.

And beneath it—sorrow.

It was a silence so heavy I could almost hear it.

“Zephyr…?” I said, my voice low, as though afraid the sound would break something fragile.

At first, he didn’t answer. Didn’t even look up.

Then his fingers twitched.

Slowly—painfully slowly—he rolled onto one elbow and forced himself to sit. His movements were deliberate, as though the weight pressing down on him wasn’t entirely physical. He didn’t meet my eyes, or anyone’s.

His gaze was on the floor.

No—through the floor.

And in that moment, I knew.

He wasn’t fully back.

His body was here in the Harrowing Chamber with us, but his mind… his mind was still walking another path entirely.

I’d seen it. We’d seen it. That frozen bridge in the snow. The blinding light of the spear. The sound of armor shattering. A silver-haired knight falling, smiling even as he died.

And Zephyr, kneeling over him, too late to save him.

The demon’s illusion had wrapped him in a paradise where that moment never happened. But we had ripped it open. Shown him the truth again.

And now… he was living in that memory’s aftermath.

Not in the battle before it.

Not in the years since.

Just in that place where failure had hollowed him out and left him with nothing but the echo of a smile that wasn’t for him alone, but for the idea of him—the hero who didn’t arrive in time.

And as I watched him breathe, slow and shallow, I understood something with absolute certainty:

Zephyr had never left that place.

Not really.

Zephyr Arcadin’s Perspective

The Fade withdrew like the tide pulling away from the shore.

But the pain… the pain stayed.

It clung to me in my bones, in my lungs, in the spaces between my thoughts. I could feel the last tendrils of dreamstuff fray and snap away from me, yet the warmth they carried did not vanish. It burned, but it was not fire—it was memory. A memory that was not real, and yet so real it hurt more than any blade.

That dream.

That lie.

I had wanted to believe it.

Hydaelyn forgive me, I had wanted to stay.

Even now, even knowing the truth, it called to me still—sweet and treacherous as a siren’s song carried over moonlit waters. A place where I had never failed. A place where my hands had not been too slow, where his body had not gone cold in my arms.

I could still hear his voice.

I could still see the light in his eyes, brighter than the silver on his armor, warmer than any sun. I remembered the smile—the one that reached all the way to his soul. The way his breath misted in the frozen air. The words, spoken like a blessing: A smile better suits a hero.

And then… the moment it all shattered.

The spear.

The blood.

The light going out.

I had wanted to forget. I had allowed myself to forget.

I should never have.

But he… he had forgiven me.

The demon had shown me that much, at least. Whether it was truth or fabrication, I clung to it. And that—that—was the only reason my knees found the strength to hold me, the only reason my lungs drew breath again in this poisoned, corrupted air.

The others had seen.

I could feel it like heat on my skin, their eyes on me—not curious, not cold, but heavy with something unspoken. Not pity exactly, but the quiet, dangerous weight of it. Like a blade drawn and held just shy of my throat.

I looked at none of them.

Instead, I planted one hand on the stone floor and pushed. My arm trembled. The world tilted. But slowly—carefully—I rose to my feet. My breath was steady, though my heart was not.

And then I reached for the weight at my back.

They hadn’t seen it yet.

Not truly.

Not this world. Not these people.

But they would.

I gripped the hilt, still bound in its wrapping of dark cloth, and drew.

The sound was not steel on steel, but something deeper—a low, resonant thrum, like distant thunder rolling across a storm-wracked plain. The wrapping fell away in slow coils, and Shadowbringer emerged into the flickering chamber light.

The blade drank the light greedily, its surface blacker than obsidian yet rippling with an inner storm. Veins of pale radiance pulsed through the darkness, the sword’s edge seemed to fade in and out of existence, as though the world itself could not decide if it wanted to allow it to be real.

The runes carved along the fuller glimmered faintly—not with any magic of this place, but with the fading memory of another world entirely.

The others said nothing at first.

But their silence was louder than any battle cry.

Sten’s eyes narrowed, and I saw the barest widening there—the recognition of something he had sensed since the day we met but had not put into shape until now.

Leliana’s lips parted in a quiet gasp, one hand rising instinctively to press against her chest, her prayer forgotten mid-word.

Morrigan tilted her head like a raven scenting blood, her fascination no longer masked behind boredom. I saw the sharp gleam in her gaze—the hunger for knowledge, for power, for truth.

Wynne’s expression softened, though she lowered her eyes quickly, as if to shield herself from what she saw.

Alistair, standing near Aedan, shifted his stance and gripped his sword more tightly—not in hostility, but as though the weight of my presence demanded it.

And Aedan…

Aedan stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

Not to speak.

Not to question.

Just to stand beside me.

He didn’t even look at me, but the warmth of his presence was enough to anchor me here in this poisoned, half-broken reality.

The blade trembled faintly in my hand.

Not from fear.

From the echo of that moment—the breath that had left Haurchefant’s body, the warmth that had faded from his skin, the smile that had been for me alone, even at the end.

A smile better suits a hero.

The words cut through me again, sharp and merciless.

I was not a hero.

But I would fight like one.

And just ahead, Uldred waited—his monstrous form crouched and coiled, the stench of the Fade still oozing from his twisted frame like rot from a long-dead corpse. His eyes glowed with mockery, as though amused by our struggle back into the waking world.

The Fade had taken from me once already.

It would not take again.

The fight wasn’t over.

Not yet.

The moment stretched like tempered steel, drawn out until it was ready to snap.

