Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Varric! Varric!” She screamed, dashing across the ritual site. Her voice went hoarse as it pierced through the magical storm that was ripping reality around them. She could sense magic inside sputter, her insides inflamed with the dreadful sensation of being slowly torn apart. The chaos shredded at her resolve, but none of it mattered as she collapsed at her friend’s side.

“Varric,” Fenrel whispered, pressing trembling hands on a wound. Blood poured between her fingers, warm and unrelenting. She grasped on the magic surging around them, raw and unwieldy. “Please, hold on. We’ll get you out of this” Her breath hitched, her voice cracking as her pleas went unheard. She vowed silently that if they survived, she would learn to heal—she had to.

Varric, usually larger than life, reduced to the shell of himself – a storyteller silenced. He’d been hurt before, but this was different. Something essential was stripped away. Dread Wolf’s dagger wasn’t just a weapon; it had done something unnatural to him. “Varric, please…”

The blood surrounded her knees now, but she swore a heartbeat fluttered underneath her fingertips. “Neve! Neve!” Fenrel’s voice broke, rising into desperate cries.

As she kneeled there in the pool of blood of someone she loved, she pleaded to the gods, seemingly into the abyss, her eyes desperately searching for hope until she saw him. The Dread Wolf. Of course, the only god to answer her pleas was the one of lies and betrayal. She let out a bitter laugh, choked by tears. She didn’t realize she was crying until this moment, as if unfathomable anger laced with desperation had grabbed her heart. They failed. It was all for nothing. He stood tall, untouched by their efforts, even if his ritual was in shambles.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything stilled before the Veil ripped open behind him. A violent force flung her off the ground, into oblivion. This is it, she thought, opening her eyes to see trembling fingers covered in blood. Pain exploded in her head as she tried to move, her vision blurring. Blood streamed down her face, and her limbs felt like lead as her body was pulled on her feet and Harding’s arm wrapped around her waist. “Rook, come on, we have to get out of here!”

“Lace…” Fenrel croaked, barely able to form the word. She could feel her strength slipping, her legs shaking as they threatened to give out. She was aware of how beaten she was. The explosion of raw magic hit her against the wall with full force and it was quite a miracle she could move at all. She wanted to tell the scout to save herself. Run, leave her behind. She failed them, she failed Varric. Harding looked at her, with  trembling hand wiping blood from Fenrel‘s face, her voice urgent “Rook, you can‘t give up now, not after everything we‘ve been through to get here. Please, move!“

She turned weakly to see the Dread Wolf vanish into the Fade. And then, through the haze, she saw them. Two figures stepped through the rift, their presence otherworldly. Before she said anything to Harding, her knees buckled in front of Eluvian. Her body was too heavy to carry on. She felt cool stones underneath her and wanted to just lay down and close her eyes. Maybe, when she opened them, she would be back in Minrathous, and none of this would have ever happened. The blue shimmer of the mirror seemed to mock her for falling so close to the salvation. The magic of it was at her fingertips, one more step and it would spit her out in the different part of Thedas, far away from here. She reached out toward the glowing mirror, her fingertips brushing its light before darkness consumed her once again.

***

She wasn’t on the broken stone path of the ritual site anymore. The colors had drained from the world, leaving her in a silent, hopeless void, struggling to find a flicker of life. Fenrel stood in the ruins of what seemed to be an ancient empire. She sensed that she knew of this place and grew up on the tales about it. Was it what was left of the golden city? The air was still, neither hot nor cold. Stale. Except for the raw magic cradling her skin. In response, her own magic buzzed at her fingertips. She wondered if she was dead as she stood up, not feeling any pain anymore. Her preferred enemies: blood mages, the Venatori, could learn something from Dread Wolf’s book. All this time hunting her and all it took was a ritual performed by one of her own gods. “Am I dead?” Fenrel murmured, her voice echoing in the stillness.

“You have no idea what you have done.” A voice surrounded her. If she was dead, what kind of sick punishment was to put him into her afterlife?

“Solas,” she said, surprised by how easily his name slipped from her lips. As a little Elven girl, she would have never imagined reducing the infamous Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel, to such familiar terms as a name was. He was a god, after all.

She turned towards the voice, despite knowing better than to listen to the God of lies. His approach was calm and deliberate, his leathers pristine despite the destruction they had just endured. His expression was unreadable, but a shadow of worry lingered in his gaze.

She could not help but release a small gasp upon seeing him. The void she found herself in seemed to come alive in his presence. Magic in her veins stirred in the response. Fen’Harel, regal and untouchable, strode toward her. Until a year ago, he was only a myth—a bedtime story her mother told to comfort her in their darkest days. The tale she told to soothe herself when her parents were no longer around. A legend that guided her every time she set another group of slaves free. One rebel can bring down an empire, she told herself right until the moment Varric recruited her to hunt said rebel. A rebel who set his eyes on bringing down the Veil and destroying the world as they know it. Varric thought a friendly chat could change Dread Wolf’s heart, and she believed him. Varric…

“You,” she said, straightening herself. She could not afford the luxury of looking weak. “I stopped you from destroying the world.”

Solas halted, his gaze piercing. “I was not destroying the world!” His voice was thunderous, dark clouds rolling over a storm-lit horizon. The ground between them separated, his power pressed against her chest, as palpable as the stale air around them. He continued, “When you disrupted my ritual, the magical energies pulled me here, into the Fade.”

She wasn’t dead. Or was she? Her mind reeled. If this was the Fade, the fabled realm of spirits and demons, how was she here?

“Okay… so that’s why you’re here. But why am I here?” She asked.

“Your physical body is unconscious, but you shed a few drops of blood at the ritual site, enough for a tenuous connection.” He explained, his tone sharp but calm. Her stomach twisted. Fenrel was all too familiar with blood mages to know how this could happen.

“Blood magic?” Her voice trembled. She thought of the implications such magic could mean. What could he do with her?

“Firstly, I abhor blood magic,” Solas said curtly. “Secondly, if I could control you, I would have done so.” His sharp features softened briefly, almost human, before the moment passed.

She couldn’t deny that there was a divine quality to him, something that in another life would catch her eyes across the seediest bar in Minrathous. In this one, however, she was tasked with hunting him down and she nearly succeeded.

In a blink, he disappeared, only for his voice to beckon her to turn around. He strode towards her, still holding the distance by positioning himself on the ledge above her. That’s how he sees himself, she thought, above everybody else, even while she was his only lifeline.

She exhaled sharply. “So all I have to do to get away from you is wake up?”

“And how much experience do you have willing yourself from sleep to wakefulness?” Solas’ lips twitched, a smirk barely concealed.

“Can’t be that hard.” Fenrel narrowed her eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she stepped closer. He shouldn’t underestimate her willingness to annoy her opponents. Even if it meant she would have to break herself out of a dream.

“While you practice, perhaps you would like to hear about the consequences of your actions.” He said, his words more snarky than she would have hoped to hear from an actual god, just a smidge too human.

“Meaning?” She asked, connecting it to the strange things she had witnessed at the ritual site.

“The Evanuris. Or, as you would call them, gods. The creatures that escaped.” He said, and his expression darkened. “In ancient times, they ruled the elves, but that was not enough. They sought not just to be obeyed, but to be worshipped. When I rebelled, they drew on the horrific magic of the blight, corrupting all they saw until I trapped them.”

She wanted to interrupt, but as she opened her mouth, Dread Wolf continued. “Thanks to you, though, I am now trapped, and the blighted gods walk free.”

“Oh, so you are the hero now?” She said, holding down a bitter chuckle. The one who nearly destroyed the Veil and unleashed demons and wild magic wanted to be hailed as a savior. Perhaps once he was. When he freed Elven slaves from Evanuris. When he shattered their bonds. But that was long ago, and she didn’t know if that Fen’Harel would have approved of his current actions. She gave him a bitter laugh. “That’s rich coming from a so-called god who nearly destroyed the Veil.”

“I am not a god.” His answer was filled with silent rage. “You saw them escape my prison.”

“I also saw you bringing down the Veil.” She spat out, no longer amused.

“I had a plan.” Solas said, his tone unwavering.

“Varric always said you’d have a big explanation for why none of this was your fault.” Her voice cracked as she spoke his name. She wondered if they all made it. If her body was unconscious, Harding succeeded at dragging her out, but what about Varric? She couldn’t remember anything besides Neve kneeling next to him moments before everything went dark. Did she save him? Neve was better than her in healing magic. There had to be something she did to stop the bleeding.

“Varric…” Solas’ gaze softened for a brief moment.

“He said that’s your style. Never quite lies, clever half-truths that let you convince yourself you’re doing the right thing.” She said, anger building up as she took a step towards him. She should pay him back for what he did to Varric. “He tried to talk to you anyway… and now he’s hurt.”

Her voice wavered with those last words. Was it just a delusion to hope that he made it? So she wouldn’t need to think how it was her fault things ended this way?

“Varric is…” Solas hesitated, breaking eye contact. And there it was, regret. She knew that look. So the god of lies wasn’t above it all. He continued, “... quite practiced at shading the truth himself.”

“How dare you!” She said, taking yet another step towards him. “You don’t get to speak his name after what you’ve done!”

The urge to lash out burned in her, but she clenched her fists tightly, forcing herself to stay calm and get the information she needed. It was hard to believe anything that the God of Lies said, no matter how convincing it sounded.

“So, those things that got out. You said they were gods?” She pushed. The ground beneath her buckled as she said those words and she almost lost her footing. For an instant, Dread Wolf’s hand moved towards her, but he stopped in his tracks as Fenrel regained her balance.

“They said they were gods. Blighted, tyrannical, sadistic gods.” He paced around, not looking at her anymore, but the ground stopped shifting underneath her feet. He continued, “It took all my power to imprison them millennia ago. But I am certain you will be fine.”

His voice sounded almost.. amused. With his back turned on her, she could swear there was a hint of a smile on his face. She was sure she should be furious, but something compelled her to play along and get closer. Taking a step forward, she climbed through the rubble towards him. “That’s really helpful. What are you, the Elven god of sarcasm?”

“Lies, treachery, and rebellion, depending upon the story.” He said, and she had to stop herself from smiling. Dread Wolf was easily annoyed. He continued, “And how could I help? I do not have my ritual dagger. I cannot access my network of mirrors to travel from the Lighthouse to anywhere in the world. All I can offer is what I know.”

“Helpful advice from the Elven god of, and I am quoting you here, lies, treachery, and rebellion.” She said, wondering if there’s going to be another break in his carefully crafted mask of indifference.

“Depending on the story.” He said, his voice soft, the sharpness of his face diluted for a fleeting moment. Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. Solas finally looked back at her, his expression unreadable.

“Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are your problem to solve,” he said softly, his voice tinged with something she couldn’t place. “This is your responsibility now.”

The void trembled beneath her feet, and before Fenrel could respond, the darkness reclaimed her. The last thing she heard was his name on her lips.

Chapter Text

When she woke Fenrel was relieved to find out all of them had made it out alive. Despite all odds, they survived. Varric’s injuries were almost as bad as they seemed, and while he tried to display his usual sunny disposition for days after, he didn’t leave the infirmary. Even when he did, he would barely make it down to the library for a brief conversation before declaring he was tired and dragging himself back to his bed. Again and again, Fenrel suggested bringing in another healer for Varric, but he waved her off dismissively each time, the scent of herbs and liniments heavy in the air as he insisted rest and time was sufficient. Fenrel craved some of it for herself as well, but she wasn’t allowed. Having barely escaped the whole ritual ordeal and her chat with Solas, still reeling from the experience, Varric unexpectedly named her team leader, the words hanging heavy in the air. “You just don’t know when to quit,” He said as if it was a good enough reason for her to be the one leading a charge in a fight for their survival.

Her stubbornness had cost her everything—Minrathous, her safety, her future. Now it was all she had to carry her through the world’s end. If Solas were to be believed, Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain would not stop at nothing to bring Thedas down on their knees.

Besides the splitting headache, additional problems arose as soon as she set foot out of the infirmary. Even on the best days, explaining your connection to an ancient Elven god—a connection forged with only a few drops of blood—felt impossible. Neve, the renowned Minrathous detective, a figure whose reputation preceded her, instantly plunged into the new case, “Get Solas out of Rook’s head”. It took numerous debates for Rook to talk her down from performing experimental magic on her messed up brain since Solas, as frustrating as it might be, could be useful. She did not want to be stuck with him, but she would at least try to make the best of it. Whatever that best is.

On top of everything, Eluvian spat them out in the place Dread Wolf must have referred to in their conversation as “Lighthouse”. While utterly stunning, it was also abandoned, and worse of all, outside the material plane. With only a concerning amount of aged cheeses and salted meats to eat. While her home, Dock Town, couldn’t offer a more varied cuisine, surviving on cheese alone seemed like a dreadful prospect.

It was just her luck to be stuck at the crossroads between the waking world and the Fade, with only one Eluvian to travel through. They did not know what they would find on the other side of the shimmering glass, but gods wouldn’t wait for them to figure out their transportation problems before wreaking havoc, so they stepped through it… and found themselves in Arlathan forest, close to the location of the ritual site. At least Arlathan brought them good news. Strife and Irelin, the Veil jumpers, explorers of ancient Elven ruins, informed them that there was an expert in Elven artifacts who could help them somewhere in the forest if they just could find her. Before undertaking the task of finding Bellara, Fenrel had to put down her foot and tell the injured Harding to stay behind.

It was a common argument between the two lately, for Fenrel was worried about Harding’s well-being and Harding was incapable of staying still for a moment. While Fenrel agreed with Neve’s sentiment of having to find out more information on what the escaped gods are up to, Harding, being the scout, wanted to go out and start doing something. What exactly that was, was a bit unclear because they essentially left the Lighthouse blind, unsure of what they were going to find once they came back to the waking world. Now only after being asked to help the Veil Jumpers, Harding surrendered and let Fenrel and Neve be on their way.

Never had she thought she would need to escape a bubble of magical energy generated by an ancient Elven artifact in the middle of the magical forest, but here she was. She and Neve accidentally walked into a magical fog that seemed to refuse to let them leave, as they tried to locate Bellara using the information provided by Strife. Lucky for them, she found them first, just as an animated suit of armor tried to separate their heads from their bodies. After brief introductions, Bellara led them through the ruins of the Elven empire with ease, showing Fenrel how to interact with devices used to control passageways. Bellara Lutare, as they soon found out, was a ball of nervous energy whose mind ran faster than they could keep track. Fenrel asked for explanations every few minutes since, unlike Harding, she never had run into Veil Jumpers before. Fenrel marveled at the ease with which Bellara meddled with these constructs, even though Bellara’s remarks about her affinity to accidentally blow stuff up planted a seed of worry in her heart.

The artifact that was generating the magical bubble around itself and a wide area of Arlathan forest came out to be an ancient Elven archive. Something, as luck would have it, Bellara was searching for.

“Nadas dirthalen” Bellara pronounced proudly, stuffing the crystal in her backpack.

“Knowledge.. something? I'm sorry, my Elvhen is rusty,” Fenrel asked, intrigued.

“It’s an archive spirit! It stores the knowledge of its creator.  It could tell us how ancient elves lived, just imagine!”Bellara beamed, throwing the backpack on. “We got to tell Strife and Irelin about this.”

Sadly, it was broken, but Fenrel had a feeling that Bellara would work something out and she could not wait to hear what the archive knew.

***

As they traveled back towards Veil Jumper camp, no longer constrained by a magical trap, she was glad to have Bellara around for this and was looking forward to learning more about Elven culture from her after being separated from it for so long. As soon as they reached the camp, they learned that all magic in Arlathan forest had gone haywire, blight, and dark spawn appeared, and now the Dalish clans were endangered. All in those few days since the ritual.

Even though Veil Jumpers have moved as many as they could to safety, one village has gone silent. While Fenrel still felt shaky on her feet after things that transpired in the past days, she couldn’t decline when Strife asked for help with finding out what happened to the village. He mentioned that a couple of his Veil Jumpers have left for D’Meta’s Crossing never to be heard from again. Seeing the worry on Bellara’s face, Fenrel heard herself asking how to get there. That put them on the boat to D’Meta’s Crossing. This time Harding could not be denied and joined them.

The boat was surrounded by a thick fog as they approached the village. Fenrel cursed herself for not rummaging through the Lighthouse for better clothes as a shiver seeped into her bones. As they docked, Bellara expressed that something was wrong. She didn’t need to explain why she thought so. A chilling stillness pervaded the empty docks; the silence was absolute, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the pilings. The voice in the back of Fenrel’s head begged to be careful, and she agreed. “Hey guys, let’s tread carefully,” she said, climbing out of the boat.

“No need to say twice, Rook,” Harding replied as they all stood on solid ground.

“It’s so silent,” Bellara said as they walked up the wooden path toward the gates.

“Too silent,” Fenrel murmured, feeling uneasy. Something felt unnatural. As if something wicked waited for them just behind that gate. In a moment, she learned just how right that gut feeling was.

Fog lay low, just barely above ground, as they stepped into the village premises. They were greeted by emptiness. Market stalls stood abandoned, fruits and vegetables strewn around. There was no one there. As they ventured further up the street, they found the main entrance to the town blocked, seemingly in haste, barred with planks and crates with little care. Whatever was behind the blockade made Fenrel’s stomach churn and she felt her mouth watering as if she was going to be sick. She knew this feeling even if she hadn’t felt it in decades. In her mind, she told herself that it can’t be. No. She vaulted the flimsy barricade; the smell of damp earth, decay, and rot filled her nostrils as she landed, proving her right.

Blight. It was here. The feeling she had buried inside for over two decades crept back up. She hadn’t felt such dread ever since her parents fled Ferelden during The Fifth Blight. It was as if floodgates opened, fear overtaking her heart all over again.

“No…” she whispered to herself. Of course, they have seen blight on this very day in Arlathan. But this was different. It was all-consuming, tendrils sprawling through the narrow streets, wrapping themselves around buildings and any object in their way, even if it was the body of a villager. She could see arms stretching out from between the fleshy vines as if begging to be pulled out. Boils pulsed as if they had a heartbeat, the sound of it thrumming in her ears like a drumbeat. She stood frozen as the boils pulsed with an eerie glow. “The blight... it’s alive?” she whispered.

“Must keep everyone in. Mustn’t let anyone out.” A broken voice behind her said. She turned and saw a villager, or what was left of him, standing there. His face and arms were etched with black veins spread as cobwebs both under and over the surface of his skin. The darkness spread to his eyes, his irises surrounded by the purest black. The man was blighted.

“You okay?” She asked, realizing what a ridiculous question it was. He was blighted. It’s a wonder he was still talking. “What happened here?”

“Keep them inside. Listen to the mayor.” The man croaked.

“I don’t think he can hear us,” Bellara said, her voice shaking.

“Everyone has to stay,” said yet another blighted man nearby. “No. You can’t leave.”

As they went further into the village, their despair grew. The town square was completely overtaken by blight tendrils, buildings bent out of shape by this cancerous growth. Their hopes of finding survivors dwindled as they saw more and more villagers now being consumed by the blight, its tentacles wrapping themselves around their lifeless bodies. Some couldn’t even be recognized anymore, leathery skin stretched over bones as if any soft tissue was just sucked out. Those who could be recognized met a gruesome death. Bellara’s shoulders shook as she kneeled in front of the deceased.

“This is Adeline. I knew her.” She said, her voice shaky as if she was trying to hold down tears or panic, “She was a farmer. She sold spices to us. The best in Arlathan. I can’t believe this happened.”

Fenrel didn’t know what to say, patting Bellara on the back as if beckoning to move forward, not to linger here too long. As they moved ahead, they couldn’t help but speak of how weird this blight was.

“Blight’s usually dead. Static. But this is alive.” Harding said. Nobody answered as they all knew that something had changed. A suspicion, heavy and unshakeable, settled in Fenrel’s gut: the timing of this was no coincidence, definitely linked to the escape of the self-proclaimed gods. But how and why in D’Meta’s crossing, out of all places, she asked herself.

They have found the missing Veil Jumpers, but it was too late. Mihlva laid among blight tendrils, black sooth leaking from her orifices, a spark of life already gone. They found Jahel, a young, handsome man now being consumed by darkness, yet still alive.

“We’re going to help you…” Bellara said, but Fenrel felt her stomach sinking. He was too far gone for them to save. “… we’ll get you down, Jahel.”

“No… listen. The gods…” He said weakly, releasing choking sounds in between the words, as tendrils constricted his chest. He could barely breathe. “The gods have returned. I saw… them. I heard their voices. ”

“The gods did this?” Bellara asked, panicked.

“A blood ritual, to release the blight. The villagers… They said they needed power…” He could now barely say a word as tendril wrapped around his throat, locking his airways. With his dying breath, he said, “Bellara… be careful…”

Before they could start panicking, a plea for help echoed in halls of blight now built around them. They cut their way through pulsating boils, struggling towards the voice. As they neared the man who was constrained by unrelenting blight, the ground beneath their feet shook. A dragon. No. If it is a blight, that is no ordinary dragon, she said to herself. It’s an archdemon. Fenrel stepped back, almost tripping on her own feet as it rose from behind the hill and landed before them.

Her mind screamed as the trapped man shrieked in terror, the enormity of the situation crashing down on her. Varric’s words echoed in her mind. She was a team leader and now she must act like one. She stepped towards the dragon, electricity buzzing in her hands as she prepared to strike. Another voice echoed in her mind, telling her to stop, but she ignored it. “Hey” She screamed to gain its attention.

The dragon looked straight back at her. Despite her barely existent self-preservation instinct, Fenrel stood her ground as a disembodied voice crawled into her mind “Fresh blood. A hungry heart. Creature, come to me!”

“Ghilan’nain?” Fenrel whispered to herself, and just as quickly as the dragon appeared, it left, shaking the ground in its wake. An archdemon commanded by the blighted god? Fenrel wanted to scream, run, get away from there, but she contained her composure.

She soon came to regret standing against the dragon to protect the man. The man pleading for help turned out to be the mayor of D’Meta’s Crossing. A betrayer, his actions echoing with the silent screams of those he’d abandoned. He said that the gods infected his thoughts, and promised him gold. Gold. He sacrificed his town for a coin. And now he begged to be saved.

“The gods told me to lure Veil Jumpers to the center of town. The others were to be rounded up and kept safe. They would be the first to witness the glory of Ghilan’nain’s new creation…” He continued with excuse.

Some creation it was. Blight was made alive using the blood of these villagers. The once-sacred mother of Halla, Glinan’nain, perversely animated the blight, twisting its nature into a writhing, sickening parody of life, its movement a chilling mockery of beauty. Silence echoed as his people faced their doom; no savior appeared to defend them. Their cries for help went unheard. The air hung heavy and still as the blight ripped through them, their screams swallowed by the unnatural silence that followed, leaving behind only emptiness and corruption where life once bloomed. Despite Neve’s protests, Fenrel couldn’t find it in herself to feel any pity for this man.

“You did all of this for gold? D’Meta’s Crossing is dead because of your greed!” Fenrel said, her voice echoing through a blighted town.

“The gods exploited his fear and greed,” Neve said carefully, her voice cutting through Fenrel’s growing anger.

“I’m supposed to feel sorry for him? I say we leave him right here.” Bellara voiced exactly what was running through Fenrel’s mind.

“But I’ll die. The blight’s everywhere. What if the dragon comes back?” He begged once more.

“If we let you go, you’ll run straight back to the gods,” Bellara said.

“They were in his head. Their influence might still linger.” Neve tried to reason with them once more, but Fenrel saw red. Flashes of blight from D’Meta’s Crossing blended in her mind with terrifying views of Ferelden falling to the blight when she was just a child. But that blight was mindless, unguided, like a natural disaster no one could have avoided. Not like what happened here.

“I understand what they do now. I won’t be tempted again! I swear,” the Mayor begged once more, but it was too late for that.

“You don’t deserve fate better than the one you have bestowed upon your people,” Fenrel said, turning on her heel to leave. She knew her team would look at her differently, but she did not regret leaving that monster to die. Somehow, it still felt like too soft of a punishment for him.

As they walked back towards the boat, Harding was silent, Bellara loudly panicked about their actual gods being back, and Neve was walking on Fenrel’s heels. None of them looked around anymore. There were no survivors to be found.

“Rook, we could still save the mayor. He could give us insight into what gods want,” she reasoned. A Minrathous detective should have known better than to try to save the corrupted. As Neve spoke, Fenrel’s chest tightened, memories clawing their way to the surface.

“Do you know what it means to witness the blight? See people, your neighbors, being taken by it? Your home taken over until there’s nothing left?” Fenrel snapped, whipping her head around to look at Neve. As the words spilled out of her mouth, she instantly regretted them. “They had no chance. He doesn’t deserve our kindness.”

The eerie silence befell them again. The look in Neve’s eyes told Fenrel that she just said too much. She was an elven orphan adopted by Tevinter mage, a military man, during one of many conflicts plaguing the empire. Her Fereldan past was comfortably buried, just as she preferred.

“Rook…” Neve sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Fenrel nodded, beckoning them into the boat. She raised her hand above the still waters, reaching into her mana reserves to summon a gentle gust of wind to push the boat forward. Magic flowing through her veins soothed her and she could breathe again. She turned away from D’Meta’s Crossing, determined not to glance back.

***

As soon as they reached the Veil Jumper camp, chaos resumed. People were lying on stretchers, moaning, others trying to mend their injuries themselves. Whispers of lost jumpers followed them, followed by soft and sometimes violent sobs of pain and distress. Fenrel tried to drown out the sounds as she found Strife and Irelin, leaders of the camp, waiting for them.

“Your Veil Jumpers…” Fenrel said, looking past Strife, because in all her years she never learned to deliver the bad news, “We were too late.”

“I… understand,” Strife lowered his head, his shoulders stiff, “And the village?”

“The gods… they…” Fenrel started, trying to compose herself. “The mayor sold them out. Gods have unleashed the blight. Different from anyone has ever seen before. There was nothing we could do to help them.”

“The blight is alive,” Bellara chimed in, her words snapping Strife and Irelin out of their sadness.

“What do you- “Irelin started but was abruptly interrupted as a raven descended, shifting midair into a black-haired woman, landing between them with ease. A shapeshifter - and no ordinary mage. Fenrel’s mouth fell agape as she recognized the woman. The Witch of The Wilds. The enigmatic hero of the Fifth blight. A living legend, as she stood and breathed. Who somehow barely aged in the past decades.

“I dare say ‘twas a show of force,” she said, walking up to them.” They will not rest until you are on your knees. Fearful. Cowering. Helpless in the face of such power.”

“Lady Morrigan?” Harding pronounced cheerfully as if she just met an old friend. Perhaps she did. Morrigan, the enigmatic Witch of the Wilds, had returned. Her connection to both Orlais and the Inquisition and rumors of her meddling in world-changing events hinted to Fenrel about the upcoming storm.

“’Tis simply ‘Morrigan’ to you, Scout Harding. What a pleasure to see you again.” She smiled and then looked at Fenrel. “You must be Rook.”

Now, as she and Strife explained, she was here to aid Veil Jumpers and Fenrel in any way she could, since the fight against Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain would require way more hands than the ones they had now. She made sure they knew this was only the beginning. It shall only become worse. Fenrel straightened her back before assuring her that whatever comes next, they will fight.

“Words easily said, but rarely proven.” Morrigan smirked, “As dangerous as Solas himself may be, his imprisonment of the gods was just. To leave them unchecked would be the very end of Thedas.”

“Yeah, I gathered as much,” Fenrel said, feeling her shoulders strain from the weight of today. “Just to be clear, you are aware that Solas is actually the Dread Wolf? The god of lies, treachery, and betrayal? That Dread Wolf?”

She chuckled. “So I have come to learn. It rather explains how he knew such a great deal of ancient Elven history… And why he became so vexed when I attempted to explain it to him. Though I do not claim to know as much as he does, whatever knowledge I do possess, is yours for the asking.”

In moments later Morrigan explained that there is no chance to stand against gods without having sufficient magic themselves. She inquired about tools that Solas used during his ritual. Fenrel’s mind instantly locked onto the image of Varric bleeding out on the floor, a crystalline blue dagger glowing from his chest. “His dagger…” Fenrel said as if talking to herself. “It was lost in the chaos.”

“Then you would do well to find it,” Morrigan suggested.

“Do you happen to know anything about Solas’ hideout? He calls it “The Lighthouse”? Eluvian from the ritual site dropped us off there and now we can only travel to Arlathan,” Fenrel inquired.

“He calls it?” Morrigan asked.

“It’s complicated. When the ritual failed, some sort of connection formed between us. Doesn’t seem like he has free access to my mind if any of you are worried about it.” Fenrel glanced around, trying to see if any of her new allies seemed overly concerned.

Morrigan carried on after looking Fenrel up and down. “Ah, yes, the legendary sanctum of the Dreadwolf. ’Tis said his Eluvian, Vi’Revas, could travel to any other eluvian of his choosing.”

“That’s not how it works right now,” Harding said.

“I can take a look at it,” Bellara offered. “I know Eluvians better than most.”

“Then it is settled,” Fenrel said. “It’s getting late, it’s best we get back to The Lighthouse. Bellara can have a look at our mirror problem and then we go back for the dagger.”

Before she turned to leave, she added. “Thank you, Morrigan. Hope we meet again soon.”

“Oh,” Morrigan smiled back at her, “I am sure of it.”

***

Back at the Lighthouse, Fenrel went straight back to the infirmary just to find Varric sleeping. I should let him rest before bothering him with the news, she thought. Perhaps I could use a nap too. She wandered back into the hall, noticing another room next door to the infirmary. She approached it gently, just to be surprised by the door opening by itself. Her backpack lay on the floor next to a sea-green velvet couch, positioned in front of the glass wall. Beyond it, the underwater world moved. She stood there, marveling at the chaos and beauty of swirling water, colorful schools of fishes swimming in and out of view, and wondering how this was possible. It was as if this room was below sea level. Must be the fade, she murmured to herself, crashing down on the sofa. It’s been an impossibly long day. She found it surprisingly comfortable as her aching bones sunk into plush material and sleep welcomed her.

The green glow dimmed to grey, warmth draining from her limbs. Endless ruins stretched before her. She could feel a presence linger in the void, calmly watching her from afar. Why now? Just let me sleep. She wanted to scream. Fenrel let out a tired breath, turning slowly to face him.

“Of course. Of course, it’s you. As if today wasn’t bad enough.” She said.

“A charming greeting, Rook.” Dread Wolf said. His voice carried its usual detachment, but his eyes lingered on her longer than she liked, as if taking measure of her exhaustion. “I suppose you have questions.”

“Don’t start. You suppose wrong.” She rolled her eyes, folding her hands over her chest. “I just wanted to sleep and instead I ended up here. And I am too tired to deal with you.”

Solas stepped closer, his movements measured as if approaching something fragile but volatile. “Exhaustion lies on you heavy. Dare I guess that the waking world is in trouble?”

“What do you think?” She said, and a bitter chuckle escaped her lips. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not with you.”

“And yet, here you are,” He insisted, his voice calm, almost soothing.

“You can ask me anything else other than the horrors of the world.” She said. Her shoulders sagged, as if they couldn’t hold the weight of today anymore, her hands dropping in a bit of a dramatic fashion. She hated how she felt as if he could see through the cracks she fought to hold together.

They looked at each other for a minute, silence of the void weighing heavily between them. His gaze was steady, while her eyes flickered around, trying to avoid looking him straight in the eye.

“Everyone calls you ‘Rook’. Why is that?”

“What?” She glared at him, crossing her hands yet again. “What’s it to you? It’s just a nickname Varric gave me.”

“And yet, it seems important. Rook is a title, not a name. It suggests a distance you wish to keep from others.” He said, his voice deliberate, probing, his feet still carrying him closer at a steady pace. “I know the weight of that choice all too well.”

“Yeah, sure you do, Dread Wolf” She bit back. “You’re overthinking it. Rook is just what they call me.”

“Then what should I call you?” He said, seemingly too invested in knowing her name. His eyes narrowed as they traced down her face and back up. As if she was some impudent child throwing a tantrum and he was trying to navigate through it.

“You shouldn’t call me anything,” she said, her voice taut. “Names are for people who matter to each other. That’s not what this is.”

“And why is that, Rook?” he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as he leaned closer, now barely inches away from her. “Is it the intimacy of being known that frightens you?”

“I don’t—” she faltered, catching herself. “I don’t fear you. But I don’t see a reason to let you have more power over me.”

As soon as she finished the sentence, she regretted it. She could see him trying not to smirk. Bastard. She wanted to punch the smile off his face, but she couldn’t give him the satisfaction of making her lose her cool.

“You believe I hold power over you?” He said, a faint smile eventually showing up on his lips.

She turned sharply, biting back anger, waving him off. Ground trembled below them as she started walking. She could walk away—let him watch her leave—and keep her dignity intact.

“You could, surely.” His words followed her. “But you came here because you needed to. Even if you do not wish to admit it.”

She spun on her heel and stomped back towards him, her jaw tightening, fist clenching. “You don’t know shit about what I need.”

“Don’t I?” He says as she stops in her tracks within a hand's reach. “You carry so much, Rook. I have once been where you stand now. It is no wonder you seek refuge. Even if it’s here, even if it’s only subconsciously.”

“This isn’t a refuge!” She nearly screams, surprising herself, her voice shaking, “It’s just another trap!”

“Then why do you remain here, Fenrel?” He said, his voice low, stepping back from her, giving them some space to breathe, but his gaze never strayed away.

She stared back at him in disbelief. Of course, he knew. He is just playing games, and she is taking the bait, but her mind and body are too heavy to fight back against the urge. The god of trickery, in his element.

“You have been watching me?” She asks, her voice shaking from silent rage, “Since when? Since Varric recruited me?”

“It was necessary.” He says, his expression shifting lightly, becoming unreadable. “I had to know who was hunting me.”

