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Skyhold had learned, through trial and far too many near-misses, to give Dagna and Dorian a wide berth whenever the two of them were “working on something.”
No one remembered who had first used that phrase as a warning, but it had become a standing rule: if you could smell smoke, hear laughter, and feel the floor humming faintly beneath your boots, you turned around and walked the other way.
It wasn’t that the pair meant harm. They were simply unstoppable once inspiration hit. Dagna’s engineering mania met Dorian’s arcane brilliance and the two fed each other’s momentum until days disappeared.
Skyhold had learned to fear two things: explosions from Dagna’s workshop and the sound of Dorian Pavus laughing in the middle of them.
The pair were a menace. Every few days, some new experiment would send ripples of smoke curling through the fortress, or light up half the undercroft in alarming hues
Every few hours came the sharp whine of lyrium-charged metal, followed by a dull boom and Dorian’s delighted, “Excellent!”
Those words struck terror into the hearts of the sentries.
When that happened, the Inquisitor sighed, Leliana took notes for future damage assessments, and Cole was gently pushed toward the danger zone with orders to “Please, make sure they’re still alive.”
When the noise got too alarming, the Inquisitor usually sent Cole. Cole could appear silently, make sure they were alive, and leave before the air filled with noxious fumes. He was the only one they tolerated.
Dorian and Dagna were, of course, always fine. Covered in soot, half-blind from magical flash, but fine. And blissfully unaware of the chaos they’d left behind.
They worked in perfect, terrifying sync—feeding each other’s energy, matching every wild idea with one more absurd than the last. Hours vanished when they were together. They forgot meals, meetings, and occasionally, basic safety.
Meanwhile, Sera and the Iron Bull were developing an alliance built entirely on mutual neglect.
“Been four days,” Sera said, slouching across the tavern table. “Four days and they haven’t come out once. Do you think they’ve eaten?”
Bull drained his mug and shrugged. “They probably siphon sustenance from whatever’s glowing in there.”
Sera scowled. “I had plans with Dagna. Drinks, cards, maybe kissing if I played it right. Now it’s just—poof! Gone! She’s all ‘oooh runes, oooh sparkly things’ with your mage.”
Bull grunted. “Tell me about it. Every time I go by, Dorian waves me off with, ‘not now, I’m busy.’ He doesn’t even look up.”
Sera squinted at him. “You jealous?”
“Just bored,” he said, too quickly.
“Right,” she said with a knowing grin. “And I only drink for hydration.”
They stared at each other across the table, mutual misery softening into reluctant camaraderie.
“Okay,” Sera said. “New plan. You help me get Dagna’s attention back, I help you get Dorian’s. They can’t ignore both of us forever.”
Sera was pacing and muttering about kidnapping. “We grab Dagna, drag her to the tavern, keep her there with free drinks. You take Dorian out for something distracting. Maybe a spar. Or a bath. I dunno, whatever it is you two do.”
Bull folded his arms. “You’re gonna ‘grab’ a dwarf with a hammer who works with live lyrium?”
Sera considered this. “All right, fair point. We bribe her instead.”
“With what?”
“Explosives.”
Bull raised a brow. “That’s the opposite of what we want. Any better ideas?”
“Yes,” she said, leaning forward. “We annoy them.”
They chose the worst possible time.
The door to the workshop was barred, but that had never stopped Sera. She picked the lock with the grace of a drunk cat, swung it open, and shouted, “Oi! Genius twins! You alive in there?”
A wave of acrid smoke rolled out. Dorian coughed, waving a hand through the haze. “Maker’s breath, close the door! Do you want to destabilize the containment field?”
Sera froze. “The what?”
Dagna didn’t even look up from the mess of glowing runes on the table. “If it collapses, everything in a five-foot radius might, uh… disappear.”
Bull stepped back instantly. “Five feet from the table, or five feet from you?”
“Hard to say!” Dagna chirped.
Dorian gave Bull a pointed look, all calm condescension. “Darling, if you value your horns, kindly leave.”
Sera crossed her arms. “Not until Dagna takes a break. She promised me drinks.”
Dagna sighed without looking up. “I promised after the testing phase.”
“You said that two days ago!”
Dorian’s voice went syrup-smooth, the one he used when he was seconds from losing his patience. “Sera, my sweet, please. For the sake of science, your limbs, and my sanity—go.”
Then the device gave a sharp pop! and everyone screamed.
By the time the smoke cleared, Sera’s eyebrows were singed, Bull’s ears were ringing, and Dagna looked delighted. “Progress!” she shouted.
“Progress would be less explosive,” Bull growled.
“Would it?” Dorian asked innocently, brushing ash off his robes.
Sera coughed, eyes watering. “You two are monsters.”
“Correct,” Dorian said primly, already turning back to the runes. “Now kindly vacate before we make further progress.”
The second intrusion attempt didn’t fare better.
Bull tried subtlety. He knocked. “Hey, big guy, you’ve been down here long enough to forget sunlight. You should—”
A muffled thud, then Dorian’s irritated voice: “Occupied!”
Sera appeared at his elbow. “Let me try.” She pounded the door with both fists. “Dagna! If you don’t come out, I’ll— I’ll steal your hammer!”
Inside, a sharp, metallic click echoed ominously. Then Dagna yelled, “If you touch my hammer, I’ll enchant your boots to squeal every time you move!”