Dust drifted lazily in the chamber’s stifling air, curling through shafts of light that slanted down from cracks high in the stone walls. My every sense sharpened, as though the world was holding its breath alongside me.

Across the ruin, Uldred’s form warped and convulsed. Bone pushed against flesh, bursting through in jagged spurs. His skin split like old parchment. The man—if there had ever truly been a man—was gone. What remained was something born of arrogance and the endless hunger of the Fade.

Wings unfolded from his back—wings not of feathers but of lightning. His hands had become claws. And his face… his face was stretched into something almost human but wrong, too symmetrical, too sharp, with eyes like twin suns burning with contempt.

A mutated form of Pride Demon.

Every instinct screamed danger.

He spoke then, his voice sliding like oil over stone—low, smooth, venomous. Words crafted to pierce armor and sink into the soft, unguarded places inside. His scorn was palpable, heavy as lead.

But I wasn’t listening.

My world had narrowed to the sound of my own heartbeat—loud, insistent, like war drums in my ears. And beneath it, the hum. Shadowbringers hum. The steady, resonant pulse of a weapon that did not merely serve me, but knew me. It understood. This was no longer a man. This was no longer even a mage. This was a threat—to me, to those behind me, to all things that dared to live.

My fingers flexed around the hilt, and the blade thrummed in answer. A pact without words.

I stepped forward. The weight of the sword felt perfect in my hand, the balance so natural it was like an extension of my own will. I could almost see it—the moment of impact, the black edge biting into flesh, the demon’s expression twisting into something other than pride.

And then it happened.

The Resonator Pendant at my throat—my constant, silent companion—flashed, sudden and violent, a crimson glare that painted the chamber in blood.

The hum of Shadowbringer faltered. My heartbeat did not. It surged—fast, too fast—until it felt like my ribs would splinter under the force.

Pain struck without warning, spearing through my chest so hard I staggered. My vision blurred. My grip on the sword slipped an inch. I heard voices—distant, urgent. Aedan’s shout. Morrigan’s curse. Leliana’s cry.

But I could not answer them.

Cracks splintered across the pendant’s crystal surface, each fracture glowing from within, as though the thing were filled with molten metal. My breath caught. The air thickened until each inhale was a battle. Power—familiar and yet wrong—rose like a tide, swelling until it had nowhere to go but out.

The scream rose in my throat, but it never escaped. My teeth locked. My body arched against an invisible force. Shadowbringer’s hum turned into a deep, dangerous growl.

And then—through the din—came the whisper.

Low. Measured. Unshakable.

A voice I had not heard in years, but knew as I knew my own.

“Let me show you what it really means to protect.”

The pendant shattered.

Sound returned all at once—a sharp ringing that made the world tilt. Shards of crimson crystal spun through the air like dying embers, catching in my hair, sliding down my armor, clinking against the stone.

And then… I was not in control.

I felt my hands grip the sword, but they were not mine. My head turned, my body moved, and though I looked through my own eyes, the will guiding them was not my own.

The air around me seemed to darken—not the absence of light, but the presence of something vast and ancient pressing in from all sides. The edges of Shadowbringer’s black blade flared with pale radiance, like moonlight breaking through storm clouds, only for that light to twist and be swallowed by shadow in the same instant.

Inside me—no, around me—something stirred.

Something that had always been there, waiting.

Umbriel.

The old name unfurled in my mind like a banner caught in a wind I couldn’t stop.

Not friend. Not foe.

Protector. Destroyer.

The other half of what I was, the half I had kept caged.

And now the cage was gone.

My body moved forward in a slow, deliberate step, Shadowbringer raised in a guard I had not used in years. Umbriel’s presence was calm, but it was the calm of deep water—still on the surface, with unseen currents powerful enough to drag a man down and never let him go.

The Pride Demon tilted its head, curiosity flashing in its eyes. I felt Umbriel smile through my lips—not a kind smile.

And for the first time, Uldred hesitated.

Aedan’s perspective 

It was like the very air changed.

Not the kind of change you can see, but the kind you feel—like when a storm rolls in and the sky turns that strange green, or when a wolf goes quiet in the forest and you realize you’re not the predator anymore.

One moment Zephyr stood as I’d always known him—calm, balanced, a warrior in perfect control of himself. His stance was measured, his eyes focused on Uldred. Ready for the fight of his life.

The next… he shuddered. Not from pain. Not from fear. From something else.

It was as though something rippled outward from him, a wave I couldn’t see but could feel. My stomach tightened. The hair on my arms stood on end. My teeth ached as if I’d bitten down on iron. My spine felt like a bowstring drawn taut—ready to snap.

His head jerked upward.

Zephyr’s ice-blue eyes—those cool, detached eyes that rarely betrayed more than mild interest—flared with light. Not Fade light. Not lyrium. This was something stranger, deeper, threaded with thin veins of crimson that bled into the whites. The glow didn’t just illuminate—it watched.

And I felt it.

Power.

Not the flashy, coaxed power of a mage flinging fireballs. This was older, heavier. The kind of power that existed whether the world wanted it to or not.

“He’s… a mage?” Alistair whispered behind me, the disbelief sharp in his voice.

“No…” Leliana’s voice trembled in a way I’d never heard from her. “That’s something else.”

First Enchanter Irving stepped back. The other senior mages we’d fought tooth and nail to save—men and women who had stood against abominations—followed suit without hesitation. I didn’t need to see their faces to know the truth, but I saw it anyway. Fear.

Not fear of the demon. Fear of him.