“You always get to know your victims before you drag them into your mess?” She felt her voice rising again against her better judgment. Unable to clench her anger, she stumbled when trying to reach him. His hand shot out, steadying her before she could stumble further. His touch was light, but it burned like a brand. He withdrew quickly, his fingers curling into a fist at his side, as though the contact had unsettled him just as much. The space between them buzzed with an unspoken tension neither dared to name.

“You misunderstand me, Fenrel. I did not wish for this.” His voice was quiet as if trying not to disturb the silence between them. “For you to be caught in the storm of what must come.”

“Is that what you always tell yourself to make yourself feel better?” She bites back, but her words come out softer than intended. “Well, congratulations, Dread Wolf. Here I am. Another pawn in your game.”

The silence stood tall between them, like an invisible wall, a line drawn in the sand neither was daring to cross. In the emptiness of the void, the only sound was their breathing. Fenrel exhaled a ragged breath through her nose, stepping back from him, dispelling the peace.

“Next time I fall asleep, try staying out of my head, will you?” she said, turning sharply. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. “And stop using my name like you know me.”

“But I do, Fenrel. I see you more clearly than you wish to be seen.” He whispered to the void as she faded away, the waking world taking her back.

Chapter Text

Fenrel sat up, her small clothes drenched in sweat, leathers she fell asleep in creased. She felt fingers rubbing her forehead before she realized she had lifted her arm. Fenrel slightly pressed on her tear ducts as if that would help with her hazy vision. In a windowless room, it was impossible to tell how early it was, but her gut feeling suggested that it was sometime before dawn. She kicked off her boots, letting the cold from the floor seep into her bones. “I should probably find where to bathe and a change of clothes,” she told herself before wandering out of the room. An invisible string pulled her towards the room hidden beside the library. She was too tired to question it, even though she couldn’t remember seeing that door before. Upon opening it, she was surprised to find a room similar to hers, a back wall made of glass, reflections of water over coral reefs painting the walls in mosaic patterns, and a tub already full of steaming water waiting for her. Was the Lighthouse anticipating its inhabitants’ needs or was it the Fade? Solas certainly made his sanctum exceptionally cozy, she thought, settling into the water, leaving a pile of clothes behind her on the floor.

The drowsiness the hot water lulled her in took over her just as a soft draft cradled her neck. It was warm, rhythmic. Her eyes shot wide open. It wasn’t a draft. She could swear that something, no, someone, was breathing next to her. The breathing was soft and deliberate as if someone was looking over her shoulder, ready to whisper something in her ear. She could see her own heartbeat shaking her chest, her breathing stopping just for a moment, trying to listen in. She turned, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, but when she looked, there was no one there. The room suddenly felt emptier.

She jumped out of the tub, grabbing the towel, almost slipping and falling on the stone floor. She could see the water disappear into nothing, her own ragged breath covering up all other sounds. “Fuck the Maker,” she murmured as she slammed the door and ran back to her room, leaving a trail of droplets behind her.

Back in her room, she yanked open the wardrobe, hands shaking just to see several sets of clothing lined up. I swear to all gods, if this is Solas’ clothing, she thought, pulling the dark green silken shirt over her head, before jumping into pants several sizes too big for her. Her eyes traced up the mirror that adorned the inside of the wardrobe door, inspecting herself. The spell keeping her hair red still hasn’t worn off, the brightness of it matching one of her Vallaslin. How ironic, she thought, to fight my former gods while this adorns my face. Good thing Dirthamen is long gone.

In the past year, she has often thought of erasing this part of herself. Knowing the truth of mages she once saw as gods now weighed heavily on her, even when it’s been over a decade since she whispered a prayer to them. She wasn’t Dalish, not really. Only by blood. But how could she let go of something she clung so hard to? The voice in her head now told her she should. Even if she didn’t want to. The Vallaslin on the face of a Tevinter mage was an unbridled scream of rebellion. As if speaking into the darkness, “You cannot take this away from me.” Now, she was not so sure of what she was so afraid to lose. A part that’s been ripped from her ages ago?

She looked herself in the eye and could swear there was a flicker of a familiar purple. The flicker was subtle–just a quick flash of color, like a lightning strike during the day. A chill ran down her spine, and the hairs on her arms rose. As she leaned in, that familiar shade melted into the green of her iris, fogged up by her own breath in the mirror.

***

Fenrel exited the main building of Solas’ hideaway, still yawning, trying to look around through her puffy eyes. Lighthouse wasn’t a singular building, but a cluster of them. Overgrown weeds and crumbling foundations greeted them; all the buildings were completely abandoned when they first arrived. Fenrel and Varric stayed in the main building, which she dubbed “The Library” since it was the very first area you walked into when you opened the door. Books and artifacts were piled high, creating a cozy yet cluttered atmosphere. However, the central lounging area made it a perfect meeting place. Besides the infirmary and the room that Fenrel claimed as her own and now the bathroom, all other entrances to the rooms were blocked off. She wondered if that was yet another Dread Wolf thing.

Harding, Neve, and Bellara occupied the smaller buildings surrounding the library, all of them chaotic in their own way. Harding’s new home seemed to be a neglected winter garden, which she was determined to revive, ‘to take her mind off things’ as she said. Bellara settled down in a study that seemed more like an artifact storage room. Neighboring her was Neve in her very befitting office, in which the only place she could sleep was a plush armchair. Fenrel decided not to question it.

Beyond the center of the courtyard, which was adorned with a giant altar to Fen’Harel (how subtle, she told herself) she could see the dim lights flickering in the kitchen. Seems, like she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.

“Good morning,” she said, dragging her feet into the room. It was warm as if somebody was cooking for hours at this point. It smelled like it, too.

“Oh, Rook,” Bellara startled before turning to greet her, with a rolling pin still in her hand, “Hi!”

“I see I’m not the only one who couldn’t sleep,” Fenrel said, gesturing towards the table that was already prepped for a hearty breakfast. The aroma of warm cheese and herbs hit Fenrel first, a pleasant surprise before she even saw the Tevinter khachapuri.

 “Yes, see, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Eluvian and calibrations that needed to be done, but that was going nowhere so…” Bellara babbled on while rolling the dough, flour flying everywhere.

“So you took it upon yourself to cook a three-course breakfast?” Fenrel asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“When you say it like that- “Bellara chuckled to herself, “and why are you up if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Solas” Fenrel sighed.

“Oh, and how is he?” she asked cheerfully, “It must exciting to have Elven god tethered to you, well, not exciting, but you know…”

“He’s infuriating. All ‘Oh look at me, I’m so mysterious and tortured, this is all your fault’,” Fenrel said, releasing a frustrated sigh.

“Oh,” Bellara wavered for a second, “Harding said back in Inquisition… he was kind of fun. Exchanging jabs with Dorian Parvus. The Dorian Parvus. Can you imagine?”

“I can definitely imagine Dorian dragging him through absolute filth,” Fenrel answered, beaming from the thought.

“Wait, you know Dorian Parvus?” Now Bellara seemed even more excited.

“Well, not personally, but he would visit my father often,” Fenrel said and felt a warm feeling rushing over her chest, just as it did back in the day, “See, my father was an Altus mage who supported his ideas, so naturally-“

“An Altus mage? But you’re an elf-” Bellara interrupted, and instantly covered her mouth as if she didn’t mean to offend.

“Adoptive father,” Fenrel said matter of fact, but she could see that Bellara was panicked from thinking she overstepped some boundaries. “It’s nothing, really. I was a Dalish orphan lost in Tevinter. It was really the best outcome I could have-”

God dammit. Now she dug herself into an even deeper hole. Her eyes darted around, trying to find something to dispel the awkwardness that lingered. “Oh, is that khachapuri? You know how to cook Tevinter foods?”

“Khachapuri? Thank you, Bel! You’re the best,” Neve said, making them both turn their heads. Somehow, she already had a coffee mug in her hand. Does anyone in this team sleep at all? Fenrel asked herself.

The morning passed in the warmth of the fireplace and the smell of coffee lingering in the air, buzzing with ideas. So much to do. They talked as if it was not the end of the world, but a regular Thursday. Looking around the room, Fenrel could finally feel like she found some sort of refuge. Just the four of them, blowing cool air on their hot drinks and discussing where to go next. The ritual site was the obvious destination, but she and Neve could not help but mention Minrathous. They ought to get there once Vi’Revas, the Lighthouse Eluvian, will be fixed, ready to whisk them away to any part of Thedas. Fenrel looked forward to meeting with Shadow Dragons, her former bosses, with nervous excitement buzzing in her stomach. If anyone knew how to stand against evil mages who turned into blighted gods, it would be them. And their group desperately needed allies. Making their agreements, Harding, Neve, and Fenrel walked their separate ways to get dressed for their outing to the ritual site. They all agreed Bellara should stay back and work on the Eluvian so they can get it working as fast as possible.

***

As Fenrel and Neve walked up the path toward the ritual site, silence hung heavy between them. Neither wanted to recall the night of the ritual, it seemed. Their first meeting took place on that very same evening in Minrathous, with the sounds of wild magic and demons running around, spilling out of the weakened the Veil. They knew of each other, of course. It would have been impossible not to, as both of them worked with Shadow Dragons. The underground network of resistance fighters opposing blood magic, slavery, and whatever else was wrong with Tevinter. The list was ongoing.

“Rook?” Neve talked first, intruding on Fenrel’s silent recollection of the events. “Didn’t they call you the Wolf?”

“Well, it was before they sent me away,” Fenrel answered with a faint smile, Viper, Ghost, Wolf, they loved to lean into over-dramatic with their code names, “Then Varric found me and renamed me. Good thing he did, isn’t it?”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think the Dragons were being overprotective by keeping you out,” Neve said, glancing back at Fenrel. “You can take care of yourself from what I’ve seen and heard.”

“Thanks, Neve,” Fenrel said, knowing full well that she was right. They didn’t need to send her away from Minrathous, the place she fought so hard to better. Venatori threat was nothing new and even if it was, as they were now specifically targeting her, she knew she wouldn’t go down without taking more of them out. And she wouldn’t be involved in this mess.

“You can do this, Lace. It’s gotta be done.” She could hear Hardin’s voice over a low wall that separated them now and jumped over it to meet her.

Harding was crouching down, her hand resting on the darkly stained stone tiles. Fenrel instantly recognized the place, and the memory of it made her stomach turn. It was where Varric fell.

“I should have taken the shot,” Harding said, seemingly to herself.

“That would’ve made things worse,” Neve replied, her brow furrowed in worry.

“You don’t know that!”, Harding raised her voice, frustrated, “All you have are guesses.”

“We’re up against something unfamiliar. We don’t have facts, only rumors,” Neve tried to reason with her.

The night of the ritual they stood shoulder to shoulder to fight never-ending hordes of demons, the faint screaming of Varric and Dread Wolf like a whisper around them. If anyone could talk Dread Wolf back, it was Varric, Fenrel believed, and so she encouraged him to try. Minutes passed, their voices muted by the sheer chaos of reality shifting around, but one thing was clear as she looked back. Varric was getting nowhere. With panicked breaths, she looked around, looking for a way out. There was no way they could have taken someone as powerful as Solas by the usual means.

“I should have taken the shot,” Harding now pressed.

“If you need someone to blame, blame me,” Fenrel stepped in, looking straight at Harding. “I made the call. It is my fault Varric is…”

Fenrel was the one who suggested breaking the scaffolding that would send statues surrounding the ritual site cascading down. She was the one who then watched in horror as Varric tried to wrestle away Dread Wolf’s dagger.

“I don’t blame you,” Harding said, her shoulders sagging, as if she was letting go of this argument, “or Neve, or anyone.”

“So, just yourself?” Neve raised an eyebrow. “How’s that working out?”

“We tried to stop the world from being swallowed by chaos,” she said, her voice breaking and then lowering, “and now it might get swallowed by chaos, anyway”

“Or it might not, if we stop arguing about semantics and start working,” Fenrel said, winking at Harding and wrapping her hand around the dwarf’s shoulders. “Let’s go”

***

The ruins where the ritual took place were now peaceful, a stark contrast to what she remembered of it. If not for their blood still staining the ground, there would not be a way to tell that anything happened here at all. Not far from where Varric fell, they found a small patch of ground giving off an eerie blue glow. Magic that was lingering there was old. Strong.

“This must be where the dagger landed,” Fenrel said, her memory flaky after she saw Dread Wolf stabbing Varric. She knew it was still in his chest when she reached him. Somewhere between her panicked screams, he must have pulled it out, since she knew it wasn’t there anymore before everything went completely off the rails.

“Well, if the dagger was here,” Harding answered, “Someone took it.”

“Not someone,” Neve said as they walked through the door deeper into ruins, and pointed her finger. “Something.”

Fenrel turned in the direction she was pointing at. Dark spawn. A goddamn kleptomaniac dark spawn. A blue light swayed in its hand, the magic of the dagger palpable even from a distance. And then the bastard ran.

“Dark spawn usually doesn’t collect things, right?” Harding asked, her breath jagged as she tried to keep up with Neve and Fenrel, scurrying after their target.

“Not usually, no,” Fenrel said, taking a dive over yet another ledge, trying not to lose it from her sight, “But that dagger is special. It must be drawn to it. Oh, for fuck’s-”

Fenrel dodged and rolled on the slippery floor as another, much larger dark spawn, threw itself at them. Her hand flew out, a bubble of power shimmering around her as it blocked its attack. One of Harding’s arrows hit it in the neck. A welcome distraction that created a window for Fenrel to send a wave of lighting towards it and blow the creature away from them, its limp body succumbing between jagged ruins.

“We could really use a Warden,” Fenrel sighed, looking around and trying to see where their target went. Her side tingled from hitting the ground, but now was not the time to worry about minor bruising.

“You don’t say,” Harding said, following it with a chuckle of relief.

They followed the thief for what seemed like hours when yet another horde of dark spawn stood in their way. Fenrel made a mental note to ask Varric about any Wardens who could lend a hand. Having someone who could feel the blight nearby would’ve made their life easier. She was getting sick of rolling all over the place, trying to save her head from being hacked away with little to no warning.

Despite that, they soon found a formula that seemed to push them through one fight to another. While both Neve and Fenrel wielded elemental magic, Neve, like the aloof detective she was, froze everything around them, giving Fenrel time to blow those monsters away with the sheer power of an electrical storm. Harding picked off stragglers with her bow. It was efficient and simple. Never in her previous assignments, did Fenrel think that she would need a team to overcome the challenges ahead; now she finally saw the appeal.

The kleptomaniac ghoul was faster than they anticipated. Just as they thought they were on its heels, it managed to slip away yet again. Fenrel felt her breath growing shorter, worn, white leathers she had found in her wardrobe sticking to her sweaty back. “This is all Dread Wolf’s fault,” she murmured to herself while flicking her wrist to explode yet another blight boil. She didn’t want to know what kind of liquid was splashing at her at this point and was petrified to think of how she smelled.

They finally got it surrounded. In the sprawling ruins, their bounty only had two ways out; fight or drop from a fifty-foot ledge behind it. It seemed like it wasn’t going out without a fight.

“Well, let’s get to it,” Fenrel shouted towards the girls, taking a deep breath before launching herself into the fray. The ghoul seemed stronger than those they fought before and she wondered if it had anything to do with the dagger in its hand. It seemed like the resonance of magic around it had shifted. One hit after another and the creature was down, Dread Wolf’s dagger flying across the ground from its grasp.

As Fenrel approached, she could feel the air itself pulsating around it. Truly, it was no ordinary artifact. Harding passed in front of her, gesturing with her hand to stay back, and then she kneeled, grabbing it by the hilt. She held it out as the glow grew, now shining from under her skin, too. Fenrel wanted to slap it away from her hand, realizing that they were a step away from disaster.

“Lyrium,” Harding breathed out before dropping the dagger.

“Harding- “Fenrel collapsed on her knees next to her, grabbing the weapon, as Harding moaned in pain, cradling her head “-Are you okay?”

The ground beneath them shook. The edge they were on fractured. As the rocks fell, so did Harding.

“Harding!” Fenrel screeched as she heard Harding’s blood-curdling scream when she plummeted to her death. 

She crawled on all fours towards the edge when that same voice from her confrontation with a dragon pressed at the back of her mind. Don’t. The dust hadn’t settled yet and Fenrel barely made it on her feet as Harding’s voice ruptured through the aftermath of disaster. It was different. Otherworldly. As if something, someone, possessed Harding’s body. A symphony of disembodied voices ruptured from a small dwarven frame of the beloved scout, as it rose from the bottom of the valley, rock growing out of her skin, swallowing her whole, spreading and forming into a floating island.

“This is the eternal hymn, the prayer and the proclamation,” The voice rose, drowning all the other sounds around them, the earth shifting in front of Fenrel yet again. “Isatunoll.”

Blue crystal emerged from a newly formed island in front of her, and it was as if the earth itself spoke, masquerading as Harding. “I am. We are.” It proclaimed. “Free again. Whole again. Here again… Here… again…”

The crystal shattered, and Harding emerged. Blue lyrium veins run through her face and arms. Her voice was an earthquake. Fenrel stumbled backward, raising the dagger in her hand. What the hell is going on? She thought, her heart skipping a beat. Fenrel was about to scream when the blue light around Harding just as suddenly faded away. She collapsed to the ground. Fenrel lunged towards her, grabbing her by the shoulders before she could think if that was a good idea. The voice in the back of her mind breathed yet again “Don’t”.

“Harding? Harding!” She shook her, afraid for the worst.

“I can hear it.” Harding whispered, her eyes wide open, “The song of the stone.”

Before either could properly react, the dark spawn were lunging at them again. Harding raised her hands. Dark spawn stopped in their tracks. No. Not stopped. Turned into the stone.

“What is happening to me?” Harding sobbed, her fingers shaking as she made those dark spawn explode.

Fenrel couldn’t find a word to say. How could she? Harding was a dwarf and dwarfs can’t use magic. But now she could. The Dread Wolf’s dagger did something to her. So instead she just whispered, “What the fuck?”

***

Back in the lighthouse, neither of the four knew what to say. Harding asked for a moment to sit on what happened before they all jumped into solving it. It’s not every day that you experience something that goes against the laws of magic, laws of reality itself. As Fenrel walked towards the infirmary, she tried to find the words to explain what happened to Varric. Even for a novelist like him, this might seem a little out of the realm of possibility. But being outside of it seemed to be their new reality. She stopped in front of his door for a moment. No, I need to talk to Solas first; she told herself and moved on to her room.

She lay down on the sofa, wondering if she needed to be asleep to reach him, or if there was a fade thread she could pull on to call him. She closed her eyes, murmuring his name as a prayer, before catching herself in the very last moment, calling him by his title instead.

“Back so soon,” His voice reached her before she realized she was once again standing in the Fade. The fissure between them was back in place. Is he avoiding me? She asked herself.

“Hello, Dread Wolf,” she tried to hold down her annoyance. “I’m ready to talk.”

“Things must be worse than I thought,” He said, quickly catching up on her lack of defiance, “Or perhaps I am mistaken. You may be here to tell me that my concerns were unfounded.”

“No, you were correct. And I am not here to debate whether what you warned me of was accurate,” she said, refusing to smile back at his sheepish grin.

“But to be clear,” He said, still holding that smirk, “it was accurate.”

“I need to know what the gods are planning.” She said, “They used a blood ritual to unleash blight upon the village. Dark spawn are crawling everywhere. But this must be only the beginning.”

“You are asking for knowledge no mortal in this world is privy to.”

How she wished he could just answer one question without posturing. If he was so intent on being regarded as a higher being, she pondered, she could for once lower her reservations to please his ego. Just this once.

“Ma halani.” She said, feeling odd as a language she rarely spoke left her lips. Asking for help was not in her nature, but these days, her nature seemed to play against her.

Hearing her words, Dread Wolf’s face shifted, his eyebrows lowering from their usual mocking angle, corners of his lips dropping ever so slightly. If she didn’t know better, she would think she surprised him. His mask of indifference came back on swiftly, as he nodded slightly.

“If I am to share it with you, I need to know what makes you the right person to lead this fight.” His voice lowered, gaze locking onto her as if trying to read her. She could now clearly see the flash of blueish purple of his eyes against the grey of his prison.

“Someone has to do something,” she stated the obvious. But who out there cared that their world was on the brink of destruction? How many knew? She asked herself before continuing, “I may not be the right person for this job, but I am the only one left.”

“So your call to action is that any attempt is better than none?” He smiled. “Yet I suppose it is in your nature to stand up when no one else dares.”

“Are you talking about Nessus?” She said, not entirely shocked that he knew. Of course, he knew, he already admitted to looking into her. “Those slaves would have never seen the light of day if I didn’t do something. So, Dread Wolf, you should know, if someone has to make a call, I’ll do it.”

“I suppose I was not so different when I started.” His voice softened. She couldn’t hear the mockery of the prideful god in it anymore. “When I rebelled, I faced difficult choices, ones no one else would or could bear. Even when it meant throwing caution to the wind.”

His gaze lingered, and she didn’t look away. She could finally feel the furrow in her brow relaxing as they found something that wasn’t tearing them apart. Little did he know that they weren’t so different because he was what inspired her to be this way. His smile softened from a wolfish grin to something almost pleasant, making her wonder what was going through his head. A moment stilled, almost peaceful. He turned away, his hands clasped behind his back, and began to pace restlessly as he answered her question.

“The so-called gods, they wish to reclaim their dominion over the world. To accomplish that, they will need two things.” His smile faded. He paced slowly, not looking up at her. “First, the blight. Most of it is imprisoned… until they find a way to release it.”

“Most of it?” She said, her voice catching in her throat, “What do you mean? What about the blight that’s already out there? That’s not all of it?”

“It is merely a fragment.” He sighed. “They will need to rupture the Veil to reach Blight’s prison. My dagger is one of the few things capable of doing so.”

“We’ve already recovered it from the ritual site.” She answered, barely containing a brave smile. Countless bruises and scratches, a strange lyrium possession, and a lot of grit later, they somehow managed it.

“You’re proving yourself to be competent.” He said, answering to her smile.

“Is that a compliment I hear?” She teased.

“Take it as you wish,” He said before returning to his serious demeanor. “They will need to make their own weapon then. That will give you time.”

“You said it was two things. First blight, and then what?”

“Followers. They have called themselves gods, and what is a god without worshippers to sing their praises?”

“Something like you, I suppose,” she said, surprised to hear a bitter chuckle escape his lips. “You think they want the Elves back? Our people won’t bend a knee to blighted murderous monsters.”

“Agreed. They care little for the elves. They will find worshippers among those hungry for power.” He said, and she was already catching on. Venatori would be a perfect target. She needed to go back to Minrathous. “Tyrants and bullies. The cruel and the corrupt, who fear their own vulnerability and seize any chance to feel strong. If you hunt them, they will lead to Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain.”

“So,” she raised one brow, hands crossed, shifting her weight on one hip, staring directly at him, “you want me to be the bait?”

“I have full trust in your ability to gain the attention of your adversaries.” His voice was soft, but she could feel something lurking beyond those words.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” she mocked him lightly. “Getting you to notice me wasn’t that hard.”

He glanced away, tongue tracing inside of his cheek with a slow headshake as if stopping himself from whatever he wanted to say.

“Vi’Revas, The Lighthouse Eluvian. Have you mastered its secrets?” He inquired, putting his mask of indifference back on.

“We’re working on it,” she reassured him, “And once we do, I can finally get back home and get proper food instead of eating through your obscene amount of cheese.”

His chest shook as if trying to hold down a laugh, but his smile betrayed him.

“Yes, I suppose you will. And when you speak to Varric…”, he paused, his gaze shifting, followed by a slow blink. He inhaled deeply before opening his mouth again, his voice barely a whisper, the weight of his unspoken words heavy in the air. “Please, tell him that I… regret what happened.”

“Alright, Dread Wolf.” She nodded, something in his expression begging her not to push him further. “I’ll be back sooner than you expect.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, Fenrel,” He said as he turned away and disappeared, taking the fade with him.

***

Her fingers tapped gently on the wooden door before pushing it. Varric was sitting up on his cot, his broken leg awkwardly propped up on the pillow, hand laying on his chest as if he was cradling his wound. His skin looked unusually pale in the candlelight, and his hair—did he lose more of the copper to the grey? She remembered his amber-colored locks from the night they met. The past year, the hunt for Dread Wolf hasn’t been kind to him, and it took her this long to see it.

“So Solas told the truth about the gods,” Varric started, catching her off guard, skipping out on pleasantries.

“You heard?” Fenrel asked, thinking how Harding must’ve visited Varric ahead of her. She paced towards him, stopping next to his bedside table. “It’s bad, Varric… If you’d seen D’Meta’s Crossing…”

“The team needs to act fast,” He stated the obvious. She was perfectly aware and his retort was a sharp reminder that her position as team leader was shaky at best. He shifted in the bed with a wince, his hand slightly grasping the wrapped wound. “and it cannot be done with me leading from a bed. You gotta take a point in this.”

Fenrel exhaled sharply through her nose. There it was, no way back. Even though he had already given her the reins, it seemed it wasn’t just a temporary solution as she had hoped. She was in too deep now. The only way out was clawing through this mess. She tried to steady herself, straightening her back, shifting weight on both feet, as she said, “I’ll get it done.”

“I never doubted it,” He said nonchalantly, nodding to himself as if this wasn’t a mission to prevent upcoming doomsdays. Of course, he did not see the landscape of blight-ridden land. Fenrel was glad that he didn’t. For she knew that if he did, he would blame himself and she would rather carry it for both of them.

“Hm. Harding might. Or Neve.” She shrugged, her fingers tracing unsteady lines on the table that her eyes didn’t follow. They looked somewhere, away. She didn’t know if it was a shame that she was feeling, but something lingered just below her heart. “At the ritual site, I made a decision that ended up with all of us hurt. You got stabbed. At D’Meta’s Crossing, I had to make a decision that did not go down so well. Even if no one said anything.”

“You left the mayor to fend for himself, or so I’ve heard. The key to earning the team’s trust isn’t to only make decisions everyone agrees with. It’s showing the team that they can tell you whatever is on their mind and you’ll listen.”

“Varric, you are aware that relationships are not my strong suit.” Fenrel rubbed the back of her neck, one hand wrapping tightly around her waist as if hugging herself. “You might be my longest-lasting one.”

“You can’t fight gods on your own, kid. I know you could always find your way through the wildest shit by yourself, but now is not the time.” He said with a heavy sigh. “and you sure as hell can’t fight them with a team that doesn’t trust you. Let them in.”

“Varric, I-“

“Let them in, even if it’s messy.” He said, leaning forward with a faint wince, his gaze catching her darting eyes, locking her in. “Especially if it’s messy.”

They both stared at each other for a second, and she knew he was waiting for her to agree. She nodded with an uneasy smile.

“Rook,” He released an exasperated sigh. She didn’t convince him. “When I put this team together, what did I look for?”

Fenrel cocked her head to the side. Here we go again. She was used to Varric’s fatherly scolding sessions but could not help wanting to roll her eyes.

“A detective to find the Dread Wolf and a scout to get us the lay of the land,” He continued, ignoring her facial expressions. “Exactly the people he’d expect me to recruit. Disciplined. Predictable. And then there’s you.”

“A walking trouble magnet?” She raised an eyebrow, giving him a cheeky smile.

She did not want to speak of the night she beat down an entire bar of Venatori after being explicitly told to leave Minrathous. Viper’s rant completely abolished her victory drink. Little did she know, two red-headed dwarves who were about to change her life were drinking in an obscured corner of that slum. Varric found her defiance amusing, but still offered to take her off Viper’s hands. “Come on, it will be an adventure! Hunting an ancient Elven god is way more interesting than bar brawling with Venatori. Trust me, kid.” A few glasses of “Kirkwall’s finest” later, she could not remember how the night ended, just that next morning when she woke up, she had a new name and a new job.

“More like someone who can find a way through an impossible situation, but sure.” His chuckle brought her back from the memory. She saw how his fingers immediately locked onto his wound. He sucked at trying to mask his pain. “What’s important is that he could not see you coming, even on his best day.”

She did not see him coming either, but she bit back her tongue. There was no point in telling Varric that she didn’t know how to get out of this mess.

“Did Harding tell you about me talking to Solas in the fade?”

“I had some good arguments with Chuckles back in the day.” He smiled as if he just remembered some. “I can’t imagine being stuck with him in my head. But how are feeling about it?”

“Chuckles?” She raised her eyebrows, tilting her head in a slightly judgmental way. “He’s an asshole. But we need his help. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“Fair enough, but Neve and you are great mages. You could whip up some protective ward to keep him out if you wanted.” He gestured with a hand lightheartedly, a hint of pain furrowing his brow and breaking up his friendly smile.

“No, that’s not it… Conversations with him feel like standing in a room full of flammable gas and waiting for someone to light a candle.” She rubbed her temples as if just talking about him gave her a headache, starting to pace around Varric’s bed. “But he is helpful. In his own puzzling way.”

“So… you are making a decision to keep talking with him.” He raised an eyebrow, his eyes locking onto her.

“I…” Fenrel wavered, stopping in her step. She shifted her weight on her favored right leg, crossing her arms against her chest. “Yeah.”

“You’re making a choice. Stay careful, but don’t beat yourself up about doing what you have to do.” His casual, calming demeanor made her feel steadier on her feet. Maybe she wasn’t crazy for allowing the god of trickery to linger in her mind. “If I can tell you one thing about speaking with Solas… act like you’re as smart as he is, and he’ll be insufferable.”

She laughed, her shoulders shaking. She hadn’t had a genuine laugh since before the ritual. “Even more than now?”

“If you show him you respect his age and experience, he’ll remind you he’s just a man.”

“Is he?” she scoffed. “He has yet to earn my respect.”

Varric gave a look of a scorned father. He still cared for Solas, after everything. She thought of how her conversation with Solas ended. Varric should know.

“He… “She opened her mouth, searching for words.

She didn’t know how to begin. She thought of the conversation with Solas, and his demeanor whenever Varric was mentioned. In those brief moments, it felt as if there was someone else than Dread Wolf talking to her. For anyone else but Varric, it might sound absurd that Fen’Harel could feel something as trivial as regret. From what Varric told her when they were still chasing leads, it seemed like there could be something more behind the Dread Wolf’s persona, and now she was perhaps starting to believe it. Even after being stabbed by him, Varric still stood on his side, pleading with her to see him as a man. Her eyes ran around as if trying to find something to lock on.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “…He asked me to tell you that he regrets what happened. At the ritual site, hurting you, I mean.”

She paused, breathing in deeply. She might be off her rocker, but something in the way Solas said it made her feel as if there was truth in his words. The hesitation in his voice, the shifting gaze. It felt real. Vulnerable. She bit her thumb before dropping her hands in defeat. “I think he’s being sincere… as odd as it might sound.”

“Chuckles is sentimental,” Varric said with his familiar knowing smirk, tapping his temple. “He could burn down the world, and the thing that would make him cry is a single flower with blackened petals.”

She scoffed at him with a smile that quite didn’t reach her eyes, air getting stuck in her throat. The unease was gripping her as she tried to find the words. She was aware that he knew. But she found it important to say it aloud. If Dread Wolf found the strength to let his walls down for this, so could she. “Yes… But Varric… for what it’s worth, I am sorry too.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” He reassured her. “If you didn’t do something, the world would’ve gone down because I thought I could make him see my way.”

“I encouraged you to do so.” She said, her eyes locked on the ground, as she folded her hands, trying to anchor herself.

“You were being a good friend.” His fingers grasped at the bedside table, and she knew what he wanted. She took his hand, softly pressing his fingers. Their own unspoken way of saying “I got you.”

She gently sat down on the edge of his bed, careful not to move him. “Speaking of friends. Have Lace told you about what happened?”

“I heard. Harding glows now?” He gave a worried smile. “A dwarf with so much pent-up anger gaining access to magic smells like trouble, if you ask me.”

“What do I do, Varric?” She looked at him, her eyes pleading for help. What kind of leader is she supposed to be with such communication skills?

“Listen to her. Help her. You got this, kid.” He released her hand, covering his yawn with the back of it. “And let me sleep. All this talking is exhausting.”

“Yeah..” She said, attentively getting up as if afraid that one wrong move might break him.

“Rook, one more thing before you go,” His voice stopped her in her tracks, “I’ve been racking my brain thinking of contacts who might help us with these gods.”

“You got any leads?” Hope grew in her chest.

“Nothing.” He shrugged, suddenly wincing from pain, grasping at his bandaged shoulder.

Fenrel lunged at him, thinking of how she could help, but he just breathed in and shooed her away, regaining his usual relaxed expression. “…But being a leader isn’t about having all the answers yourself: it’s about knowing who does”

He stopped as if making a meaningful pause. Fenrel motioned her hand as if rushing him to continue. “I thought you wanted a nap, but you seem to doze off in the middle of a sentence.”

He shook his head slowly, with a wide grin. “Neve has connections to a whole world that you, me, or Harding barely know. Might be worth asking her.”

“Thanks, Varric,” Fenrel smiled at him, nodding him goodbye when the door behind her creaked. She could hear the light steps of the intruder.

“Hey, am I interrupting something?” Harding said, walking into the room with a brisk step.

“Hey, no, what’s happening?” Fenrel turned to face her, glimpsing confusion on Harding’s face. Her gaze lingered on Fenrel for a moment too long, tilting her head slightly, her eyes narrowed as if examining her. She then swiftly looked behind her in the direction of Varric. When she looked back, she dropped the puzzled expression, going back to her usual cheerful self.

“Bellara wants us to gather in the Eluvian room.” Harding quickly glanced through the open infirmary door, as if afraid that someone might hear them. “She seemed nervous. I’m just not sure what kind of nervous. You know, more than her usual self.”

“Well, what are we waiting for, then? Let’s go” Fenrel strode towards the door, glancing over her shoulder to look at Varric one last time.

