Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The village clung to the edge of the borderland forest like a nervous child grasping at its mother’s skirts. Low stone walls, patched with timber where the stones had fallen away, marked its perimeter. Thatched roofs sagged under the weight of years and storms, and smoke from crooked chimneys curled thin against the chill wind. A single squat watchtower leaned like a drunk against the skyline—more symbol than defense. Hardly worth the attention of the Tevinter Imperium, unless slavers thought to pick its bones.

Iron Bull and his Chargers rolled in at dusk, their armor dusty, their boots caked with mud from miles of rough road. They had come expecting a routine job: a band of raiders had been harassing villages along the trade route, and the mercenaries intended to deal with them. The work promised a good fight, a night in a warm tavern, and coin enough to keep the company fed for another week. Instead, the village mayor met them at the square with a nervous smile and a twist of his hands.

“Done already,” the mayor said. “A fire mage came through four days ago. Polite. Dark-haired, well-spoken. Asked if we had quick jobs he could do for coin—fences mended, ditches cleared, wood dried for winter, roofs patched. He worked like a man possessed. Paid for his keep, too, with the same coin we’d given him. Used his magic, but careful, not flashy. Left yesterday morning.”

The Chargers traded glances, their brows furrowing.

“A mage?” Krem asked, folding his arms. “And not causing trouble?”

The mayor shook his head quickly. “No trouble. Courteous as a brother of the Chantry, if you’ll believe it. Bought what he needed, never stole so much as an apple. Folk liked him, even trusted him. Said his name was Dorian.”

That earned silence from the company. A single man—just one mage—had dispatched the raiders who’d been plaguing the roads, and he had done it so quickly that the village barely had time to worry. By the time the Chargers arrived, the danger was already gone.

“Not surprised someone got there first,” Skinner said after a pause, adjusting the strap on her crossbow. “Surprised it was one man. Alone.”

“Bloody impressive one man,” Dalish added, shaking her head.

Krem whistled low under his breath. “A Tevinter mage, working on his own, and calm enough to stroll through villages like nothing’s chasing him? That’s not just unusual. That’s rare.”

Rocky scratched at his beard. “Mage don’t narrow it down much. Half the Imperium’s stuffed with them.”

“True,” Krem admitted, “but deserters don’t walk around openly, asking for work like common tinkers. Most run, keep their heads down, pray the Empire doesn’t notice. This one… either mad, or he knows something we don’t.”

“Or he’s brilliant,” Skinner said dryly.

“Or just lucky,” Dalish countered.

They began asking questions, the way mercenaries do when curiosity gets under the skin. Villagers described Dorian in detail: tall, handsome, dressed with a flourish even when traveling light. He carried himself like a man born to halls of marble, not dirt roads, but his hands were never idle—fixing fences with a practiced grip, hauling wood without complaint, charming the children with sparks of harmless flame. The people had been impressed, even touched, by the way he paid for what he took. They realized easily enough that a mage could have bullied or stolen whatever he wanted. The fact that he hadn’t earned him more trust than most strangers ever did.

Krem leaned against the tavern wall, arms crossed. “Among vints, elemental magic is everywhere. Fire’s the most common of all—seven out of ten can do something with it. Could be lighting candles, could be melting stone. Doesn’t narrow our man down.”

“And the name Dorian?” Dalish asked.

Krem shrugged. “Common enough. Top twenty male names in Tevinter, maybe even top ten. Could be anyone.”

Bull had been quiet, chewing over the words. Now he tapped a gauntleted fist into his palm, a slow grin spreading over his face. “So let me see if I’ve got this straight. We’re looking at a mage strong enough to do in a day what it’d take us a squad to handle. He uses the most common magic, carries one of the most common vint name, strolls through villages certain no one’s hunting him—and somehow wins the hearts of farmers by fixing their fences and paying for bread.”

“Exactly,” Krem said, smirking. “Completely insane. Or supremely confident.”

Bull’s grin widened. “Chargers, we’re about to meet someone extraordinary. Either a genius, a lunatic, or the luckiest mage in Tevinter history. Let’s find him.”

Dalish tilted her head. “So which is it?”

“That,” Bull said with a laugh, “is what makes him worth finding.”

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The Chargers didn’t leave the first village right away. They asked questions over mugs of ale and by the light of the watchtower fire, listening to every farmer and washerwoman who’d spoken to the stranger mage.

“Headed east,” one man said, tugging at his cap. “Asked the road toward Redfield—tiny place, smaller even than here. Said he was after supplies, cloth and such, to stitch up winter gear.”

“Walked off smiling, like he had nowhere in the world to be,” another added.

That was enough of a trail. Two days later, after marching through rain-slick paths and a night camped in sodden tents, the Chargers reached the next village.

Calling it a village was generous. A handful of cottages leaned together around a crooked market square, and the only tavern was no larger than a stable. Smoke curled lazily from thin chimneys, and a half-frozen creek cut across the edge of the road.

They hadn’t even shaken the mud from their boots when the locals started talking. The mage had been through—just days before. They described him in the same glowing terms: polite, quick with his work, his coin good and his manners better. Children said he’d conjured sparks to amuse them, little shows of flame that never burned. Farmers swore he had helped set their tools straight before moving on.

“And he asked where he might buy cloth,” an old woman with a basket of turnips told them. “Not a shirt or two, mind you, but bolts of the stuff. Wool, leather scraps, heavy canvas. Said he needed to sew warmer clothing. Winter’s a harsh thing on these roads, he said.”

Krem rubbed the back of his neck. “So he’s planning ahead. Not just wandering, then. He’s building something—supplies, shelter, maybe a long road in mind.”

“Or he just likes being warm,” Skinner muttered, though her eyes narrowed with interest.

Bull took it all in, his single eye gleaming with curiosity. The story was the same, yet each retelling only deepened the mystery. No pursuers, no fear, no shame about showing his face, and no theft or threats where any other fugitive mage might have turned to desperation. Just this calm, confident figure gliding from village to village, leaving behind rumors and goodwill.

“Two villages in a row,” Dalish said quietly. “Same name, same story. Not a slip, not a mistake. If he’s hiding, he’s the best godsdamned liar I’ve ever heard of.”

Bull grinned, baring his teeth. “Or he’s not hiding at all.” He turned to the company, his voice carrying across the muddy square. “Chargers—we’re not chasing some poor runaway. We’re tracking a man who walks through the world like it already belongs to him. That’s not just bold. That’s extraordinary.”

He tugged at his gauntlet, the grin widening. “And I’ll be damned if we don’t catch up to him.”

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The Chargers had grown used to the rhythm of the hunt: two days’ march through wet pines and stone-cut passes, then another round of questions in a weary settlement. But this time, when they reached the largest village in the mountain range, the story was different. Instead of hearing they were two days too late, the tavern keeper’s grin widened as he poured their mugs.

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The tavern was warm, the hearth roaring, the scent of roasting meat mingling with the tang of spilled ale. Krem leaned back in his chair, already on his second drink, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. Around the table, the other Chargers were hovering somewhere between their third and fourth, laughing and jostling one another like old comrades. Bull and Dorian, however, were still nursing their first drinks, barely halfway through, their cups warming more than their spirits.

“You know,” Krem began, tipping his mug lazily, “funny thing—fire magic and the name Dorian are about the two most common things you hear out of Tevinter. Half the mages up north must be named Dorian.”