They knew magic. And they wanted no part of this.

“What in the Maker’s name is he?” Wynne murmured.

If Zephyr heard her, he gave no sign. His attention wasn’t on us.

It was fixed entirely on Uldred.

He began to walk forward. Slow. Purposeful. Each step rang against the cracked stone, the sound impossibly loud in the stillness. There was a weight to his movements, a sense of inevitability that made the breath catch in my throat.

Uldred spread his wings wide, the chamber filling with the crackle of electricity. His voice came in a low hiss, the words wrong, like the grinding of stone under the sea. It was Demonic—language meant to wound the mind as much as the ears.

Zephyr didn’t even blink.

The black-wrapped weapon slung over his back shifted. I’d seen him carry it for days without drawing it, and I’d assumed it was a personal relic or a backup blade. But the cloth binding it began to smoke.

Then, with a sound like tearing silk, the wrappings fell away in strips, curling to ash before they hit the ground.

The blade beneath—Shadowbringer—was unlike anything I’d seen. Its black edge caught the light wrong, bending it, drinking it, until the air around it seemed darker than it had any right to be. A faint halo of pale radiance wavered along the flat, swallowed and reborn in an endless cycle.

The moment it was free, the air grew heavier.

And then he moved.

He didn’t charge. He didn’t lunge. He simply… vanished.

One instant he was there, and the next, he was mist. A curling cloud of darkness that flowed forward faster than an arrow. The cloud reformed in front of Uldred so abruptly the demon actually staggered back, talons raking the floor as he caught his balance.

Shadowbringer’s edge came down in a single, arcing strike.

The cut was clean, deliberate. It sheared through Uldred’s shoulder, severing a wing at its base. The flesh hissed and spat as shadowfire consumed it.

Uldred roared, swinging a claw the size of a tower shield, but Zephyr bent at the waist with impossible precision, the strike passing over his head by inches. In the same movement, he pivoted, blade flashing low. The next slash took the demon’s right leg out from under him in a spray of burning ichor.

And still he didn’t speak.

With one hand, Zephyr plunged Shadowbringer into the ground. Black veins of energy spread outward in jagged cracks, the stone groaning under the strain.

Then he raised his free hand.

Spears of obsidian erupted from the floor, silent and swift, each one as thick as a man’s torso. They impaled Uldred in half a dozen places, pinning wings, arms, and tail before the demon could even register the pain.

“That’s not just magic,” Morrigan breathed. Her eyes were wide—not with fear, but with recognition. “That’s something far older.”

Uldred’s scream tore through the chamber, shaking dust from the rafters. His body twisted against the spears.

Zephyr stepped forward again, yanking Shadowbringer from the stone. He swung once. A wave of darkness followed the arc, a perfect crescent that cleaved through Uldred’s torso as though the demon’s body were nothing but smoke.

For a heartbeat, Uldred froze—half solid, half unraveling. Then his form dissolved entirely into formless vapor, the echo of his scream scattering into the Fade.

The silence that followed was worse than the fight.

Zephyr turned toward us.

Sten’s hand went to his sword, his stance low, the tendons in his forearms tight. “That is not the same man,” he said flatly.

Alistair’s voice cracked. “Is he… is he going to attack us?”

Zephyr—or the thing wearing him—stood perfectly still. His hair drifted in some invisible wind, his cloak hanging motionless. Shadowbringer hummed faintly in his grip, the sound like a heartbeat too slow to be human.

His eyes roamed over each of us, unreadable.

“I don’t think that’s him anymore,” I said.

No one disagreed.

Perspective: Aedan Cousland

The chamber was still.

Not silent—no, never silent. The crackle of residual magic still hissed across the shattered floor, the stink of Fade corruption clung to the air, and the faint groan of strained stone whispered through the ruined hall.

But still in another sense.

A stillness that pressed down on my chest. A stillness that felt watched.

Zephyr was no longer standing as Zephyr.

The man I had fought beside—measured, restrained, an unshakable hand on the battlefield—was simply… gone. What stood in his place was a figure outlined in shifting shadow, shoulders draped in a mantle of black mist that curled and writhed like it had thoughts of its own.

And when he looked at us… Maker help me, I understood the feeling of prey under a predator’s gaze.

“You pulled him away.”

The voice that spoke was Zephyr’s and not Zephyr’s. It was deeper, ragged, like the sound of stone splitting under ice. Every syllable carried weight—accusation sharpened to a blade’s edge.

None of us moved. Even Sten’s grip on his sword eased fractionally, as though he’d decided movement would draw unwanted attention.

“He was happy,” the voice continued.

“Whole. Loved.”

The shadows about his frame pulsed faintly with each word.

Leliana’s eyes darted to me, her lips parting as though to speak, but whatever she was about to say died in her throat. Morrigan’s face remained still, but her gaze… narrowed. Studying. Calculating.

The figure took a slow, deliberate step forward. The mist followed him like a tide, curling along the ground.

“And you ruined it,” he said softly. Almost a whisper. Almost.

“You tore him from peace. You dragged him back into suffering.”

His eyes—Zephyr’s pale blue no longer—glowed faintly, firey violet threaded with red, like light behind fractured glass.

“You weakened him.”

The words hung in the air.

I tried to speak carefully.

“We didn’t want to hurt him. But it wasn’t real—”

The figure’s head snapped toward me so fast I felt my heart jolt.

“Do not speak for him.”