“You go, kid.” He smiled, waving her off.

Chapter Text

Fenrel and Harding made their way from the infirmary down the gorgeous stonework staircase which led to the first floor, to the library. As they approached the make-shift lounge area, Fenrel stopped, lightly tapping on the sofa. Varric’s words echoed in her head. It’s been quite a few hours since they have recovered the dagger, but Fenrel still hasn’t found the moment to talk about it with Harding. Perhaps she was avoiding it. She left the infirmary knowing that this was the moment she had to change something if she wished they survive through this.

“Hey Harding, we should talk. Eluvian can wait five minutes.”

“Oh,” Harding stopped. “Is this about me?”

“Yes, Harding. You fell off a cliff, turned into a crystal, started chanting in unnatural voices, and turned dark spawn into rocks. Before exploding them.” Fenrel collapsed in the armchair, motioning Harding to sit. She would have laughed hysterically if, after recent events, this wouldn’t seem almost normal. “How are you?”

“It was like something took over me” She sat down in the opposite chair, folding her legs on the cushion, leaning in towards Fenrel. “But dwarves cannot be possessed, right?”

“Yeah, you should not have a connection to the fade.” Fenrel agreed. If there was a book “Thedas for Dummies”, dwarves can’t use magic would be the second statement on it, right after Tevinter sucks. “But Solas’s dagger seems to have triggered it, somehow?”

“Dwarves have never used magic.” Harding said, but her voice wavered as she continued, “We can’t.”

“I am not sure how to feel about this.” Fenrel rubbed her forehead in thought. “We need to learn more about this, but how?”

“It’s all a little strange, but not in a bad way… I think. I feel connected.”

“To..?” Fenrel leaned closer to her, trying to understand was it was fear or curiosity that lingered on Harding’s face.

“To the…” She stared out into the distance for a second. “To the Stone. Dwarves call ourselves “Children of the Stone.” Some of us have what we call Stone sense. Those that have it can feel caves, lyrium veins, and faults in the rock. I wasn’t one of them”

“Lace, this seems to be a bit beyond that,” Fenrel said carefully. What Harding did on that ledge looked more like what a mage does when wielding their power.

“Maybe the dagger unlocked something hidden.. something more.” She said, as if unsure of her own words. She fiddled with her hands.” I hope this doesn’t cause problems.”

Fenrel stood up, taking careful steps towards her, crouching down to her eye level.

“Harding, I am the resident problem maker here. You’ll never take my spot.” She tapped on her knee reassuringly. “We’ll figure this out together.”

“Thanks, Rook.”

***

“Almost… there… I just have to..” Bellara murmured under her nose, as Fenrel and Harding approached. They could hear the metallic clicking of Neve’s prosthetic leg as she walked in circles around Bellara.

Eluvian room hardly resembled a room. Walking into it felt like stepping outside reality onto a lengthy stonework pathway. It led to the iridescent mirror, its radiance tempting you to see what’s on the other side. She could swear she could sometimes hear a soft humming coming from the mirror. Other times, there was a deafening silence. No matter the day, you could feel a light draft coming from it. Today it smelled like sea air. Salty, and somehow sunny in her mind. Like a memory of a summer day in Rivain.

 Of course, as with the rest of the Lighthouse, it was advised to be careful with your steps. From both sides of this walkway, there was a long way down into the unknown. When Fenrel peeked from the edge, all she could think about was how long would she fall? Would she ever stop? Is there a bottom of the Fade? Maybe that’s where she went when she slept. Maybe that was where Solas was–safely tucked away from everyone, except for her. She didn’t mean for her mind to wander away to the now familiar lull of his voice, but she dared not to stop herself.

“Shit!.. Sorry.” Bellara exclaimed, making Fenrel flinch so hard that she slapped her own chest from the fright. Godsdamned Solas.

Fenrel and Harding glanced at each other, Harding darting her eyes from Bellara to Fenrel and raising her brows as if saying a silent “Do something!”. She shrugged, “What?”, but when Harding lightly punched her shoulder, she rolled her eyes and stepped forward.

“Um, Bellara, can I help?” Fenrel measured her movements when sneaking towards her, as if afraid that one wrong move might set this whole ancient Elven machinery off.

“No, no, I’ve got it. Mostly.” Bellara waved her off before attuning her gauntlet back to the device on the left side of Eluvian. Fenrel had no idea what exactly Bellara was doing, but she could feel the tingling on her skin as the magical resonance in the room shifted.

Three of them stood awkwardly around her, not sure what to do with their hands. None of the women in this room were used to being idle or waiting. That much was clear.

“Mirrors are funny things, aren’t they? Reflections, they distort reality.” It seemed like Bellara had finally lost it after a sleepless night and started talking to herself. “No matter what you try. And there’s the trick. Control that distortion and…”

The mirror lit up. It was giving off a low glow before, but now it shone like a full moon on a clear sky when you tried to sleep in the forest. Its usually murky surface shifted, bit by bit peeling off the translucent reflection of the room they were in, revealing a place beyond it.

“What is that place?” She and Harding said in an unison.

“If I had to guess, it’s the Fade. Another part of it, I mean.” Bellara shrugged, but her face beamed with excitement.

“Another part of the Fade? How’s that gonna help us? Morrigan said this thing should let us travel around Thedas, not around the Fade,” Fenrel scoffed, putting her hands on hips.

“Some of the older texts talk about a place in the Fade where all the Eluvians meet. A crossroads where you could travel across Thedas in minutes. Didn’t Morrigan call this Eluvian Vi Revas? As in “freedom of ways”? Maybe it’s the same?” Bellara mused when their talk was interrupted by an unfamiliar sound coming from the mirror.

Its surface rippled like a lake in the storm. The salt from the air they breathed washed away with rain. The atmosphere in the room shifted as if it was waking up. Golden decorative bits that were lying around the mirror and floating without cohesion started lining themselves into intricate patterns, the grandiose, almost religious feel of the room restored. They all marveled at the change, without noticing what had stepped out from the Eluvian. Or rather, drifted towards them.

A spirit? Fenrel was at a loss for words, trying to take in its shadowy shape. It seemed like a little cloud of black mist shrouded in clothing.

“It is alike. And it is not.” It said, clasping its gloved hands. Fenrel wondered if there were any hands in those gloves, and could swear she felt a headache coming on.

On the edge of her vision, she could see Harding bending toward the small dagger strapped on her boot. Fenrel softly mouthed no at her.

“What are you exactly? Where did you come from?” She asked, stepping closer to the shape. The spirit didn’t seem threatening, so that was a relief.

“The wolf’s fang… You carry it now…” It indicated the Solas’ dagger by her side, her fingers instinctively wrapped around the hilt. “Old paths… A new journey… Through there... I will wait.”

It disappeared into the Eluvian, and all they had to do was follow.

“Can’t tell if it’s a trap or not,” Neve said, everyone’s thoughts aloud.

“I don’t know Neve, that spirit didn’t seem threatening.” Harding objected, “It seemed… sad?”

“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.” Fenrel gave a poignant glance to Lace, to which she responded by poking out the tip of her tongue. Someone is in a better mood, Fenrel thought to herself.

“Well, it’s not like we have any options.” Neve shrugged, stepping towards the glass that seemed more like water now.

Bellara lingered inches away from Eluvian, body weight shifting from leg to leg, her hands interlaced behind her back as if to resist the temptation to just push them through to the other side.

“Hey, um, I’ll stay behind. Someone has to make sure Eluvian doesn’t stop working.” Bellara said, her voice more monotonous than usual, that little anxious spark was gone. She looked at the mirror with a certain longing, and Fenrel knew she wanted to see the Crossroads more than any of them. But none of them could find their way back to the Lighthouse if Eluvian went dark. Fenrel told herself to remember to grab some of those serials she heard Bellara and Neve talking about as a consolation prize.

“We’ll try to drop by Minrathous - if it’s possible. Don’t wait up.” Fenrel winked at her, forcing a smile through her tightening jaw. Well, this is it. No way back. I need to go home. She took a deep breath, gave one last look at the team, and threw herself into the mirror, to be swallowed by its icy touch, pulling her into the unknown.

On the other side of the glass, they have found themselves on top of the stairs in a junction of winding stone paths. Ruins of ancient roads branching off and then breaking off. Twisting roots and branches devouring everything in their way, from gold-trimmed parapets to mosaic floors. Floating lanterns giving the place a calming blue glow. It seemed like most of the paths led nowhere now, broken down just at the start of them. She could see one on their right stretching out, ending in what seemed like a dock. The spirit that summoned them there reappeared, floating wistfully a few feet off the ground, the magic of the fade warping around it.

“Hello again,” Fenrel greeted it, stepping closer. “Who are you?”

“A Caretaker. I go where I am needed, dweller.” The disembodied voice sounded strangely comforting. Something about it felt like what being in The Lighthouse felt like. Homely. “Now, I am here.”

“And where is ‘here’?” She asked, still trying to get a grasp of her surroundings. Each branching path seemed to be decorated with signs that indicated where they led. She could see the eerie green glow and macabre skeletal statues speaking the tales of Nevarra, Elven hands reaching for the skies of Arlathan, and the towers of Minrathous high town drowned in fog.

“The Crossroads.” The spirit lingered as if waiting for an answer.

Fenrel looked around once more before turning to it. What a marvel, she thought. “Are we safe here? Or are we going to be swarmed by demons or whatever else is in the Fade?”

“The Evanuris hunger for the Crossroads. Their influence is spreading.” Spirit answered with a hint of deep sorrow in its voice. “Blight. Death. Madness. They send their minions to claim this place. The Crossroads are in a time of need, dweller. I cannot protect you.”

“You don’t have to.” She smiled at the spirit. If it was here to help them, it was only fair if they paid it right back. She knew that Varric would do the same. “If you’re standing against gods, consider us reinforcements.”

“Very well.” The spirit nodded, its shape flickering in and out for a moment.

“Now, could you please show us the way to Minrathous?”

***

“Gods must really want the Crossroads,” Fenrel sighed, wiping off the blood, sweat, and other unidentified liquids from her face as they finally walked towards the Eluvian that was supposed to take them to Minrathous. The road here wasn’t easy–Venatori were already doing gods’ bidding by pushing out spirits taking refuge out of what seemed like remnants of the city, and Crossroads guardians fought anything they seemed as a threat, which also included them. Ripping through Venatori felt like a good warm-up before coming back home until they landed upon a blight boil containing something the Caretaker referred to as “God’s champion”. They somehow fought it off, but not without a lot of screaming and dodging being involved. As its grotesque body exploded (courtesy of being frozen and then hit by the lightning) and its innards splashed over them, a shimmering ball of energy was left where it stood. The gods were trying to lock off the Crossroads and this monstrous essence opened their way forward, as instructed by the Caretaker.

Being drenched in bodily fluids and stinking of death was not the glorious return to Tevinter Fenrel had hoped for, but with its entrance a mere foot away she couldn’t contain herself. She had to step through.

One singular step through the shimmering cold, and she was there. In some cellar below Glandivalis square, by the sound of it. Muted sounds of seagulls crying out harshly over echoes of splashing water, smells of fried fish, filth, and mold lingering in the air. The sea breeze played with her hair as she set foot on the cobbled stone path of a sketchy back alley. Dock Town.

“The heart of Tevinter.” Neve sighed, walking up from behind. “Somehow, the beat of it always brings us back, doesn’t it?”

“Trust no one, expect the worst,” Fenrel said, sharing a knowing glance with her. “And we might just get by.”

They walked up the path toward the Shadow Dragon hideout without sharing another word. There was no silence between them as it was washed away with the ruckus of their beloved city. Harding grunted behind them with disgust–she never liked traversing cities, true to her Fereldan upbringing. Fenrel ignored the curious looks of passersby. She suddenly missed the hood she never took off in the past when wandering the city. Being called knife-ear or rabbit was an hourly occurrence and didn’t bother after decades spent in these streets, but she preferred not to be attacked from the back by more eager elf-haters.

She was well aware of what they looked like: a vallaslin-marked elf with streaks of blood running down the side of her face, white leathers unrecognizable, a one-legged human mage that seemed like she was dragged through the mud, and a fiery-haired dwarf who was somehow almost squeaky clean. Being an archer for Harding had surprising benefits, it seemed. For example, standing away and above splash radius. A few concerned templars seemed to want to stop the three of them but decided against it when one seemed to recognize Neve. Going through Minrathous might prove more interesting than anticipated with her on Fenrel’s side.

“Neve Gallus.” A familiar voice called out from the alleyway to the side of them. “You only turn up when you want news. Or you’ve got some.”

They stopped in their tracks and in an unprecedented synchronicity called back, “Hi, Tarquin.”

“You look well,” Neve added as they stepped closer.

“Could say the same about both of you.” He gestured at them, raising an eyebrow as if thinking of what carnage they went through. “But appearances can be deceiving.”

“Sounds like a story.” Neve retorted.

Fenrel chuckled, lightly touching her shoulder. “Or it might be just Tarquin being his dramatic self.”

“Just living ungifted in a world made for mages.” He looked them over, modified staff in Neve’s hand and dagger by Fenrel’s, and she could see that familiar spark of jealousy in his eye. He looked at her "Thought you'd be gone for good."

First, Fenrel heard the crinkling of leather before she saw a shadow on the scaffolding above Tarquin. “And here he goes", she thought as a cloaked shape dropped on two feet in front of them.

“Fen… Mercar, you are back.” Viper stood tall, his imposing frame taking up space in the now crowded alley. Even with his face half-covered by a masterfully crafted leather mask, she could see worry etched into it. She saw how the ligament in his temple tightened, as it always did when he clenched his jaw. The face was so familiar that even the smallest of details told her the whole story. He didn’t expect to see her, not yet. She wondered if he regretted sending her away, regretted their last conversation. She wondered if he ever missed her like she did in the first months away from his dear hands.

“Viper.” Fenrel straightened her back, looking away from his face. Putting her mask of levity back on, she rolled her eyes, giving him a cheeky smile. “Nice entrance. I go by Rook now.”

“It was always Ashur for you. No need to go for formalities now.” He reestablished eye contact. Viper and Fenrel stood staring down at each other for a moment. His eyes softened as he looked her over, and she wondered if he smiled under that mask of his, seeing the state of her clothes, blood staining her skin. It might have reminded him of better days. You should be angry. He discarded you. After everything you’ve done. The voice at the back of her head seemed unrelenting today. Neve glanced at them, raising an eyebrow. This moment will turn into a conversation. One that Fenrel would prefer to have right around never.

“Good seeing you both again.” Neve motioned to the Shadow Dragons.

“So, why are you back? Is it something about your work with Varric?” Tarquin was straight to the point, as always.

“We managed to achieve the “Stop Solas” part of the mission. But something terrible got loose when I-we disrupted the ritual.” She stood there with hands on her hips, unsure how not to sound insane while saying the next part. “A pair of Elven gods.”

“Gods?” Tarquin asked a bit too nonchalantly for her liking, but she carried on.

“They blighted a village in Arlathan through mass blood sacrifice. D’Meta’s Crossing.”

“There are Venatori whispers about that place,” Viper spoke up. “Now we know why.”

“That’s why we’re here. We need information.” Fenrel gave him a look that said “Cooperate with me once again, please”.

“What’s been happening in the city?” Neve asked, her eyes still jumping from Viper to Fenrel as if trying to solve a case.

Viper broke eye contact and looked at Neve. “Underground sacrifices, dangerous relics flooding the black market, the cult’s gathering power.”

“So, the good old Minrathous just being itself?” Fenrel said with a bitter chuckle. Some things never change, just get worse. “Except that the gods might be invested in those who want power, so it can’t be a coincidence. We have already encountered Venatori doing their dirty work. If gods offered our beloved cultists more power…”

“They’d sign the contract in Tevinter blood.” Viper finished her sentence. “We’ve been tracking a set of red lyrium relics and managed to obtain two of them. One is still out here, in Dock Town. If, for the sake of old times, you would help us with that, we would have a hand to lend in your dealings with gods.”

For the sake of old times. Fenrel nodded. “Consider it done, after you help us move a big ass mirror into your hideout and maybe lend us a change of clothes.”

“Deal,” Viper said, taking her outstretched arm, and pressing her fingers just a moment too long.

***

Once the Eluvian they came through to Minrathous was safely placed at the back of Shadow Dragons’ base and Lorelei, the owner of the pawnshop which served as a front for their hideout, finished fussing around Neve and Fenrel, they could finally take a moment. Viper and Tarquin further explained the details of the smuggled relics’ case and the emergence of red lyrium artifacts in the city as a whole. They needed to track down the last artifact from the set as they were worried it would attract more demons into Dock Town which was still recovering after the demon upheaval which happened during Solas’ ritual. Red lyrium from two recovered artifacts was removed, but they still resonated with the third one.

Their task seemed pretty straightforward and with that, they waved their goodbyes, promising to come back tomorrow to sort it out. After a day of chasing dark spawn, Harding’s incident, talks with Solas and Varric and finally finding her way home, there was nothing more Fenrel wished than the quiet of The Lighthouse. They walked through Eluvian with their hands full of supplies.

“You made it!” Bellara, who was from the looks of it, sitting on the floor and waiting for them, jumped to her feet as they entered from the Crossroads.

“We did. The Crossroads are not safe per se, but we have managed to go to Minrathous. No place in Thedas is safe from us now.” Fenrel lowered her voice in a threateningly joking manner, passing a bag of vegetables for Bellara to carry. “And we come bearing gifts.”

***

After dinner, Fenrel went up to the infirmary with a plate of steaming stew, the smell of herbs tingling in her nose. Varric was lying on his side, fast asleep. She could see his chest rising and falling, hand gently cradling his wound. Fenrel decided against speaking up and waking him, set down the plate, grabbed pen and paper, scribbling down “If you need anything, call for me”, drawing a little rook figurine in the corner. She slid the note under the remains of his mangled crossbow, Bianca, and made her way out of the room. Fenrel made sure to close the door silently, then ran down the stairs and out of the main building towards the kitchen.

As she approached the door she could hear Harding say, “Do you think she’ll be alright?”

“Eventually,” Neve answered, her voice with a note of sadness atypical for her stoic self.

Fenrel grabbed the doorknob and just before turning it she could hear Bellara add, “Things like these take time. But now she has us.”

When Fenrel opened the door, all eyes turned on her, conversation stopped in its tracks. She didn’t have to wonder what this was all about. The ritual site, Solas, Varric’s injury, and her being the new leader. All things that should have never happened. As if it wasn’t bad enough to think nearly every waking moment if her decisions would bring them doom, now her paranoia was confirmed–they were afraid of it too. She saw four mismatched mugs spread out on the table, a bottle of wine presented in the middle. One of many they brought back.

Neve grabbed it by the neck, stabbing through the vax seal, twisting the knife to open the bottle with sharp moves. “Minrathous is somehow getting worse every time I get back. Or is that just me?”

Whatever conversation they had before was over now. Fenrel sighed, dropping down into the armchair between Harding and Neve. She took the nearly overfilled glass Neve offered her. “No, not just you. Can anything in that goddamned city stay fixed for once?”

***

She finished the last drop in her glass. Was this the fourth one? She forgot what a bite some wines could have on her bearings.

“Hey, where does this wine come from? It’s hitting all the right places,” Fenrel stumbled over her words.

Harding grabbed an empty bottle that was lying next to the table, squinting when trying to make out writing on the label. “Oh…”

“Oh, what?” Neve leaned over Fenrel, who was now sprawled in her chair, head against the backrest, staring at the ceiling. She snatched the bottle from Harding, tripping over and awkwardly landing in Fenrel’s lap, waking her from her thoughts. “You won’t believe this.”

The label clearly read “Solas”. She had never visited the place and now she wondered if the bastard had anything to do with its name. Fenrel scoffed, “You gotta be fucking kidding me. "

“What is it?” Harding and Bellara squealed, now jumping on her too.

“It’s from a town called Solas” Fenrel rolled her eyes, with one hand gently guiding Neve, who was trying to get up from her lap, swaying. “The bastard is following me everywhere.”

“Can’t imagine having him in my head.” Neve fell back into her chair, fixing her hair and unbuttoning her shirt. All of this wine was really raising Fenrel’s core temperature when she thought about it, and as if mirroring Neve, she pulled off her jacket, sitting back down in just her undershirt and leather trousers. Her boots have gone a while ago. “Come on, do you ever just tell him to shut up?”

“As if that would work.” Fenrel opened another bottle, pouring the drinks out generously.

“Forget ‘shut up’. Have you tried throwing something at him? Might work better. “Harding proposed.

“Speaking of our favorite god, I have found something,” Bellara chimed in, standing up, and grabbing Fenrel by her armpit. “Let’s go.”

Fenrel stumbled around the table, struggling to gain back control of her legs. “Bel, what is it?”

“There’s a Fen’Harel secret we can uncover if we put our heads together,” Bellara pulled Fenrel towards the door, and without hesitation, Fenrel grabbed just opened bottle of wine and followed.

“In this state? Are you sure?” Neve called after them, but they could hear her metallic steps following. A detective could not say no to a secret.

Harding ran out in front of them, carrying a bottle in each hand. “I swear to the Maker, if it involves riddles, none of you are getting anymore. I’ll drink it all myself.”

***

“Three meetings, face-to-face, under the sky,” Fenrel murmured the riddle once more before she pushed the last statue into the correct position. A blue wisp rose from in between two statues facing each other and floated down towards the library, disappearing as it passed through the wall. “Well, that was a third pair. The door should be open now.”

They sprinted down the stair that wrapped around the side of the building from the balcony, where Bellara found the final set of statues. Fenrel threw the library door open, seeing that the crystal on the door on the left of it was glowing when previously it hadn’t. She rushed towards the door, stopping just in time before colliding with it. As she stood there, the circular stone moved out of place, opening the corridor behind it. She walked through it, hearing girls giggling not far behind. As she reached the door at the end of it, it let her in without hesitation.

The room was drowning in the warmth of a setting sun, provided by six floor-to-ceiling windows. The stone floor was laid out in oval patterns that seemed to pulse with the magic of the Fade itself, details on stone walls carved in with utmost precision. A grand piano with two rows of keyboards stood in the center of it, surrounded by Elven artifacts.

“Okay, I’ve gotta admit. This is kind of… beautiful,” Harding sighed behind her.

“Do you think he played?” Neve pressed down on a keyboard, and a dissonant sound left the instrument’s guts. Fenrel could almost wince at the pain it caused her musically trained ear. Her adoptive father, for all the good he did, also wanted her to be a bit of everything. He drilled and drilled into her head that for an elf to survive in Tevinter meant to outdo everyone in everything. Whether it was magic or music and it still might not be enough.

Fenrel spun on her feet, taking in the room. She stopped mid-move as she noticed the striking colors on the walls. Crisp lines and wolves. So. Many. Wolves. Whoever painted these had a good eye and a steady hand. Sharp and angular lines were dispersed with softer brush strokes, and high-contrast colors lay against washed-out shades, so different yet still harmonious. The room was a temple to discipline and artistry, each object placed with meticulous care.

“Huh, these remind me of those Solas painted in his Inquisition quarters.” Harding stood beside her, also looking at the murals. “Good to know that besides world-changing plans, he still cares about his art too.”

“Hey, Rook- “Bellara said before taking a sip straight out of the bottle. “Does he ever tell you anything nice? Or is it all doom and gloom, as you mentioned?”

“Mostly infuriatingly long silences, stares, and cryptic gloom.” She cut off and smiled to herself.

“Oh, so it’s all riddles all the time? Some things never change” Harding clicked her tongue, lost in her thought, as if recalling the days when she worked with him for Inquisition.

“Oh, yeah. Just with enough of passive-aggressive connotation to make me want to strangle him.”

“You know what that means, right?” Neve teased. “You are into him.”

Bellara and Harding burst out laughing. Fenrel stormed to the nearest window, grabbing it by the handle. “Maker’s breath, I swear I will jump out of this very window if I feel anything close to sympathy for that… man.”

Harding laughed so hard, that she almost snorted. “You think he would let you escape so easily?”

“Alright, forget Solas for a moment.” Neve hiccupped before snatching the bottle out of Bellara’s hand. “What’s the deal with you and Viper? Were you two a thing?”

Fenrel spat back up the sip she had just taken, red droplets staining her white shirt. “What? No! Well…”

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and wondered if they were becoming as red as the wine she had spilled. Fenrel smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. As much as she wanted to brush it off, the memory of his voice—sharp and unyielding as he told her to leave Minrathous—still echoed in her mind. She shook it off, returning her focus to the room, turning with that false grin towards Neve.

Bellara gasped. “You were totally a badass couple sneaking around Minrathous in your matching leathers, weren’t you? I think I saw an article in Dock Town Bell about his mysterious accomplice years ago…”

“You hid it from me for a year?” Harding jokingly poked her side, making Fenrel stumble away and sit down next to the piano and take the wine off Neve’s hands.

“You’ve all lost it. We worked together. Nothing more.” She rolled her eyes, taking another sip.

***

Fenrel stood up from the piano bench, swaying, fiery blood rushing from her head to her extremities. Bellara was fumbling with some artifact, mumbling to herself, while Neve sat behind her, her head on Bellara’s shoulder. Harding stood up from her position on the floor, wobbling, hands outstretched, as if trying to grab onto something to stabilize herself. She yawned between words as she spoke. “I’m calling it. If I stay here any longer, I’m afraid I’ll turn someone into stone by accident.”

“Yeah, we should move” Bellara tapped Neve’s arm, which lay on Bellara’s lap. “Get up, sleeping beauty”

Bellara supported Neve by the waist as they moved towards the door. Fenrel watched them go, her feet not-so-firmly planted in place. She supported herself on the piano hood, eyes tracing around the room, taking in every detail.

“You alright, Rook?” Neve called back from the door as Bellara tried to drag her away.

“Yeah. Go. I’ll find my way to the bed.” She didn’t turn to look at them as her eyes were locked on the stack of papers lying on the side table next to the piano.

As soon as the sound of their steps faded, she grabbed them; her butt falling back onto the piano bench. Her vision doubled as she tried to read the notes. No, not notes. Sheet music. The handwriting was sharp, precise, and ruthless to any mistakes. Annotations were scribbled in a tinier script that she couldn’t make out in her drunken state, but this song was a labor of love. That much was clear.

She shuffled papers in order, clumsily dropping some, grabbing them, and reshuffling. Once they seemed to be placed correctly, she breathed in deeply before her fingers brushed over the keyboard.

Her fingers were in the way of themselves, clumsy and clammy. “Come on, Fen,” she muttered, softly laughing at herself. “It’s just music. You know how to do this.”

Each time when the melody seemed to build and grow onto itself, it fell apart. Fenrel groaned. “Is this a duet? I can’t possibly play this alone.” She hit the keys in frustration, dropping her forehead and feeling the soothing cold of them against her skin. Fenrel closed her eyes for what seemed like a moment, but she could feel herself slipping away. She tried to tell herself to get up and get to her room, but her body was unwilling. As her breathing slowed, she was too.

***

Hair on Fenrel’s arms stood on end, a chill sweeping over her, followed by a shiver that wracked her spine. Groaning, she lifted her head, one eye half-open. She braced herself for the expected hangover, but the moment her parched mouth whispered a curse, she froze. Her trembling fingers gripped the edge of the piano, pushing herself upright as lacquered wood creaked faintly beneath her weight. “No, no, no,” she murmured to herself.

His voice, low, steady, and entirely inescapable, cut through silence. “Fenrel.”

She didn’t turn. Her white shirt, splattered with wine, clung to her skin. She could feel the edges of ragged ruins beneath her bare feet. Her hair stuck to her face, a mess formed by blood, sweat, and poor life decisions. She didn’t want to be observed, or seen, especially by him.

Solas now appeared before her, standing on the opposite side of the piano. His expression switched from unreadable to quiet astonishment in a blink.

“How?” Only one word escaped his mouth as he stretched out his hand towards lacquered wood. When he reached for it, his hand twitched ever so slightly, like the piano might vanish if he dared touch it. Slowly, he flattened his palm, pressing it against the surface. His eyes ran up and down the wood, inspecting it with meticulous care, and now realization hit her too. They are in his prison. With a physical item. A huge, tangible item. She somehow brought it here.

“Fancy seeing you here.” A smile tugged at her lips, forced confidence. She didn’t want to betray her confusion. It wasn’t a smooth one or even a wolfish grin. It was genuine, slightly lopsided, drunk. 

She could see his chest quickly rising and falling, his eyes still firmly planted on the piano, glancing at her only for a fragment of a moment before returning to the object. “This is not possible.” His voice was hushed as if his words were meant only for him.

She rubbed her temples, releasing a frustrated sigh. “Could we not do this? Skip the cryptic shit for once. My head’s spinning as it is.”

“Firstly, you are inebriated.” He finally locked on to her. The furrow in his brows faded, corners of his lips didn’t move, but somehow his expression resembled a smile.

“Glad you noticed. Now I don’t have to explain this marvelous visage.” She gestured at the state of her being.

 “And secondly,” He continued, ignoring what she just said in its entirety, “bringing physical objects here is not possible; I should know; I created this prison. And yet, here it is. How?”

She swayed on the bench, trying to control her expression. What did it mean? How did she do it if it wasn’t possible? He still stared at her as if trying to solve a puzzle and looking for a missing piece. She couldn’t let him linger too long, she thought, or he might just find something.

 “Maybe the rules are changing, Da Fen. Or someone’s changing them” She winked at him, her attempt to provoke a reaction from him clumsy but deliberate. Little Wolf seemed like a fitting name for a supposed beast who was locked in a cage that only she could open. “And here I was thinking you were too busy brooding and scheming to be the musical type.”

His jaw tightened, lavender eyes narrowing at the name she used. “Da Fen?” he echoed, the faintest flicker of irritation breaking through his composure.

“Fitting, don’t you think?” she said, playing up the smirk as she turned back to the piano. “Legendary Fen’Harel is locked in a cage of his own making.”

He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, his gaze fixed on her. “And what of you, Da’mi?” His tone was even, but the name hit her like the tip of a blade: sharp, precise, and unexpected.

“Little blade?” she repeated, faltering.

“Sharp. Unyielding. But you cut even when you do not mean to.”

Fenrel swallowed, feeling her heart stutter in her chest. The drunken haze wasn’t enough to dull the weight of his words. How did he know?

“And you’re insufferable,” she bit back, refusing to let him see how his nickname unsettled her. It’s just a coincidence, she told herself. 

She turned back to the sheet music she’d found before she drifted into sleep. She flipped the first page, her fingers still clumsy even as she tried to be in control of her every move. That wine was a mistake. Fingers ran over the keys, but her movements were awkward, the wine dulling senses and coordination. Even while the melody was haunting, like a whisper in your ear when you were trying to sleep, it felt incomplete, scrambled.

Solas watched her, his eyes narrowing. “You are playing it wrong.”

“I am trying my best.” She bit back, skipping a note yet again. “But it cannot be played alone.”

“That much is true.” He leaned in over the piano, now fully paying attention to her struggle.

“Why don’t you show me how it’s done then, Da Fen?”

“Clearly, your current state does not lend itself to precision.” He said in a slightly mocking tone but still moved closer.

Blood rushed into her cheeks as he neared her. Her pulse quickened, and she damned her body for feeling this way. Until now she didn’t notice the broad of his shoulders, how he towered over her, the lavender of his eyes stealing her breath. For a year he was a formless shadow in her mind, colored by Varric’s words. A scrawny, bald elf who loved the sound of his voice. Then why something closer to a mortal’s definition of a god stood before her? She knew he was beautiful the moment she saw him. Then why now it felt like it meant something more? No, Fenrel, you are just drunk and not thinking straight. She scorned herself, but as he took yet another step, her fingers slipped and broke the melody.

She straightened her back, and lifted her chin, hiding her trembling fingers between her thighs. “As in ‘you’re drunk’? Sometimes you could just say things as they are,” she scoffed, “and you’re impossible. Get off of your high horse for once and sit down. Play with me.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his gaze flicking from the sheet music to her. The tension stretched between them, taut and unyielding.

“If you insist, Da’mi, though I doubt you will find satisfaction in my assistance while inebriated.,” he muttered, stepping around the piano, his posture stiff as though he were bracing himself. “Dirthara-ma.”

May you learn. An old Dalish curse her mother said each time Fenrel chose to not listen to her. 

He passed her from behind and she was unsure if it was his leathers or skin that brushed past her shoulder. She kept her gaze locked straight ahead as he sat down, refusing to let him see her flustered. His thigh grazed the side of hers as he settled. Fenrel could feel his eyes on her and refused to look back, her fingers caressing the keys before striking the first note. His slender hands came into her view, joining the melody. Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest, a mix of drunken haze and something sharper, just behind her ribs, coursing through her.

She carefully made her way through the first line of the sheet, her fingers slipping from drunken clumsiness. Solas sighed, the sound weighed against her own breathing, the back of his hand lightly pushing hers back into position.

“Here.” She could see him in peripheral vision, his eyelids lowered, lashes almost brushing against freckles on his cheek as he leaned into the piano guiding the tempo. The melody began to take shape, tentative at first but growing steadier as they fell into rhythm. His hands moved with practiced precision, each note resonating with a clarity that bordered on haunting. Fenrel’s movements were uncoordinated yet earnest, their notes intertwining in an imperfect harmony that felt more like a conversation than music. It was calm and tentative, unlike any conversation they had, and when her fingers slipped again, he guided her back on.

“Your focus is… inconsistent,” He sighed, breaking her concentration. She had to will herself to continue playing as she barely turned and looked at him.

From this close, she could see the soft curve of his lips, the cleft in his chin so common amongst a man of power and charm, the barely-there scar of long forgotten injury above his brow. She wondered what he’d look like sitting in his music room, godly armor stripped. He smelled like fields after rain, earthy and oddly comforting, with a hint of incense and wood. There was a warmth to him she was previously unaware of–dangerous, unspoken, wrapping around her ribs, suffocating her. One she wished she didn’t see. One she hated herself for feeling.