Dorian’s lips quirked, amused. “Oh, quite true. A dime a dozen, I assure you. Hardly memorable compared to names like Skinner, Dalish, Grim, Stitches, or Rocky. And certainly less striking than The Iron Bull.” He chuckled into his wine, eyes sparkling. “Compared to names like Skinner, Dalish, Grim, or Rocky, I’m positively forgettable. And of course, no one competes with the Iron Bull. I have no doubt I’ll be but a footnote among your legends.”

The laughter that followed was loud enough to turn a few heads in the tavern. Skinner slapped the table, Dalish’s grin was broad and genuine, and even Grim’s stony features softened into amusement. Bull’s single eye glimmered warmly, the usual mask of sternness slipping just enough to reveal pleasure.

He scanned his Chargers, seeing their nods of approval, grins wide and approving. Bull leaned back slightly, a slow smile curving his lips. “All right. Then we’ll help you with this job of yours.”

Dorian froze, wine halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating, every trace of playful charm fading into careful assessment. “Mercenaries don’t work for free. If you’re planning to seize the cargo and sell it, understand this—” His voice dropped, quiet but edged, protective like a blade. “I may be fond of you already, but like all vints, I have no hesitation burning even those I like if they stand in my way.”

The Chargers didn’t flinch. They grinned, wide and toothy, as though that edge only made him more appealing.

Skinner laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Sharp tongue and fire. I like him more every minute.”

Krem shook his head, amusement and admiration clear in his expression. “Maker’s breath, he actually thought we’d double-cross him.”

Bull leaned forward now, voice dropping to something softer, more personal, eyes locked on Dorian’s. “You’ve got it wrong,Vint. We don’t want your cargo.”

Dorian arched a brow, curiosity flickering through his sharp gaze. “Then what could you possibly want?”

Bull’s grin widened, his tone warm but commanding. “You. We want you to join the Chargers.”

For a heartbeat, Dorian simply stared. A dozen mercenaries, half-drunk, grinning like wolves, nodding at him in unison. They wanted him.

And for the first time since leaving Tevinter, he found himself unsure of what to say. The fire of freedom he had chased all this way suddenly felt tangible, tangible in the faces around that table, in the warmth of the tavern, in the promise of something new.

The tavern was loud with clattering mugs and the raucous laughter of sailors and mercenaries, but the corner table the Chargers had claimed felt almost like its own campfire. Tankards foamed, chairs creaked, and the smell of ale and roasted meat hung heavy in the air.

Krem was already into his second drink, cheeks flushed with warmth, while most of the Chargers were well past their third and fourth. Only Bull and Dorian lingered over their first mugs, each sipping with deliberate leisure—two men far too large in presence, and far too careful, to lose themselves to drink so quickly.

Krem leaned back, grinning lazily. “You know, funny thing—fire magic and the name Dorian are about the two most common things you hear out of Tevinter. Half the mages up north must be named Dorian.”

The mage’s lips curled, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, quite true. A dime a dozen, I assure you. Hardly memorable compared to names like Skinner, Dalish, Grimm, or Rocky. And certainly less striking than The Iron Bull.” He chuckled into his wine, raising the goblet in a mock-toast. “Why, No doubt I’ll be but a footnote in your stories—if I’m remembered at all.”

That earned a roar of laughter so sudden and so loud that the tavern’s other patrons turned to stare. Skinner slapped the table until mugs rattled, Dalish grinned despite herself, and even Grimm’s grim face cracked into something resembling mirth. Bull’s eye glinted with an unusual warmth, his sharp teeth bared in a smile that was less predatory and more approving.

When the laughter finally ebbed, Bull leaned his forearms on the table, his massive frame looming forward. “So tell me, Dorian. What’s the plan? You just gonna keep wandering the frontier woods, drying villagers’ firewood and scaring bandits for sport?”

The mage studied them for a moment, his gaze sharp, weighing how much to reveal. Then he set his goblet down, fingers resting lightly on the rim. “As it happens, I do have a task ahead. A shipment of stolen goods is being smuggled north, bound for Tevinter—likely to be auctioned to the highest bidder among the empire.” His tone sharpened at the word. “I intend to prevent it from ever crossing the border. Afterward… depending on circumstance, I may need to escort the cargo elsewhere.”

Krem drummed his fingers against his tankard, brow furrowing. “That’s a lot of risk for a man traveling alone. How much are you getting paid for it?”

Dorian’s smile lingered, but it carried no humor. “I won’t be. It isn’t a contract—it’s an obligation. A debt of honor to friends of mine.”

Bull cocked his head. “And if you fail? What’ll your friends do then?”

The mage’s expression flickered. For the first time that evening, he looked away, swirling the wine in his goblet. His voice, when it came, was quiet and even, stripped of its usual flourish. “Nothing. They’ve been dead for years. But death does not dissolve loyalty, and I am not so faithless as to forget what was done for me.”

The table stilled. Even the tavern seemed quieter for a moment, the weight of his words pressing down on the rowdy air. The Chargers shifted uneasily, none quite knowing what to say.

Then Bull broke the silence, his grin softer than usual. “That’s a dangerous kind of loyalty, Vint. Almost makes a man wonder what you’d do for someone still alive.”

The words landed heavy. Dorian blinked, caught off guard, and then a slow, sly smile tugged at his lips. “Careful, Qunari. Flirt with me like that, and you may discover firsthand how far my talents extend.”

Chaos erupted. Skinner howled, nearly falling off his chair. Rocky choked on his ale, coughing and laughing at once. Dalish groaned, muttering about Maker’s abandonment, and Krem grinned so wide his scars stretched.

“Well,” Krem managed between chuckles, “I don’t know which of you is more dangerous—Bull for saying it, or you for saying it back.”

Bull only smirked, unbothered. Dorian lifted his goblet in a mock toast, eyes glittering with wicked humor. “To dangerous company, then.”

The clink of mugs followed, but Krem’s laughter faded after a moment. He tapped the rim of his tankard thoughtfully. “Still, mage. If all your jobs are tied to that dead friend, doesn’t that mean you’re going to spend your life risking your hide for no coin?”

“Perhaps,” Dorian said lightly, though there was steel under the silk. “But I owe those debts. My friends shielded me—from the kind of attentions Magisters too often bestow upon promising young mages. more than once they stood in my place, and some of them paid dearly for it. So yes, Krem. I will bleed. it is my turn to pay.”

The Chargers sobered instantly. Krem’s easy grin hardened, his jaw tightening. “For anyone who doesn’t know—that means those Magisters wanted to keep him. Use him. His friends got in the way, and paid the price for it.”

A ripple passed over the table: anger, respect, quiet understanding. Dorian only raised his glass, his face unreadable. “Which is why, you see, I drink slowly. Some memories are better savored a sip at a time.”

He took a measured drink, then set the goblet down. The silence held until Bull finally leaned forward, eye fixed on Dorian. “Then we’ll help you with this job of yours.”

The mage froze, wine halfway to his lips. He set it down carefully, his expression sharpening. “Mercenaries don’t work for free. If you intend to seize the cargo, understand this—” His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “I may be fond of you already, but like all Vints, I have no hesitation burning even those I like if they stand in my way.”

The Chargers didn’t bristle. Their grins spread wider, like wolves scenting blood. Skinner slammed the table with laughter, Rocky chuckled low, and Dalish actually smirked.