It wasn’t a shout. It didn’t need to be. The sound carried an unnatural resonance that rattled in my teeth. Somewhere behind me, Wynne muttered something under her breath—a prayer, maybe.

The figure let his gaze wander across each of us in turn.

Alistair, tense, jaw set, shield raised but not forward.

Leliana, her hand resting near her dagger hilt but not daring to draw.

Morrigan, one brow arched, arms loose at her sides but magic coiled in her fingertips.

Wynne, pale and utterly still.

And Sten, towering as ever, but his eyes… watching.

Umbriel sighed. It was a sound heavy with disdain, like an adult forced to tolerate the tantrums of children.

“You think yourselves companions. Friends.”

“But all you do is bind him in chains of guilt. You pull at the threads until there is nothing left but frayed ends.”

The shadows rippled once, faintly, and I thought—no, I felt—a pressure in my skull, like the air itself was listening.

“That dream you stole from him? It was not your place to decide. You gave him reality in exchange for emptiness.”

No one answered.

There was no defense that wouldn’t sound like excuse.

Because in a way, he was right. We had torn Zephyr from something precious, even if it had been false.

Umbriel’s gaze softened—not in kindness, but in finality.

“And now he will walk with the weight you gave him. Again.”

A pause.

“…I tire of this form. I have made my point.”

The shadows began to retreat, pulling away from his frame like water draining from stone. The burning in his eyes dimmed, cooling back to that cold, pale blue I knew. The mist thinned, curling back into the pendant that hung at his throat—its cracked surface glinting faintly before going dark.

Zephyr staggered forward a half-step, bracing himself on Shadowbringer like a cane. His breath came slow, measured, but the set of his jaw told me he had heard everything.

And for the first time since the Fade, he looked… older. Not in body. In weight.

He didn’t speak.

And neither did we.

Because whatever Umbriel was—whatever he could do—we all knew something very clearly now.

He wasn’t gone.

He was simply waiting.

Perspective: Zephyr Arcadin

The moment the last thread of shadow peeled away from my skin, the world felt… thin.

Not lighter—never lighter—but hollow, like sound after a great bell stops ringing.

The taste of metal lingered in my mouth. The air smelled of stone dust and the faint, cloying sweetness of the Fade. My knees threatened to buckle, and for a heartbeat I thought Umbriel had simply taken my legs with him.

Then I realized it wasn’t weakness. It was absence.

He had been inside me a moment ago—threaded through every thought, every muscle, every unspoken truth I try to bury—and now he wasn’t. And that space he left behind felt cavernous.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was… watching.

I could still feel him. Not the full weight of him, not that crushing mantle of malice and purpose—but a distant echo, like a predator’s gaze from deep in the treeline. Waiting.

The pendant at my throat pulsed faintly once, a dying ember, before cooling to nothing.

I kept my eyes down.

If I looked at them—Aedan, Alistair, Leliana, the rest—they’d see it. They’d see the truth Umbriel had wrapped in honeyed poison. And part of me was afraid they’d agree with him.

Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

The dream had been perfect.

Not in the way real life sometimes stumbles into moments of joy before the world catches up—but perfect in the way an artist can be perfect when the paint never runs out and the canvas never tears.

Haurchefant’s laugh. Count Edmont’s warmth. Friends alive who should have been dead. My own smile, unburdened and unafraid.

It hadn’t asked for anything. It had simply been.

And I had let myself believe it.

Now, standing on cracked stone with Shadowbringer’s weight biting into my palm, I could still hear Umbriel’s words:

You tore him from peace. You dragged him back into suffering.

He had meant it as accusation.

But the way my heart twisted… it felt like confession.

I finally looked up.

They were all watching me—me, not Umbriel—but there was a carefulness in their stances, a hesitation. Like they were testing the air after lightning struck too close.

I wanted to tell them it was over. That I had control. That he couldn’t take me again.

But I didn’t.

Because I couldn’t promise it was true.

Instead, I straightened, let my hair fall forward to shadow my expression, and slid Shadowbringer into its sheath. The blade whispered as it went home, as though relieved to be at rest.

The chamber still stank of magic and burnt stone. The ground was littered with fractured sigils from the enchanters’ circle, now inert. I stepped over one, feeling the faintest thrum under my boots—like the heart of something that wasn’t dead, merely sleeping.

Aedan was the first to break the quiet.

“You alright?”

His voice was steady, but I caught the quick glance he shot at my pendant. He’d seen the way it had drunk the last of the shadows.

I could have lied. I should have lied.

But the words came out flat:

“I’m… here.”

The truth was harsher.

Umbriel hadn’t been defeated. He’d chosen to leave.

And as his parting gift, he’d left me with his certainty—that the dream I’d lost was worth more than the life I had returned to.

I think he expects me to believe him.

Some days… I might.

We moved on. We had to.

But every step felt like the echo of one I’d taken in the dream.

And somewhere deep inside, I felt the faintest brush of cold shadow in my thoughts.

Not threatening.

Not yet.

Just… waiting.

I hadn’t spoken since we left the Harrowing Chamber.

Not truly.

Oh, words came when they had to—short, clipped things meant to direct movement or acknowledge orders.

Aedan asked if I was ready to move? Yes.

Sten wanted a path cleared through the fallen debris? Left first, then the center.

Wynne asked if my injuries were pressing? No.

But nothing more than that. Nothing about Kindred.

Nothing about Haurchefant.

Nothing about the truth—that I hadn’t fought my way out of that dream. That I’d been dragged.

I felt their eyes on me all the same.