As the melody grew, she forced her eyes onto the keys, but the warmth radiating from his body made it hard to concentrate. It’s just wine, you will be disgusted with yourself in the morning, she told herself as if trying to make herself buy into a lie. Heat rose in her chest when his eyes traveled down her side profile and she willed herself to look ahead and not let him know that she could see him watching her. As melody stilled, neither moved their hands from the keys.

“Solas?” She could not bring herself to use his titles anymore, and couldn’t blame wine on it. She turned to look at him and as suddenly as the sound left the vacuum of his prison, he cleared his throat, standing up and appearing back at the end of the piano.

“You should rest.” He murmured, his gaze fixed on the piano, not her. His voice softened, almost reluctant. “Distraction weakens resolve, and resolve is not something we can spare in a fight such as ours.”

As he stepped away, the warmth he left behind was both a relief and a loss Fenrel couldn’t name.

Chapter Text

When Fenrel woke up, she had no idea what time of day it was. It took her a moment to get a grasp of her surroundings. The music room. “Shit,” she said aloud, squinting her eyes at the light that threatened to blind her. She wiped off dried drool from her cheek and stood up, still swaying on her feet. She tried to tell herself that it was fine, it was okay, it wasn’t the first time she had to do a job while hangover, but the prospect of coming back to Minrathous like this was dreadful.

The memory of his guiding hand lingered in her mind, a stark contrast to the pounding in her head. She could almost hear the notes they had played together, and the warmth of his lavender gaze felt like a distant dream, making her feel even more isolated in the cold light of reality. As much as she wanted to believe otherwise, it wasn’t a dream.

“Fuck” echoed off the walls of the room as she came to understand that it wasn’t a dream.

Somehow she managed to drag herself into the bath, begging for the water to be ice cold. To her surprise, it was. “Thank you, Lighthouse,” she whispered to the walls, letting the cold wake her up. It didn’t resolve the terrible headache splitting her head in two, but now she could dare to move without fear of getting sick. As she dressed in her room, the hazy memory of last night haunted her steps. She swore she could smell rain and wood, and see him from the corner of her eye, a faint melody following her every move. But when she turned, she was alone.

She squeezed her eyes shut, reconsidering if she should do this. “Solas?” She whispered to herself, yet only silence answered. She could feel the magical buzzing of his prison running down her spine, but when she opened her eyes, she was still in her room. She was unsure if it was her own mind keeping her out, or it was Solas who was unwilling to speak with her after last night. She hoped it was the former, and feared it was the latter.

Fenrel exhaled, the silence around her feeling heavier than it should. If Solas didn’t want to answer, fine. She had more immediate problems to deal with—like dragging a half-dead team back into action. She squared her shoulders, smoothed her shirt, and stepped out of her room, headed for the kitchen.

***

“I am never drinking again” Harding groaned, tipping a cup, letting tea flow into her mouth.

“Uh-huh,” Bellara murmured, not lifting her head from the kitchen table.

“We still need to get to Minrathous and find that relic…” Fenrel tried to nudge them into action, to no avail.

Neve walked into the kitchen looking surprisingly well rested. Her hair perfectly combed back, shirt crisp, unwrinkled. She grabbed the coffee pot, pouring a generous mug, jumping straight into action. “I had a thought.”

“Ugh, have you tried having a hangover instead, like a normal person?” Harding bit back, still slumped in her chair, one hand cradling her temple.

Neve shot a glance at her and continued. “We have made contact with Dragons. But we need more allies. We need to find Eluvian that can take us to Treviso.”

“Wait…” Harding’s eyes shot up, as she had the same thought as Fenrel did.

“You want to fight gods with assassins? Antivan Crows?” Fenrel motioned at Neve in confusion. “What can an assassin do that we couldn’t? Sneak around?”

“Not just any assassin. Their most feared mage killer. The Demon of Vyrantium.”

“That’s a fancy title.” Fenrel smirked and motioned around the room with her hand. There were three mages in this one building, and Harding, with her new stone powers, could probably be seen as something in between. “Working with a “feared mage killer” doesn’t bother you?”

“As long as he doesn’t have a contract on us, we’re fine.” Neve shrugged. “The Demon got his nickname taking out blood mages and Venatori. From everything I’ve learned, the reputation was earned.”

“Was?”

“I never uncovered his real name and there’s been fewer stories the last few years.” She sighed. “But the Crows would know.”

“I guess we are visiting Antiva. Heard their cities are beautiful.” Fenrel said livelier than usual, tapping Bellara and Harding on their shoulders. “But first, let’s deal with Minrathous and their relics.”

***

Smuggler from Threads crime syndicate and Magister Bataris’ son Albin cowered on the ground before them, a red lyrium relic they were after in Neve’s hand. Fenrel didn’t know much about either of them, but she has witnessed magister Bataris arguing against Dorian and how in his head the abolition of slavery was too drastic of a suggestion. “The average citizen cannot be expected to comprehend the complexities of policy” he said, because in average Magister’s mind freedom was too big of a concept for a person who’s yearning for it. “It’s the way it’s always been”. Man stood proud as he defended slavery and she could feel the rage bubbling inside her young heart as she stood behind her father watching this circus. It was also the day she was introduced to Shadow Dragons. 

Now she could hear the all too familiar voice of knight-commander Lenos telling them that it was enough, followed by Magister Bataris. “My son is no cultist. He was completely misled.”

“Misled?” Fenrel scoffed, standing in between the magister and his son, raising her dagger. “He knowingly bought relics that summoned demons all over Dock Town. The relics Venatori seem to enjoy. But since it’s the poor people suffering, you want us to let the culprit go?”

Neve stood beside her, not letting the knight-commander go forward. “You know he is guilty. How much is the magister paying you?”

“Watch it, Gallus, or you’ll be charged and spend upcoming nights in prison.” He then looked at Fenrel. “And your status as a pet project of Mercar doesn’t mean much after his death. You should know that.”

Fenrel wanted to strangle the man. Pet project. She hadn’t heard those words in years, but now they choked her. Neve outstretched her hand across Fenrel’s chest, stopping her from jumping the knight-commander.

“We appreciate your help, knight-commander,” Bataris stepped around them, helping his son up while templars dragged the smuggler away. “Let’s go.”

“Nice try. The Venatori rise.” Bastard whispered while brushing past Fenrel’s shoulder.

“You’ll be charging me with what?” Neve asked the knight-commander with her aloof tone. “I tie something up and you undo it. Isn’t this familiar?”

“Save the sob story.” He scoffed. “We got the smuggler. Or do you want Bataris to release her, too?”

As he stormed away, Fenrel sighed. “Our job here is done. I fucking hate Minrathous.”

“Yeah,” Neve agreed. “But somebody has to save it from itself.”

The streets of Minrathous blurred past her eyes as they made their way back to the Eluvian. Fenrel barely registered the chatter around her; the templar’s insult—“pet project”—still rang in her ears, an old wound reopened. But there was no time to dwell on it. Treviso was yet to be reached, and Antivan Crows were to be met. She hoped gaining Demon of Vyrantium on their side would be easier than their road so far.

***

“Rook, are you sure about this?” Harding asked once again as the last of the Venatori dropped, bleeding out on the floor. Fenrel wiped off her dagger with the corner of her cape, glad that she got a black one a few days back when they visited Dock Town and that it was regular, non-dark spawn blood so she wouldn’t need to burn it. She usually didn’t go for up close and personal style of murder, but sometimes there was just not enough time or distance to defend herself in the usual means.

“Yes, Harding, I am sure.” She rolled her eyes as she strolled towards the dwarf. “We are already stuck in an underwater prison, so we might as well get what we came here for.”

“But working with assassins…” She wavered. “You know they kill people, right?”

“You did just see me stab a guy in the neck, didn’t you?” Fenrel stopped in her tracks and looked at her. If she knew Harding was queasy, she would’ve taken Neve with her instead.

“But they do it for money.” Harding pressed. Fenrel almost shot back that she wouldn’t mind getting paid with the body count they were stacking up, but decided against it. Whatever funds the Inquisition passed onto them through Shadow Dragons will have to suffice.

“We are fighting against gods. If it’s assassins that will help us, I’ll take it.” Fenrel approached the door Venatori were guarding, inspecting a curious red crystal that seemed to power a barrier between them and the next gallery. “Also, Teia and Viago seemed pleasant enough. Caterina and Illario, on the other hand …”

The crystal guarding the door broke under a little pressure of her power, the shimmering red of the ward fading away.

As they walked into the room, Harding and Fenrel were greeted by Fenrel’s quickest count of seven Venatori fighters. Space was too crowded for them to fight. The danger of being a lightning wielder lay in the proximity your loved ones stood in. Harding was too close. They couldn’t retreat. Fenrel sheathed her dagger, raising her hands in defeat. “We don’t have to fight. We’re just here for Lucanis Dellamorte.”

Guard raised his staff, pointing it to the ground. “Razikale, Dragon of Mystery. Lucasan, Dragon of Night. Hear your faithful call-“

Is he praying? Fenrel scoffed as she unsheathed both hers and Solas’ daggers from her thigh holders. If they were going down, she was bringing them with .

Before Venatori could finish his praises to the blighted gods, a flurry of dark leathers and purple shadows descended upon him. The first two fighters fell quickly. Fenrel stepped back as she watched the dark-haired man that attacked them from behind ram yet another Venatori in his buddies’ sword, grabbing the last one standing by his waist as if they were dancing and, in turn, snapping his neck.

Spirit wings sprawled from his back, furling themselves back into the man as he turned to look at the shocked onlookers who were Fenrel and Harding. She stepped in front of Harding, covering her with her body in case things went sideways. “I’m guessing you’re the reason we’re here.”

“Who are you? Who sent you?” Lucanis Dellamorte was a handsome man, despite the scowl and narrowed eyes he now displayed. His previously tanned skin looked washed out after a year of captivity, but his dark outgrown hair, bushy brows, captivating eyes, and thick like honey accent were the most Antivan thing she had ever witnessed.

“My name’s Rook. Caterina sent me.” Fenrel answered, putting her weapons away as a sign of good faith.

“Caterina…” He said with a certain pang of sadness in his voice. “But… you’re not a Crow.”

“I’m someone who is fighting gods and needs a demon, so I’m breaking you out of here,” she gestured around the room. She looked him over for another second. Everything about those wings he just hid away indicated that they were of an unnatural, twisted sort. “And you’re actually possessed. I thought it was only a fancy title.”

“It’s complicated.” He shrugged.

“Caterina promised us a mage killer if we broke you out of here. I see you can still work.” She pointed her chin towards the bodies at his feet. “More Venatori are on their way. We need to move.”

“They have a vial of my blood. They can use it to control me. “He said, his eyes softened as if begging for help. “I cannot leave it in their hands.”

“Okay, let’s do that, and you can tell us the rest on the way out.”

As they walked out, Harding pulled her back by the elbow, whispering, “Rook, you can’t really think that this is a good idea. He is a possessed assassin.”

“And I was a wanted criminal in Minrathous. Whatever it takes to bring down blighted gods.”

***

Bloodied and wet, they made their way back to the Cantori Diamond. The headquarters of The Antivan Crows operated from a casino, which surprisingly wasn’t closed shut when Antaam, forces that had split from Qun invaded the city. Even under Antaam's occupation, the city functioned surprisingly well, as if little had changed. If not for Qunari soldiers roaming around, guarding buildings of greater importance, and performing random checks on citizens they deemed suspicious, you could scarcely believe that any sort of military confrontation had taken place. Well, mostly because it didn’t. Antiva didn’t have a standing army and Crows had to play the long game to regain control of their city. Fenrel couldn’t believe she was getting herself involved in the politics of another country, yet there she was. They passed yet another canal and stopped before the back entrance of the Cantori Diamond. Lucanis stopped, as if scared to open the door.

“Lucanis, are you okay?” Fenrel approached him, lightly touching his shoulder.

“Rook, Caterina asked you to bring her grandson back. I’m an abomination. She cannot see me like this.” He turned and looked at her.

“Lucanis…” She did not know what to say. He wasn’t wrong about the abomination part. There was no playing around it. “You’re still her grandson, despite your condition… And I have a contract to fulfill.”

“Spoken like a Crow.” He answered with a wry smile.

Once they made it inside, there seemed to be some sort of chaos happening that they intruded upon. Many of the crows turned their heads, following them as they ascended to the top floor with low whispers. Illario, Teia, and Viago stood in the meeting space with their backs turned. The room looked like a hurricane had passed through. There was no way to sneak up on the three assassins. Teia gasped as she looked at Lucanis. “Maker…”

Shock passed through Viago’s face, he looked as if he had just seen a ghost. Well, technically he did, since the Crows believed Lucanis to be dead for a year now. “Lucanis?”

“What happened here?” State the room didn’t go past Lucanis’ trained eye.

“A message.” Illario banged on the table beside him with his fist. Force of his fist lifted the papers around. “From Zara Renata.”

The Venatori mage who forced a spite demon inside Lucanis. A Woman who tortured bodies upon bodies, one spirit after another to create new kinds of abominations. It was a miracle Lucanis made it through when so many didn’t.

“I can’t believe it. You’re home.” Illario approached Lucanis, placing his hand on Lucanis’ shoulder. Lucanis pressed down on his fingers, which reminded Fenrel of her and Varric.

“Zara… Her people got this close?” Lucanis asked his cousin.

“Revenge for the breakout, maybe?” Fenrel suggested.

“Where’s Caterina?” Lucanis walked around the room, taking in the situation.

“She’s…” Teia’s voice shook as she lowered her head, fiddling with her trembling hands.

Viago took hold of her shoulders in supportive familiarity. “The Venatori got her in the confusion.”

How could this be? They broke Lucanis out only mere hours ago, and Venatori managed to break the crows in an unprecedented manner by killing their First Talon. “Someone killed the First Talon of the Crows now? After the gods escaped? That’s not a coincidence. I’m so sorry, Lucanis…”

The Crows quickly got into arguing about whether gods and Zara Renata had anything in common, whether it was all because of Lucanis's prison break, and about Lucanis leaving the Crows to join the fight against gods. In Fenrel’s mind, Zara Renata was just the person that the blighted gods would seek out. Blood mage drunk on power, willing to cross any moral boundaries to grasp it. If god offered some of it to her she wouldn’t blink twice. Hunting her down wasn’t just a matter of revenge for Caterina’s death, but also a matter of weakening the gods’ influence.

The argument died down once Lucanis proclaimed that Caterina’s deal with Fenrel was the last contract she made and he would fulfill it, for better or worse. After all was said and done, Fenrel’s team had gained a demon on their side.

***

“Good morning, Rook,” Fenrel jumped at the voice, turning to see Lucanis leaving his room. Well, he called it a room, but it was actually their pantry.

“Oh, the Maker!” Startled, she dropped her coffee mug. She was so deep in thought about Solas avoiding her, she didn’t hear him come in. Ever since the duet, Solas didn’t appear in her dreams. When she called for him, nothing happened. Was he avoiding her? “Lucanis, you shouldn’t sneak on people like this”

“Oh, I can’t help it. It’s just a part of Crows’ training.” He shrugged, before his voice shifted, Spite interrupting their conversation. “Smells like burnt coffee and grief.”

Hearing Spite, a demon inhabiting their resident killer, was still weird to Fenrel. Demons usually were something she tried to dispose of as quickly as possible, but with Spite it was impossible without hurting Lucanis. They were forced together during his stay in the prison. It was a most peculiar thing—normally, demons possessed unwilling hosts, it was unheard of for both demon and person to be forced into co-existing. Bodies they’ve seen while traversing The Ossuary, the underwater prison where Lucanis was held, suggested that not many survived such harrowing experience. Lucanis Dellamorte must have been a man of indomitable spirit, which Fenrel admired.

“Yes, Spite, I, unfortunately, do not possess the coffee-brewing skills that Lucanis does.” She grabbed a mop to clean up the mess she made.

“I’ll make you a new one.” Lucanis gestured to the spilled coffee.

While Lucanis’ was busy with that, Fenrel watched carefully, trying to understand how this feared mage killer had become their in-house cook in the few days since he had been here. Upon arriving at the Lighthouse, he took one look into the pantry and the state of the kitchen before inquiring about cooking arrangements for the team. Truthfully, all of them except for Bellara didn’t do the best job at taking care of those needs—Neve seemed to function only on coffee and overthinking, Harding ate the oddest combinations possible that no one dared to question (Ham and jam? Maybe it’s just a Southern meal, an acquired taste) while Fenrel tried her best to follow Bellara’s instructions and failed miserably.

Upon hearing this, Lucanis quickly struck a deal with Bellara to cook on shifts and be responsible for keeping the team safe from starvation.

“Rook?” Lucanis’ voice cut through her trail of thought as he placed a steaming cup in front of her. “In a couple of days, I need to get back to Treviso.”

“Is something happening? They found Zara?” Fenrel perked up in her seat.

“No… There are preparations to be discussed. For Caterina’s funeral.” Lucanis said. “I would like if you accompanied me.”

“Oh… right. Yes, of course.” She found it hard to see him so upset yet trying to hold it together. Not being able to sleep due to fear that Spite might try to take over his body didn’t help. She wondered if there was anything she could do to take his mind off things. “I was thinking of going to explore the Crossroads today if you would like to join.”

***

“How’s Spite feeling in the Crossroads?” Fenrel asked Lucanis as they, together with Bellara, boarded Caretaker’s boat.

“He says he can feel a lot of spirits around. The veil is thin here.” Lucanis looked over the edge of the boat as they floated through the air towards remnants of what Caretaker called the Converged City. “Though he is being antsy about trying our wings here.”

“Would you trust him to, though?” Fenrel smirked.

“Absolutely not. He would kill us both.” Lucanis shook his head. Fenrel loved to hear antivans talk. No wonder Antivan Crows were most written about organization in romance serials with their allure of secrecy, murders, good wine, and magnetic people.

As Bellara and Lucanis got into planning dinner for that night, the boat reached the dock. They passed through the heart of the converged city, now full of spirits that were no longer frightened by the Venatori lurking around. Crystalline wisps played around, sometimes getting close, as if inspecting the visitors. Spirits chatted among themselves, sharing knowledge, memories, and jokes. A refuge was restored and Fenrel finally felt like they had achieved something.

“Let’s go through the left. We haven’t fully checked what’s out there yet.” She called out to Bellara and Lucanis, who were deep in discussing the specifics of cooking paella. Fenrel walked ahead, down the stairs. On the side of them, she could see an archway, vines wrapping around the stones, and an eerie green shimmer surrounding it.

She could feel a chill run down her spine. The magic here felt weird. Wrong. But familiar. Like something that was meant to be forgotten, but couldn’t be. It felt like it was pulling her closer, and she stretched out her hand to the veil before her.

“Rook, this magic is weird,” Bellara stated the obvious.

“Yeah.” Fenrel sighed, retracting her hand. “But it doesn’t feel threatening. Just odd. We should check it out, still. Just in case.”

She steeled herself before walking through the archway. As she walked through, she instantly stumbled on a slippery slope that led down to some sort of entrance. She could hear Bellara gasp as she too fell and slid towards the end of the slope. As Fenrel made a hard landing, she found herself in front of a spirit, cowering next to the door.

“You’re awake!” Spirit sighed with relief. Something deep down Fenrel muted like a whisper, told her that the elf before her was named Tarasahl. “How’s your head? The guards really knocked you about.”

“Well, it’s…” Fenrel looked at the woman, confused. Did she think she was someone else? Who was she seeing?

“Do you remember our mission? Ghilan’nain’s lab?” Tarasahl pressed. Fenrel now didn’t have to wonder where the door led to. “The Wolf sent us to infiltrate her testing grounds.”

The woman looked beaten, but she didn’t appear to be confused. She looked at Fenrel as someone looks at a person they know well, a friend, comrade-in-arms. Clearly, for her, it was who she saw. Fenrel decided to play along and nodded.

“Things didn’t go… perfectly to plan.” She said, lightly touching the bruise blooming on her cheek, right above the cut lip. “But the Wolf smuggled in help: a key. If you can fight, take it and we’ll run for it. Just be ready for whatever that witch has in store. ”

Fenrel took a key from Tarasahl’s outstretched hand, unlocking the heavy door into Ghilan’nain’s lair.

“Rook, are sure about this? This is all weird…” Bellara lingered around, watching the door with uncertainty.

“Spirit thinks I’m one of Solas’ agents. And if this is Ghilan’nain’s lab, it might give us clues to the plans of the gods.” Fenrel shrugged, pushing on the door. Then a thought dawned on her. “Do you think we’re seeing Solas’ memory? Is that even possible?”

“Well, we are in between the Fade and Waking world, and certain things like memories could implant themselves in this space if tied by powerful emotions, I guess?” Bellara faltered.

“That’s as good an answer as any. Let’s go.”

“We’ll move faster if we split up. See you ahead!” Tarasahl ran through the door, leaving Fenrel behind.

Fenrel, in her own right, motioned Lucanis and Bellara to follow as they entered the dark, moldy dungeon, clearly ancient Elven built. She could see the blight boils pulsing around the vast area, their signature red washed out by veilfire torches lighting the room. As they walked in deeper, boils started moving, shifting, birthing dark spawn from every pustule.

“Mierda,” Lucanis swore before Spite unfurled their wings and they dove into the fight.

Without Neve to control the battlefield, Fenrel found herself taking her stance, using chains of lightning to subdue multiple ghouls coming their way, letting Bellara zap them away with her bow. A mage with a bow was a novelty, Fenrel had to admit that. But a fun one. She almost regretted not coming up with such an idea herself. No matter how many deformed creatures fell, more crawled out of the boils. They were multiplying. Just like the blight started doing after the Gods escaped their prison. If this was Solas’ memory… It wasn’t a new thing. They brought back their old creation. The gods were weaponizing the blight. Fenrel could feel her heart beating franticly against her ribcage as she threw one round of lightning after another. They needed to win now. Her powers were to weaken if not given a break.

“Destroy the blight boils! They create new dark spawn!” She yelled at Bellara, opening her way toward the blight.

And then the dark spawn to the right of Fenrel exploded. The force threw her back, hitting her head against the stone floor, drowning the world in darkness for a moment. In a flash, a ghoul was over her and she barely managed to raise her hands to deflect it away with her power. “Bellara!” Fenrel screamed across the room.

“I’m trying, Rook!” Bellara shouted back, firing away at yet another boil. Only then Fenrel had realized that Lucanis was lifting her by her armpit.

“Fight’s not over, Rook.” He tapped her shoulder before diving into the last pile of dark spawn coming from the remaining boil. When Fenrel ran after him, raising her dagger to conduit her power through it, she felt wrong. When she blinked, she was still in the basement, but not this one. She could see bloodied tiles, rotten and fresh corpses, their pungent smell assaulting her senses, but when she blinked again, she was back with her companions, knee-deep in dark spawn guts.

The wave was finally defeated, and she could see her hands shaking. Lucanis grabbed her by the shoulder as if he had registered her distress. “Rook, you good?”

Fenrel shook her head. “Yes, it’s fine. Let’s move.”

Without a word, Bellara passed her a lyrium potion. “Just what I needed, thanks” Fenrel grabbed the vial, feeling better once the lyrium cursed through her veins. The fight against the blight will require way more of these, she thought, shaking off the magical exhaustion. She knew she had to sleep better and reserve her energy between their outings, or she’d burn herself out and become susceptible to possession, but there was little leeway in the situation they found themselves in. Even more, when she found herself restless ever since Solas stopped appearing in her dreams. She did not anticipate feeling out of place without his presence.

They walked deeper into the basement, just to be greeted by what seemed to be surprisingly advanced laboratory equipment and… bodies. Bodies were laid out on the tables. Bodies piled in the corners. Malnourished, broken, bloated, mummified and fresh. As Fenrel walked through Ghilan’nain’s lab, she couldn’t shake the weight of the memory pressing against her chest. It wasn’t hers, but it might as well have been. If Solas carried this—if this was what shaped him—what else was he hiding behind those careful words and tired eyes?

The stench rose with bile in Fenrel’s throat, which she forced herself to swallow. She could feel cold droplets running down her back as she tried to stop herself from shaking while simultaneously hyperventilating. Breath hitched in her throat as if there was both too much and too little air. Stone walls of the laboratory were closing down on her and as she pressed her eyes shut, she did not escape it.

She was back in Tevinter, a slaver encampment on the outskirts of Vol Dorma, on her first official mission as reconnaissance team leader for the Dragons. She was supposed to infiltrate the camp and uncover how many people were held there. There were none. They were too late. All they found was the carnage, blood splattered walls, flies buzzing over corpses. The imagery of suffering was so vivid that back then, she couldn’t help but throw up. Focus on the mission. The voice, unlike her own, brought her back to Ghilan’nain’s lab.

Fenrel managed to get a grip on herself, and while her vision was still shaky, she tried to take this obscene scenery in. “Ghilan’nain was experimenting with... Blight? Dark spawn? It seems to have infested her lab.”

“We should find our way out of here,” Bellara said in a hushed tone, carefully looking around.

“If this is a memory… Do you think Ghilan’nain is around somewhere?” Fenrel wondered out loud. “If so, we need to get out—fast.”

Further in, they found a staircase, and at the top of the stairs, she could see Tarasahl facing a familiar silhouette. Fenrel stopped in her tracks when she recognized who it was. Sun-kissed light brown hair falling to his shoulders, shaven sides, so different, yet the same. Solas stood proudly, talking with his agent as he turned to see her approaching. Fenrel felt like a naïve child, disappointed not to see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. This was not her Solas. This was someone from another time, someone who was yet to meet her ages later.

“Wolf? You came for us?” Tarasahl sounded surprised as if she did not expect such… Honor? “Your key was enough.”

“This unnatural corruption demanded my personal attention.” He answered, briefly looking over his agents. “It is… strong. It has already blocked the escape route I had planned. We will need to find another way to the surface.”

“We should split up and find it.” Fenrel could feel her lips moving, the lovely voice of a girl much younger than she was escaping her throat.

Solas looked at her and nodded. When he spoke, his voice had a slight shake in it. “I will destroy whatever corruption I can. You must cut through these monstrosities before Ghilan’nain unleashes something worse.”

Just as his words echoed off the grimy walls, he and Tarasahl faded out of the memory, opening the path forward.

“Solas sounded… rattled.” Fenrel breathed out, looking through the open door into the next room.

“Well, you know him better than us.” Lucanis shrugged, preparing his daggers for unseen enemies.

“Don’t remind me,” Fenrel murmured, unsheathing her weapon and striding forward.

What they found was the pentagonal room, with a door on each side and a statue with a lever to open them. Ugh, puzzles, Fenrel thought to herself when a voice interrupted their problem-solving.

“You see boundless creation, and choose to destroy it?” The voice was inside their heads, in the walls, the space between. It was suffocating and frightening, making them stand still until it passed. “Learn respect for the life that will succeed you.”

“It’s Ghilan’nain” Fenrel knew this voice as it had haunted her nights after D’Meta’s Crossing. “Let’s move.”

Luckily, the rooms were only filled with blight boils and not spewing any more dark spawn at them. They cleared them quickly until they finally found the door that led out of there.

“Free? And faster than anticipated. Perhaps you and your allies warrant more study.” Ghilan’nain’s voice echoed through their head again as they made their way up the stairs.

“Don’t listen to her,” Fenrel shouted through quickened breaths and could feel her mind slipping again, clouding her sight.

Her team was making their way out of the encampment when her mind was running circles, trying to figure out how could Dragons be this mistaken. She stopped in her tracks when it hit her. She raised her eyes from the ground to see what she feared. Their only way in and out was blocked. “There were never any live slaves here. They fed us the information. They wanted Dragons here. Prepare to fight.” They barely managed to grasp their weapons when the massacre began.

She forced her eyes wide open as a blood-curdling scream echoed through the halls of the laboratory.

“Tarasahl?” Fenrel sprinted down the hall, yelling back at Bellara and Lucanis. “We have to save her!”

“Wolf! Help me!” Her screaming sounded closer, but once they ran up the stairs, they saw her kneeling in front of a masked woman and then them both disappearing in a blind of the moment.

Though physically she was whisked away by the figure, her shrieks of anguish and pain were unrelenting. “My blood. I’m burning up…”

They have finally made it outside, just to run into more dark spawn. Fenrel gritted her teeth, determined not to stop until they reached her. When her spells hit one dark spawn after another, when her body clashed with a Hurlock, her mind flashed between here and then. One moment she was being splattered with blight goo, the next she could feel a coppery taste in her mouth as blood spurted from Venatori’s neck as he fell on his knees in death before her. Tarasahl’s screams merged with the screams of a young man. He was a new recruit. The day they left Minrathous for the encampment was the first time she saw him. Even when her mind returned to the present moment, she could see his body twisting unnaturally under the blood mage’s control across the battlefield.

“I have to save her,” Fenrel grunted, lifting the dark spawn into the air and smashing it against the wall. She had to get to her. She will not let history repeat itself. Losing her sight between merging memories, she lost the understanding that the past was already decided.

She ran towards Tarasahl, laying on the floor and grasping her side, her moans piercing the silence that blanketed when after last of the dark spawn fell. Solas was already kneeling over her as a woman who kidnapped Tarasahl stood on top of the stairs as if watching a pathetic play.

“You would unleash a blight on this world and call it a masterwork!” He screamed at the woman. “You, who were the most sensitive of us…”

“All that I am belongs to the pursuit of creation.” A woman’s voice rolled over them like a warning. Ghilan’nain. Fenrel’s mouth fell agape, seeing how normal she looked. She expected the tormented divinity, but all she could see was a masked woman, no more godly than she was. “You chose to constrain yourself. I must climb to the heights only understood by gods. I go now to join them.”

She turned and vanished without letting Solas say another word.

“Wolf…” Tarasahl gasped, holding onto the wound at her side. Blackened blood pooled beside her. She was blighted. “You are greater than any of them. Please… Help me…”

Fenrel dropped to her knees, the vision blurring her sight. It wasn’t just Tarasahl—it was the young man from Vol Dorma, his wide, terrified eyes staring at her in accusation and a desperate plea.

“Help me…” Their voices echoed as a symphony twisting her guts, making it hard to think. She peeled her eyes off the victim, forcing herself to ground herself with the presence of Solas.

“Come on, be the god she needs… Help her.” Fenrel pleaded with the young Wolf who had set his eyes on his agent.

“I am so sorry I failed you. There is only one way I can help you now.” His voice trembled, but he didn’t turn his eyes away from Tarasahl.

“Wolf…” His agent sighed, her breath short and hitched. Her fingers trembled as she tried to reach out to Solas, lips twitching from held-back moans of pain.

As Fenrel looked back at her, she was once again on the bloodied Tevinter soil, on her knees, trying to calm the whimpering boy, his eyes wide from fear of the upcoming death. “Kata, I can’t… there’s nothing…”

“But you’re a mage,” He gasped, blood now dripping from his shaky lips.

“Go, your work here is done. There is no need for you to witness what I must do.” Solas’ voice dragged her away from the vision, but she couldn’t shake it anymore.

One moment it was her hand with a blade, sinking into unwilling flesh, drowning her wrist deep in unrelenting blood that gushed out. The next slender, familiar fingers were pushing onto the chest of an elf that still pleaded for the Wolf to save her, even as his power meant to end her suffering. Fenrel felt hot tears rolling down her cheeks, invisible hands choking her, and when she looked up, Solas and any trace of the laboratory were gone. She wasn’t on the ground; she was standing between Bellara and Lucanis who looked upon her with worry. Only a blue crystalline statuette of the wolf stood before them, as the only proof that anything happened at all.

“Rook?” Bellara approached her from behind carefully.

“It’s over.” Fenrel wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, regaining her composure. “Solas destroyed the lab, the blight… and lost his agent.”

“He wasn’t just her leader, he was her god,” Bellara said. “She asked for help and this was her reward?”

***

Fenrel sat on the edge of the sofa, cursing the gods she didn’t believe in for not replacing it with a bed sooner. Exhaustion pulled at every fiber of her being. Memories of the laboratory still clung to her skin, like something sticky she couldn’t rub off. The sights and sounds were still blurring the lines between past and present. She barely had the strength to kick off her boots before collapsing into the cushion. This was the only night she was glad Solas had stopped visiting her. Sleep claimed her quickly, but it didn’t feel like a peaceful fall, more like a harsh pull into the unknown.

She found herself in a familiar place—all colors stripped, ruins under bare feet. A presence loomed behind her, and she didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Solas,” she murmured, her voice weighted down with fatigue and a tinge of bitterness. “You finally decided to show up. Thought I have scared you off.”

He stepped closer, emerging from the shadows. The chasm between them was reopened. He could deny avoiding her all he wanted, but could not stop putting physical hurdles between each time she made him feel anything. She wondered if she could close it.  She brought a tangible item in here, what’s to say she couldn’t manipulate the space further? She tried to focus, but it felt as if the space itself was pushing against her will. Fenrel gave up and looked at him.

His expression was guarded, his eyes unreadable. “I have been here, Fenrel, though not in ways you could perceive.”

“Convenient. Always lurking, never facing..” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “I have been calling for you, you know.”

He stared her down for a moment, not taking the lure. His expression shifted as if he was trying to find the correct words.

 “I saw your memory.” His gaze bore into her.

 “What?” Her breath caught as she felt the dizzying panic from before rising up again.

“The one you relived in the laboratory,” he said, his voice soft yet heavy. “I witnessed the horrors you endured. The cruelty, the suffering. It was not my intention to intrude.”

She couldn’t bear looking at him. How could he? “You had no right.”

“I did not seek it. Our connection is… deeper than I anticipated,” Solas replied, stepping closer to the edge of the chasm. “But it was laid bare before me, as mine was to you.”