Bull leaned closer, one massive hand curling around his tankard. “You’ve got it wrong, Dorian. We don’t want the cargo.”

The mage’s brow arched, suspicion plain. “Then what could you possibly want?”

Bull’s grin widened, teeth flashing. “You. We want you to join the Chargers.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause. The tavern’s noise dulled, the flicker of firelight blurred. Dorian stared, stunned into silence, his mask of wit and confidence slipping for just a moment. A dozen half-drunk mercenaries, grinning and nodding in agreement, looked at him not as a curiosity but as one of their own.

And for the first time since he had fled the empire, Dorian Pavus found himself at a loss for words.

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Dorian tipped the goblet back, draining the last of his wine in one slow sip. He set it down with practiced elegance, but his fingers lingered at the stem longer than they should have. For all his poise, his mind was running in circles.

All his life, people had wanted him for his skills, for the power they could bend to their will. Magisters who wanted him leashed, rivals who wanted him broken, even supposed allies who weighed his worth in terms of what he could do for them. But these mercenaries—they knew nothing of the subtleties of his magic, the painstaking studies, the dangerous talent he carried. They had no idea what they were asking to take on. And yet… they wanted him. Not as property, not as a weapon, but simply as Dorian.

“You make it sound so terribly simple,” he said at last, voice edged with dry humor. “A band of sellswords invites me in, I throw aside all my better judgment, and suddenly I’m one of the merry Chargers. What next? Matching tattoos? Secret handshakes?”

Dalish snorted into her drink. “You’d look good with an anchor tattooed on your neck.”

“Blasphemy,” Dorian shot back smoothly. “This neck was sculpted for silk scarves, not crude ink.”

Laughter rippled through the table, but Dorian’s eyes didn’t leave Bull. The big Qunari leaned back in his chair, casual, as though he hadn’t just offered the one thing Dorian had never truly been given: a place without chains.

“Still,” Dorian went on, tone softer now, “your timing is… inconvenient. I need to locate this stolen cargo before it crosses the border, and that means days of combing terrain I don’t know, chasing leads I may not trust. I hardly imagine you’ll want to waste your time on so dull a pursuit.”

“Dull?” Skinner barked a laugh. “Bandits smuggling contraband across the frontier? That’s exactly our kind of fun.”

“Besides,” Krem added, leaning in with a grin, “we know these woods, these roads. If someone’s moving something heavy and valuable, we’ll find their trail before you’ve finished combing your mustache.”

Dorian’s lips twitched, caught between a smirk and a frown. “Tempting, Commander. Very tempting. Though one wonders what the catch is. You help me now, and later I’ll be roped into carrying your baggage or setting your tents aflame for amusement.”

“Only if you ask nicely,” Bull rumbled, amusement thick in his voice. His single eye met Dorian’s steadily, no mockery in it this time. “Truth is, Vint, we like you. And we don’t make that mistake often. You’ve got a sharp tongue, fire at your fingertips, and a grudge that makes you dangerous. That’s enough for me.”

For a long moment, Dorian said nothing. He studied each of them—their easy grins, their careless laughter, the way they teased without venom, included without question. Belonging, Bull had said.

It was foolish, of course. He could walk away at any time. Once the cargo was recovered, he could leave them behind, no ties, no regrets. That was what he told himself as he straightened in his chair, arching a brow in mock haughtiness.

“Very well. Since you insist upon throwing yourselves into danger on my behalf, I shall suffer your company for a time. But be warned—I demand civilized drinking, intelligent conversation, and a minimum of bad manners. Fail in any of those and I’ll consider our arrangement null and void.”

The Chargers erupted into whoops and laughter, mugs raised high in salute. Bull leaned forward, grin spreading slow and wide. “Welcome to the Chargers, Dorian. Even if it’s only for a while.”

And though Dorian’s lips curled in amusement, deep inside, a thought he couldn’t shake whispered back: What if I don’t want to leave?

Chapter Text

The tavern had grown quieter as the night deepened, most patrons stumbling home or asleep on their mugs. The Chargers, however, were wide awake, leaning in as Krem tapped his tankard against the table.

“Alright, mage,” Krem said, voice steady despite the ale. “since we’re helping, we’ll need details. Who are we up against?”

Dorian steepled his fingers, eyes glittering in the candlelight.  

“The group in question consists of at least three Soporati: Tullus Drucus, Decimus Cossus, and Camillus Macrinus. All experienced, competent, vicious men, all dangerous enough to lead smaller crews.Their leader is one Laetan—Julianus Galarius. A weak earth mage by Tevinter standards, but don’t let that fool you He is irritatingly resourceful. His specialty lies in digging pitfall traps, snare pits, trapping pits, snarework. and he is especially fond of clever little deathholes scattered where you least expect them. Hardly elegant magic, but effective when you’re moving contraband. He is the one who handles the selling of their spoils.”

Dalish’s lips curled. “Traps. Great. Just what I wanted to hear.”

“They don’t travel alone,” Dorian continued smoothly. “They often hire mercenaries to bolster their numbers. Never more than 20 for a single job. Which means that if we’re unlucky, we’ll be facing a small company on top of Julianus and his charming associates.”

Rocky scratched at his beard. “Fine. But what’s in the cargo? What’s worth all this trouble?”

Dorian spread his hands delicately. “Honestly? I don´t know. I only know the sum promised to Julianus for the base price of the auction. That, and Julianus has a charming reputation for acquiring… additional goods. He is rarely content to stop at what’s required.” Dorian's smile thinned. “He has a habit of collecting more than what was asked. If he was instructed to bring 1 chest, expect 3.”

Skinner leaned across the table, suspicion creasing his brow. “How do you know all this, Vint? Sounds like a lot more than a wandering fire-slinger should.”

The mage’s lips curved into a smile that was both courtly and cruel. “Before I came south, I had a polite conversation with the workers of the market that illegally employs Julianus and his crew.”

Bull’s single eye glinted, his tusked grin spreading. Krem only snorted, unsurprised. But the rest of the Chargers glanced at each other in confusion.

“Wait,” Dalish frowned. “Polite… conversation?”

Bull chuckled, low and amused. “What our vint friend means, boys and girls, is that in Tevinter, polite conversation usually translates to turturing someone until their teeth rattle out the truth.”

Krem smirked into his drink. “Told you. Not his first time at that kind of table.”

A silence fell over the table as the Chargers blinked at Dorian. He said nothing, only held his glass aloft with that same razor-edged smile, perfectly content to let the weight of the explanation hang in the air.

Finally, he set the goblet down with a soft click and continued as if nothing had been said. “According to the information I acquired, the cargo is expected to reach Imperial Road n26 in 4 days. This crew has been at their trade for close to a decade, and in all that time they have never been late by more than 4 days.”

Krem leaned forward, tracing a finger over the rough tavern table as though drawing a map in his head. “Imperial Road n26… that’s the other side of these mountains.”

The Chargers exchanged looks, their drunken ease tempered now with the first stirrings of focus. A real hunt was on the horizon.

Dorian lifted his glass again, though it was empty, and tapped it lightly against the table. “So, my merry new companions—shall we see if fate is kind enough to favor our little race against time?”

Bull’s grin returned, sharp as ever. “Good. Sounds like a proper fight. Chargers—get ready. In the morning, we ride.”