Aedan’s gaze came most often—measured, weighing, as though he were trying to decide if I was still the same man who had bled beside him in the Korcari Wilds.

Alistair’s glances were uncertain, curious but edged with something like wariness.

Morrigan’s eyes lingered longer—searching, speculative, but never pitying.

Leliana’s were different. There was softness there, the kind given to the grieving, though she didn’t yet know the shape of what I had lost.

And Sten… Sten simply watched. Not with distrust, but like a man standing beside a caged hound, curious whether the beast inside still remembered its master.

None of them asked.

Wynne was the first to try.

We were in the infirmary, gathering what little salves and supplies the surviving mages could offer before our departure. She lingered beside me as I tightened the wrappings on my vambrace.

“He’s still you, Zephyr. Whatever that… thing was.”

“Umbriel,” I said without looking up. My voice was hoarse, like stone ground on stone.

She hesitated, as though speaking the name might give it power.

“Umbriel,” she repeated. “You subdued it. You came back.”

I gave a short breath—something between a laugh and an exhale.

“He let go, Wynne. That’s not the same as victory.”

Her eyes softened in that way only a healer’s could.

“But you’re here.”

I looked down at my hands—scarred, calloused, the knuckles still faintly bruised from the fight with Uldred.

“Not all of me."

By morning, the Circle Tower was quieter than I’d ever seen it.

The survivors moved like shadows, gathering what could be salvaged, tending to their wounded, stepping carefully over the rubble-strewn halls.

We met with First Enchanter Irving in the main library, the smell of burned parchment still thick in the air. Aedan spoke first.

“There’s a boy in Redcliffe. Possessed. The demon is still contained for now, but we don’t know how much longer. We need mages. As many as you can spare. And lyrium.”

Irving studied him, then glanced briefly toward me.

“You will have what you need. I will see to it myself. But… protect them, Warden. We’ve lost enough.”

Aedan nodded his thanks. I said nothing.

No one asked if I would be going. Of course I would.

What else was there left for me to do?

The road from the Tower was long, and the weather was merciless.

The air hung heavy with early spring damp, the sky a constant overcast bruise. Boots sank into mud where snow had only recently retreated. The mages we’d been given were not combat-trained like Wynne; they kept close to the center of the formation, robes muddied to the knee.

We didn’t speak much.

Aedan kept us moving with short commands, his shield always at the ready. Alistair tried to lighten the mood with a joke about the Circle’s “interior decorating,” but his voice died under the weight of the silence. Morrigan sometimes looked my way as if she might speak, but her lips would press shut before she did.

Even Sten’s usual, blunt inquiries about our route ceased.

When my thoughts drifted, they drifted there—

To the Vault.

To him.

To the moment when the warmth of Haurchefant’s blood slipped through my fingers and the light in his eyes dimmed forever.

To the part of me that had chosen to stay in that dream rather than face the world without him.

“A smile… better suits a hero.”

He had been right.

I just wasn’t sure I was one anymore.

Redcliffe looked worse than when we had left it.

More bodies. More empty homes. The people who remained were pale, exhausted, and desperate, their eyes searching us as though salvation might walk in with us on muddy boots. I kept my hood low. I had no salvation to offer.

We found Jowan in the Chantry, slumped against a pillar like a man who had spent every hour fighting sleep and fear. His eyes widened when he saw the mages behind us.

“You came back,” he said, voice rough. “I’ve… kept it contained. I think.”

Aedan’s reply was steady, resolute.

“Then it’s time. The mages are here. Let’s finish this.”

The castle was worse still.

We passed under archways darkened by fire and through halls stripped of their finery. Every step echoed against stone that remembered better days. The air smelled of smoke and rot.

Connor lay in a high chamber, still as death save for the unnatural twitches that shuddered through him. The boy’s face—pale, slack—looked so much younger like this. The demon’s shadow lingered around him like an oil slick.

Isolde stood beside him, her hands white-knuckled on the edge of the bed. She had the look of someone who had forgotten what it felt like to sleep.

“If this fails…” Her voice cracked. “If this fails, he dies. Doesn’t he?”

Aedan put a hand on her shoulder.

“We won’t let that happen.”

That was the kind of thing a hero said.

I just watched from the doorway, my shadow stretching long across the cracked tile.

The mages began their work.

Lyrium dust shimmered in the air, glowing faintly in the low light. The scent was sharp—metallic and strange, a reminder of the Fade and all its treacherous beauty. They spoke in unison, weaving a lattice of light that trembled above the boy’s body.

I recognized pieces of the spellwork—shapes, structures, methods that echoed the aetherial weavings I’d learned in Sharlayan. But this was different. The kind of magic that had teeth, and demanded blood if it wasn’t fed properly.

They didn’t ask me to join.

Perhaps they knew I would not.

Perhaps they feared I might.

So I stood silent and watched as they fought for a boy’s soul.

When the last syllable of the ritual fell away, the lattice collapsed into him with a blinding flash.

Connor gasped. His eyes flew open—clear, human, free. The tension in his body eased. The demon was gone.

Isolde’s knees gave way. She pressed her face into the blankets and wept. Wynne turned away, gripping her staff like a lifeline. Alistair let out a long, shaky breath before sinking down against the wall. Sten gave a single, grave nod.

Aedan smiled—tired, but genuine.

And I…

I walked out.

The hall beyond was dim, lit only by the broken light of a stained glass window that once depicted Andraste. Half her face was missing now, shards of painted glass glittering faintly in the rubble. I leaned against the stone frame, feeling as though my own weight might crack the wall.