 “You think sharing trauma makes us equals?” Her fists clenched. “You think I want you to understand me?”

“Understanding is not a choice, Fenrel.” Solas’ voice hardened. “It is a consequence of our connection —a bond neither of us fully controls.”

 “Connection?” A bitter chuckle escaped her lips. “You mean this twisted rope you keep tugging on when it’s convenient for you? Rummaging through my pain, using nicknames I haven’t heard in decades? You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“You know, deep down, that we are more alike than you care to admit.” His jaw tightened.

 “Alike? You’re a god treating my world like your vanity project.” Her laughter was bitter. “I’m just trying to survive through it. Unlike Tarasahl. She trusted you and look where it got her.”

“You rage against me to avoid facing the truth,” Solas shot back. “Own your fury, who are you truly angry at?”

“You could have saved her. She believed in you!” She yelled back, tears threatening to close her throat with a sob. “I should’ve…”

“There it is.” His gaze softened; he almost looked apologetic. “You cannot escape this. Leadership demands its toll, and grief is its inevitable price.”

“I cannot do this again.” Soft sobs cut through her words despite her struggle to appear strong. She sat down on the edge, rubbing her eyes in anger and frustration at herself. “Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Do you know what that’s like? To be haunted by someone you failed? I cannot go out there and lose people. I was not meant for this.”

“I do. More than you can imagine.” He said softly as if he was afraid he would shatter her. “And yet, you fight with the same passion I once did. You carry the weight, even as it threatens to break you.”

 “I’m nothing like you.” Her hands trembled, sadness, rage, and confusion twisting inside her as she forced herself to stand back up.

“Perhaps not yet,” he said, “But the path you walk is perilously close to mine.”

She shook her head, tears held back by sheer will. “This isn’t about paths or destinies. This is about choices. You made yours, and they landed you here. I made mine when I ruined your ritual. And now I am stuck in this fight.”

 “Yes,” Solas nodded slowly. “Purpose can often feel like a prison.”

Fenrel’s breath was ragged, her heart pounding in her chest. “Get out,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of everything unsaid. She did not want to hear his musings anymore. What was the point of arguing with someone who always thought he knew better? “Leave me alone, Solas.”

“Do you truly wish for solitude, or is it just easier to push me away?” He asked softly.

 “Fenedhis lasa, Da Fen.” She bit through tears clouding her eyes. She didn’t have anything to throw at him, but at least she could tell him to go fuck himself.

Solas hesitated for a moment, then inclined his head. “As you wish.”

He walked back into the shadows, leaving Fenrel alone on the edge, the weight of their conversation pressing down on her. The dream dissolved, pulling her back into the reality of her room, but the echoes of their words lingered.

Chapter Text

SOLAS ’ POV

Solas stood at the edge of the landscape of ruination, his head bowed as a statue of a young, handsome man loomed over him. Known to many as the Slow Arrow, but to him, always as Felassan, looked down on him as if asking one more time how could he do that to him. Was everything he did for Solas not enough to be listened to and trusted? Solas didn’t answer the echoes of the voice that once followed his every step and lifted him when he was down.

 The vast emptiness of his prison stretched infinitely. Despite its isolation, the connection with Fenrel pulsed a constant tether that pulled at him, demanding his attention. He resisted the urge to reach out too often, but her presence was undeniable, an unyielding flame flickering in the darkness. It’s been weeks since she has willingly reached out to him. Their last conversation still bounced off the invisible walls of his prison and sometimes he found himself questioning if he pushed too far. He listened into the silence, grasping one of the threads holding them together.

He didn’t mean to intrude, but keeping tabs on the work her team was doing was essential, he told himself. Arlathan forest. He could recognize the ruins of the Elvhenan empire and his heart ached. He could see streets filled with people and laughter, now replaced by unfamiliar emptiness. Fenrel turned towards Elvhen artifacts expert, a bubbly, nervous woman named Bellara. He could often hear the echoes of their conversations, often revolving around the Nadas Dirthalen and Bellara’s work with Veil Jumpers. Some nights, they spent their time in front of the fireplace in the communal kitchen, Fenrel’s voice unsure as she tried to repeat long-forgotten Elvhen words Bellara tried to teach her. Fenrel’s pronunciation was lacking in precision, but not in heart.

Now they stood upon the balcony, Bellara reminiscing about the accident that took her brother away from her. She spoke about how his sacrifice meant that she couldn’t allow herself to fumble. She had to carry on, better herself for the memory of him and the sake of Arlathan and their people. He could recognize the sentiment. Fenrel didn’t say a thing, just interlaced her fingers with Bellara’s, resting her head on her shoulder. He could feel the warmth radiating through this tether as if it were his own skin making contact.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Fenrel said, catching Bellara’s eye. “You can allow yourself to rest sometimes. We will help you. I will help you.”

He could hear the echoes of her thoughts following the words. There was a sadness in her she wasn’t even aware of. One she refused to acknowledge. One he carefully hid behind smoke and mirrors. Hearing the story of Cyrian’s death grasped onto her heart like icy fingers, but she brushed them off as her deepening care for Bellara. As he leaned into the warmth of Arlathan’s sun and an unexpected embrace, the connection broke, as it often did when she was away from the Lighthouse. The colors faded, and he was once again looking at the statue. The loss he brought upon himself. He could remember Felassan’s laughter. The way they stood shoulder to shoulder like Fenrel and Bellara did now. He turned and walked away, unable to stare at it any longer, yet he still felt its accusatory gaze following him.

***

It was yet another morning after a restless night for her. He could feel her mind tugging on their connection and then withdrawing at the last possible second as she slept, just as he could feel the atmosphere of his prison shifting. It always changed with her presence. The cold, uninviting vacuum of space he created to jail the worst of tyrants would suddenly feel like an embrace of a long-forgotten friend. He thought back to their last conversation. Upon looking at him, her mind tugged at the chasm between them, willing it to close. He wondered if she wanted to do so to test her limits in his space or to get closer to him. He did not want to know the real answer, so he pushed back once he felt the ground under his feet shake ever so slightly. She didn’t seem to notice.

Now she stood in front of the mirror, examining herself. He knew he should have turned away, disconnected, but could not help but indulge. Her fingers traced along wounds she suffered weeks ago, at the beginning of her journey, reminding her of the day she fought off the dark spawn to gain his dagger. Solas could feel the ragged outlines of the scar tissue as if he were the one tracing it. He willed himself to pull apart from her and watch from the side. Their connection was not as tenuous as he proclaimed. It was more complex than he anticipated when he shot his last desperate spell before being sucked into the prison of his making.

He could watch the world through her eyes, feel her pulse as if it was his own, and when she bled, he felt it as if it was him whose skin was ripped apart. He preferred watching from the side, trying to create a separation in the intimacy of their bond. Even if her tired fingers running through fiery locks or the dusty keyboard of his piano made him feel more alive. He couldn’t indulge. He didn’t deserve to feel this sort of normalcy. But he wanted to.

He stood by as she brushed through her hair, wincing at the sharp pain that pierced her side as she lifted an arm. So stubborn. She was always letting others get healed first and abandoning her own needs. Pushing through the pain, gritted her teeth to give a pleasant smile even if she felt like dying. There was bravery and there was the stupidity, but he was not sure which side of the line she was leaning toward. As she stretched to pick up her leathers from the ground, he could see the numerous marks etching her skin, some seemingly decades old. So it was the courage. She wore it like the finest armor and he hated to admit it. It would’ve been so much easier if she was merely a naïve child thrust into the life she was not deserving of instead of being the leader in the making. When she turned, she froze, looking straight at him.

“Solas?” she whispered to the empty room before shaking her head and murmuring to herself, “I’m really losing it.”

As she left the room, so did he, hidden back under her skin.

***

Treviso was a curious city, standing proudly in the face of occupation. Fenrel followed Lucanis to the casino his kind, Antivan Crows, called their base. It was an interesting but nevertheless smart choice. No better place to make suspicious contacts appear regular than a rowdy casino. Solas could grasp the edges of Fenrel’s thoughts as they constantly shifted. Sometimes she would catch herself looking at Lucanis’ side profile for a moment too long before quickly turning away. “Interesting time to think of the enrichment of the heart,” Solas mused to himself and could hear her berating herself for daring to think of it.

“The Venatori must be close,” Lucanis murmured as they walked into Cantori Diamond.

“How do you know?” Fenrel looked around, trying to see something, someone, out of place.

“The back of my eyes itches when there’s blood magic nearby,” Lucanis' eyes flashed purple just for a moment when he looked at Fenrel. Solas took it as a sign to be more careful with their connection whenever Lucanis was around.

As Antivan Crows planned the funeral of the First Talon, Fenrel stood as a grounding force, gently touching Lucanis’ shoulder in support. It was a movement Solas recognized as something that she did often, completely thoughtlessly. As if her hand acted of its own accord, giving away affection to anyone who needed it. Fenrel was one to keep her feelings close to the chest, but she pulled those of others deeper within. While her fingers mindlessly locked onto Lucanis’s shoulder, her thoughts ran, and her eyes followed. She was looking at Illario Dellamorte with narrowed eyes, growing suspicion in her heart. “How could he forget to bring Caterina’s ashes to her funeral arrangements? Why is he acting this weird?” She asked herself, a detail Solas didn’t pay enough attention to. Observant. Being a Shadow Dragon must have taught her more than just being brash with figures of authority and relentless fighting skills.

***

Solas sat amongst the ruins, watching rubble drifting around. His and her thoughts often mingled together, only acknowledged by him. She was tossing and turning under the sheets for yet another night. Her dreams were fragmented like a storybook cut up into a million pieces and scattered to the winds. He tried to grab onto one and focus on it until he found himself elsewhere. Sun was shining in the summer sky, the ocean breeze caressing his cheeks. It felt real. Too real. He recognized the coast he was standing upon. Rivain. A little girl was playing in the sand by his feet. He crouched down to her eye level, unsure of what to do next.

“Who are you?” The child asked curiously, tracing his features with eyes full of wonder.

“No one you know.” He answered, surprised at how soft his voice fell.

“Hey, leave her… me alone,” Fenrel strode towards him, her feet sinking into the sand. “What are you doing here? This is my dream. Are you even real?”

She looked at him with her eyebrows furrowed, then snapped her fingers before his eyes when he didn’t answer. “Solas, hey.”

So she could see him in her dreams. He wondered. “You think real Solas would show himself here?”

“No, of course not. I may be stupid, but I am not insane.” She rolled her eyes before turning away from him.

They both watched as the little girl let loose running across the beach into the arms of a man wearing Tevinter cloth. “Father!” She yelped, hugging him.

“I miss you,” Fenrel whispered just between the two of them. “I’ll make you proud.”

Solas’ eyes followed her as she walked after the father and the child, her footsteps disappearing in the sands of time.

***

Minrathous streets were dirty, just like he remembered. Solas had a general dislike of the Empire, but the filth and the desperation of this town didn’t help it. Looking through Fenrel’s eyes, it was different, livelier. Desperation became a genuine connection when she dropped a coin into a beggar’s hands, pressing on their fingers, inquiring if they had a safe place to sleep. The doom and gloom of town let in some sun rays as she brushed her fingers across the stray cat’s back, feeling it purring underneath her fingertips. On her trips to the Dock Town, she would often stop by food vendors, grabbing some meat she could share with abandoned pets.

She and Neve often discussed the situation in Tevinter, Fenrel, in support of throwing over the empire and starting over while Neve had a much more careful approach. She still believed the future could be rebuilt with words and good intentions. Fenrel would roll her eyes when she was sure that Neve wasn’t watching and think that Neve didn’t see the true web of slavery sprawling underneath the cobblestones that they walked on. Solas agreed. Tyrants did not care for words. Neither did they care about the suffering they inflicted. Eradicating those like them could never be a subtle process. He knows because he tried. He often wondered how many lives and spirits could have been spared if he had damned the subtlety.

Fenrel was hot-blooded and cocky. He knew someone like this once. He also knew that these kinds of people would always be needed, for better or for worse.

They walked from one newspaper seller to the other, Neve searching for clues of underground activities written in between the lines. They have finally reached the last seller, though it seemed he was dealing in a different kind of information than newspapers were spreading.

“Rook, this is Elek. Elek, this is Rook.” Neve motioned between the two.

“Charmed.” Elek took Fenrel’s hand, his fingers lingering longer than needed. “Could I interest you in crystals, premium quality potions? All the finest things for clients like yourself. ”

Fenrel has caught his eye, that much was clear. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment as she fixed her hair and gave him an easy smile.

“Anything from your secret inventory?” They stared each other down for a moment. Solas murmured under his breath, “Focus on the task instead of batting lashes at criminals”. She seemed to snap out of it as she realized that Neve’s watchful eye was on her, her focus shifting from Elek. Solas was sure she couldn’t hear him, or at least still chose to pretend that the voice inside her head was particularly grumpy these past weeks.

Neve cleared her throat, dispelling remnants of whatever hung in between Elek and Fenrel. They still exchanged one more glance. “This woman.” Solas sighed, considering retreating back to his prison.

Once Neve finished collecting the news from him, she ushered Fenrel to the Shadow Dragon hideout. “You shouldn’t be involving yourself with someone from Threads crime syndicate.”

“Neve, you worry too much. He’s handsome, that’s all.” She laughed, patting her back.

“That he is.” Neve smiled back.

***

If Dock Town streets were an unseemly sight, their underground was worse. Solas was glad that their connection muddled every sensation that was not directly related to Fenrel’s being because he could hear the swear words pouring out of her mouth and her thoughts running on how she would never agree to do jobs down here. The smell was eye-watering, and that was one of the things he could gladly miss. As he turned from their connection, a sharp pain suddenly pierced his side, throwing him back into the tether. Fenrel was pressed against the wall, her fingers grasping on the cold stone behind her, her breathing becoming panicked when she couldn’t grasp her dagger. Venatori who grabbed her buckled on his knees, ice shard piercing his chest. Neve stood behind him, her staff raised. She looked at Fenrel. “You were distracted.”

“I’m sorry. Not gonna happen again.” Fenrel sighed, pushing deeper into the obscured corridors. Next time, she was ready. But Venatori were quickly replaced by dark spawn.

He could hear Fenrel’s mind rushing through movements and events. “It makes no sense for Venatori and dark spawn to hide in the same tunnels and for Venatori to live.”

“Dark spawn kill all living things, right?” Neve inquired, blasting away yet another ghoul.

“Usually, yes, but I’m no Grey Warden.” Fenrel shrugged, sprinting to yet another horde. Solas considered yelling at her about self-preservation, but doubted she would care even if she could hear him.

***

They made their way back to Shadow Dragon hide out beaten, but with fresh information. Solas could question Fenrel’s methods, but couldn’t deny the results. Fight first, talk later seemed to always work out for her. One day she will learn to reach similar results without lifting a finger, he believed, for a second forgetting that the future was not promised. Not to her, unfortunately.

Viper thanked her for cleaning out dark spawn from escape routes they used for trafficking freed slaves out of the city. Even behind the mask, Fenrel could read his every move and Solas was becoming painfully aware of that familiarity. Whatever was between them, it was more than a pang of betrayal Fenrel said she felt. There was unresolved longing, anger, and heartache. All feelings Solas pushed away so long it felt unusual to have them mingling with his usual melancholy.

“It wasn’t just dark spawn. Venatori were there too. And they weren’t fighting each other. “She said.

“How is that possible?” Viper asked, visibly confused. “Dark spawn attack all living things.”

“You would think so. If Evanuris controlled the dark spawn and Venatori sought the gods’ blessing, it would be entirely possible that Venatori could control dark spawn now, too.” Fenrel shrugged. Pretend relaxation. Outward confidence. She loved to display those hands on hips, chin raised high, as if ready for a challenge.

“It’s good that you’re back. You know more about risen gods than anyone,” a Dark-haired man, her mind named Tarquin, interrupted. “Not surprising, since you technically set them loose in the first place.”

Fenrel gritted her teeth, holding back a remark. “What a knowledgeable idiot” Solas chuckled, surprised by her level of self-control, which she somehow always chose to abandon while talking with him.

“Now, now…” A middle-aged woman entered the center room of Shadow Dragon’s hideout. “Let’s not dwell on past mistakes.”

Maevaris Tilani. Recognition rippled through Fenrel’s mind and though she was nervous in the presence of this woman, she still thought to herself “Mistakes? I see no wrongdoing on my part.”

“Don’t you, now? How prideful of you.” Solas scoffed but turned his mind back to the happenings in the room.

“The cult has its hooks deep in the city. Venatori backers sit in the magisterium chambers. And now they wield the power given to them by gods.” Maevaris continued.

Fenrel nodded, not interrupting, but her mind raced. How was Maevaris already informed of all of this? What was her current involvement with the Shadow Dragons? A year ago, she would hear her name whispered in the halls. Still, she was nowhere close to the upper echelons of the organization to be privy to more information. She knew of a magister who was banished from her seat after opposing forces fabricated allegations about her. Perhaps, some of those were true, if she was mingling with Shadow Dragons.

“We’ll have to get along if we have any chance of surviving this,” Maevaris continued. Fenrel glared back at Tarquin, thinking how it was easier said than done. Solas murmured, “Play nice. Such alliances are fleeting and entirely too easy to lose.”

“And I know you, don’t I? Rook.” Maevaris looked straight at Fenrel, and Solas could feel her body shifting into a straight line. “I heard Varric stole you away for a job.”

“Yeah, after these two kicked me out,” Fenrel wanted to tell her, but kept her cool at the last moment. Instead, she asked, “You know Varric?”

“Oh, we went way back. I’ll tell you all about it sometime.” Maevaris gave her a gentle smile. “If Varric asked for your help, you must be something special.”

“I don’t think so”. Fenrel scoffed in her head. “He just has an obscene liking for lost causes, if events in Kirkwall are anything to go by.” She yet again swallowed her words, letting the former Tevinter magister speak of her troubles and new threats rising in the city. She didn’t spare many details, but Solas could hear Fenrel catching on quickly. A year away from Minrathous didn’t dull her senses concerning the plight of the Empire.

“The Shadow Dragons, and us, have a lot to discuss. But you, Rook, are expected at the Swan.” Maevaris told her.

“The Swan? Why?” Fenrel’s mind flashed with images of a dockside restaurant, where all the seedy deeds usually went down. If you needed to plan a secret meeting, there was where you would go. Solas found a secret meeting place this well-known counterproductive.

 “The First Warden is here to speak with you. It would seem that your scout’s messages reached him at last.”

“Thank you, miss Tilani.” Fenrel nodded. “Until we meet again. Bring the light.”

“Bring the light,” Maevaris responded, as Neve and Fenrel walked through the door. Bring the light. Words scattered all over Minrathous. Passphrase whispered among those who fought the evils of the empire.

Solas met some of those fighters while doing his research into Varric’s team months ago. He heard that Varric joined forces with a passionate yet troublesome member of Shadow Dragons, only referred to as “Wolf”. He found the irony at the time amusing. It took quite a few weeks to track down her real name, and now whenever he used it, she took it as offense. Rook was new. Rook was someone who hadn’t failed, someone who could carve out a new place under the sun for herself, and here Solas was, dragging Fenrel back into the shadows.

***

The place was empty if not for the few Wardens on the far side of the bar. While Fenrel was approaching them, she could feel the soles of her shoes sticking to the beer-soaked floor, the smell of lacquer on refreshed wooden beams, hear the faint buzz of the street and roar of the waves splashing at the docks behind flimsy walls of the establishment. She told Neve and Harding to stay back, wanting to show a sign of good graces to the First Warden. She knew she had to prove she was here to help and not step on their toes. She needed them to fight the blight as much as they needed her for insight into the Gods. Solas’ insight. She wondered for a moment if she should start talking with him again, but she didn’t know where to begin. Solas listened to her fractured thoughts, not daring to overstep. He knew she had to be ready to face him, and facing her inner turmoil was not something she was practiced at.

As she stopped in front of the First Warden’s table, he rose from his seat, towering over her in his gilded plate armor, and two guards took their stance behind him. “So much for good graces,” Fenrel murmured in her mind.

“I received word of your team’s request for Grey Warden assistance after an incursion of the blight at D’Meta’s Crossing.” He said, voice stern. He looked down at her as if she was a nuisance, and Solas could feel her clenching her fists as she steadied her breathing. She always did so when she could feel trouble coming. “You’re or were once a Shadow Dragon, I hear. A criminal organization of Tevinter insurgents.”

Fenrel shifted her weight on both legs from her preferred hip and straightened her back. If he had something to say about the only people who fought to right the wrongs of this rotten empire, he could say it straight to her eye. Solas smiled to himself at the audacity. Fenrel looked straight at the Warden, raising her brow in a challenge.

“I was not surprised to learn that you are wanted for numerous crimes, including theft, murder, and wanton destruction of property.”

 “Theft? You mean rescuing enslaved people?” She scoffed.” Murder? You mean Venatori cultists who enslaved those people?”

“And the destruction of property?” Warden now stared daggers into her.

She shrugged. “Just felt like it.”

“Fine.” He said. “All I want to know is how Minrathous crook unleashed the blight.”

“We’ve been tracking a mage named Solas.” She started, with memories of her first days with Varric flashing through her mind. The laughter, songs, sore feet after treks, campfire stories. Varric’s eyes, smiles, helping hands. Solas’ heart ached for a moment, recalling his days in Inquisition, nights spent sharing stories and laughs with the dwarven novelist. Fenrel snapped right back to the story. “He’s actually several thousand years old. In Elven stories, he’s known as Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, god of lies and tricksters.”

“That is a number of titles.” First Warden said.

“I had many more.” Solas mused, continuing to listen in.

“Well, Fen’Harel is Elven for “Dread Wolf”, so that only counts as one.” She said, voice laced with sarcasm. “But yeah, you’re not wrong.”

She stopped for a moment, thinking of how not to sound insane as she said the next words. “That’s going to be challenging, but you have my full faith in you,” Solas commented, despite knowing that she wasn’t listening. “Anyway, he wanted to tear down the Veil and restore the ancient Elven empire. We stopped his ritual.”

She could feel her ears and cheeks flushing, seeing the shift in Warden’s eyes. From indifference to anger.

“I did not come here to listen to fairytales. I am here because of the blight.” He scolded her like a child. “Such an ignorant man, incapable of seeing further than his nose.” Solas knew well of this type. There was little she could do to get through to him. Yet, she was still determined to try, even if she was already resigned to hating man’s guts. Solas smiled at her thoughts, filled with the filthiest of Tevinter's words as she tried to remain rational.

“It is not a fairy tale. Stop being a stubborn bastard and listen to me.” She walked towards the First Warden, pointing her finger at his chest plate. Playing nice was over. There were few things she hated more than Tevinter elitists, and those were people with their heads so far up their own asses… “When we stopped Solas, something got out. It was the Elven gods Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain. And they are not just tyrants. They’re blighted. The gods know how to manipulate the blight. D’Meta’s Crossing was just the start. It will only get worse if Grey Wardens do not help us.”

“I expected more politicking from remnants of Inquisition.” First Warden bit back. Solas didn’t know where he got a notion like that. Inquisitor Trevelyan was known for many things, except for the subtlety. Charming woman, with a mouth that could bite if not careful. “I see now that I was wrong. It is clear that whatever you did to unleash the blight has corrupted your already weak mind.”

“Okay, wait-“ Fenrel saw his guards moving and instinctually took a step back, her fingers brushing past the pummel of her dagger. She did not want to start a fight. Solas felt it from a tremble in her calf, and how unsure her hand hovered by the dagger before touching it. “You can still try to talk it out. You do have a knack for talking down your opponents.” Solas pressed at the back of her mind, to no avail.

“You will be taken to Weisshaupt and placed under heavy guard until the danger you caused by unleashing the blight passes.”

“Or not.”

Guards moved closer, and she unsheathed her dagger, still holding it by her thigh, though her body shifted into the fight-ready position. “You have to be fucking kidding me.” She snarled at the First Warden.

“I assure you, I am deadly serious.” He said, and Solas could feel power tingling through his fingertips as Fenrel prepared to make a stand. No one could take her against her wishes. Even if it meant more damage or property charges on her head.  

“I don’t have to time to stroke your- “ Fenrel stopped herself, but Solas knew all too well what she wanted to say. A faint smile passed across Solas’ lips. “-ego. You need to shut up and listen! The threat is real. The gods are coming-”

His guards moved in closer. She concentrated on the power within, flashes of static charge between her fingers as she raised a hand toward them in a threat. “-And they’re bringing the blight with them. “

“Let me tell you something about the blight, child.” First Warden raised his voice, motioning guards to snatch her. “It is evil, it is implacable, and above all, it is predictable. The blight has not changed in over a thousand years. The Grey Wardens will defeat it, as they always do. And we will do so without you causing confusion with your deranged theories. Surrender and come quietly.”

“Adamant fortress. 9:41 dragon. “A familiar voice cut through the tense space. Both Fenrel and Solas jumped at the recognition. Dorian Parvus. Tevinter mage. A magister. Supporter of insurgents of the imperium. A necromancer with a keen sense for blood magic. Despite his better wishes, Solas stepped back from the connection, knowing that being this present was putting their connection in the spotlight.

The prison felt stagnant and empty compared to the ever-shifting sights of Minrathous. He could hear the echoes of Fenrel‘s mind as Dorian blackmailed the First Warden into retreating. Her shoulders eased as Dorian Parvus stood between her and the First Warden, saving her from prison. Solas let go of the connection, glad to know that she’ll be back in the Lighthouse in no time.

***

The dinner table was more quiet than usual. Everybody knew what went down in Cobbled Swan, and no one dared touch another of Fenrel’s nerves, as she seemed close to breaking down. As she walked back to Shadow Dragon’s hideout, she swore up and down that this was not the end with the First Warden. She would find a way to show him that she was not insane, even if it meant going around his back. She just had to figure out how to do that. Solas listened to her ramblings. She was years away from being a master schemer, but he admired her determination. Sometimes it was all it took to push through obstacles.

After dinner, once everyone went on to have a first official book club meeting in Harding’s quarters, Fenrel stayed back. She couldn’t find a moment’s peace between correspondence with their allies to sit down and read. Her companions would often offer to help out with that, but she refused. She took a meal from the kitchen, a stack of letters from the Caretaker, and walked to the infirmary.

“Hey, Varric,” she said to the empty room, setting down the meal on the bedside table. Through her eyes, he could see a worn leather jacket laid out on the bedcovers that were collecting dust. She sat down next to it.

“There you are!” Varric’s voice echoed in her mind.” I haven’t seen much of you lately, and I was getting worried. Is everything alright?”

At first, Solas planted the lackluster mirage of Varric in her mind as a means to gain honest answers from the new fearless leader. Killing Varric was already a sin big enough, he told himself, that anything else he does could not be worse. Soon, he found out that this manifestation was not something he could control. Even once he found out that their connection ran deeper than expected, once he stumbled into her dreams by accident, he could not recall it now. For one, something that was meant to disrupt his opposing force revealed itself as the main source of strength for her. Secondly, it was as much a creation of her mind as it was his. This Varric was something she needed and even if he attempted to recall him, force her to face her grief, her mind clung to it like a babe to their mother.

“No, Varric…” Her fingers grasped his invisible hand, and Solas could feel the soft leather of Varric’s jacket through her fingertips. “I fucked up. Again. I met the First Warden and almost landed myself in the dungeons of Weisshaupt. We have no Grey Wardens, and it’s my fault. He saw a criminal Tevinter scum, a knife ear, rambling about her escaped gods and called me insane. Arlathan is drowning in Dark Spawn, and there’s a blight in Minrathous’ underground and here I am, losing the only force that can help with any of this.”

They stayed silent for a moment. Solas could feel the sob racking her chest before he could see tears clouding her vision.

“Varric, why would you think I was made for any of this?”

Varric’s voice, warm and reassuring, filled the room. “Kid, you’re not made for this—no one is. But you are stepping up because no one else could. And that’s what makes all the difference.”

Fenrel gripped the edge of the bed tight, her knuckles whitening as the weight of his words pressed on her. “But what if I’m not strong enough? What if I keep failing? It feels like I’m carrying a mountain of shit and every step I take, more gets piled on.”

“Strength isn’t about never failing, Rook. It’s about getting back up every time you do,” Varric’s voice softened, a gentle reminder echoing through her mind. “Look at everything you’ve done. You’ve faced horrors most people can’t even imagine. And you’re still here.”

She shook her head, a bitter chuckle escaping her lips. “Barely. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just a walking disaster waiting to happen.”

“Well,” he said with the familiar dry humor that cut through the gloom, “disasters tend to get things done. Remember Kirkwall. Hawke would approve of your methods. And let’s be honest, the Inquisition thrived on a little chaos.”

For a moment, she smiled, the weight on her shoulders lifting slightly. “You always know how to spin things, don’t you?”

“Comes with the territory,” he replied. “But seriously, kid, you’ve got something that a lot of people don’t—heart. And that’s going to get you through this, even if the First Warden’s too blind to see it.”

Her smile faltered, the reality of her situation crashing back down. “Heart doesn’t stop the blight, Varric. It doesn’t bring allies. It doesn’t save lives.”

“No, but it drives you to find the way,” he countered. “And you will. Because you don’t know how to quit.”

She sat in silence, absorbing his words, the echo of her doubts still lingering. “I just… I wish you were out there with me,” she whispered, her voice breaking once again. “It’s so much harder without you.”

Solas could feel the ache in her chest, the raw, unfiltered grief that she kept hidden from the world and herself. He watched, silently torn between wanting to reveal the truth and allowing her these moments of comfort. He was wrong. Killing Varric was not his biggest sin against her. Not anymore.

“Rook,” Varric’s voice softened, filled with an understanding only he could offer, “I’m always with you. Every step of the way. You’ve got this, kid.”

She nodded, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. “Thanks, Varric. I’ll try not to let you down.”

“You won’t,” he assured her. “You never do.”

As she stood up, gathering the letters and setting her resolve, Solas retreated once more into the shadows of her mind.

***

The flickering lights cast long shadows across the room as Fenrel settled at Solas' old desk. After discovering the music room, she didn’t take long to open his quarters too. She would frequent them, spending many lone evenings, going through never-ending piles of letters coming all over from Northern Thedas. Now she silently sifted through the stack of letters in front of her. Each missive carried the weight of expectation, hope, and urgency.

She pulled the top letter from the pile, the seal of the Veil Jumpers catching the dim light. Breaking it open, she scanned the messy script, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“Rook, there are rifts appearing all over the bigger parts of Arlathan. Some of our Veil Jumpers have gone missing while investigating them. They might be related to some artifacts coming out of tune or Venatori lurking in the forest and breaking into ruins, messing with them. Our numbers are thin, and we need your help…”

She sighed, setting the letter aside and picking up a quill, hovering it above her notes. “Arlathan,” she murmured to herself, her thoughts already running through potential solutions. “I’ll need Bellara there. She knows the terrain and the artifacts best. Neve can help with the wards and Venatori if we encounter any.”

Solas observed from the periphery of their shared mind space, noting the way her hand trembled slightly as she wrote. The responsibility she carried was immense, but she bore it with a determination that both impressed and concerned him. “You’re overworking yourself.” He said, knowing that she wouldn’t care.

Another letter followed, this one marked with the insignia of the Antivan Crows. The script was elegant but tense, outlining the recent uptick in joint Venatori and Antaam activity in the city.

“We intercepted information suggesting an illegal artifact trade in Treviso. The Venatori are moving fast, and we need your support to secure the area before they and Antaam unleash demons upon us…”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Treviso was a powder keg in Antaam’s hands, and the thought of them working with Venatori unsettled her. She penned a quick response, her words precise and firm, reassuring Viago that she, Lucanis, and Harding would arrive at the earliest possible time.

“You’re spreading yourself too thin,” Solas thought, though he knew she wouldn’t heed his silent warning. Her stubbornness was as much a part of her as the scars she bore.

Fenrel paused, rubbing her temples as the weight of it all pressed down. She reached for another letter, her fingers brushing against the worn edges of the parchment. The letter from a young Veil Jumper pleading for assistance with a small village plagued by dark spawn.

“We’re losing hope. Please, if there’s anything you can do…”

Her chest tightened as she read the desperate plea. The words were a stark reminder of the countless lives depending on her decisions. She scribbled a promise of aid, though the logistics weighed heavily on her mind.

“Why do you take on so much? You cannot save them all. People are always dying.” Solas whispered into the void, knowing she couldn’t hear him. He could feel her resolve, the unwavering commitment to her cause, even as it chipped away at her.

Finishing the last letter, Fenrel leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant. The room felt oppressively silent, the only sounds were her breathing and her fingers tapping on the table.

“Is this what leadership feels like?” she mused quietly, the question hanging in the air. “Is this what you dealt with, Solas?”

He remained silent, the echo of her thoughts resonating within him. The burden of leadership was one he knew all too well and watching her navigate it filled him with a mix of admiration and regret.

As she gathered the letters, she glanced around the room, her eyes searching the shadows. “Will I be ever used to this?” she asked no one in particular. “Making decisions that could cost lives. Pick to help one and lose the chance to help the other. Or choose them all and still fail.”

In the quiet of the room, Fenrel exhaled, her shoulders sagging under the strain. As she left the room, Solas retreated back to his prison, giving her the privacy of her thoughts once again. He knew of the lonely evening routine she would go about now and wished that she went out and found solace amongst her companions.

***

Fenrel was having another restless night, he knew. Remnants of quickly shifting dreams passed through and around him. He found his thoughts drifting towards them, unable to deal with the vast emptiness of his prison.

Solas stood at the edge of the dream, observing Fenrel as she sat on the coast of Minrathous. The waves lapped gently at the shore, a rhythmic backdrop to the thoughts spinning in her head and in their shared space she was unaware of. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her posture rigid, but her gaze was far away, lost on the horizon. She wondered if throwing herself into the sea would absolve her from responsibilities.