Rocky rubbed the back of his neck. “So they’ll be on the road in 4 days, eh? That doesn’t give us much time.”

“More like no time at all,” Skinner muttered, scowling. “Crossing those mountains alone’ll take us 3 days if we push hard. And that’s without a bloody ambush to plan.”

Dorian stretched his legs lazily, clearly enjoying the shift in attention. “Which is why improvisation will be our dear companion. That, and a healthy dose of bravado.” His lips curved into a razor smile. “Something I’m told you all excel at.”

Stitches snorted. “Maker help us if we’re relying on his bravado. He’s got enough to choke a wyvern.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dorian replied smoothly, twirling the stem of his goblet—an indulgence no one could quite figure out how he still carried after weeks of marching.

Bull leaned forward, massive shoulders catching the firelight. “Let’s not get caught up in the performance. What matters is that this crew’s predictable. A decade on the same routes, never late more than 4 days? That’s a weakness we can use.”

Krem nodded. “They’re disciplined, but not creative. Stick to schedules, same roadways, same patterns. If we know where they’ll be and when, we can set the ground for them before they even arrive.”

“Unless,” Dorian interjected, raising one elegant brow, “our dear Julianus decides to be ambitious. The man has a reputation, remember. Always more cargo than requested. And while his pitfall tricks are rather… uninspired, they’re deadly in the right terrain. I would not underestimate the sort of paranoia that makes a man dig holes everywhere he walks.”

Dalish leaned in, frowning. “So, what’s the play? Hit them on the road, or wait until they hole up somewhere?”

Bull took a swig from his flask, thoughtful. “Road ambush is risky. If they’ve got 3 Soporati and a mage laying traps, that’s a lot of pain for us. But if they’ve got cargo with ‘auction value,’ then they’ll need to rest. Somewhere safe. Somewhere we can choke them.”

Dorian smirked, swirling the wine. “And who better than us to be that choke?”

The Chargers chuckled at his dramatics, but Bull kept his gaze steady on Dorian. “You’ve got a plan rattling around in that head of yours, don’t you?”

“Several, in fact,” Dorian said smoothly, though his eyes gleamed sharp. “But first, I’ll need to know how daring you lot truly are. Because if we go after them on the road, we gamble everything on speed and surprise. If we wait, we’ll need patience and subterfuge.” He set the goblet down with a click. “Both require nerves of steel.”

Krem folded his arms, glancing at Bull. “So… what’s it going to be, boss?”

The fire popped, sending embers drifting into the night as all eyes turned to Bull. He grinned wide, tusks catching the light, and let out a low chuckle.

“Let’s hear him out,” Bull said. “I want to know just how twisted Dorian’s idea of fun really is.”

Dorian set his goblet down and folded his hands, eyes bright with the kind of predatory focus that had the Chargers leaning in despite themselves. “Right,” he said, voice calm and precise. “Let me give you the plan in plain terms. The hard part isn’t the fighting. The hard part is finding the cargo and the rest stops they’ll use. Once we’ve found that, the rest is geometry, timing, and a little theatrics.”

He counted off on his fingers as he spoke, methodical. “Step 1: Locate the rest stop. Step 2: Secure the rest stop — neutralize Julianus and any immediate traps. Step 3: Wait for the cargo, then create distance between it and the crew. Step 4: Move the cargo to safety. Simple in outline. Tricky in execution.”

Dalish rubbed her jaw. “We know this area. What would they want in a rest stop? ”

“Because the cargo is illegal and high-value,” Dorian replied, “they’ll avoid populated places and noisy inns. They need three things: access to large amounts of fresh water, a reasonably flat and sheltered area large enough to set camp and inspect merchandise, and privacy — meaning they’ll choose places that are off any beaten track but near a reliable water source. A wide bend in a stream with a small terrace, a hollow beneath a ridge with a spring, a disused shepherd’s flat with a creek nearby. Not a hamlet, not the main road.”

Skinner nodded. “So they want a place that can hide them, but not too difficult to reach with wagons.”

“Exactly.” Dorian tapped the table. “They’ll send four people ahead to secure the spot. Standard pattern: two return to the cargo with the route and conditions; someone—usually Julianus—stays behind to lay traps; another stays to guard him while he works.” He gave an ugly smile. “His work is normally pitfalls, trap pits, simple snarework—uncomplicated, but lethal for the careless.”

Rocky grunted. “So Julianus does the dirty groundwork, and the others do the heavy lifting. Fine. After we find a likely place, what then?”

Dorian’s smile turned thin and businesslike. “Move to Step 2: secure the rest stop. That’s delicate. Julianus’s traps are crude but effective; I am not an earth mage, but I know enough of earth-signs to find the marks of recently disturbed soil, the tiny repeat impressions a digger leaves, the clever little concealments where a pit will eat a boot. I will clear the immediate area of traps and mark safe lanes. I will also—quietly—identify the likely locations where he would hide his snares and the routes the wagons will take when they pull in. That done, we do not immediately engage the main party. You cannot win a fight by charging blind into someone else’s slaughterhouse.”

“Exactly.” Dorian’s fingers tapped the table. “They’ll send four people ahead: two to mark the spot and return to the wagons, one—usually Julianus—to stay and lay traps, and one to keep watch. Julianus’s work is normally pitfall and snare—crude but lethal for the careless. I will clear the immediate area of traps and mark safe lanes. Then I will—” He paused, smiling a smile that didn’t include them. “—secure Julianus and his guard, set a staged trap to pull their wagons away from the crew, and create distance between thieves and cargo. Once the distance is large enough and the crew is separated, remove remaining resistance and take the cargo intact.”

He said it all as if it were a recipe, precise and dispassionate. Not once did he specify who would do what beyond the things he intended to do himself; the plan sat like a mask, elegant and deliberately vague.

Bull’s grin widened. He leaned back, bone-cold amusement in his voice. “Fine plan, Dorian. Very pretty on paper. Now let me give the same plan but… with the Chargers in it.”

He tapped the table in time with his words, each assignment heavy as an iron ring.

“Step one, Krem and Rocky—track the road and haul. You two run point on reconnaissance. Krem, you mark every slope and drainage we can use; Rocky, you test the wagons’ approach. Step two, Dalish and Stitches—quiet work. You two slip up to the rest stop before dusk, find any signs of fresh digging, and lay false scent. Make it look used, then hide it. Step three, Skinner and Stitches—when Dorian says ‘secure Julianus,’ you two take point on Julianus’s guard. Skinner, you lead the flank that keeps them busy. Stitches, you keep the rear. Step four, me and the heavy lot—Rocky and I will take on the wagons and the hired muscle. When Dorian’s staged trap pulls the crew away, we move in hard and fast. Krem, you pull the wagons out of harm’s way and start moving the cargo to the rendezvous. Dalish, keep an eye on the perimeters; if any of Julianus’s little holes don’t die with time, you mark them and we collapse them after.”

He grinned at Dorian. “And you, mageling, do the pretty work. Find the traps, lead them into the staged trap, and then stand there looking fabulous while we do the sore bits. Any objections?”

The table erupted in a mixture of grunts, approving snorts, and one or two indecipherable curses that sounded dangerously like consent.

Dorian folded his hands, mock-offended. “I must protest—if I look fabulous, it will distract the enemy and thus be a tactical advantage.”