“He lives,” Morrigan’s voice came from behind me. “You should be glad.”

“I am,” I said.

“But you feel nothing.”

I shook my head faintly.

“That’s not true. I feel… too much.”

She studied me for a long moment.

“You were willing to let yourself die in that dream.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he was there.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“And now?”

I looked back at the broken saint in the glass—so unlike Hydaelyn’s perfect radiance, yet worshipped just the same.

“Now I keep going,” I said quietly. “Because he told me to.”

Morrigan said nothing more.

And for that, I was grateful.

Chapter Text

The hall outside Arl Eamon’s chambers was too quiet.

We’d saved his son. We’d torn Connor from the clutches of the demon possessing him. That should have been the happy ending to this part of the nightmare.

But it wasn’t.

I leaned against the wall across from the bedchamber door, arms crossed, watching Isolde’s shadow move back and forth inside. Aedan stood just inside the doorway, speaking in hushed tones to the castle’s healer.

Eamon still hadn’t woken.

I had seen comas before in my own world—magic-borne or mundane—but this felt different. His body wasn’t failing. It was as if something unseen still held him in place.

The healer finally stepped out, wiping his hands on a cloth. “He breathes well. His pulse is steady,” he said to Aedan, “but he sleeps and will not wake.”

“Is it something the demon left behind?” I asked.

“Not… exactly,” the healer replied, frowning. “Whatever illness gripped him before the demon’s arrival remains. This is something he has endured for weeks, maybe months. The demon simply took advantage of it.”

That was when Isolde emerged, her face pale and drawn. “There is… one thing I’ve heard of,” she said slowly, glancing between us. “A legend, from the Chantry’s oldest tales. They speak of the Ashes of Andraste—the Maker’s chosen prophet.”

I tilted my head. “Ashes?”

“They say they possess miraculous healing powers,” she explained. “That they can cure any illness, no matter how grave. The Chantry calls them myth, but…” She looked down at her hands. “If they are real, they may be the only thing that can save my husband.”

Leliana, who had been lingering nearby, stepped forward with a spark in her eyes. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes. I have heard the same stories in Orlais.”

The healer gave a dismissive snort. “And I’ve heard of dragons who speak in riddles. Legends do not cure men.”

“But there is one who claims they exist,” Leliana insisted. “Brother Genitivi. A scholar, here in Ferelden. He has spent years researching the Ashes and has written of his travels in search of them.”

“Then he might know where to find them,” Aedan said, thinking aloud.

Leliana nodded. “Last I heard, he had been working in Denerim.”

We gathered in the war room shortly after, all of us around the great table cluttered with maps.

Aedan laid it out plainly. “We can’t help Eamon with what we have. But if these Ashes exist, we need them. And that means finding Brother Genitivi in Denerim.”

“Then we all go,” I said automatically.

But Aedan shook his head. “No. I can’t leave Redcliffe undefended right now. We’ve just cleared out the castle, but the Darkspawn grow bolder by the day. I need to make sure the villagers are safe before I move again. If another attack comes while I’m gone, all of this will have been for nothing.”

He looked at me, then at Leliana and Morrigan. “The three of you can move faster than a larger party. Fewer eyes will notice you. And Morrigan’s magic, Leliana’s contacts, and…” His eyes lingered on me. “…your ability to deal with the unexpected—will be more than enough for Denerim’s streets.”

“Sounds like you’re sending us into a snake pit,” I said.

He smirked faintly. “It’s Denerim. If you don’t get bitten, you’ll at least get stepped on.”

The next morning, we set out.

The road to Denerim was long but uneventful. Morrigan walked with her hood drawn low, clearly unimpressed by the idea of searching for holy relics. “I will never understand your endless fascination with dusty bones and dead prophets,” she muttered at one point.

Leliana, of course, countered every word with cheerful certainty. “Faith can work wonders. Sometimes the Maker does guide our steps.”

“And sometimes the wind changes direction,” Morrigan replied flatly. “That does not mean the wind has a plan.”

I let them argue. My thoughts were elsewhere—on Eamon’s still face, on Aedan staying behind, and on the possibility that this journey would lead to nothing but wasted time.

When we reached Denerim, we began asking after Brother Genitivi, starting with the Chantry. The sisters there claimed not to have seen him in some time, though one mentioned he often worked from his home in the city.

It took another half-day of weaving through cramped alleyways and pushing past market crowds before we found his modest house tucked along a quieter street.

Except… it didn’t feel right. The shutters were closed despite the warm day, and the door stood just barely ajar.

Leliana exchanged a glance with me. “Stay ready,” she whispered.

I pushed the door open first. Inside was chaos—a table overturned, papers scattered everywhere. And standing in the middle of the wreckage was a man who looked very out of place, his robes torn and his expression somewhere between panic and suspicion.

That was the first step into the trail Brother Genitivi had left behind—a trail that would lead us far beyond Denerim, deeper into Ferelden’s wilds, and toward the truth of the Urn of Sacred Ashes.

And I could already tell it wouldn’t be as simple as “ask, find, cure.”

Not in this world. Not ever.

The air inside the house was stale. Too still. The kind of stillness that happens when a place is shut up too long — or when someone doesn’t want others to know they’re here.

The man in the middle of the room startled at the sight of us, like a rat caught in torchlight. He was tall but hunched, thin enough that his robes hung loose from his shoulders. The fabric had once been well-made, maybe even tailored, but now it was rumpled and frayed at the sleeves. His hands twitched at his sides.