He approached silently, the familiar pull of their connection guiding him closer. He halted a few steps away, the sand cool beneath his feet. The salty air mixed with the faint scent of the seaweed, filling the space between them.

“Are you real this time, Solas? Or just another dream?” She said, and her voice carried a fragile edge, a blend of fatigue and guarded curiosity.

He paused, the question hanging in the air. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, his knees brushing against the sand. Her face was splotchy as if she had just wiped away the tears that stained it. His presence was solid, yet he felt like an apparition, caught between wanting to comfort her and fearing the implications of doing so. “Does it matter?” he asked softly, his tone carefully measured.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes flickering with something he couldn’t quite place. “It matters to me,” she murmured. Her voice was strained, weighed down by unspoken burdens only he was privy to, against her own wishes. “If I reached for your prison, would you be waiting there? Would you dig through me until I break down crying again?”

Her words hit him like a blow, but he remained still, his face unreadable. What could he say that wouldn’t deepen the fracture between them? He resisted the urge to look away, to escape her piercing gaze.

Without warning, she extended her hand, her fingers trembling as they reached for him. The light touch against his cheek caught him off guard. He stiffened, the unexpected warmth of her skin freezing him in place. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel it—the simple connection he had denied himself for so long, even if it was only a dream for her.

“If you’re not him, the answer doesn’t really matter, does it?” she whispered, her voice barely rising above the sound of the waves.

His breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling heavily on his shoulders. The vulnerability in her touch, in her voice, threatened to unravel the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself. Yet he could never let them down under the false pretenses, and those stood between them, only visible to him.

He opened his eyes, meeting hers. There was a quiet defiance there, a challenge he wasn’t sure he could meet. He raised his hand, hesitating before hovering just above hers, the distance between them so painfully close, yet insurmountable.

The dream began to shift, the edges of their shared reality blurring. He watched as her hand slowly fell away, the warmth of her touch lingering like a phantom sensation.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her expression a mix of weariness and longing. When she opened them again, the dream dissolved, and she was somewhere else, another dreamscape, leaving him alone once more with the echoes of her words.

Solas remained kneeling in the fading memory of a dream, the vast emptiness of his prison pressing down on him again. The weight of the truths he could not yet speak of settled over him like a shroud.

Chapter Text

The Veil Jumper camp was bustling with action like any other day. People were rushing around, some planning search and rescue missions, others artifact recovery or repair. Some of their agents were still healing from injuries after the initial dark spawn surge in the forest, many have died, and even more vanished. Fenrel was sorry for not being able to frequent the place more often, but duty called her all over Thedas already and she couldn’t tear herself apart enough to manage everything, as much as she wished to.

Fenrel, Harding, and Lucanis left the camp to help out with the missing Veil Jumpers. They traveled on foot through well-traveled areas of the forest, paths created by many feet stomping on the same lines unmarked on any maps. Harding knew of the area well enough before Fenrel joined her and Varric in the search for Solas and now worked as their guide. Neve and Bellara worked on the other side of the forest, fixing some unruly artifacts.

“Demon of Vyrantium, huh?” Harding asked Lucanis who was strolling by her side. Fenrel stayed behind them, enjoying the slower pace of this trip. “And they called you that before the demon.”

"Ah," Lucanis said, as if he just realized something. “You don’t have that enchanted barbed arrow in your quiver because you think it’s pretty.”

Fenrel stopped in her tracks. “Lace, do you still think that we might need to take Lucanis down, that Spite will get out of hand?”

“Rook,” Harding looked back at her. “Spite is a demon. It doesn’t matter how much I like Lucanis or his meals.”

“No one is taking down Lucanis.” Fenrel crossed arms against her chest. “And Spite is nice for a demon.”

“I like Rook.” Spite overrode Lucanis’ voice as he would sometimes do. “She cares for us.”

“Thanks, Spite.” Fenrel patted Lucanis’ back until the purple flash disappeared from his eyes and Lucanis regained control. It rarely slipped, but he was exhausted after many sleepless nights of trying to keep Spite at bay. He was afraid that the demon would fully take over while he slept and ran away with his body, and yet while it sounded crazy, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility. They would often meet in the early hours of the morning in the library and just enjoy the silence of the Lighthouse before the ruckus of their crew raged through the day. Fenrel found this to be her favorite part of the day.

“Besides Spite, I don’t have that arrow just because it’s pretty, but it is, though” Harding interrupted. “The red shimmer is enfeebling magic, and the spiked tip is designed to splinter inside the target.”

"Very nice," Lucanis replied.

"I thought you'd like that!" Harding beamed. "I really hope I don't have to use it though. It cost a lot of gold."

“Don’t talk to the Crows about money unless you want to feel poor” Fenrel interrupted. “Do you know how much they get for their contracts? Lucanis could buy each of us a hundred of those."

***

As they traversed the rocky shoreside part of the forest, Harding continued to train her new-found powers. She ran excitedly to every rock blocking their path and told them how each felt different, a new melody reaching her as she attuned herself to move them. As time moved on, she seemed more and more gleeful about this ability. She said it felt like she regained something she didn’t know she lost, and Fenrel can understand the feeling.

It was the same as the first time she cast magic. A child throwing a tantrum, followed by sparks. Dominus Mercar grabbed her by her wrists with the biggest grin on his face. “You’re truly your father’s daughter,” He said, and it was the very first time he called himself that and little Fenrel didn’t mind. He was her entire world then, and now he was an abyss in her soul nothing could fill. She remembered Varric holding her hand as they stood in front of the Wall of Light. A shimmering ball of pure moonlight left her palm and drifted to the others, the only sign of what her father meant to her left to shine against the constellation of grief.

 “Isatunoll is an affirmation.” Harding’s voice broke Fenrel out of the pathways of her mind, said. “A statement of existence. Of… of being. It means ‘I am here’ ”

Fenrel shook off the shroud of sadness that suddenly enveloped her and looked at her. “Pretty straightforward… But who exactly is here?”

“But it’s not an ‘I’, I is singular. But it isn’t ‘we’ either.” Harding scratched her head, trying to find the words. “We is multiple, but also separate…”

Fenrel and Lucanis stopped in their tracks, exchanging confused looks. “What?”

“Isatunoll is the eternal hymn that encompasses all time. All spaces. ," Harding said as if it made it any clearer. “I am. We are. Here. There. Now. And forever.”

“You’re losing us, Harding," Lucanis answered.

“And you heard it as you touched Solas’ dagger? Why?” Fenrel asked.

Harding glanced at her. “Perhaps you should ask him.”

“We are not exactly on speaking terms right now.” Fenrel walked ahead, unwilling to be observed during conversations about him. Lucky to her, a shout for help cut through the shuffle of leaves under their feet and the sound of running water by their side. „Hey, did you hear that?“ She said and started running in the direction of the voice, not waiting for Harding and Lucanis to catch up.

***

Fenrel and Lucanis stepped through the Eluvian leading them back from Arlathan to the Crossroads, Harding followed close after. They managed to bring back Veil Jumper, who was stuck in an unfortunate place with a broken leg back to his camp. One less problem to lay on Strife’s and Irelin’s heads, and Fenrel could not help but feel a little proud of that. It wasn’t much, but every single thing they did added up. She had to believe otherwise, none of this would matter. Varric told her to pick one battle, no matter how small, at a time, and that would lead them to the end of the road. She stuck to his word, despite the complications.

“Okay Harding,” Fenrel spoke up, deciding to continue walking instead of cornering her, “What do you mean you heard something when we rescued that Jumper?”

“Someone called out to me,” Harding said, picking up her pace, trying to catch up. “They, it, called me sister. Said we were both touched by ancients. It told me to look at those closest to the stone and find it.”

“And Spite’s the unsettling one?” Lucanis said.

Fenrel gave him a side glance. “Closest to the stone? Like, Orzammar dwarves?”

“Maybe?” Harding shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt to check. We can try to go there after meeting Antoine and Evka.”

Antoine and Evka. The Grey Wardens who were not afraid of the First Warden and were willing to meet in the secrecy of Anderfels. Harding and Fenrel planned to make their trip there the very next day, as there was no time to waste with the blight. Fenrel was afraid to hope for much, but she still found a glimmer of it in her heart to believe that they might just find someone to help them keep the blight at bay.

 “Hey…” Harding stopped in her tracks, staring ahead.

“Hey, what?” Fenrel looked in the same direction and recognized the archway on the other side of the bridge in an instant. While talking, they didn’t notice as they made the wrong turn to the docks, and now the familiar green glow welcomed her and invited her in. “Another one of Solas’ memories.”

The green glow pulsed like a heartbeat in the darkness. The archway stood silent and seemingly lonely, tendrils of vines wrapping around it and curling toward her like outstretched hands. It was a call Fenrel couldn’t ignore, the pull that dragged her to him despite her own heart and head. She stopped visiting him and yet she could feel his presence enveloping her and often found herself talking out loud to him, wondering if he could hear. She didn't want to know, because that would mean the worst of their connection. Blood magic was one thing her heart and rage could not overlook.

“We could just ignore them, you know?” Harding grabbed Fenrel by her elbow, stopping her from approaching the bridge. “Those memories really banged you all up last time, why would you let Solas hurt you like that? You don’t owe him witnessing anything he wants you to see. Look at the wounds you’re still healing, Rook—you’re too entangled as it is.”

Fenrel wanted to tell Harding that Solas was already hurting her anyway, with his sharp tongue and unspoken words gnawing at her resolve, so it wouldn’t change a thing, but something in her stirred and she could swear somebody was watching her. Like something within her shifted at the moment her thoughts drifted back to him, an echo of her name forming on his lips was ringing in her ears.

“Despite what Spite says, it was not fun.” Lucanis agreed, and despite it still unsheathing his daggers. Fenrel shared a glance with him before pulling her arm out of Harding’s grasp and walking forward.

“Those memories can show us something useful, I- “She looked at Harding and back at the swirling glow in front of her. “We need to know what it is. Whatever gives us an advantage before the gods.”

When they stepped through, Fenrel could swear she could hear a lone wolf howling, beckoning her to get to him. She picked up her pace, running down the broken stone bridge towards a courtyard of sorts. She could see ancient elves gathered, with a young, handsome man standing atop the rocky terrain above the gathering. When she approached, he gave her a welcoming smile, his face adorned with Mythal’s Vallaslin. Protector of the people.

Whoever this man was, people looked up to him as if he were their prophet. Their savior, or at least, adjacent to it.

“Glad you made it here safely.” He looked down on the small crowd, and Fenrel pushed through the incorporeal bodies, trying to see the man speaking from up close. When he smiled at the crowd, she could see canines sharper than the rest of his teeth, giving him a foxy grin, the faint lines of exhaustion and relief running through his otherwise beautiful face. She had to stop herself from staring. “I didn’t love our odds without you.”

He looked over the people gathered once again, “All right, everything’s in place. We hit Elgar’nan’s island fortress tonight.”

“See, I told you this is helpful.” Fenrel glanced at Harding. “We might learn more of what Elgar’nan was and might be up to.”

“And what will be the price of that?” Harding gave her a stern look. “Bellara told me what happened to the other of Solas’ agents.”

Fenrel said nothing and continued to listen to the man.

“This is our best chance to free the people he’s enslaved.” He said, straightening his back before giving orders. “Get in, save as many as you can, and bring them back here to the sanctuary. Be fast and be safe. I’ll meet you on the other side.”

The crowd moved toward the sanctuary’s gate, yet Fenrel still lingered when the man said, “Fen’Harel’s scouting ahead. For freedom! For the Dread Wolf!”

The gate opened, and they were thrown into the inferno. Elves ahead of them fell swiftly as Elgar’nan’s forces cut through them, and a voice that seemed to be everywhere, even inside their heads, tore through bloodshed.

“So, the Dread Wolf is testing his noble rebels against my stronghold. How courageous.”

The voice was deep, laced with mockery, hitting some nerve in Fenrel that made her fight with more fury. Power crackled in her hands as she took down one, two, three of Elgar’nan’s soldiers. They could keep coming, to their death, ‘cause she was here to fight for The Dread Wolf. When the last body lay in front of her, the trance broke and she asked herself why would she kill for him.

They pushed deeper into Elgar’nan’s fortress, laying waste to his fighters. They screamed, flailed, and fell, unable to stop the force of the rebellion, yet the voice still boomed. “You persist for naught. The people under my rule are not yours to plunder.”

It only faded as a familiar one cut through it. Fenrel’s head snapped in the direction of it, almost stumbling as the last guard fell by her feet. “Solas” escaped her mouth. There he was again, his long hair laying on his shoulders, standing straight and… smiling. He looked at the man who led them there as he spoke to what remained of his fighters.

“Glad to see you made it!” He looked at them, and for a brief moment, she hoped to see a flash of recognition in his gaze. Instead, she heard a hint of fear in his voice as he continued.” Elgar’nan’s forces are making things interesting.”

He looked smug, even while there was uncertainty behind his eyes. That was all Fenrel could think about while watching him stand there, his hands interlocked behind his back, a smirk on his face. It was just another day of enraging Elgar’nan, it seemed, and yet, he was frightened. The tense lock of his jaw, the rigid shoulders. So terrified, yet proud. She wanted to feel that familiar anger in her heart, but she couldn’t as she recognized her own pride, images of her standing over dead Venatori mages in the streets of Minrathous. She also recognized that same fear that must have gripped his heart, watching his loyal rebels fight in his name. He never wanted to lead people to their deaths, and she didn’t either.

“You keep moving no matter what. Free those slaves.”

And so she did.

***

“Go! Run, we’ll watch your backs,” Fenrel shouted after slaves running through Elgar’nan’s fortress, making their way to the Eluvian.

She stopped to watch as they fled over a floating stone bridge, towards a mirror that was just like one of those that littered the crossroads. Elgar’nan’s stronghold told much of the forsaken god. It was an enormous stone structure, full of open spaces yet oppressive, making her feel as if the walls were closing down around her at any given moment. Freed slaves were halfway to the Eluvian. “Just a few more minutes,” she whispered to herself, looking over the spirits of ancient Elves that fought beside her, Lucanis, and Harding to get here. As long as those slaves make it out, they’ll be fine. She caught her slipping, confusing past with present once again. She had to believe this memory was a joyous one, one that ended with a victory for the Dread Wolf. She shook off the feeling of hope once Solas appeared seemingly out of nowhere again to warn his rebels.

“Quickly! Move!” His voice shook, “Elgar’nan approaches… Stop his guards”

“Stop his guards,” the handsome man beside him said, “We need to buy more time for captives to get to safety.”

“I will hold off Elgar’nan himself for as long as I am able,” Solas walked ahead of the group, his resolve set in stone. There was an aura of silent fury around him and as he vanished, a new path out of the fortress appeared before them. Fenrel took a deep breath before joining his rebels in the run for freedom.

“The vermin keep coming! Go!” Elgar’nan’s voice now carried a note of irritation, “I will deal with that ragged Wolf!”

Elgar’nan’s fighters struggled aimlessly, for all good they’ve got they couldn’t stand against Harding’s arrows or Lucanis daggers, followed by an overwhelming force of the storm produced by Fenrel. The desperation of Ghilan’nain's laboratory seemed suffocating, all-consuming, blight sticking to their very souls, while Elgar’nan’s soldiers felt too earthly, a simple song and dance of iron dragging across breathing flesh. They bled, and they died like they were supposed to. Fenrel was exhausted, yet amazed to see blood staining her hands instead of dark spawn guts. It was supposed to be weird to relish such a thing, but she couldn’t help.

The courtyard spun and shifted once Elgar’nan’s forces were all gone, the oppression of his godliness fading from the air itself, even while his rage still thrummed with the beat of the magic in the air. “There will be a reckoning for this, Solas. No matter how far you ran!” Elgar’nan spat out like a curse.

She recognized the place they stood in. The Crossroads. The sanctuary of the Dread Wolf. Her new home. Fenrel looked around until she saw Solas standing mere meters away from her, a smile warming and welcoming, one that crunched up his nose and created wrinkles from the corners of his eyes plastered all over his face. The slaves were free. His rebels made it. It was a happy memory, after all.

“Let the asshole rant,” the man beside him spoke. “Everyone we’ve freed is safe in the Crossroads.”

One of the freed slaves spoke up. “Without all of you… well, thank you.” Her voice shook, but she managed to continue. “But can Elgar’nan find us here?”

“He cannot,” Solas’ smile faded, giving into a frown, “I have made sure of-“

He released a pained sigh, his hand instinctively cradling his head as if suddenly paralyzed by pain.

“Solas?” His friend’s voice was drenched in concern, eyes wide as he looked at him.

“Elgar’nan is a powerful opponent” Solas breathed the words out, still racked with pain, before he straightened himself out. “My apologies. It is of no consequence.”

He looked at Fenrel for a brief moment, forcing a smile and nodding. “What matters, my friends, is that today, all of us are free.”

The memory faded, and so did his face. For a moment Fenrel found herself sad to watch him go. They were back at the archway, its eerie green glow now vanished, and a blue wolf statuette by her feet.

***

Fenrel stood at the precipice of a dream, one foot lingering on the sands of the Minrathous coast. Her eyes darted around, unsure if it would be a disappointment or a relief to see him there. But he wasn’t. Not tonight. She was quite sure that the Solas who visited in her dreams weren’t the real Solas. The Dread Wolf. The trickster god. Because Solas she saw in her dreams didn’t have hidden agendas behind his eyes. He didn’t dig through her feelings. He was just there. Sometimes near enough to touch, sometimes only visible out of the corner of her eye. This Solas felt like an apparition, something made of velvety smoke, and yet she could still feel the warmth of his skin as she touched him.

Somewhere between the dream and waking world, she could find a version of him she didn’t despise. One she looked at in the eye and felt like he was just a man in desperate search for connection so it was better to believe that he wasn’t real. Her mind just wanted to see something more of him than what he gave her, and thus it conjured the dream visitor. She told herself over and over again and wishing for the best of him would only land her with a knife in her back, and yet she could not help but feel him in every step she took. As if she was walking the paths he carved, her fingers brushing the same keystrokes as he did, watching over Lighthouse from the same balcony he did. He was embedded into everything she did so deeply that most of the time felt like he was within her. But she knew it was only possible if he lied. She was naïve enough to wish that he wouldn’t do it. Not to her. Even though she could not reason why he would find her special.

 She sat down on the sands of the beach, looking over the horizon. She closed her eyes and whispered his name like a prayer until the soft sand in her hands turned into rough rubble and the dull Minrathous sun was swallowed by the nothingness of his prison.

She didn’t open her eyes until she heard his voice. And there it was. Soft, as if testing the grounds they stood on. “Fenrel.”

She could almost sense the apology lingering in the air. “Don’t.”

She raised a hand, stopping him from saying more. She stood up and stepped closer to the edge, barely glancing at the never-ending fall between them, arms crossed. “I’m not here to argue about your investment in my feelings. I need answers, and you’re going to give them to me.” She said, even if a part of her wished she could examine that first sentiment.

Solas walked closer to the edge as well, quietly sitting down, never taking his eyes off, watching her with a gaze that felt too knowing. “You’ve avoided me for weeks, and now you seek me out willingly. What has brought you here, Fenrel?”

She followed his example, settling on the ground. They looked at each other across the chasm and the silence almost felt comfortable for a moment. “Firstly, Harding. Your dagger has done something to her.”

Solas didn’t answer, just nodded with an almost perplexed look on his face.

“She says she heard a voice call her ‘sister.’ Something about being touched by the ancients, about looking at those closest to the stone. And it’s all because she touched your dagger.”

“Dagger is… an enigma even to me.” For a fleeting moment, Fenrel could swear he looked apologetic. “If it has done something to Harding, I cannot say what or why. For what it’s worth… I believe you will uncover the truths soon enough.”

“That’s not an answer, Solas,” Fenrel said, her hand clenching a pebble underneath it. She wished to throw it at him, and he gave her a look as if he knew her intentions, the corner of his lips twitching ever so slightly. “You’re supposed to be the expert on all this ancient crap! It’s your dagger! Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know!”

“I do not claim to know all, Fenrel.” He stared back at her, his voice with a note of slight annoyance. “Some things are yours to untangle.”

“Fine.” She scoffed at him. “Today I saw the memory of your rebels razing Elgar’nan’s fortress. There was a man with Mythal’s Vallaslin. Who was he?”

“Felassan," Solas answered straight away. “He was… an ally. A rebel. A fool, in some ways, but a brilliant one. He believed in the cause, in the freedom of our people, and in me… more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Is this you being honest for once?” Fenrel could not help but taunt him a little, remembering how she left their last conversation a crying mess.

“I am as honest as circumstances allow when it comes to you. You deserve at least that much.” Solas looked at her, waiting for more retorts, and when those didn’t come, he continued. “We were friends. He led many of the battles. He inspired hope where I could not. But hope is a fragile thing, just as trust is.”

“And he broke yours?” Fenrel asked. Something about his demeanor told her more than his words did. It was as if his pride was stripped away, leaving a broken man naked and shivering out on the foundations of his own decay. He retreated into himself, his shoulder no longer straight, his head bowed. Minutes passed before he said anything.

His voice was breathy as he spoke. “I fear it was I who broke his.”

"And now he's gone?" She pushed further, wondering if he now knew how she felt the last time they spoke.

“Yes.” He steadied himself for a moment.

“What happened to him, Solas?”

“Felassan’s faith in me was unwavering.” He lifted his eyes once again, regaining some control over his melancholy. “And yet, there came a time when that faith was not enough even for him.”

He looked ahead but his eyes were empty, as if reliving every torturous second of something he couldn’t undo, the violent lavender of his eyes clouded. He briefly glanced at his hands as if to check if they were still stained with blood. And then she realized. It wasn’t him being tortured by the loss of a friend. He was being pulled apart by his own regret. “What did you do, Solas?”

“You think me cruel, perhaps even monstrous.” He sighed. “But every choice I make is for a purpose, Fenrel. Even if it costs me more than you know. But in the fight that’s coming for us, you will learn.”

She stood up, turning from him without sparing a glance. It was as if the fog was lifted and now she could see him clearly and wished she didn’t. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Perhaps not.” He answered.

***

The landscape of the High Anderfels was desolate. Barren trees, or rather shrubs, barely littered the rocky terrain. There were remnants of wooden barricades that have seen ancient battles against dark spawn. Most of them were lost. The blights have ravaged the country, the decay of it so evident, that it seemed that new life refused to sprout on these cursed lands. Steppes were largely devoid of life, and Fenrel tried to listen in and hear anything—a bird chirping, a rodent scavenging around, but only the harsh winds coming from the mountainside welcomed her senses.

“Please remind me again why are we meeting them in the middle of nowhere?” Fenrel asked Harding, who was scouting ahead.

For the first time in weeks, Fenrel didn’t feel a need to draw her weapon while walking out in the open. The land was so vast yet closed off by mountains from either side. The field before was rocky, bearing no sign of life and no proof that anyone had passed through the field in recent days.

“First Warden won’t notice them disrespecting his orders here.” She said as if Fenrel should’ve had thought of it herself. Perhaps she should have, but she was out of it after her late-night conversation with Solas followed by sleepless hours. “You can’t expect to just march up to Weisshaupt.”

The gravelly ground under their feet shook, followed by a muted thunderous sound as if something nearby exploded. They ran towards the sound, around the rocky cliff face that separated them from whatever had caused the noise.

They soon came to face with a charming dwarf named Evka and Orlesian elf Antoine. The Grey Wardens. And they were the only ones willing to listen.

“You’ve showed up," Fenrel said, trying not to sound too excited. She couldn’t believe they would gain any support from the Wardens, yet here they were.

“Well, your letter was desperate," Antoine remarked, giving them a wary smile.

Fenrel glanced at Harding. They didn’t discuss ways Harding made contact with these Wardens, but now she wished she had. “Uh, Harding?”

“What?” Harding looked back at her. “Aren’t we desperate?”

The dwarven Warden seemed straight to the point, saying, “Let’s just hear what you have to say.”

Fenrel and Harding started explaining the predicament everyone would find themselves in soon enough. The Elven gods, the animated blight, the acceleration of its destructive power they have witnessed, events in D’Meta’s Crossing. Antoine’s face changed with every word, their weight seemingly crushing him. For an elven Warden, it must have been a lot to know that his gods were back, and they used blight to spread chaos across Thedas. He did admit that they had seen the change in the blight. And if there was one thing in Thedas that was true, it was that the blight did not change. Death itself could not be changed. Unless the gods themselves willed it.

But even when they believed their story, they needed more. Some undeniable proof that the blight was changing because, without it, no other Wardens would join their fight. Except for one. And now Fenrel and Harding moved forward, searching for the monster hunter.

***

Finding Davrin was easier than expected since his griffon Assan just jumped Fenrel, all sharp claws and screeching. A griffon. They were supposed to be extinct, yet there he was, living and breathing, his big doll-like eyes following Davrin’s every move, feathers shuffling. A marvelous animal, half lion, half eagle. Davrin himself was the embodiment of what people thought of as they heard the term “Grey Warden”. He towered over Fenrel and Harding, his dark skin marked with scars, face with Vallaslin traditionally worn by hunters of the clan. Upon finding evidence of the Dark Spawn's attack on the tent of Grey Wardens he was traveling with, he asked for Fenrel’s and Harding’s help in finding them. They could not say no, and so they set out on a trip across Anderfels.

Too bad their effort was for nothing. When they found the griffon trainers, it was too late for them. A mysterious creature Davrin called the Gloom Howler has taken control of the dark spawn in the area, and Lancit and Remi got overwhelmed. They didn’t stand a chance, and the rest of the griffon family was taken. Twelve of Assan’s feathery brothers and sister were taken by the creature that, according to Davrin, has stalked them for weeks. It didn’t take much convincing for Davrin to damn the First Warden and join them, since he was not blind to the changes in blight.

 And now there they were, bloodied and tired, boarding the boat of the Caretaker to take them back to the lighthouse from Anderfels’ eluvian.

“So the god of lies is just visiting you in your dreams? Did I understand that right?” Davrin asked Fenrel, while his eyes scanned the Crossroads.

Fenrel shrugged. “It is quite more complicated than that, but yes.”

“And now you live in his sanctuary, in the fade.” He gestured vaguely around.

 “Also, yes.” She scratched Assan’s head, getting comfortable with the weird creature quickly. It behaved like a feathered cat, which it essentially was. Davrin forbade him from flying at the Crossroads, and the young griffon seemed anxious during the boat ride.

They climbed out of the boat, a moved on the dock towards the eluvian that would take them inside the Lighthouse.

“Yeah, it is cozy," Fenrel reassured him. Two strangers tracking him down in the middle of nowhere and asking to join the suicide mission of killing two of their gods should have been enough for one day, not counting the whole Gloom Howler ordeal. They made a deal that in turn for his help in fighting gods she would help to track the creature down and save the griffons even when she didn’t know how she was going to achieve that. “And the gods can’t find us here.”

“Right…” Davrin didn’t seem too happy about the prospects of living in Dread Wolf’s hideout, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice. “Never going to get used to this.”

“We’ll find you and Assan a nice-“

“Rook!” Neve’s shout stopped them in their tracks. Her, Bellara, and Lucanis were running out of Lighthouse Eluvian, clearly distressed.

“What happened?” Fenrel ran toward them, her hand instinctively drawing her dagger mid-stride, quickly looking them over for injuries, before stopping.

“A lot,” Neve replied, her voice tight with worry. “Viper just sent word. Minrathous is under attack by a blighted dragon.”

Fenrel’s mind ran circles, but there could be only one thing that meant. “Has to be the one we saw at D’Meta’s crossing.”

“Well, one of them has to be,” Bellara interrupted, her voice shaky.

“What do you mean, ‘one of them’?” Fenrel snapped, turning to Bellara in a swift motion.

“Teia also got in touch," Bellara answered, words spilling out of her mouth in quick succession. “Another dragon is attacking Treviso, too.”

Fenrel glanced at Lucanis and Neve and then cursed under her breath, her grip tightening around the hilt of the dagger, knuckles turning white. 

“You got back just in time," Neve said, stepping closer, looking Fenrel straight in the eye. “We’ve got to move.”

“All right, what do we know?” Fenrel tried her best to keep her voice steady, but it gave itself to anger and desperation.

“Two dragons at once? Has to be the gods behind it.” Harding chimed in, already counting the arrows in her quiver.

“Rook, Treviso’s a merchant city," Lucanis said, his eyes wide, as if pleading with her. “It has no defenses. And the canals run everywhere. If we don’t stop that dragon, people will die. Innocent people. My people.” He stepped closer, and now both he and Neve surrounded her, making it hard to breathe. His words made her head spin. “They either die right away from the dragon or slowly after, from the blight in the water. We need to go to Treviso.”

“And leave Minrathous to burn?” Neve shot back, her eyes narrowed at Lucanis.

“Neve…” Lucanis said, his voice a quiet plea.

“You’re a Shadow Dragon, Rook. You know the Viper, Tarquin, every damn Shadow…” Neve turned her full attention to Fenrel, pushing her deeper into the invisible corner. 

“I know that they will fight.” Fenrel shot back, hoping that Neve didn’t lose sight of what their home was capable of. “City has defenses. It’s built on the power of mages.”

"We'll fight to the end," Neve said, her voice dropping as she realized that campaigning to save their home might not sway Fenrel. “But people will get hurt. Or worse. ”

“I know that, Neve," Fenrel answered with sorrow because in her heart she already knew what she had to do. She only hoped Neve could forgive her.

“And if we fail?” Neve pushed, her voice sharp, not letting go, “The Venatori will take advantage. They’ll make a push for the throne and hand the gods the entire Tevinter Empire.”

“Have we been able to- “Fenrel needed to know more before she made a decision,  she needed something to sway her heart back home, but all she could see at the back of her mind were canals of Treviso running with blight.

“Rook, there’s no time.” Neve cut her off, her voice cracking under the immense weight of urgency. Fenrel could see that everyone could not stand still. Neve stepped closer, grabbing Fenrel by the arm as if to drive her point home. “It’s my city. Our city. I need to be in Minrathous. So do you.”

"And I must go to Treviso," Lucanis said, his eyes meeting Fenrel’s once more, his voice strained but words reassuring. “Go where you feel you must, Rook. We cannot wait.”

She watched Neve and Lucanis run their separate ways, in the directions of their home’s eluvian.

“What do we do, Rook?” Harding approached her, unsteady determination etched into her face.

Fenrel’s thoughts spun and ran. She could see her beloved cobblestone streets, hear the shouts of dock workers, the hum of the sea. Another part of her saw Antivans finally losing the last leg they stood on against Antaam, their livelihoods ruined, occupation finally breaking the proud Crow’s neck and leaving it in the ruin of the blight. Minrathous could fight. Minrathous had Neve. Viper. Tarquin. Maevaris. Dorian. Treviso only had the Crows. But they were already beaten by the loss of their First Talon, by the unrelenting Antaam forces slowly suffocating their city. They were the last line of defense. But Minrathous was her home.

The muffled voice pushed at the back of her head as the words she could not take back left her throat. “Bellara, Davrin—follow Neve. Protect my home. Harding, we’re going to Treviso. Let’s all try to come out of this alive.”

***

All Fenrel could hear was her own ragged breathing and footsteps hitting the shingles as she and Harding made their way to Lucanis by running on the rooftops of Treviso. The cool air in her lungs burned, and she was afraid that if she stopped now, she would collapse. Just a few hundred feet more, she told herself as she rolled over from a lower building to the ground level. She could see Lucanis ahead, the flurry of Spite’s purple wings, as they darted around the group of Antaam warriors, trying to stop him from reaching the dragon. Two other figures helped him fight, and Fenrel recognized them as Teia and Viago.

“Rook?” Lucanis turned to see Fenrel approaching, genuine shock distorting his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping you save Treviso.” Fenrel looked him over, expecting to see some sort of damage after his fight with Antaam. She released a sigh of relief upon seeing none. “What’s the situation?”

Lucanis's face remained puzzled, as if he couldn’t believe the choice she made. “Rook, Minrathous-“

“Where dragon attacks, the Antaam soon follows.” Teia saved Fenrel from having to explain herself. She had a feeling she would have to do it a lot in the upcoming days, anyway. If they make it through the night. “It is strong and fast. You must get its attention and lure it onto the ground.”

Fenrel nodded in understanding. “We’ll find a way.”

“Thank you, Rook.” Teia patted Fenrel’s shoulder before leaving them alone in the courtyard. They could hear the roar of the dragon just behind the gate. The smell of ash and rot permeated all of their senses.

“I know this must be difficult for you.. and Neve…” Lucanis started off, as they approached the gate. Fenrel could feel the heat radiating from behind it, the monstrous roars shaking the ground beneath their feet.

“Lucanis, please, don’t.” They glanced at each other in understanding.

“In case I don’t get to say it later…” He started off again.

“Don’t say it now, either. Thank me after we survive this.” She nodded to the Crow who controlled the gate opening. Varric would tell her to pick her fights carefully and, once in one, to never look back. She knew this one started the moment she made her choice and she would never walk out of it the same. She just wanted to walk out of it.

She straightened her back, breathing in deeply before marching closer to the dragon’s new lair. “Let’s do this.”

“Despair. Ignorance. Mortal confusion.” A form of pure macabre, made of limbs too long and too many, and curves that were a mockery of beauty and a love letter to grotesque, it stood above them, a dark figure against Trevisan night. Ghilan’nain. “Yet this city offers nothing better than a pawn of the Dread Wolf.”

Fenrel slid hers and Solas’ daggers from their sheaths, striding forward into the dim light in the center of the yard. “Come down here and say it to my face, bitch.”

“Rook- “Lucanis ran after her as if already regretting asking her to come here.

“Your patron could not stand against us ages past. He will not help you now. Give us the Dread Wolf’s dagger.”