Bull barked a laugh. “See? Useful. Right then—dawn. Pack light, ride hard, and don’t make me regret trusting you lot with my tusks.”

They drank to that, and the tavern’s embers popped as though applauding. Outside, the mountains slept—ignoring, as mountains are wont to do, the small, human plans being hatched in a dim room by a man with too many smiles and too many secrets.

Chapter Text

The tavern’s fire had burned low, and the night outside pressed heavy against the shutters. Tankards stood half-drained, cards lay forgotten on the table, and even the rowdiest of the Chargers had settled into a contented quiet.

Krem stretched, rolling his shoulders with a groan. “Alright, people. That’s enough plotting for 1 night. It’s late, and we’ll need all the rest we can get if we’re riding hard tomorrow.”

Dorian inclined his head gracefully. “A most sensible suggestion, Krem. I’ll return at midday tomorrow and we can finalize preparations.”

“Midday, then,” Bull rumbled, leaning forward on his elbows. His single eye gleamed, tusked grin curling wide. “But if you’re planning on heading out right now, why not save yourself the trouble? Stay here. Plenty of rooms. And if you’d rather not be alone…” He tilted his head with mock innocence. “My door’s always open. Or, y’know, we could just skip doors entirely and share.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the Chargers.

Dorian arched a brow, his lips twitching with practiced restraint. “My, my. Forward, aren’t we? Tempting as the offer is—and make no mistake, it is tempting—I’ve already established a delightful little camp in the mountains. I’d hate to see my wards go to waste. They’re very tidy wards. Symmetrical. Quite elegant. A tragedy to leave them unattended.”

“Shame,” Bull said, grin widening. “Could’ve tested just how sturdy those wards of yours really are.”

Dorian’s laugh was velvet-smooth, warm and mocking in equal measure. “Oh, I don’t doubt your… enthusiasm would put them through a rigorous examination. But alas, I must decline—for now. Consider it an investment in suspense. Anticipation, after all, makes the eventual unveiling far more satisfying.”

Dalish groaned, covering her face with her hand. “Maker save me. Do the two of you ever stop?”

Stitches nearly fell off his chair laughing, while Skinner muttered something about sparing them all the spectacle.

But when the laughter faded, Skinner leaned across the table, frowning. “Still, Vint. Woods out there aren’t safe, even in daylight. You’d be better off letting us see you back to camp. No point in risking a throat-slitter in the dark.”

Rocky grunted in agreement. “Aye. Safer with steel at your back.”

Dorian inclined his head politely, though the amusement glimmering in his eyes gave the impression he was humoring them. “Your concern is touching, truly. But unnecessary. I am, after all, a mage—and not a modest one. The wards around my camp are rather more effective than steel. Any thief stumbling across them will find their evening end… explosively.”

He rose with fluid grace, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “So, my dear Chargers, allow me to assure you: I am quite safe. Safer, in fact, than most of you will be in your rented beds. Now, rest well. Tomorrow promises to be… entertaining.”

He turned toward the door, cloak swirling behind him. Before he was entirely out of hearing range, Bull’s voice rumbled low to his company.

“Watch yourselves. He’s very pretty. And the pretty ones? They’re always the most dangerous—especially among Vint mages.”

Dorian’s step didn’t falter, but the faint tilt of his head and the sly curve of his mouth gave him away. He had heard every word. And, of course, he smiled in agreement.

With a half-bow and a glimmer of teeth, he swept toward the door. Behind him, the Chargers broke into laughter again, their voices low and full of wagers on whether Bull would renew his proposition come morning. and the unmistakable impression that they’d just invited a storm to walk at their side, And though none said it aloud, each one watched him go with the same thought unspoken: they already hoped he’d return.

Chapter Text

Morning came soft and gray, the mist still clinging to the eaves of the little village when the Chargers began their quiet scheming. For once, there was no rowdy song, no clatter of dice. Instead, they gathered in pairs, murmuring like conspirators, the weight of purpose settling over them.

Krem scratched at his stubble, scanning the dirt street. “Alright, you lot. If we’re going to impress that Vint, we need to give him something solid before midday. Bull doesn’t like walking into fights blind, and neither do I. So—mountains it is.”

Dalish pulled her cloak tighter, narrowing her eyes against the pale morning light. “Not like we can just march up to folks and ask, ‘Hey, know any places where brigands like to stash their stolen goods?’”

“Exactly,” Krem agreed. “We’re mercenaries, not idiots. So we keep it light. Locals are already half-afraid of us just for existing.”

Stitches grinned, teeth flashing under his hood. “What’s friendlier than a band of sellswords asking about campgrounds? Out of the way, private, nice mountain view. Don’t want to wake the good townsfolk when we’re drunk and singing off-key.”

“That’s… not inaccurate,” Rocky rumbled, earning a round of chuckles.

So they spread through the streets, breaking into small clusters that might look less like an invading army. Skinner took lead with her usual sharp smile, always quick to spin a story. She leaned against a well, speaking to a pair of women drawing water, voice low and easy. “Say, we’re looking for somewhere quiet to pitch camp for a few nights. Nothing too close, don’t want to disturb honest folk. Somewhere out of the way.”

The women exchanged looks, wary at first, then softened at Skinner’s practiced charm. One of them gestured toward the ridge beyond the village. “There’s a shelf up by Old Crow’s Hollow. Used to be hunters’ ground before the wolves thickened. Not many go there now.”

Another villager, overhearing, chimed in from the doorway of a bakery. “There’s the ruins on Red Hill. Not much left standing, but plenty of flat land, and no one minds if you use it. Bandits tried setting up there years ago, but they moved on—or got cleared out.”

The Chargers gathered these tidbits with nods and thanks, always keeping their questions casual, never pushing too hard. By the time the sun climbed fully into the sky, they had a handful of promising leads: rocky hollows, ruined watch-posts, caves marked by old stories of wolves or worse.

Dalish smirked as they regrouped at the edge of the village, adjusting her bow. “Not bad for a morning’s gossip. Let’s see if our elegant Vint guessed right about his thieves.”

“Yeah,” Bull rumbled, clapping his hands together, the sound like a thunderclap. “Let’s bring him something worth his smirk. Nothing he hates more than being outshined… except maybe being right.”

Laughter rolled through the Chargers as they shouldered their gear and started up the mountain trails, already imagining the look on Dorian’s face when they laid their findings before him at noon.

By midmorning, the Chargers had gathered back at their makeshift table outside the tavern, the air alive with chatter and the scratching of Skinner’s knife as she sketched rough shapes into the wood. She’d carved out a crooked map of the surrounding mountains, marking each spot the villagers had mentioned.

“All right,” Krem said, leaning over the map. “Four promising sites: Old Crow’s Hollow, Red Hill, the caves by Broken Ridge, and the old hunter’s watchtower.” He tapped each with his finger. “We can’t sweep them all before midday unless we split.”

“Which means some of us stay here,” Stitches added, adjusting his spectacles. “In case our charming mage gets restless and comes looking for us earlier than planned. Hate to miss his dramatic entrance.”

Dalish rolled her eyes. “You just don’t want to walk uphill.”

Stitches flashed her a grin. “And yet, my laziness is conveniently useful.”

Krem smirked but nodded. “Good. So—Bull, Dalish, you take Red Hill. Rocky, Skinner, you’ll check Broken Ridge. Stitches, you and I will sweep Old Crow’s Hollow. The rest stay here and keep up appearances.”