“Oh,” he said quickly, his voice too bright, too forced. “Visitors. I… wasn’t expecting anyone.”

I let my eyes drift over the room while he spoke. The overturned table was the obvious focus, but there was more — ink stains drying on the floorboards, scattered parchment with what looked like sketches of ruins and old symbols, and an empty mug lying on its side near the hearth. Whatever happened here hadn’t been just a careless accident.

Leliana stepped forward with that smooth, disarming smile she seemed to keep in her pocket for moments like this. “We’re looking for Brother Genitivi. We were told this was his home.”

The man’s fingers flexed once before he clasped them together. “Oh… ah, well, you see, Brother Genitivi… he’s not here. Went to the… Chantry. Yes. In, ah, Lake Calenhad. On—”

Morrigan cut him off like a knife. “You’re lying.”

His gaze snapped to her, wide-eyed. “I— I beg your pardon?”

I took a step forward, slow and deliberate. “Your door was open. Your table’s overturned. You’ve been here long enough for the air to go stale, but you want us to believe Genitivi is away on a pleasant trip? Try again.”

The man swallowed hard. “Look, I… I’m just staying here while he’s gone. I’m a… a friend. Weylon.”

I shifted my weight, letting my hand rest lightly on the hilt of my sword — not drawing it, not yet, but enough for the intent to register. “Where is he really?”

Weylon’s eyes darted toward the back of the house. “He… he’s gone to Haven.”

“Haven?” Leliana echoed.

“Yes! It’s a small village in the mountains, far to the west, past Lake Calenhad. He… he heard of something there, something connected to the Ashes of Andraste. He thought it worth investigating.”

“Then why the overturned table?” I asked.

“Oh, that. Ah… burglars. Yes. Came while I was out. Must’ve been looking for valuables.”

The lie was so thin it might as well have been parchment in the rain.

Morrigan crossed her arms, unimpressed. “If you expect us to believe such drivel, you are more foolish than you look.”

Weylon’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came. His stance shifted — not toward the door, but toward the side of the room where a short blade rested half-hidden beneath a cloth.

I moved first. One long step closed the distance, and my gauntleted hand slammed against his wrist before he could grab the weapon. He yelped in pain, stumbling backward.

That was when the mask dropped.

His polite fear twisted into something sharper — the look of a man cornered and willing to lash out. “You should’ve stayed away,” he hissed.

Then he lunged.

The fight was over before it began. Morrigan’s hand flicked up, frost crackling along her fingers, and a shard of ice burst across Weylon’s chest. The cold shocked him enough that Leliana had time to slip behind and sweep his legs. He hit the floor hard, the wind knocked from him.

I crouched beside him. “Last chance. Where’s Brother Genitivi?”

He spat to the side. “You’ll find nothing but death in Haven.”

“That’s fine,” I said, letting my voice drop into something quieter. “I’m hard to kill.”

Whether it was the words or the icy glare from Morrigan’s still-raised hand, he talked after that. He told us Genitivi had been taken to Haven against his will — that the villagers there were… devoted, in a way that went beyond normal Chantry faith.

When it was done, he sagged back against the floor, muttering curses under his breath. I didn’t hear all of them, but one word kept coming up: “Dragon.”

The man’s breathing was ragged when I stood. Morrigan’s frost had begun to melt across the floorboards, leaving a slick sheen that caught the light from the window. Weylon—or whoever he really was—sat bound at the ankles and wrists, glaring up at us like a cornered hound.

“We’re not done here,” I said quietly, my voice low enough that only he and my companions could hear. “But I’m not interested in wasting more breath on a liar. Let’s see what the rest of the house has to say.”

Leliana nodded and moved first, her boots making barely a sound as she crossed into the adjoining room. Morrigan followed, muttering something under her breath that sounded like “waste of time,” but her eyes were sharp, scanning every detail.

I stayed behind for a moment, watching Weylon shift in his bonds. He looked like he might try something desperate, but I made a point of resting my hand on the hilt of my sword before following the others. That stopped him cold.

The front room had been chaos, but the back of the house was worse. Drawers yanked open, scrolls half-unrolled and trailing across the floor, broken quills discarded like snapped twigs. The scent of old ink and parchment hung heavy in the air, mingling with something far less pleasant—stale blood.

It didn’t take long to find the source.

There was a small storeroom in the rear corner of the house, the door slightly ajar. When I pushed it open, the light from the hall fell across a shape on the floor. A man, face down, his clothes plain but neatly made. His skin was pale with the waxy stillness of death.

Leliana knelt beside him, gently turning the body enough to see his face. She drew in a sharp breath. “This… this likely is Weylon. The real one.”

The man we’d tied up in the other room had been younger, darker-haired, with a sharpness to his features. This Weylon was softer, older, his eyes—what remained of them—peaceful in a way that made the scene even more wrong.

Morrigan stepped closer, her expression unreadable. “Killed recently. Less than a week, I’d wager. And our friend in the other room took his place.”

“Why hide the body here?” I asked.

“To keep up the illusion,” Leliana said, glancing toward the front of the house. “If anyone else came looking for Brother Genitivi, they’d meet the imposter and hear his story. And the real Weylon would be… out of sight.”

I crouched, my gauntlets creaking as I searched the pockets of the dead man’s tunic. Nothing of value, but near his hand was a folded scrap of parchment. I opened it carefully—it was a note, written in a hurried, almost frantic script.