“I don’t need Solas to save me. I can save myself.” Fenrel shouted back, raising Wolf’s fang. “Come and get it, you freak.”

“Retrieve the knife. And whatever remains of these mortals.”

The monstrous creation landed with earth-shattering sounds in front of them. The creature looked deformed, its original shape contorted into something that bore little resemblance to a dragon. The blight boils pulsated on the scales that were seeping with black ooze, the corruption of nature so thorough that the death itself would envy it. There was nothing normal about it, eyes glowing against the blackened body in a terrifying cyan. And the stench. Fenrel had to stop herself from gagging, but couldn’t force her eyes from tearing up.

“If we die…” Lucanis murmured, standing beside her. “That’s on you.”

“Then, don’t die.” She winked at him, and they threw themselves into the fight. The dragon reared itself into them, throwing their bodies like rag dolls, its tail wiping them off their feet before they could regain their footing.

Fenrel tried her best to soften its blows by raising a shimmering shield around them, but it would get thrown back with them. She could hear Lucanis shouting “Mierda” from a few feet away.

“Lucanis, distract it!” She shouted at him.

“How am I supposed to do that?” He screamed back, dodging yet another assault by its tail.

“Oh, for... Spite, fly!” She screamed, running to stun it from the back. As the creature shrieked from pain, she caught herself smiling, seeing Lucanis fly over to the beast's neck,  and she threw another round of lightning at it. They need to take out its way of escaping. Wings or limbs. Fenrel hoped Lucanis and Harding had the same line of thought as she attacked its hind leg before it hit her.

Fenrel faltered, blood trickling from a deep wound in her side. The dragon got her. Going around the back leg was the wrong choice, and her own stupidity was finally going to be the end of her. Her breath hitched as she stumbled, collapsing onto the blood-stained ground. Treviso. She was going to die in a foreign land, not knowing if Minrathous made it. She coughed and blood caught on her teeth. The world around her blurred, fading in and out as she fought to stay conscious. She wanted to scream for Lucanis, but the purple of his wings flashed too far from her sight. She didn’t know where Harding was. As if any of them could help her. She tried to drag herself to stand on all fours, but her knees buckled. Pain lanced through her body, and the darkness loomed closer, threatening to swallow her whole. “I can’t… not like this…” she begged no one in particular, her vision fading as her fingers still grasped the Wolf’s fang.

Her mind spun. She fought against her own unwilling body, but the most she could do was roll over on her back and stare at the fire-lit sky, with tears streaming down her cheeks, and pained sobs getting stuck in her throat. Her eyes closed, and she felt her strength abandon her, coupled with her blood soaking the ground beneath her.

“Fenrel!” Solas’ voice, strained and distant, pierced the encroaching void. It echoed faintly in her mind, a tether she could barely grasp. She opened her heavy lids, almost hoping to find herself in his prison.

“Solas…?” she mumbled, her voice weak, the word barely audible. The night sky was still above her, but the pain was fading. Her body was going numb and she couldn’t find it in herself to fight it anymore.

“I’m here,” he insisted, his voice more urgent, but still feeling far away. “Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.”

She groaned, her body unresponsive, her mind fogged with confusion. “How… why are you…?”

His magic surged through their connection, but it flickered, unstable, as if something was obstructing it. “I’ve watched, Fenrel, from a distance. It was... necessary. For you, and for what’s to come.”

Her eyes fluttered open briefly, anger flashing through the pain. “You’ve been… watching?” she rasped, the realization cutting through her fog. “All this time…blood magic? You liar…”

“You know what I’ve done, Fenrel. This should not surprise you,” he admitted, his tone tight with urgency and guilt. “But we can talk later. You’re dying.”

Her breathing hitched, a mix of rage and betrayal fueling her faltering heart. “You’ve… been lurking… while I fought… while I—” Her voice cracked, her fury swallowed by the pain.

“I didn’t want to interfere,” he said, his voice strained yet steady. “But now… please, let me help you.”

“No,” she gasped, struggling against his presence, even as her strength waned. “You… you don’t get to… now… You don’t save people… Inquisitor, Varric, Felassan… You hurt, maim, and kill… You don’t save…”

The connection between them trembled, her resistance making it harder for him to reach her. His magic faltered, desperation creeping into his voice. She felt herself slipping out of consciousness, unable to open her eyes anymore. At least she got to look at the stars one last time. “Fenrel, stay with me. Don’t let it end like this. You do not wish for it to end here.”

She shook her head weakly, tears mixing with the blood on her face. “You used me… watched me… I can’t…”

“I had no choice.” His voice was stern, each word heavy with something resembling regret. “I can save you, but you must let me. Keep your mind open to me, Fenrel.”

Her vision flickered, the world coming into sharper focus as the warmth of his magic coursed through her. She could feel him, not just his magic but his emotions—fear, regret, determination—all laid bare. “Solas… I don’t… trust you…”

“You can despise me,” he whispered, his magic flaring, his voice low and urgent. “But you must survive first.”

His words echoed in her mind, pulling her back from the brink. The warmth of his magic seeped into her, forcing her shattered body to mend. Her anger simmered, but her body responded to his power, her life tethered by the fragile bond between them.

The battlefield sounds grew louder as her senses returned, the pain less acute but the sting of betrayal fresh. Her eyes opened slowly, the haze lifting to reveal the surrounding chaos. As the magic ebbed, leaving her weak but alive, she felt his presence withdraw slightly, still there but less forceful. “You’ll be alright now,” he murmured, exhaustion evident in his tone.

“Thanks to you,” she whispered, her voice carrying a bitter note, her eyes closing briefly before snapping open again at his insistence.

“Rest later,” he admonished gently. “The battle is far from over.”

She nodded weakly, the fury of betrayal not fully gone from her eyes, but for now, she accepted his help. The battle wasn’t won yet. And she had to live just so she could scream at him later.

Chapter Text

The blood-curdling sound of Ghilan'nain's creation shook the air around her as Fenrel found her footing. She looked around, praying that the moments she spent being stolen by death and saved by the liar didn't come at a cost. Her knuckles went white from gripping the Dread Wolf's dagger with the last of her strength, and no matter how hard she looked, she couldn't see her blade. „Drink lyrium.“ Solas' voice echoed through her head, yet felt like a whisper in her head. She flinched, whipping her head back to see if by any chance he had escaped. „No, I am still where you put me.“ Her fingers instinctively grasped on her head, as if trying to claw him out of there. As if their previous arrangement wasn't bad enough, he was now truly stuck in her head. Through a bitter chuckle, she scoffed „You mean, where you are supposed to be?". She couldn't hear it, but could swear he sighed „Focus on the dragon. Treviso is still in danger.“ She wiped blood and snot from her face, pushing sticky strands of hair aside. „Just wait until I get back to the Lighthouse.“ She murmured, and Solas didn‘t answer.

The wound on her side had knitted itself shut, but her ankle was still beaten, every step as if walking on burning embers. „Lucanis? Harding?" She screamed into the night, trying to get close to the fight. Dragon's kick landed her leagues away, and yet she couldn't feel a single broken bone in her body. She remembered how moments ago she tasted blood as it rose up her throat and now her body felt anew. Except for her leg. For his keen eye, Solas still could miss a thing, to which she answered with a pained smile.

 A light crossed the sky, shimmering flames igniting the arrow, hitting the target. The creature screeched again, now its body slumped on the ground. Yet, it was still breathing, its grotesque shape still rising and falling with each breath, and it didn't take long to start moving again even more berserk. It spewed ice into the direction of purple spectral wings, and Fenrel cried out for Lucanis. „Fuck this," she spat and bolted in the direction of the creature, suddenly able to put weight on her leg again. Sheer force crackled between her fingers as the dragon whipped its head in her direction. A lightning strike. And a voice.

„That is enough. We have an urgent need of your strength elsewhere."Ghilan'nain's voice carried a light tremble as if she did not expect anyone to stand against the power of her pet monstrosity and live.

The dragon kicked off the ground, throwing her away, and knocking the air out of her lungs as she landed on her back. Dragon clung to the rooftop above them, snarling, black ooze raining down from its wounds. „Minrathous" Fenrel gasped through panicked breaths as she jumped back on her feet, desperate to stop the monster and finish this here and now. She couldn't let it get away.

„Come. Return to me.“

The dragon lifted off, Fenrel running after it, cursing the gods between ragged gasps, lifting her arms to hit it one more time. She screamed, her fury trailing after the beast as it vanished into the night.

„No. No. No—no, no.“ She fell to her knees, suddenly weakened by her anger.

„You made it. You live to fight another day.“ Solas' voice was a comfort for someone who needed none. She wanted vengeance as she looked around and saw Treviso's skyline blazing and felt the sounds of agony suddenly drowning out all the senses. Bodies of those who tried to stop the dragon before they arrived littered the ground, some torn to shreds, a lone limb laying on the wet ground missing its owner. The black leather glove, with embroidered crow. She looked at her hands and it wasn't just her blood staining them. She was too late.

„Rook, we did it.“ Firm hands pressed upon her shoulders.

„Lucanis...“ Fenrel rested her cheek against his gloved hand. „If Ghilan‘nain hadn‘t called it off...“

„What matters is that Treviso is safe. For now.“ He kneeled next to her, looking her over. „Rook-"

She followed where his eyes were locked on. Her armor was torn apart around her stomach, exposing her flesh to the cold night, though barely visible through all the blood. She could see it staining the plates from her ribcage to her knees, and blue leather gloves turned black up to the elbows, from when she wrapped her arms around herself in what seemed to be her final moments.

Lucanis’ eyes locked on the blood. His lips parted—half a word, then nothing. Then — “We need a healer!” Lucanis‘ voice cut through the ruckus.

„Lucanis—It’s not mine. Blood is not mine. I'm fine." She grasped his shoulders, trying her hardest to give him a reassuring smile. She could not tell him she was a moment away from seeing all she loved and lost again. Fenrel almost missed the peace of the moment of letting go.  „I don't need a healer. Look at yourself." Her hand brushed the wound on his cheek, careful not to hurt him.

A brief flash of purple stared back at her. „Rook is right.“ Spite answered.

She nodded at him as if thanking him for helping in the fight.

 „But Rook is not right." Spite's gaze locked onto her, shifting Lucanis' face into an expression of disdain.

„He can feel me," Solas murmured at the back of her head.

„What — " She said, cutting herself off realizing she was answering him out loud.

Lucanis' eyes shifted back to their familiar warm brown, softening at the edges. For a moment he looked out of it, his fingers gripping her shoulders harsher before relaxing. „I'll be fine. For what it's worth, what happened here would've been worse if you hadn't come. Can't imagine how much worse."

They helped each other up and walked shoulder to shoulder towards Crows and Harding, waiting for them at the gates. „We need to get to Minrathous," Fenrel said, straightening her back as she closed the distance between them.

„Rook— " Harding and Teia gasped in unison, examining the state of her. „You can‘t go anywhere like this.“

"Nonsense." She swiped an elfroot potion from Harding's belt, making Harding flinch back from an unexpected motion, and downed it in one gulp. „Get me a spell blade and let‘s get moving. Minrathous needs us.“

Harding and Lucanis exchanged glances as if checking who would continue the argument, while Teia grabbed the blade from the nearest crow mage's sheath, lingering in her spot for a moment before giving it to Fenrel. „Do what you must. Thank you." She nodded with a pained smile before turning and going to join Viago in assessing the damages.

***

Eluvian seemed to vibrate as her fingers caressed its surface. If it was in anticipation or fear, she couldn‘t tell. She stood still in front of it, whispering a prayer to the only forsaken god who was listening.

„I can‘t.“

Her mind rung, and yet his reassuring voice came out on top „You must. Your people need you now more than ever."

„What if I am already too late?“

He sighed, and his breath felt like a shroud on her shoulders, which she wished to shake off, but it clung to her skin like a leech, draining whatever resistance she had left. „Then you will live with it.“

A sudden warmth ran through her veins, a shudder in her heart skipping a beat. As Lucanis put his hand on her shoulder, she flinched out of the feeling.

„Rook.“ Lucanis‘ voice was low, his face scrunched in worry.

„Yes. Yes. I‘m fine— " She released her grasp on the last remnants of the unwanted comfort Solas gave her. „Let‘s go.“

When she stepped through the Eluvian, the first thing that hit her was the smell. The putrid, suffocating stench of burning flesh. It muted all other senses to the point her sight suddenly darkened, knees buckled. Lucanis and Harding grabbed her by her elbows before she collapsed onto the ground. Sight returning, she wished she stayed blind. The absolute annihilation of the Shadow Dragon hideout lay in front of her, their training hall now just a quick drop to the death. The walls she hit many times over were now gone, just like the air inside her lungs. She gasped, trying to breathe, but all she could muster was a scream that made Lucanis' and Harding's arms wrap around her tighter. She tried to pray herself out of them, as she saw the body lying on the far side of the room.

Viper. Tarquin. Lorelei. Bren. Huxley. Hector. She ran through each of their names until the body and the name made sense. Dori. His frame looked mangled beyond recognition and Fenrel could taste the bile rising in her throat when she realized that it wasn't the blight crawling up the wall beside the body, but his entrails. World spun. Chest moving up and down in quicker and quicker succession. Hands trembling, fists curled. Knuckles whitened, jaw shut. She couldn't cry anymore. There were no tears left. Her home was destroyed, and it was her fault. Regret threatened to tear her ribcage open. And his voice. His damned voice. Like a whisper from beyond the grave. „I am sorry."

„Rook“ Lucanis gently pushed her chin up. „Not all is lost. You have to believe that. Let‘s move.“

Her body took over. Legs just found their way out of the hideout. Through the rubble, debris, and puddles of blood. She could not feel her heart anymore. If not for the sickly sweet scent of death, she wouldn't be sure if she was breathing at all. Lucanis' steady hand lay upon her shoulder blade, his frame obscuring the sights in front as if trying to shield her from the carnage. He could not understand that the splash of the blood under her feet told her enough. Her sight locked onto the produce strewn around the ground. Just like D'Meta's Crossing. Fear choked her when she dared to look around, seeing imaginary flashes of those she called family being consumed by the blight, but that wasn't the case. The streets were empty. Too empty. And it was somehow worse.

„Turn it off“ She reached out in her mind, pulling on threads she could not see before, but now they ran all through her mind, like many roads he created while watching her.

„What?“ Solas answered as if caught unaware.

She pleaded. „This feeling. Help me. I cannot stand it.“

When he spoke, his voice was soft, all detachment gone. „I am afraid I can not do that. Only tranquility could take it away and you do not wish for it.“

As they neared Dock Town, she could see familiar faces, all of them dead. She could not name them, as there were too many. Then she saw them. Tending over someone splayed out on shipping crates. His body twisted in agony, but no telltale sign of it left his lips. Fenrel pushed Lucanis aside, lunging towards the man, tears coming back. Not a trickle, but a flood. „Ashur." A choked sound left her throat as her bloody fingers grabbed onto his. Blackened. Dark veins of corruption webbing in between his fingers. When their eyes met, she flinched. „No. No-No. Not you„ Her free hand cupped his face. The darkness spread through the familiar features like mold, her gut turning in disgust in the face of such degradation, yet her fingers held his face lovingly. His lips moved, but no words were heard. She thought of his letter still on the table back at the Lighthouse. „Meet me at the Cobbled Swan when all of this is over.“

„Where were you?" Neve's voice shook, the sound of her metal leg shattering the stillness like a hammer on a sheet of glass. Even when Fenrel could feel her stopping feet away, she didn't turn to look. All she could see was the devastation she couldn't survive. Whoever she was before tonight was long gone.

She straightened her back, swallowing her grief. „Treviso." She spoke, still not looking at Neve. „The Dragon— "

„This was your city!“ Neve‘s voice rose in an unfamiliar way, one Fenrel did not expect to ever hear. „I thought— "

„I made a choice.“ Fenrel did not look for words to apologize. No words could fix what was done. No words could take things back to the way they were.

„So you did. And Minrathous suffered for it." Neve spat back, her voice trembling. The unspoken „how could you" hung between them. Neve breathed in deeply and continued talking with a sigh, her voice back to its usual cadence. „The Venatori took large parts of the city while we were fighting their dragon. We lost people. And Ashur..."

„Blighted." Fenrel kneeled beside him, her fingers still lingering on his cheek.

„I‘m fine.“ His voice was barely audible, a sickly black liquid sticking to his lips. „Fen— "

Hearing her name on his lips broke her. She collapsed on his chest as if it were the only safe place in this blighted world and sobbed. „I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry."

Viper tried to shake his head, but it barely moved. „I‘m fine.“

„You are not.“ She whispered, wiping thickened blood and blight from his face.

„You are not fine.“ Tarquin, who stood silently until now, agreed. „He took a claw to the gut. A claw from a blighted dragon. Think about that.“

She kneeled silently beside Viper, one hand caressing his buzzed hair. They all knew what it meant. „Blight is in his blood.“

„It's a slow death." Neve finished her sentence, head hung low.

Tarquin approached, his rough hands grabbing her shoulders and pushing her off Viper. „You‘ve brought nothing but trouble ever since you came back. That‘s why we got rid of you in the first place. Why would you-“

„It‘s not her fault.“ Viper sat up with a wince, grimacing from the pain. „I chose to engage it.“

„Because it was going for the safe house!" Tarquin screamed back, but he wasn't looking at Viper. His eyes were locked on Fenrel, accusatory finger pointed. „Because half of us were already dead! Because she— "

„Stop it.“ Viper gasped, motioning Tarquin to step back. „I‘m fine. Arguing won‘t change a thing.“

„You are not fine.“ Tarquin scoffed, averting his glistening eyes to the skies. „No one is fine.“

„Tarquin— " Fenrel searched for words yet couldn't find any. She wrapped her hands around her waist like a hurt animal, leaning into herself.

„I‘m sorry, but there‘s nothing you can do to help here.“ Neve took her by the shoulder, leading away. Fenrel didn‘t fight. She didn‘t fight when Neve passed her back into Lucanis‘ arms. „You should... just go. I‘m going to stay here awhile.“

***

Lucanis led her from the Eluvian room to the kitchen without a word, and Harding followed closely. From the squawks from Assan in the courtyard, she knew that Davrin and Bellara were already back from Minrathous. When they stopped in front of the common room door, Lucanis let go of his grip, yet his hand still lingered on her waist in support.

„Do you need a minute?“ His voice was weighted, careful.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, breathing heavily, eyes unblinking, staring ahead. When she breathed in, she straightened her back and settled her face into the mask of indifference she was so used to seeing on someone else's face. „No. We need a plan. Now."

When the door opened, she could see Davrin tending to Bellara's shoulder while she sat at the kitchen table. They both looked worse for wear, clothing torn, armor plating bent, everything splattered by black and red. „Rook!" Bellara jumped from her seat and ran to greet them, her wound reopening and dripping blood on the wooden floor. „You're all alive!" She wrapped her hands around Fenrel's neck, pulling her close. Fenrel's hand stayed hanging by her sides, her not finding any strength to lift them. „Bel." She whispered, trying to stop the forming tears. She looked over Bellara's shoulder at Lucanis, Davrin, and Harding. „We need to talk. Now."

In moments following, they all slumped into the chairs around the kitchen table, smearing blood on the lacquered surface. Fenrel could hear a faint tap tap tap of blood hitting the floor, dripping from Bellara‘s wound. 

„Neve is not coming back for now. If ever." She kept her voice steady, unlike the thoughts running through her head. „But we cannot stop. We need to stop those dragons before— "

„You need someone trained to fight dragons.“ Solas‘ voice cut through her mind. 

„We need to put them down.“ As she glanced over the table, she could see their heads nodding ever so slightly. This battle took too much from all of them. Some more than others. „We need a dragon hunter.“

„You need to navigate the Crossroads better. Elgar‘nan and Ghilan‘nain are sinking their claws in there.“ Solas warned.

„What do you suggest?“ She answered him silently.

„You may need to find an expert in the magic of the Fade."

„And we need the Fade expert.“ Her eyes darted around the room, waiting for questions.

„Fade expert? Why?“ Davrin asked.

„Crossroads are in danger.“ She steeled against his intrusive stare.

„They seemed fine when we were there. What changed?“ He raised his eyebrows, his eyes scanning her face.

„Solas warned me. Fen‘Harel. The Dread Wolf.“ She shrugged. „Sorry, didn‘t have time to catch you up on the Rook is connected to an ancient Elven God part.“

„So Solas thinks that we need a dragon hunter and a Fade expert?“ Lucanis interrupted.

Harding spoke up before Fenrel could answer. „He‘s right about the dragon hunter, at least.“

Bellara talked over her. „The Shadow Dragons did all they could. The dragon was just too much. The moment the dust settled? Venatori rushed in. Guess they knew it was coming. At least you took care of yours.“

„We hurt it but didn't kill it. The dragon flew off before we could put it down." Fenrel felt the sharp sting of the words as she said them.

„Treviso could have used a dragon hunter.“ Lucanis shrugged. „That much is true.“

Fenrel swallowed her grief for yet another time this night, straightened her back, and looked over everyone. „Then we find one. Next time a blighted dragon comes calling, it‘ll be the last time it comes calling. It counts for the one which destroyed Minrathous too.“

„Hey,“ Fenrel‘s eyes went wide as Varric approached them, limping on his broken leg. „Let‘s not linger in the regrets, all right?“

Davrin interrupted. „Hang on a minute. Not only you have retained the services of a demon assassin, but you're also taking advice from an elven god who attempted to tear down the Veil?"

„Spite is my problem.“ Lucanis stepped in closer, always eager to protect Fenrel. She wasn‘t sure if she should‘ve been glad or worried.

„That‘s what they always say.“ Davrin mocked, his voice still stoic. „Rook, Lucanis is one thing, but do you really trust Solas?“

Something in her moved, as if unable to sit still in anticipation.

„Trust is such a strong word, you know?“ She said, forcing out a confident smile.

„So you don‘t trust him?“ Davrin asked to make sure.

She stared at him for a moment, unsure how to answer. Her hand unwillingly rubbed her neck in discomfort, and she could feel dried blood peeling off her skin like paint. „It's complicated. But he is invested in our success and that will have to do for now."

He looked at her concerned but then seemingly decided not to fight it, saying „All right then,“ with a sigh.

„I'll ask around about dragon hunters and see what turns up," Harding said. „We all should rest up and regroup in a couple of days. Any news should turn up in the meantime."

„And I've been corresponding with someone about Lighthouse's reverberative oscillations and the resulting dimensional peculiarities-„ Words spilled out Bellara's mouth but she stopped herself upon seeing the confusion evident on their faces. „Oh... sorry. Not relevant. I'll get a message through to a Fade expert immediately."

The familiar warmth of Varric‘s laughter broke through the tension. „See, Rook? Nothing to worry about.“

„All right. We all know what to do. Patch up. Get some rest. And then we kill those damned dragons.“ Fenrel said, nodding for Varric to walk with her and headed out of the common room without looking back.

***

The lights flickered softly, water lulling in the bath, its surface waiting to be broken by the touch of her skin. She tore her broken armor off her skin like bark from a tree, ignoring the burning sensation of eyes on her back. Dried blood flaked off and snowed upon the stone floor, followed by silent tears. She did not know a person could cry this much until now. It was as if her own heart got blighted, the corrupted blood running through her veins, burning out any sense of self. Every time she closed her eyes for a second, she could see the flashes of the carnage upon the streets of Minrathous. The tremble in her fingers went beyond her control, her hands acting on their own accord as they grabbed onto the edge of the tub.

A young woman with eyes so bewildered they bordered on the line of insanity stared back at her. The red of congealed blood blended in with the red of her Vallaslin, the sign of the Gods that she now wanted to claw off her flesh. Her bones shivered as she plunged her head into the reflection, letting the water wash away her scream of anguish. And then she did it again. And again. Until there all that she felt faded into exhaustion.

Solas kneeled by the edge of the tub unseen, his hand crunching the delicate leather of his armor around his heart as if it was also tearing apart.

***

She wandered down the hall, hairs standing on their ends as the only item of clothing she bothered to put on was a bare thread nightgown she found at the back of the closet. She didn‘t question it. Her body seemed to move on its own in the early morning hours. Fenrel hasn‘t slept since before leaving for Anderfels and the adrenaline of everything that has happened has worn off. She couldn‘t feel much at all. Blood-shot eyes, shaking hands, a knot in her stomach, and razor blades dragging through her throat each time she unwillingly swallowed her spit meant nothing to her anymore. It was as if the loss of Minrathous broke something in her. Something that could never be mended. Solas followed closely by, just outside the edges of her being, but she paid him no mind. He doubted she even registered his presence.

She slunk into the infirmary, her footsteps barely audible, yet Varric still stirred to look at her. Or at least that was what she saw. And the warmth came back into her limbs, a dead heart stuttering once more. She wanted to say something, but words stuck in her throat, choking her, and only a violent sob escaped her lips. She collapsed onto his bed, pulling him close.

„Hey, kid. “Varric exhaled softly, pressing his nose against her wet hair like he’d been holding his breath since she walked in. His hand, calloused and steady, did not stop rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades as she wept.

"You made an impossible choice with no information," he murmured again, softer this time.

She clutched the fabric of his shirt in trembling fists, burying her face into the dwarf’s chest like a fox hiding in its hole.

"I—" Her voice broke.

"Don’t," Varric cut in, his voice not losing its gentle touch. "Don't start blaming yourself, kid. You did the best you could. There’s nothing more anyone expects from you." His breath hitched, and when he spoke again, he whispered. "So stop beating yourself up. You’ve got plenty of enemies who’d love to do that for you."

Her shoulders shook. Her heart rattled in her chest like a caged bird, desperate to get out, but there was no escape. She tried to answer with a laugh, but it dissolved into another sob.

She felt Solas shift behind her, his presence still a silent shadow at the periphery of her senses. But it didn’t matter. Not now.

Not when Varric just held her, and she could finally close her eyes and let the exhaustion take its toll. Sobs eventually calmed into a steady beat of breaths, her hands clutching Varric’s shirt, face buried deep against his chest.

Solas lingered beside the bed, his expression pained, watching a lonely girl in an empty infirmary wrapped not in blankets, but in the leather and linen belonging to a ghost. The jacket still carried the faint scent of Kirkwall's finest. The same drink they had shared the first night they met, and many times after.

And for now, it was all that kept her afloat.

***

Solas walked in circles around his prison. He could hear Varric’s laughter echoing through the vastness of the space, yet it felt like it was closing in on him. He could've stayed and watched as she slept, as he wanted to, but her words "Just wait until I get back to the Lighthouse" rang in his ears, as a prophecy of what was to come. Though the morning was in full swing, the night was not done for her, and he could feel the storm coming as the prison shifted again.

Not gently, like a sun rising on summer’s morning, not like a breeze on a spring day. There was no familiarity of an embrace from a friend. There was fury. Crackling, scolding, fuming, blind fury. And the storm clouds of unyielding grief followed it. Solas could almost swear he could see shades of red twirling with the raw magic, sparking. Her voice cut through the silence before he could change the scenery. Solas stood there among the ruins of people he once held dear, their faces set in stone. Felassan’s accusatory stare followed him, whispering, "You're doing it again, my friend." The Inquisitor’s tears shifted to a snarl, a piece of marbled beauty clutching their mangled hand, screaming after their closest confidant. Fenrel stood on the other side of the divide and he could almost see the mirage of the statue that would one day stand there and mock him.

“All this time... you were watching. Lurking in the shadows like some coward, using blood magic to worm your way into my mind. I abhor blood magic,” she snarled at him mockingly. “You lied, Solas! But that’s what you do, isn’t it, Fen’Harel?

“I never intended—” His voice was weirdly strained, yet he stood still, even as the ground beneath him shook. She was trying to close the breach again, and this time, he didn’t fight. “Perhaps it’s not the time—“

The ground below them shifted as she stomped towards him. "Spare me your justifications. Spare me your pity. You didn’t just watch, you invaded. You dug through my thoughts, my memories. You used blood magic, Solas. You made me feel like I was going insane. The flashes, the weird voice in my head, the lingering breaths on my skin.” She giggled, choking on a sob, giving him a maniacal smile. "You used me!”

“I had no choice!” His stoicism was slipping, the mask of calm off, his voice rising. “This connection is beyond either of our control—”

 “Control? All you ever want is control, Solas! The world can only be right if you remake it. And failing once was not enough. You went in again. Damned be the sacrifices it will take. And then you infected the one who’s trying to clean up your mess like some disease!” She choked on fury and tears, almost laughing between words. “You manipulated me, lied to me, and now you expect me to believe this was all inevitable? All was beyond your control? All you wanted was to control me!"

 “It wasn’t meant to be like this.” Solas lowered his head as the abyss between them closed. He didn’t move as she approached him. “I never wanted to use blood magic, but the circumstances—”

“The circumstances?” Her fists hit his chest, a thunderous force that forced his eyes on her face, stained by tears and blood. “You justify everything with your damned circumstances! How many more lies, how many more manipulations will you twist into noble sacrifices?”

He unwillingly leaned in closer, as if inviting her anger. She needed a victim, and he offered his body as a sacrifice. As if he wanted to be punished. “Do you truly think this was what I wished for? You think I wanted this?”

“You let me fight, bleed, and nearly die while you watched!” Her hands beat on his chest even as her knees buckled and he followed her down to the ground, their eyes still locked. “You let me sacrifice my home. My home. While you stood and watched.”

“And yet you live. Because of my choice. Because of my lie, you can dare to dream to rebuild it." Solas fought himself to steady his voice, but it was in vain. “I couldn’t sit idly by while you were dying. I had to act, even if it meant crossing the lines that couldn’t be redrawn.”

 “And now what? You think saving me erases what you did?” Her hands stopped for a moment, resting on his chest, as sobs racked her chest. “You think it makes you any less of a hypocrite?”

 “No. It doesn’t. I wish I had done differently.” He sighed, carefully resting his hand on top of hers. “ But I couldn’t let you die. Not like that.”

 “Letting me live will not save this alliance, Solas. You already lost me. The moment you decided to lie, to manipulate.” She took him by the chin, and he didn’t look away. “You had a chance to be different for once. And you failed. You don’t get to claim regret now.”

He looked at her and wished he could tell her everything. He wished he could tell her about Varric. About the depth of the suffering of her own heart, one she was so afraid to face. One he turned her away from. Perhaps this prison was what he deserved, and she was just the key in its lock.

“You think I wanted this?” He asked again, his shoulders sagging, their foreheads almost touching. “You think I take comfort in what I’ve become? I’ve lost everything for my foolish pride, Fenrel. And now... I stand to lose this fight, too.”

 “You don’t stand to lose me or this fight, Solas.” She pushed his chin up, locking him in her gaze. Her words had finality in them, one he couldn’t face. “You already did. The moment you decided to lie. To manipulate. You had a chance to be different, and you failed. You failed. And now I am stuck with a failure of a God.”

“Do not give me such a name. I am not a god.” He whispered.

“You can keep telling yourself that, Dread Wolf.” She spit back.

He pushed himself back on his feet, his jaw clenched. “You keep calling me the Dread Wolf. What will they call you when this is over?”

She shook her head, not looking at him anymore, rising on her feet and leaving him in the dust of his broken promises.

***

Days passed, and he followed her like a shadow. She barely acknowledged him, and if she did, it was only for convenience. Any of his remarks concerning the blighted gods would be answered while his other words flew into the abyss or were met with snark. She was beaten and blue after the confrontation with a dragon, yet she refused his gentle offers of healing. He danced around her, thoughts mostly mixed with fury. She cursed his name more often than not, and yet she could not stop thinking of him. He lingered and listened, waiting for the sign of pain subduing, but it was not in sight. As days went on, she only grew angrier. But it wasn't targeted at him. She spiraled, dreaming of taking down gods that destroyed so much of what she held sacred and dear.

Her self-hatred grew into a whole new beast, one that gnawed at her insides, one that made her something entirely else. Companions walked on eggshells, afraid to touch on the subject of Minrathous. Only Lucanis made a point to wake up before the breaking of dawn to carry a cup of steaming coffee to the library, where he would find her already awake. They would sit in a comfortable silence, barely glancing at each other, just letting the familiarity settle in. As days passed and emotions settled down, news of the dragon hunter arrived. They were to set out for Rivain. A qunari hunter affiliated with a dubious gang of pirates, Lords of Fortune, was out there.

Finally, with a way forward insight Solas felt another shift inside her. Hope. A small dribble, but enough to quench the fires of fury. He watched her as she slept that night. The first peaceful night since Minrathous. Her hair wasn't sticking to her back from cold sweat, she didn't murmur, and no screams bounced off the walls of her room. Quiet.

Red hair surrounded her head as a halo, the reflections of the aquarium wall dancing on her skin. Solas rested his back against the low table beside her bed, taking the sight in. The small reprieve from his prison, one he cherished until she woke each morning. When her eyelids fluttered, he would usually take it as a sign to retreat out of her sight. Even though in the Lighthouse he was not as tightly attached to her physical form and could roam in the proximity of her, he often chose not to. Not after everything that went down. He wondered what she would do if she saw him out of his prison like that. He was not corporeal, at least not in the ways that mattered, and yet, when he brushed the hair away from her forehead, it moved. But when he tried to open the door, he was stuck, his hand missing the contact no matter how much he concentrated. Just like in his prison, or her dreams, the blood magic transcended the rules of physical when it came to them.

When he looked back at her, he was met with green fury. She threw her sheets off, grabbing the dagger from under the pillow, lunging at him. Cold silver pressed against his throat.

“How did you escape?” She hissed, her breathing uneven from jolting awake. Her nightgown hung awkwardly around her waist, one side lifted and exposing just a little more skin than what would be already considered scandalous.

His gaze went back to her face. “I did not.”

Her fingers clenched around the dagger hilt, but her grip wavered, just for a breath. His lack of resistance unsettled her more than if he had fought back.