Bull cracked his neck, the sound like snapping branches, and grinned. “Fine by me. Ruins sound fun. Always some spooky story to poke holes in.”

“Or fall into,” Dalish muttered, slinging her bow across her back.

The Chargers had split cleanly: some staying behind in the tavern to keep a lookout, others heading into the hills in pairs or trios to test the locals’ suggestions. Bull, with Dalish at his side, took the climb toward Red Hill—a jagged spine of stone where the ruins of an old watch-post still clung stubbornly to the earth.

They crested the slope, breath steaming in the cool morning air, and there he was.

Dorian Pavus stood within the shattered ring of stone, staff planted elegantly at his side. The wind tugged at his cloak, the morning light catching in his dark hair as he traced a circle with one hand, his eyes distant and calculating. He bent low over the rubble, fingertips brushing faint scorch marks etched into the stone, as though the ground itself still whispered secrets.

Dalish froze at the sight, muttering, “Well, shit.”

Dorian’s head lifted at once, his eyes like a blade unsheathed. One brow arched with surgical precision. “Fascinating. Either I’ve acquired a pair of very large shadows, or you two possess an impeccable sense of direction. Tell me—how did you find this place?”

Dalish opened her mouth, but Bull moved first, grin already easy, palms raised as though in surrender. “Relax, Vint. We’re not working for anyone at the moment. Chargers don’t do that. We just—” he shrugged, massive shoulders rolling “—wanted to be useful. Figured you’d appreciate it if we showed up with something solid. So we asked the locals about quiet spots folk avoid. Out-of-the-way, private. Good for us rowdy chargers to set camp without bothering them honest folks.”

For the briefest heartbeat, Dorian’s poise cracked—his eyes widened, startled, before his usual poise returned.He let out a soft, incredulous laugh “You asked villagers for suitable bandit hideouts? And landed here of all places? Maker’s breath, that’s absurdly… efficient. And rather clever, in its way.”

Dalish smirked. “Told you we didn’t need fancy magic to get ahead.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, my dear,” Dorian purred. His staff tapped against a scorched patch of stone, sending a faint ripple of sparks crawling across the ruin. “These walls once bore glyphs—poorly anchored, but potent enough. The residue still clings, like ash after a fire. Amateur work, but distinct. And it leads… precisely where we need to go.”

Bull tilted his head, studying him with that lazy sharpness of his. “So you sniffed out magical leftovers, and we got here by asking directions. Guess that makes us even.”

“Not even, Iron Bull.” Dorian’s smile curved like a blade, both amused and cutting. “Let us say… complementary. An unsettling notion, though not entirely unpleasant.”

Dalish groaned loudly. “Andraste save me—they’re flirting again.”

Bull’s grin widened, tusks flashing. “What can I say? He likes me. For now, though—let’s finish scouting before the others start thinking you ditched us for good.”

Dorian chuckled, cloak sweeping behind him as he fell into step beside them, all elegance and predatory grace. “Perish the thought. I wouldn’t dream of leaving before the real fun begins.”

They picked their way across the cracked stones, the ruin yawning open to the valley below. Bull leaned against a half-fallen pillar, eye sweeping the ground with a soldier’s pragmatism.

“Yeah,” he said at last, “this looks good. Flat enough for wagons, close to water, enough cover to keep prying eyes out. If I were moving hot cargo, I’d hole up here.”

Dorian inclined his head, lips curling in approval. “Precisely my conclusion. Red Hill is… inviting. Almost too inviting. Which means it’s the likeliest option.” He let his hand trail against a scorched stone, sparks snapping faintly at his touch. “But just to be certain, it wouldn’t hurt to… encourage our charming slavers to choose correctly. A little sabotage, nothing extravagant.”

Bull’s grin spread slow and sharp. “Mess with the other sites, make ‘em look like bad options. Push them right into our waiting arms.”

Dalish smirked, adjusting her bowstring with a tug. “Easy work. Few traps sprung, a fire pit salted, maybe poison a water hole or two. Won’t take long.”

Dorian’s eyes gleamed as he shared a knowing look with Bull. They both smirked, predators recognizing each other.

“Elegant in its simplicity,” Dorian said smoothly.

“Effective in its messiness,” Bull countered, chuckling. “Either way, it gets the job done.”

He pushed off the pillar, clapping Dalish lightly on the shoulder as he started down the slope. “Alright. We’ve seen enough. Let’s get moving—time to meet the others back in the village before they start wondering if we ran off without ‘em.”

Dorian followed, cloak whispering over the stone. “Perish the thought. I wouldn’t want to deprive them of my company.”

“Good,” Bull said, tossing him a grin over his shoulder. “Because I’d hate to have to track you down twice in one week, Vint.”

Chapter Text

By the time they wound their way back down from Red Hill, the village was stirring. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, the smell of bread and tallow hanging in the air. The Chargers had claimed a corner of the square outside the tavern, gathered around a rough-hewn table covered in mugs, scraps of parchment, and the bones of someone’s breakfast.

Krem spotted them first, lifting his tankard in salute. “There you are. We were about to send Dalish’s bow after you.”

Stitches leaned forward eagerly, jabbing a finger at the papers. “Got something for you, boss. Locals here don’t like talking much, but with enough drinks—and a few coppers—turns out they’ll say plenty. We’ve got four possible sites smugglers have used before. Out of the way, near water, easy for wagons. All fit your requirements.”

Rocky folded his arms with quiet pride. “We did the work proper. Narrowed ‘em down for you, mage.”

Dorian stepped into the circle, cloak sweeping as he surveyed the table. His smile was warm, but there was a sharp glint beneath. “How industrious. I’m almost impressed.”

Bull dropped onto the bench beside Krem, reaching for a mug. “Hate to steal your thunder, boys and girls, but on the way here we found our mage already poking around one of the spots—Red Hill. He’s been busy.”

Krem raised a brow. “That so?”

“More than that,” Bull went on. “On the way down, he tells us he already checked the others for magical traces. Nothing strong left behind. Red Hill’s the one that smells right.”

The Chargers exchanged looks, impressed despite themselves.

Skinner let out a low whistle. “So while we were chasing rumors, the Vint was chasing… what, sparks in the air?”

“Magical residue,” Dorian corrected smoothly, slipping into a chair with courtly elegance. “Subtle, lingering signs of warding and spellwork. Hardly precise, but sufficient to confirm what your fine detective work suggested. Red Hill is their most likely haven.”

Dalish smirked. “Told you he’d already been there.”

Stitches tapped the parchment with a quill. “So Red Hill it is. What about the other sites? Leave ‘em alone?”

Bull shook his head. “No. We make ‘em look bad. Subtle sabotage. Enough to keep the smugglers second-guessing, push them toward Red Hill where we’ll be waiting.”

Dorian inclined his head, lips curving in satisfaction. “A tidy solution. Not flashy, not wasteful, and elegantly manipulative. My compliments.”

The Chargers grinned at one another, the excitement beginning to hum in their voices. A hunt was coming together, and the pieces were falling neatly into place.

“Right, then,” Krem said, already reaching for a fresh parchment. “We’ll need a plan for the sabotage runs. Split up, cover ground fast, make it look like misfortune instead of tampering. The kind of bad luck smugglers hate.”