Sera jumped back. “Okay! Okay, no stealing!”
The door didn’t open again.
By day six, the pair’s exasperation reached its breaking point.
Bull returned from training to find the workshop door gleaming with newly etched wards. Not just Dorian’s usual barrier spells, but mechanical locks, mirrored runes, and what looked suspiciously like a Dwarven defense lattice.
A neatly written note was pinned to the door:
“No entry, except Cole. Seriously. We mean it.”
— D & D
Sera stood there, arms crossed. “That’s it, then. They’ve gone and warded the place against us.”
Bull squinted at the faintly glowing runes. “Looks like it.”
“Bit rude, innit?”
He shrugged. “Bit effective, too. I’m not touching that thing.”
Sera paced, glaring at the door as if sheer willpower might break it. “Can’t believe they’d rather talk to the spooky spirit boy than us.”
From the hall, Cole’s soft voice drifted past them. “They’re happy. Loud, but happy. They forget to eat again.”
“Figures,” Bull muttered.
Cole tilted his head, eyes distant. “You both miss them. But it’s not anger, not really. Just wanting to be seen.”
Sera groaned. “Ugh, don’t go all soul-reading on me.”
Cole smiled faintly. “Then maybe bring them food. Quietly.”
And before either could reply, he slipped through the wards as if they weren’t there.
They followed his advice—sort of.
The next day, Dorian opened the door to find a tray on the floor: roasted meat, fresh bread, two bottles of wine, and a small note that read “You’re both disasters. Eat anyway.”
He looked at it for a long moment, lips twitching.
“Kind of sweet, actually,” Dagna said, grabbing the bread.
Dorian smirked. “Bull’s handwriting. Sera’s spelling. A joint effort in culinary truce.”
“Think we should let them in?” Dagna asked through a mouthful.
“Not a chance.”
That evening, Sera and Bull sat on the ramparts, listening to the muffled thumps of another experiment echoing from below.
“You think they’ll ever come out?” Sera asked.
“Eventually,” Bull said. “Once they run out of fuel.”
Sera groaned. “Could take weeks.”
He chuckled. “Guess we’ll just have to wait.”
Below them, the fortress shuddered from another explosion. A puff of smoke curled out through the nearest window, faintly purple and sparkling.
Sera squinted. “That normal?”
“For them?” Bull said, taking a drink. “Pretty much.”
They sat in silence a while longer. Then Sera grinned. “Next time, we’re bringing earplugs.”
“Next time,” Bull agreed, and raised his mug. “To Dorian and Dagna—the most dangerous pair in Skyhold.”
Sera clinked hers against his. “And to us, the idiots who love them.”
By the time Cole was sent down for the third time that week, half the fortress was avoiding the lower levels entirely. The air smelled faintly of ozone and singed parchment. From behind the workshop door came the sound of muffled laughter, clinking glass, and the occasional boom that rattled the rafters.
When the noise finally stopped, there was silence. A long, eerie silence.
Then Dorian emerged, hair smoking slightly, robes disheveled but his smile triumphant. Dagna followed, holding something small, glowing, and very proud. “It worked!” she cheered.
“More or less,” Dorian amended. “We didn’t die, at least.”
Bull, who had been waiting, arms crossed, said dryly, “That your new definition of success?”
“Progress, darling,” Dorian said, dusting ash from his sleeves. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
For a moment, Dorian hesitated. Then, with a conspiratorial glint, he launched into an explanation so dense with arcane and technical jargon that Bull stopped listening after the third “magical feedback loop.”
He just watched Dorian’s face instead—the spark in his eyes, the way he gestured as he talked. The way he looked alive.
By the time Dorian noticed Bull staring, the grin had faded into something uncertain. “You’re not listening, are you?”
Bull smiled, slow and genuine. “Not a word.”
Dorian sighed, but his shoulders relaxed. “Well, if you’re going to interrupt genius, at least bring wine.”
Bull did bring wine.
Sera’s attempt to corner Dagna didn’t go much better. She found the dwarf perched on a workbench, polishing her latest creation.
“Hey,” Sera said, hopping up beside her. “You done blowing things up for the day?”
“For now,” Dagna said absently. “We learned a lot. Dorian’s brilliant—once he stops overcomplicating the numbers. You’d like him.”
Sera winced. “Yeah. Big fan of his hair.”
Dagna laughed, bright and oblivious. “Right? It never even frizzes, not once!”
Sera groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Maker, why are you all impossible?”
By the next morning, Skyhold was peaceful again. The explosions had stopped, the smoke cleared, and everyone pretended not to notice the faint scorch marks on the walls.
Dorian and Dagna were already planning their next project. Bull and Sera, both worse for wear, shared a silent drink in the tavern.
“Well,” Sera said finally. “That went awful.”
“Yup,” Bull said. “And they’re still ignoring us.”
Sera frowned at her mug, then grinned. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Probably not,” Bull said warily.
She leaned in. “Next time, we help them. Get in on the fun. Explosions for everyone.”
Bull chuckled, low and dangerous. “Could be interesting.”
“Could be stupid,” Sera countered.
“Same thing,” Bull said, and clinked his mug against hers.
Somewhere below, another explosion shook the walls.
Sera sighed. “They started without us.”