Brother Genitivi—Haven. The Ashes are close. Be wary.

There was no signature.

We searched the rest of the house in silence after that. In a side room, Morrigan uncovered a desk that had clearly been Genitivi’s—covered in open tomes and notes written in neat, measured lines. Sketches of mountain paths, diagrams of ancient urns, copied passages from Chantry texts. Several pages were marked with a symbol that looked like a stylized sunburst.

Leliana studied one of the maps, tracing a route with her finger. “Here. This is Haven. Remote, far from any major road. We go around Lake Calenhad, then into the Frostback foothills. It would be easy for something—or someone—to hide there.”

I scanned the rest of the research. There were notes on Andraste’s final days, references to a secretive order called the “Disciples,” and half a dozen mentions of “the Guardian,” though no detail on who—or what—it was.

When we’d taken everything we could—maps, notes, anything that might help—we returned to the front room. The imposter Weylon sat slumped against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he saw what we carried.

“Tell your masters,” I said evenly, “that whatever’s in Haven, we’re coming for it.”

His only answer was a bitter laugh. “You’ll regret it.”

I shut the door behind us, leaving him tied to the leg of the overturned table — his own rope, courtesy of the mess he’d made — and stepped back into the daylight.

The air outside felt sharper, colder.

Leliana adjusted her bowstring and gave me a sidelong look. “If what he said is true, Haven will not be welcoming.”

I tightened my gauntlet straps. “Then they’ll fit right in with everyone else we’ve met lately.”

We left the city at first light the next morning. Leliana led the way, her bow slung across her back, the stolen map folded in her pack. Morrigan kept to the rear, her staff tapping softly against the dirt as we walked.

The road west wound toward Lake Calenhad, the great expanse of water stretching like a mirror beneath the morning sun. Fishing boats dotted the surface, their sails pale against the glittering blue. We kept to the northern shore, the air growing sharper as the land began to climb.

Beyond the lake, the ground rose into rolling hills, then into the jagged beginnings of the Frostback Mountains. The wind was colder here, carrying the scent of pine and stone. Trails narrowed to twisting paths, some little more than goat tracks.

It was slow going, but the quiet gave me time to think—about the false Weylon’s words, the warning in the dead man’s note, and the strange sunburst symbol scattered throughout Genitivi’s research.

By the time the sun dipped low and painted the peaks in firelight, I could see where the path would lead us: deeper into the mountains, toward the narrow valleys where Ferelden met the border of Orlais. Somewhere out there, tucked away from the world, was Haven.

And if the lies we’d heard were any measure… it was waiting for us.

The trail west from the Frostback foothills narrowed until it was little more than a winding ribbon of dirt and loose stone. We saw no other travelers, no merchant wagons, not even the occasional hunter heading toward the lowlands. Only the mountains, hemming us in with their jagged teeth.

Leliana had been quiet for most of the climb, which in itself was telling. Her eyes scanned every switchback, every ridgeline, as if she expected trouble before we reached Haven. Morrigan, for her part, walked as though the cold and incline were beneath her notice—though I’d caught her fingers tightening on her staff more than once.

When the path finally leveled, we came to a cluster of wooden houses huddled together in the snow. Smoke curled from chimneys, but the air smelled faintly of tallow rather than fresh-cooked meals. The villagers we passed—few as they were—stopped whatever they were doing to watch us.

Not curious. Not cautious.

Suspicious.

Every glance was sharp, every conversation dying mid-word as we came into view.

I’d been stared at plenty of times in Eorzea—sometimes for the armor, sometimes for the sword, sometimes for the fact that I was walking into yet another situation where people expected me to solve their problems. But this was different. Here, the stares were not just wary; they were measuring.

“Charming place,” Morrigan muttered, her voice low enough for only us to hear.

“Something feels… wrong,” Leliana replied. Her gaze followed a man who had been stacking firewood but was now standing perfectly still, his eyes locked on us until we passed out of sight.

We kept to the main path, heading toward the center of the village. The houses were plain and well-kept, but there was a uniformity to them—no decorations, no signs of personal touches. Even the shutters were all the same pale, weathered wood.

“Welcome, travelers,” a voice called.

We turned to see a man standing near a small well. He was bundled in a heavy coat, his hands clasped before him. His expression was carefully neutral, as though it had been practiced.

“You’re far from the main roads,” he said. “What brings you to Haven?”

“We’re looking for Brother Genitivi,” Leliana said, polite but steady. “We were told he might have come here.”

The man’s smile was thin. “You’ve come a long way for nothing. There is no one here by that name.”

“Odd,” Morrigan said, tilting her head. “Your manner suggests otherwise.”

His eyes flicked to her, then back to Leliana. “You are mistaken. Haven is a peaceful place. Visitors are rare… and not always welcome.”

It wasn’t a threat, not in his tone, but it was in his eyes.

We thanked him—because there was no point forcing the matter—and moved on. But I kept glancing over my shoulder. The man didn’t return to whatever he’d been doing. He just watched us walk away.

The Chantry sat at the far end of the village, its simple wooden walls rising higher than any other building. Most Chantries I’d seen in Ferelden were headed by a Revered Mother—a woman whose authority, though limited outside the Chantry’s walls, was absolute within them.

Here, the figure waiting at the steps was a man.

He was tall, broad-shouldered beneath his robe, with short-cropped hair and the faint outline of scars along his jaw. When we approached, his smile seemed almost genuine—almost.

“Welcome, travelers,” he said. “I am Father Eirik, humble servant of the Maker.”