Bull leaned back, mug in hand, grinning wide. “That’s the spirit. Alright, Chargers—let’s make sure our friends have only one option when they roll through. Red Hill.”

“All of this needs to look accidental,” Dorian said, tapping a finger on the parchment. “Flood, washout, suspiciously cranky springs — something the superstitious blame on weather, not clever hands.”

Krem grunted. “Aye. Natural. No too-obvious cut ropes or neatly bent iron. We make the road look like it fought back.”

Bull nodded, eyes bright. “We split. Fast and quiet. Make each place seem like a misfortune you can’t blame on men.”

Dorian and Bull traded a look — one part conspiratorial, two parts mutual amusement — and the Chargers set to dividing the tasks.

“Krem, you and Rocky take the low ford by the Alder Bend,” Bull said. “Rocky, you’re good with wagons; get a feel for where a wagon might stick. Krem, you loosen the ground upstream. Cause some erosion where a spring’s been cutting soft. Not much — nothing that’d drown a man — just enough that when the rains hit, the track gives.” He tapped the ford on the map with a heavy finger. “Make it look like the river took a mind to itself.”

Rocky grunted, pleased. “I can do that. Make it look proper and nasty.”

“Dalish,” Bull continued, “you and Stitches take the northern hollow. You can make a small rock tumble onto the path, maybe scare off a few goats. Stitches, you know how to make noises that sound like wolves at night — let’s make it feel dangerous. Folk avoid that place if wolves have shown.”

Dalish’s smirk deepened. “Wolves and rocks. I can do both. They’ll think the place’s haunted.”

“Skinner,” Bull said, “you and Krem—no, sorry—Skinner, you and Krem check the spring by the Shepherd’s Flat. See to the water; make it taste foul. Not poisoned — don’t want bodies — just sour it. Bitter herbs, a bit of bog moss. Folk chews on stories as much as bread; once a spring goes sour, no one drinks there twice.”

Skinner made a face and then nodded. “I’ll make it taste like a bad night.”

Stitches drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll leave tracks. False ones. Make it look like someone hauled something else through a side trail. Get the smugglers to waste time checking wrong places.”

“Good,” Dorian murmured, genuinely approving. “Subtlety. Small, believable inconveniences that add up to a series of poor choices. If they check every place and find only natural misfortune, they’ll want the one clean, sheltered spot left.”

Bull looked at Dorian, pride plain in his expression. “You lot never cease to surprise. Plan’s tight.” He glanced around at his crew as if they were his teeth. “I’ll take the heavy bits—wagons and muscle. When they move, I’ll be there to make sure they move into the one place we want them.”

Dorian’s mouth twitched into a smile that was half amusement, half admiration. “You’ve trained them well, Iron Bull. Efficient, noisy, and absurdly effective.”

Bull puffed up a fraction, like a boar pleased by a good jab. “Don’t make me blush, Vint. But yeah: we do our best. You should see them when they get to work. I’ve never been prouder.”

The Chargers folded the plan into actions: tools slung over shoulders, light packs readied, and the map tucked away. Dorian watched them move with a precise, almost delighted focus, eyes alight at how quickly dirt and muscle could be turned into theater.

“Meet back at dusk,” Dorian said, slipping the map into his cloak. “We’ll take the high ground and wait. Let the road decide for us.”

Bull pressed a heavy hand to Dorian’s shoulder, half-familiar, half-possessive. “Bring that pretty bit of magic of yours. We’ll need it in case the smugglers are clever enough to change their minds.”

Dorian inclined his head, amused. “Bring your tusks, Bull. If things get messy, I’ll be delighted to see just how much noise you can make.”

They dispersed with the easy confidence of people who’d done worse things for less, each one moving toward their task with the kind of purpose that made Dorian’s lips pull into a small, pleased smile. Outside, the wind picked up over the village, and the day set to unfolding — as inevitable and patient as a tide.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Red Hill was quiet. The ruins sat as they always had—broken teeth against the horizon—yet something in the air hummed with expectation.

Dorian stood at the edge of the watch-post, surveying the valley below. His sharp gaze traced the ridges, the gullies, the half-forgotten paths. Every site the smugglers might have chosen now bore the unmistakable stamp of the Chargers’ handiwork.

A ford that looked one rainstorm away from collapse. A hollow marked by a small, convincing rockslide. A spring so bitter even the goats turned up their noses.

Dorian gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “Maker take me… you’ve outdone yourselves. Even if I poured a week of my craft into mending half these places, I doubt I’d bother. They look perfectly, infuriatingly… natural. As though the land itself conspired with you.”

The Chargers beamed like schoolchildren presented with sweets. Rocky flexed his shoulders. Dalish smirked outright. Stitches looked smug enough to choke.

“Not bad, eh?” Bull said, arms crossed, grin lazy and proud. “Krem had the lads working like ants on a sugar pile. Every spot’s a death trap, or at least a real pain in the ass. But not so much anyone with sense would call it sabotage. Just… bad luck.”

Dorian turned, brow arched in honest admiration. “Subtlety is not what I expected from a band of sellswords who name themselves after livestock. And yet—here we are.”

The Chargers puffed up, preening under the praise. Krem gave a modest shrug that fooled no one. “We’ve got a knack for this sort of thing. Bull says it’s because we’re used to making a mess look like an accident.”

Bull snorted. “That, and they’re bloody-minded enough to take pride in the details.” He shot Dorian a sidelong grin. “Told you they’d impress you.”

Dorian let his lips curl into that sharp, amused smile of his. “Indeed. I’ll grant you this much, Iron Bull: your… herd is far more cunning than I gave them credit for. Maker help me, I find myself almost charmed.”

The Chargers chuckled, clearly delighted.

Bull clapped his hands once, the sound booming across the ruined stones. “Alright, enough blushing. Julianus and his merry band should be here within a day or two. We’ve got the high ground, we’ve got the plan, and now we wait.”

Dorian inclined his head, adjusting the fall of his cloak as he stepped up beside Bull, eyes sweeping the valley again. “Waiting I can do. Patience, after all, is a Tevinter virtue—though I suspect you prefer… louder solutions.”

Bull’s grin widened, tusks gleaming. “Guess we’ll see which one the smugglers bring out in us first.”

The Chargers settled into their positions among the broken walls, watchful and eager, the mood crackling with anticipation. The trap was set, the board arranged—and all that remained was for their quarry to step neatly into place.

They gathered in the lee of a shattered buttress, the map between them now more a memory than a blueprint. Sunlight burned the dust in the valley below, and each of them felt the small, pleasant thrum of readiness.

Bull spoke first, blunt and final. “Right. When Julianus rolls in with his two goons to check camp, we let him do his bit. He’ll mark the place safe and wave the wagons up.”

Dorian nodded, fingertips worrying a loose thread on his cloak. “Yes. Let the man believe he’s in control. He must have his little victory—confidence keeps a man predictable.”

Krem produced a short list from under his tunic and flicked it to Dorian. “We counted on the villagers’ gossip. Two guards go with Julianus to the wagons. The other two stay to help him set things up.”

“Good,” Dorian murmured, reading the names. “When those two return to the cargo and are out of hearing, I’ll verify their nature. If they’re mages, I’ll know by the subtle bruises of their aura—if not, I’ll place a discreet tracking weave upon them. Nothing violent; merely a small tether so the cargo’s path remains visible to us.” He folded the list back into his hand as though sealing the thought.

Bull’s single eye flicked to Dorian, approval plain. “You handle the magic. If there’s any meddling beyond tracks, you tell us. We’ll do the heavy bits.”

Dalish chimed in, practical and sharp. “Dorian, you said you could neutralize Julianus’s traps?”

“Indeed.” Dorian’s smile was soft steel. “I’ll clear as many as possible from the immediate camp. Not to ruin a man’s art—merely to make sure no one falls into a hole in the dark. Enough neutralized that we can work without losing hands to bad luck.”

“And after that?” Skinner asked.

“After that,” Dorian continued, voice low and theatrical, “I create a distraction. A fire lit beyond the slope, some cleverly staged noise—something to draw away the guard on watch. When they move to investigate, you slip in, quick and tidy. Take them down. Alive, if you can—best to talk first, kill later.” His eyes met Bull’s and something like a private joke passed between them.

Bull’s grin split wide. “Alive is better. Questions earn us coin.” He clapped a heavy hand to Krem’s shoulder. “Krem, you and Rocky position near the wagons. Dalish, Stitches—flank the near-side. Skinner, you keep an eye on the far-side approach. When Dorian gives the sign, we go quiet and fast.”

Dorian tipped an imaginary hat. “And I will be the orchestra conductor of your little performance. I’ll set the distraction—loud enough to pull the guard, subtle enough not to bring the entire mountain down. Then I signal. You do the rest.”

Stitches chewed a thumb and grinned. “I get the quiet fun job. Fine by me.”

Bull added, as an afterthought that was somehow a promise: “If Julianus resists, we take him too. Alive. Clean him up, and we have questions and bargaining chips.”

“And once the immediate threat is handled?” Dalish asked, eyes narrowing with the businesslike anticipation of someone who’d seen too many messy aftermaths.

“We hide the signs,” Dorian said simply. “Collapse any disturbed earth into plausible slides. Smother blood and footprints with ash and trample. Make it look like a skirmish with wolves or a sudden wash of rain. If the others come trailing, they find chaos—natural chaos—and move on. Then we wait, unseen, for the rest to haul the cargo into our trap.”

Bull grunted, satisfied. “Right. We clear the stage before the players show. Move in when the actors are off-script.”

Dorian’s mouth quirked. “Exquisitely theatrical. I do hope someone remembered to bring props.”

They ran through contingencies—what to do if Julianus brought extra muscle, how to handle a mage’s sudden flare, where to hide prisoners—and each answer was given in grunts and short sentences. The plan was precise, and each man and woman who signed on to it understood the quiet torment of waiting for action.

At the end, Bull leaned in, voice almost soft. “Dorian—if anything goes sideways, you yell, and I come like a badger with armor.”

Dorian bowed his head in mock deference. “And if you start charging where you shouldn’t, I will personally—politely—reprimand you. With sarcasm.” He paused, then added more genuinely, “But thank you. For trusting me enough to let me shine.”

Bull’s grin softened. “We trust you ‘cause you earn it. Now, get to your hiding places. We take watches. We’ll meet at the rendezvous if things go foul.”

They separated like wolves splitting to their posts: quiet steps, last-minute checks, the map folded and secreted. Dorian lingered a heartbeat on the ridge, feeling the thin pulse of the world—wind, stone, the faint scent of distant smoke—and then he too melted into the ruined bones of Red Hill, a pale figure with a pocket full of spells and secrets, waiting for the obedient tread of men who thought they were clever.

Chapter Text

The day broke clean and sharp, the mountain air carrying the faint echo of hooves long before the riders appeared. From their vantage point in the ruins, the Chargers crouched low, every muscle wired tight.

Four figures rode into Red Hill at a steady pace. The leader—Julianus Galarius, if Dorian’s descriptions were accurate—swung from his saddle and squinted around the ruined walls with a wary, calculating eye.

“Bloody waste of time,” one of the men muttered, throwing his reins toward a crumbling post. “River took out half the low flats. Mud everywhere. Nothing fit for a camp.”

The other scowled, kicking at the dust. “And wolves at the hollow. Tracks everywhere. I’m not risking the cargo with beasts sniffing about.”

Julianus’s mouth tightened. “Then this will do. Good sight lines, water close by, ruins to shield us. Better than chasing after ghosts. You two—back to the wagons. Tell them the camp is clear.”

The guards muttered assent and turned their mounts, riding back down the trail.

Hidden behind a curve of stone, Dorian lifted two fingers and whispered a word. A shimmer, faint as heat on pavement, leapt from his hand and streaked after the riders, vanishing into their shadows. The spell snapped taut like a thread, and he exhaled, satisfied. “There. Should they wander, I’ll know exactly where our precious cargo wanders with them.”

Julianus, oblivious, began his work. He knelt in the dirt, chanting low, pulling on sluggish threads of earth. His hands moved, shaping shallow pits, covering them with debris and brush. A trap laid neat as any huntsman’s snare.

Dorian’s lips curved. “Uninspired,” he murmured, lifting his staff.

The soil buckled, then sealed itself with a sharp hiss, collapsing the half-formed pit in on itself. The ground shuddered. Julianus jerked back with a startled cry, arms flying wide. Before his mouth could form the counter, a bolt of fire seared the air, dazzling his vision—then Dorian’s staff cracked against the side of his head with surgical precision. The man slumped, unconscious before he hit the ground.

“Now,” Dorian said softly.

The guard, momentarily stunned by the sudden flare, spun toward the mage. That instant of divided attention was all it took—Bull surged from cover like a landslide, one great hand seizing the man’s collar and the other driving a heavy punch square into his gut. The breath fled the man’s lungs in a wheeze; a second blow dropped him limp to the dirt.

Silence hung for a beat. The ruins seemed to exhale.

“Nicely done,” Krem said, low, impressed. Dalish gave a short nod, eyes wide.

But it was Bull who strode over, grinning like a man at a festival. He glanced from the unconscious forms to Dorian, eye gleaming. “By my tusks, Vint. That was smooth. Fire, flare, crack of the staff—clean as a knife through silk. I’ve seen generals with less style. Dangerous and pretty—deadly combination.” His grin widened, tusks catching the light. “You pull stunts like that on the battlefield… or in the bedroom, and someone’s not walking straight the next day.”

Dorian laughed—sharp, startled, genuine. The sound rang brighter than he intended, and for an instant he looked almost startled at himself. Quickly, he smoothed it over, schooling his features back into their usual poise, though the spark in his eyes lingered.

“My dear Bull,” he purred, voice silk wrapped around steel, “your strength is undeniably… distracting. One might almost call it an art form, if art involved more bruises and fewer brushstrokes.” He tilted his head, smile razor-sharp. “And if you truly believe I’d be content to let you set the pace—on the battlefield or in bed—you are sorely underestimating me.”

Bull’s laugh was low and rough, curling deep in his chest. “Good. I don’t want someone who follows—I want someone who pushes back. Makes the game more fun when I don’t know who’s going to end up on top.”

Dorian’s brows arched, eyes glittering. “Oh, my. Is that a challenge? Do be careful, Iron Bull—I play for keeps.”

Bull leaned closer, towering but grinning, the heat of him unmistakable. “So do I.”

The Chargers, half-exasperated and half-delighted, traded glances that said they’re at it again.