“Lies.” The accusation landed between them, sharp as the steel at his throat. He was almost sure it would draw blood if she pressed any harder. He wondered if she wanted to. “You shouldn’t be here. Not like this.”

Solas exhaled, slowly, deliberately, as if any sudden movement would startle her into action, press her closer to him than she already was. “And yet, I am.”

Her eyes flicked over him, analyzing, dissecting. He felt her gaze burning into him as if she wanted to destroy whatever she was seeing. Then she furrowed her brow in thought, her face shifting from anger to confusion.

“You touched me.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the words carried in the narrow space between them. “You moved my hair.”

He inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying.

“That shouldn’t be possible,” she continued, more to herself than him. Her jaw was tight, fury warring with something else, something jagged and uncertain. He could see the pang of violation in her eyes and curiosity. Curiosity.

“The boundaries of my prison are not as defined as we believed.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know.” Her breath hitched, her nostrils flaring as she studied him, looking for cracks in his composure, looking for a reason to drive the blade forward. “How often do you do this? Does this give you some sick enjoyment? Are you that bored or disturbed to stare at your regrets that you have to come and watch me?”

 When he didn’t answer at first, she let out a sharp, bitter laugh. He whispered. “I do not linger for my own sake.”

“Of course.” Her hand trembled against his skin before she pulled the blade back, just slightly. “Because if anything you will just admit your wrongdoing.”

Solas tilted his head. “Would it comfort you, Fenrel, if I said yes?”

“Yes.” The answer was instant, but her body betrayed her, rooted in place. She was still close enough that he could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the pulse at her throat. Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. He caught himself staring again, and yet he knew it didn’t matter because she already noticed.

He shook off the unwelcome thoughts and gave her a smirk. “How long will you keep pressing against me like that?”

She stiffened. “I should just kill you.”

“If that were true, you would have tried to do so already.”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. He was right. The moment she lunged, she could have stabbed him. But she hadn't. She chose to corner him. He wondered if she would regret it later.

The dagger wavered again before she let it fall to her side. He whispered. "I am not actually here. Not as long as I’m bound to my prison. Not in the ways that would matter.”

“I know.” She whispered, stepping away from him and dropping back down on the bed.

His lips pressed into a thin line, a corner of his lips ever so slightly lifted. “And yet, here we are.”

Silence stretched between them. The light from the aquarium cast strange shadows over her features, ones that made her look softer, almost at peace, if not for the storm in her eyes. Finally, she exhaled sharply and turned away, rubbing at her temple as if the sight of him alone was exhausting. “So now I’m stuck with you. In whichever way you like.”

"You could say that." He leaned back on the table, smirking.

She sighed, fixing her nightgown as if she just realized what she looked like. “So, what do we do about it?”

“That,” he said, his voice fading, "is up to you."

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

Days passed and Fenrel found herself used to the shadow of Solas following her around. Mostly it was his remarks, often said at inconvenient times, where she struggled to maintain her composure. For how infuriating he was with her, she had to admit he had a certain comedic timing. He limited his physical appearances to spaces only occupied by her. He would lurk in the shadows of the music room as she played, or on a further corner of the office as she worked. She let him talk—until she remembered why she shouldn’t.

Now Fenrel splayed out in Solas’ armchair, her legs thrown over arm support, her back tucked in the corner, a wad of papers in her lap, her gaze locked onto the fresco on the wall. For all of the legends that he was, she could never have imagined him as an artist, yet he was one. And a good one at that.

“Thank you,” Solas said, standing by the bookshelf, his legs and arms crossed, his head slightly inclined as he watched her.

She shook her head, looking down at the stack and picking up a letter from Neve. Without looking at him, she murmured. “Listening into my mind to get the conversation going? Isn’t that a little too desperate of you, Da Fen?”

“Your thoughts are deafening this morning.” He smirked. Bastard.

She rolled her eyes, dropping Neve's letter back down, to look at him. "You could always go back to your prison instead of lingering around like a stray dog."

He half-mockingly placed his hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“Okay then.” She turned fully to face him, putting her feet on his desk,  chin raised high. “If you’re going to be insufferable, you can do it while being useful.”

Solas raised a brow, glancing at her boots—dirty, worn, absolutely disrespectful, propped against his desk. His lips curved, just slightly. “And how, pray tell, do you expect me to be of use to you?”

“Answer my questions. Honestly.” She leaned slightly in, locking her gaze on him. “No twisting your words. No double meanings. Pure and complete honesty, if you are even capable of it. I deserve at least that much.”

Solas regarded her for a long moment, his expression blank, save for the flicker of something dangerously close to amusement. “Very well.”

Fenrel blinked. She had expected resistance, expected him to argue, to deflect, to remind her in that insufferable way that she was asking for more than she realized. She narrowed her eyes. “That easy?”

“Not quite.” Solas stepped closer, his presence shifting the air between them, the soft light catching the curve of his smirk. “For every question you ask, I get one in return.”

Fenrel scoffed, tapping one boot slightly against the desk. “No deal.”

 “Then you can continue trying to figure it out yourself,” Solas merely tilted his head, “I trust you eventually will.”

Her fingers twitched slightly, an old irritation curling at the edges of her mind. This was a game to him, and yet—he wasn’t wrong. Fenrel exhaled sharply, pretending to consider it. In reality, she was already losing, because she wanted to know. She tapped a finger against the stack of letters. “Fine. But I go first.”

Solas gave a slow nod, settling himself against the desk—too close, but she ignored that. “Ask.”

Fenrel studied him, her question already formed. She leaned forward slightly, dropping her feet to the ground, fingers folding beneath her chin, elbows resting on the table. “Did you intend to tether yourself to me back at the ritual site?”

“You in particular? No.” Solas sighed. “But you were the only one I could see in my path and desperation always comes out on top of reason.”

"So this is just another mistake in your never-ending list?" She narrowed her eyes, searching for cracks in his demeanour, but could see none, except for his eyes softening.

“In the lifetimes I had, I have learned to enjoy some of them more than others.” A smile didn’t cross his lips, but she could swear she could see it in the faint lines around his eyes. “I believe it is my turn now.”

She leaned back, not giving him the satisfaction to examine her up close. “Go ahead.”

“You could have chosen to ward me off after our first encounter. Yet, you didn’t,” He leaned in closer, his hands resting on the wood grain. “Why?”

“You seemed useful.” She shrugged, not letting her expression betray her. She could not remember why she made that particular choice. Whatever the reason was, it was too late to change it.

He smirked. “And after that?”                      

“No two-parters. My turn.” She stood up, and walked around the table, her fingers tracing a line over the lacquer. "How long did it take you to start watching me?"

Solas’ smirk didn’t falter, but something in his face shifted as if his amusement fell apart for a blink before he set his expression back. “Define ‘watching.’”

Fenrel scoffed. “Don’t play coy, Da Fen.”

“First week, in your time.” He answered, breaking eye contact. She stepped back, shock evident on her face. Before she said a thing, he continued. "I stumbled over the particularities of our connection by mere accident. It was you who pulled me into your dream before I sought to explore this… bond."

Her fingers lingered on the edge of the desk, still. Lips slightly apart, eyes wide, chest barely moving as she stood frozen in place before shaking it off. “Why couldn’t I see you then?”

"The trauma you have experienced at the ritual site might have activated your instinctive defence against intrusion. Your mind could have mistaken me for a demon." He smirked, eyes tracing her features. "Or perhaps you were just in denial. And you just broke the rules.”

She rolled her eyes, tongue tracing inside of her cheek before answering. “You slipped.”

“Why did you join Varric?”

“You already know—“

“I am aware of the how, not the why.” He moved away from the table, stepping into her arms’ reach.

She frowned, turning away and walking towards the balcony. She stopped at the entrance, leaning on the door frame, looking over the expanse of the courtyard. “Back then it seemed like a fun adventure. I believed I had nothing to lose.”

Solas followed her, cornering her in the spot. “Who’s the liar now, Fenrel?”

“You want to know if I was naïve enough to follow in the hunt for the one god I believed did right? One god that did something worthwhile? That I still believed in fairytales my mother once told me of the great Dread Wolf? Does it stroke your ego to know that I have once admired you?”

His eyelashes fluttered as he looked her straight in the eye. His arm leaned on the door frame, just above her shoulder and his face was close. Too close. He blinked slowly before exhaling, as if controlling himself. “It’s your turn.”

His face. That damned face. His striking violet eyes burrowed into her, yet her feet refused to move. She could not peel her eyes off him. “How come you are here and able to touch me if you are still in your prison?”

His eyes widened, head inching back a little as he looked up in thought. “My ritual required an unprecedented amount of power unseen since the creation of the Veil.”

Fenrel scoffed at his not-so-subtle display of his magical prowess.

“When I tethered myself to you, magic in the area was bending the reality itself, acting on its own accord, completely torn away from its original intent. It must have warped my spell into… this.”

She looked at him, without a word. She could hear Lucanis' and Davrin's voices travelling through the courtyard, closing the distance. They must have been looking for her. They had to leave for Rivain. And still, she didn't move towards the exit.

"You owe me one last question." He was listening to her thoughts again, knowing that she would leave soon. "Why does the thought of me touching you frighten you so?"

“Because I do not know what lies beneath it.” She did not lie. She did not deflect. Fenrel looked him straight in the eye, feeling his breath on her skin, wishing she could see the truth in the irises of a God. “Do you even care about anything besides your plans?”

His eyes flickered to her mouth for a fraction of a second, yet she still felt it down to her bones. “I saved you, did I not?”

When the knock at the door came, Solas disappeared back into the recesses of her mind.

***

The golden sands of Rivan crunched under their boots as they strode through forgotten ruins to the meet-up with the dragon hunter spot. Seagulls were coursing through rich blue skies, barely a cloud in sight. Fenrel could hear the sounds of a nearby fight, but she did not pick up her pace.

“Not in a hurry, are we?” Davrin strolled beside her, face lifted towards the sun. Assan flew circles above them, his squawks joining the symphony of seagulls.

She looked up to trace Assan's path in the skies, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. "It's such a beautiful day. Why rush to ruin it with bloodshed?"

“Enjoying the little things?” Solas teased lightly, his smirk was evident in his voice.

She smiled to herself before answering. “Jealous?”

“Do you always have to see ill intent in between my words? Or do you just find it easier than admitting I might actually care for more than myself?” With his words her smile dropped, eyes turned away from the skies. She didn’t answer, just picked up her pace.

“So we are joining in?” Lucanis caught up with her and Davrin, brandishing his blades.

She shrugged. “It might be a good day for a fight, after all.”

From afar they could see three Antaam soldiers going against another qunari. She wielded two axes, swinging with deadly precision, and the sounds of metal hitting flesh were drowned out by the roar of the Amaranthine ocean. The beat of the fight almost matched one of the waves hitting the shore, and as Fenrel approached, two of the Antaam already bled into the sands, the third one held and beaten to a bloody pulp by the qunari which Fenrel was coming to realize might have been their dragon hunter. She was in the correct meeting spot, unlike the soldiers. She landed the killing blow, both her axes settling down between her victim's shoulder blades, blood splashing. Fenrel could feel the warmth of the droplets as they sprayed onto her face and she wiped them off with the back of her hand. The tall qunari straightened up, pulling her weapons out of the Antaam's back, with one foot pressing down on the body. She turned slightly and with an unbothered expression greeted them. "Hey."

“That looked painful.” Fenrel motioned to the corpses next to their feet. “For them.”

“Yep.” Taash didn’t even shrug, just looked over them.

“She does not share words heedlessly," Solas commented.

"You could learn a thing or two," Fenrel answered, shutting him out.

“You must be Taash.” Fenrel stepped over the body, stretching out her hand. “I’m Rook. Here to help you with that dragon mission.”

Taash looked her up and down as if measuring if she was worth the trouble, then glanced at Davrin for a moment and slightly nodded. A muscular Warden seemed to work out in Fenrel's favour. "The Lords want to hit a cave on the coastal cliffs. Big Vinsomer makes her lair there. We get her out. Lords get in. We go home and get drunk."

“I like the way you think.” Fenrel smiled at her, not receiving a smile back.

One of the bodies moved and none of them flinched as Taash struck her axes down once again, finishing the job. She pulled them out with ease, flicking blood around as she turned. “Don’t slow me down. Don’t get in my way.” She walked ahead through the ruins, motioning them to follow her.

Fenrel and Lucanis shared a glance. “She seems lovely.”

Lucanis shook his head. “Are you sure about that?”

***

"So what kind of a dragon is a Vinsomer?" Fenrel asked between short gasps as she tried to catch up with Taash. What Taash lacked in friendliness, she did not lack in the sheer size of her. Fenrel and Lucanis found it hard to catch up with their shorter statue, while Davrin would mockingly look back at them, waving as the distance between the pairs grew further.

"Blue, with a yellow belly," Taash shouted without looking back. “Breathes lightning.”

“Would you look at that?" Lucanis grinned from ear to ear, as if itching for a fight.

“We are not fighting her. Lords just want the hoard in her lair.” Taash instructed them once again and Fenrel had no complaints. She had enough dragon fights to last her a lifetime, even if there was only one.

"So you've got no problem fighting other Qunari?" Fenrel tried to pick the conversation up as they neared the beach.

“I’m from Rivain.” Taash’s voice carried notes of annoyance. “Not like I follow the Qun.”

As their pace slowed into a walking rhythm, Fenrel looked Taash over. “You’ve got the arm ropes.”

"And you've got the face tattoo, but you're no Dalish." She sneered, crossing her hands over her chest.

"How do you know?" Fenrel stopped in her tracks. Did Lace just tell her life story in every message she sent?

“I can smell it.” Taash shrugged, seemingly not planning to elaborate.

An uncomfortable chuckle escaped Fenrel’s throat. “I’m not sure if I should take it as a compliment.”

"Depends if you like Halla." She shrugged, nodding at the beach. “We are almost here.”

“You said we will find bait here.” Fenrel looked at the empty beach, not a spirit in sight.

“Bait will find us, let’s go.” She ran further ahead, once again leaving Fenrel and Lucanis in the dust.

They gave each other a confused look. Lucanis spoke first. “What does she mean by ‘bait will find us’?

As they ran over the little stream separating them from the secluded beach, sands started exploding outwards in places and writhing in others. The group unsheathed their weapons as the first creature jumped out. “What the fuck is that?” Fenrel screamed at Taash, one hand grabbing the weird being by the neck, twisting it in a quick motion just like Lucanis taught her.

“They are deepstalkers. Many of them reside in deep roads. Surprising to see them in such warm climates.” Solas explained, much to Fenrel’s annoyance.

“I told you they’d find us!” Taash proclaimed with excitement, swinging her axes left and right, bodies of the odd animals piling next to her. They seemed to come in waves, jumping from the sand where they dwelled.

Lucanis’ wings flashed in and out of view as he dropped one corpse after another. Only his voice carried over the shrieks of dying creatures “The creatures are the bait?”

They just kept coming and Fenrel didn't bother wiping blood off her face anymore. A big one was heading their way, and she knew that they must have slain her nest just now. The mother wasn't happy. She would disappear into the sands only to jump back out feet away, rounding them up back to back. The next time she jumped was the last, as the flurry of blades struck various parts of her body until she slumped, bodily liquids soaking the sand.

“Now we get the fire going and make our dragon dinner,” Taash grinned, putting her axes back behind her belt.

“We are cooking them?” Fenrel asked, following her.

"Yes, of course, she's a dragon, not some beast," Taash said as a matter of fact, throwing bodies into a makeshift funeral pyre.

As soon as the fire got going, Fenrel felt it. The scent hit her like a hammer. Not smoke. Not charred wood. Burning flesh. It didn’t smell like human flesh and she was abhorred that she knew the difference. Fenrel’s breath caught. Sharp. Stinging. The warmth of the fire licked at her skin, and suddenly she was not there anymore. Despite the heat of the fire, cold droplets ran down her back and under the curve of her breast.

Minrathous.

Screams from bodies that were not moving. The thick, acrid smoke curled in her lungs. The unbearable stench of melting fat and skin sloughing off the bone.

She stumbled back. Fingers clawed at the clasps of her armour, trying to break free. Too tight. Too heavy. Desperately trying to breathe. But her hands were numb, and the world spun, vision blurring at the edges.

"Fenrel."

A voice, distant but insistent.

Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Breathe."

She was breathing—too fast, too shallow, her ribs locking up. There was too little space in her armour. In her chest. She couldn't breathe in. She couldn't allow the taste of burning flesh to linger on her tongue.

“I am breathing,” she hissed through her teeth, voice unsteady. She stumbled away from the fire, away from Lucanis and Davrin and their worried faces. She hoped they didn't notice her speaking to herself.

"Not enough. Again." He kept on pressing, and her mind was too feeble to shut him out. Solas’ voice was unwavering, and so damn calm it made her want to scream.

"Look around. Tell me what you see."

Fenrel swallowed, trying to force words through a throat that felt too tight. The lump inside it growing larger.

"Fire." The word slipped out before she could stop it. “Burning.”

"Not the pyre. Look beyond it."

She dragged her gaze away from the flickering flames, forcing herself to take in the horizon.

"Sand," she said, finally able to contain her answers to her head. "Water. Cliffs."

"Good. Now, what do you hear?"

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She stood still but could hear her boots striking cobbled stone streets. She could hear the screech of the dragon as it flew. She could hear the misery in Ashur’s voice. Tarquin and Neve. She could see corpses of other Shadow Dragons piling in the streets; their unheard voices filling up her head.

"Screa—" She cut herself off, exhaling sharply through her nose. "Not screams."

She strained to listen. Beyond the crackling fire, there was—

“Waves,” she murmured. “Gulls.”

"Yes." Solas’ voice remained measured, grounding. "And what do you feel?"

"Like I'm drowning," she admitted before she could stop herself.

Silence fell inside her mind. Neither said a thing for a moment as she tried to find her way back to steady grounds.

"The sun is on your face. The wind is in your hair. The sand is beneath your feet."

She exhaled again, this time a little easier, as if her ribs just opened back up.

"You are here, Fenrel. You are not there."

She knew that. She knew that. But knowing and feeling were two different things. Her breath slowed. The tremor in her hands dulled. She felt the warmth of the sun again, the salt of the ocean curling in the air. The scent of burning bodies remained, but it was no longer all she could feel.

Silence stretched between them.

Then, Solas spoke, voice soft. "You do not have to do this alone."

A dry, humourless laugh escaped her lips.

"Sure," she muttered. "Because you make such excellent company."

He stayed silent for a moment, but when he spoke, there was something dangerously close to sympathy in his voice, much as she despised to admit.

"Regardless, I will be here when it happens again."

“When?” she echoed.

He didn’t answer. Because they both knew.

***

As they climbed up the cliffs to call on the dragon from a safe distance, Fenrel wondered if sleeping drought Taash generously poured over charred deepstalker corpses would be enough to put the creature to slumber. The Rivaini sun was blinding as day reached its peak and sweat quickly accumulated under heavy chain mail. Fenrel thirsted to jump into the ocean and wash away the day when Taash spoke. "So what do you do?"

“Right now?” Fenrel breathed out pulling herself up on a small rocky platform. "We're trying to take down evil god monsters and their blighted dragons."

“What?” Taash pulled up beside her with ease, her climbing form was impeccable. Lucanis and Davrin didn’t seem to struggle either. Fenrel realized that she might need to spend more time training than answering missives. “That can’t be right… Dragons don’t get blighted. They are smart enough to avoid that crap.”

“However, it’s happening and gods are using the blight to force dragons to attack people.”

“That’s messed up!” Taash’s voice carried between the cliffs, bouncing off the fragile stone. “Somebody needs to stop them!”

Fenrel stopped atop the cliff face looking down at the beach. It seemed like a secure enough place to call on the dragon. "That's where we come in."

She nodded at Taash to pass her the horn. She had no desire to be the one calling the dragon or seeing it at all, but she knew she had to show Taash that people asking her to join them were worth something; someone not so easily scared. Fenrel blew on the horn hard and listened in for the telltale clap of the wings.

The dragon’s roar broke up the peaceful cacophony of the beach and Fenrel had to remind herself to breathe. Just breathe. As it flew over their heads she unwillingly stumbled back, cursing under her nose. Lucanis gave her an understanding look but didn't say a thing. They stood there, watching the Vinsomer gorge itself on deepstalker flesh until it succumbed to sleep.

***

While the dragon took its afternoon nap, Taash led them to the abandoned outpost to check out suspicious Antaam activity. On the way there Fenrel came to understanding that perhaps Taash wasn't as brash as she first appeared to be. Once questioned about Vinsomer she gladly shared the details of the creature's behavior and feeding patterns. Hearing such ordinary things about such a frightening being made it more mundane and less scary, and Fenrel was grateful for the change.

"That dragon is a lot bigger than a griffon" Davrin tried to engage in conversation with Taash, and it was all she needed. She dived in the particulars of the dragon in the second, and Lucanis with Fenrel just shared a look between them. Fenrel thought that dragons to Taash were what Elvhen artefacts were to Bellara. The qunari was a perfect fit for their group, even if a little rough around the edges.

“So this is obviously a Warden build.” Davrin looked around the fortress upon entrance. Griffon emblems upon every corner was good telltale sign.

"Good eye," Taash said, amused. "Wardens used to have a big outpost here. But they have left after a volcano erupted. Something about lava flooding the tunnels.”

“Makes sense. After magma blocks entrances to deep roads, there's no need to worry about dark spawn escaping them." Davrin talked and Fenrel listened since knowledge of how Grey Wardens operated wasn't exactly public. Their order was always shrouded in mystery, especially when it came to the initiation process. She made a mental note to probe him about it later since he didn't seem like a Warden keen on keeping their secrets.

As they travelled through the abandoned fort, they found more and more signs of Antaam claiming it as their own. Their banners littered the place, defacing its centuries-long beauty. Way too many gaatlok barrels left around, as if they wanted to tear these ancient walls down with explosives.

“Shit. More Antaam.” Taash stopped in her tracks, hands splayed out to stop the group from making the next turn.

Fenrel listened in. She could barely audible shuffle of feet in the next room. ‘How do you know it’s Antaam?”

“I can smell them. I can smell a lot of things. Trust me.”

Fenrel nodded, not seeing the point in questioning her abilities at this very moment. She did not know much about qunaris in general, so it might just have been her lack of knowledge. “How many?”

Taash leaned closer to the corner, breathing in deeply. “Ten? Fifteen? Heavily armed.”

“Is there more gaatlok?” Fenrel could see a plan shaping in her mind.

“Yes. Why?”

"We can blow them out." Fenrel snapped her fingers and a small, yet steady flame rose from her hand. Fire was not her preferred element, but any mage worth their skin knew how to summon it if the need arose. And it did. Even if feeling the flames on her skin made her stomach churn now.

“It is incredibly reckless. In such a close proximity you could —“

“You’re getting soft, Dread Pup,” Fenrel shut him out again.

She looked at Lucanis. “You think you and Spite could goad them close to the gaatlok?”

"We will." Their voices overlapped. Fenrel told Davrin and Taash to wait behind and come out if they heard things going sideways. Spite unravelled its wings, flashing a mischievous grin towards Fenrel, eyes glowing their familiar purple. “We. Have. Fun.”

***

They stepped over the charred bodies of Antaam soldiers, and Fenrel had to remind herself of where she was. She couldn’t spiral again. She could not allow herself to fall apart once more today. Fenrel had to keep it in at least until she was back at the Lighthouse. Taash was looking over unburned supplies and swore out loud. “Grappling hooks, nets. Fuck. They are going after the Vinsomer.”

“She’s a dragon,” Davrin said “She can take care of herself.”

"Not after we drugged her," Taash shouted back, kicking the nearest barrel with such force it left a hole in its side. "They've been watching. They knew I'd drug her to make her sleep. Assholes!”

Fuck. Was the only thought that passed through Fenrel's head as Taash took off, heading out of the fort in the direction of the beach where they had left the sleeping dragon.

“We are going to save a dragon, huh?” Davrin murmured next to her, his hand mindlessly petting Assan’s head.

“Ironic, isn’t it? One dragon to save, two to kill..” Fenrel responded before shouting after Taash. “Hey, wait for us!”

***

They perched upon the stone wall overlooking the beach. Vinsomer lay on the ground where they left her, except for now she was bound in chains. Seven Antaam soldiers guarded her. Fenrel could see barrels of gaatlok stacked nearby, but this time they weren’t an option. Not this close to the dragon. They couldn’t risk harming her. Equal parts care and fear of what would happen if she woke from the pain.

"They haven't seen us yet," Fenrel said, but it didn't seem like Taash was listening. "We can around and—“

Taash stood tall, her imposing frame visible from afar. “HEY!”

Fenrel and Lucanis sighed, shaking their heads while Davrin only chuckled.

"No point in hiding anymore," He said, grabbing onto his shield, and jumping from their spot after Taash.

"Taash owes us a bottle for this," Lucanis muttered, offering his hand as they climbed down.

Fenrel smiled at him, gripping his palm. “Make it two.”

They strode through the sands, at the quickest pace they could. The reflection from her armour blinded Fenrel and she swore she would never dress like that again for Rivain. Taash was too far ahead to be stopped. In the middle of an Antaam circle, Taash stood proud, her voice carrying far. "I brought her down. She's mine by right."

Soldiers just snickered at each other, their weapons still lowered. They did not see Taash as a threat but did not pay attention to Davrin, Lucanis and Fenrel closing the distance between them.

“Mar-karra.” The largest amongst the bunch spit back at Taash, clearly amused.

“He said ‘You are no warrior’” Solas’ muttered.

“Thanks” Fenrel answered silently, watching the scene unfold.

Taash’s shoulders stiffened, voice carried more anger than before. “Mar-anaamra ben'ari ebala.”

Soldier tensed, gripping his weapon, his body shifting into a fighting stance. Taash continued screaming at him, not minding weapons turned against her. “Ataash mar-taarost! Asit taarala! Qun toh!”

“You don’t get to tell me who I am.” Solas continued on his unprompted service. “The dragon doesn't belong to you! She belongs to me! The Qun demands it.”

Warrior snickered again, his shoulders shaking. He looked around. “Qun asit vashedan.”

“The Qun is—“ Solas was interrupted as Fenrel squealed and jumped back at the sight in front of them. The next time Taash opened her mouth, flames erupted from it, engulfing the snickering fighter. Others started running, screaming "Adari."

Taash looked unbothered. Taash let them go as they scattered across the beach, screaming. Lucanis and Davrin took it upon themselves to take them out one by one while Fenrel approached Taash.

“So…” Fenrel started, unsure what to say. “You breathe fire?”

Taash shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Were we supposed to know this? No one mentioned it.” Fenrel racked her brain on how such information could slip Harding’s mind.

“We can talk later. Help me free her.” Taash nodded at the dragon, face suddenly relaxed.

Despite her reservations, Fenrel stepped closer to the sleeping creature. It was undoubtedly beautiful, just as it was dangerous. Her hands shook as she bent down to untie the first chain from the post, but the voice in her head reminded her that she was safe. She didn’t fight it.

***

After an incredibly awkward conversation with Taash and her mother in Lords of Fortune's base of operations, they were finally back at the Lighthouse. If Fenrel knew that it wasn't actually Taash who agreed to join their team, but her mother who made the decision, Fenrel would have never gone there. However, their little dragon adventure was fruitful enough since afterwards, Taash did not mind becoming a part of the group. She did, however, want to argue with her mother for a bit. Fenrel sat in between two fires, afraid that one wrong word might set off a war until it blew over. Taash packed clothing, axes, and some of the best Rivaini rum. "Hey, I did say that we're getting a drink after this," Taash said, showing off the bottles.

After such strenuous days, Fenrel did not mind. They all needed a moment just to be together. After dinner, they carried their conversations over to the library, drinks in hand. The ambience of warm light and chatter all around felt normal. Too normal. The world was falling apart and they were making friends. Solas was unusually quiet this evening. She supposed he decided to give her a break. Her heart hurt at the absence of Neve, but she forced herself to pay attention to the conversations at hand and just live. At this moment, this very night. They deserved it.

Hours passed, and the lights flickered low, drowning them in a soft golden light. All of them were still awake mingling amongst each other, scattered around—drinking, telling stories, unwinding. But for Fenrel, a few drinks in the world still smelled like burning, the roar of the blighted dragon still rang in her ears.

She sat at the edge of the sofa, feet tucked under her, the bottle of Rivaini rum heavy in her hand. Lucanis sat beside her—not close enough to touch, but close enough that she felt him there. Tonight he didn’t bother with his usual home attire, which for some reason had to involve an exquisitely expensive shirt and a vest. Through the gap in his unbuttoned tunic, she could see skin marked by scars, a common feature many of her companions carried.

They glanced at each other every few minutes while passing the bottle. It was half done. Lucanis reached for the bottle once again, taking a slow sip before handing it back.“ So," he said finally, voice low. “That was fun.”

Fenrel scoffed. “Yeah. Just what I needed. Another dragon. A real treat."

Lucanis hummed, watching the floating bookshelves above them. “I was going to say it was nice not being actively afraid of dying this time.”

Fenrel snorted, but it felt wrong. Something sharp, something raw, something waiting just beneath her ribs. She took another drink, letting the burn settle.

Lucanis gave her a look but didn’t press. He never did.

The others were still talking, their voices an easy hum in the background. Davrin and Taash were in some kind of drinking contest. Bellara was arguing with Harding over the exact size of Vinsomer’s wingspan. Fenrel should have felt some kind of relief, something light enough to balance the weight in her chest. She didn’t. Lucanis nudged the bottle toward her. She took it.

“To surviving another day?” she muttered, half joking.

Lucanis shook his head. “To remembering why we’re still here.”

Her fingers tightened around the bottle. She didn’t want to remember. She wanted to forget. Never-ending tasks piling on her table, two gods on the loose, the city lost and a prick inside her head.

Lucanis didn’t push. Just waited. And somehow, that was worse. Finally, she lifted the bottle. “I’m mostly still here because you are always there to save my ass.”

Lucanis chuckled. “That is true. Spite would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

They drank in silence between them, so familiar and comforting.

When she set the bottle down, she exhaled. Lucanis hadn’t moved. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t tried to fix anything. And for the first time since Treviso, since Minrathous, since the screaming and the smoke and the sick weight of regret—Fenrel felt like she could breathe. Solas was silent, there were no shadows in her peripheral vision and she could finally let go for a moment. They didn’t talk about Minrathous. They didn’t talk about Treviso. They didn’t talk about the weight in their chests or the way the sight of a dragon, even one that wasn’t blighted, had made Fenrel’s hands curl into fists. But they sat there. And that was enough. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Fenrel caught Harding watching Taash.

It wasn’t obvious—not to anyone who wasn’t looking—but Fenrel had been around Harding long enough to recognize the signs. The slightly longer glances, the way her fingers kept fidgeting with her belt. Fenrel smirked and took another swig of rum. “Harding’s checking out Taash.”

Lucanis, who had been staring off into the distance in quiet contemplation, glanced up. “Oh?”

Fenrel nodded toward them. "She's pretending to listen to Bellara, but look at her hands twitching. Classic Harding 'I want to talk to them but I am too nervous' move."

Lucanis lightly turned his head, observing, then whispered back. “I was going to say it’s the way she keeps leaning closer whenever Taash speaks.”

“You think?” Fenrel had to cover her mouth as a light laughter escaped her lips. She leaned closer to Lucanis, whispering.“Watch her ears turn pink.”

They did. Harding laughed at something Taash said, and sure enough, her ears turned bright red.

 “Mierda. You’re right.”Lucanis smirked, tilting his head toward Fenrel. "You're surprisingly observant when it comes to other people's romantic endeavours."

Fenrel scoffed. “It’s not like I have my own to worry about.”

 “No?” Lucanis raised a brow. “No unresolved tension lurking around? No mutual pining?”

Fenrel gave him a look. “Don’t get yourself killed before I find a creative way to do it myself.”

 “Fair enough.” Lucanis grinned.

Fenrel took another drink, passing the bottle back to him. “Harding and Taash, though. Not a bad match.”

Lucanis tilted the bottle toward her in mock toast. “She likes them strong.”

“Don’t forget tall,” Fenrel snickered.

“Brash.” He added. “Devastating with an axe.”

“It’s good to have standards.” They leaned into each other in laughter, and for a moment, the world stopped falling apart.

***

Fenrel’s hands shuffled through a stack of papers once again. Her vision was blurry and there was a sway in her legs. She leaned over the table, grabbing Neve’s letter at last. She felt wrong admitting that she hadn’t thought of it since this morning, but her drunken mind had to know the news from Minrathous now.

She unfurled the parchment, her eyes quickly running over words. Neve’s letter was short and pragmatic. No promises of when she was going to come back. But Viper was alive. He managed to slow the corruption of the blight in his blood enough to buy himself some time. Shadow Dragons were still in danger. Venatori were hunting them down. Many have fled Minrathous through their secret tunnels and now operated from the outskirts of the city. There was anything she could do to help, Neve insisted again. Fenrel knew it was just a veiled way to say that they did not want to see her.

Fenrel dropped the letter, straightening her back, almost stumbling for a moment and grabbing onto the end of the table. She rubbed her burning eyes, thinking how a bottle of Rivaini rum perhaps was a bit too much. She already dreaded the upcoming hangover.

She could feel his presence from there and considered if she should say a thing, a moment before words left her mouth. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

“Perhaps I have nothing to say.” She could hear that goddamned smirk on his face. She turned and saw him standing in the balcony doorway, leaning on his shoulder.

“That’s… unlikely.” She responded with a smile, electing to sit down on top of the table.

He walked into the room slowly, like a cat sneaking off its prey. “You have not asked me to leave.”

“Would you, if I asked?” This time around, she didn’t bother moving away as he closed the distance.

He stopped a few feet away, one hand resting on the bookshelf beside her. “It seems you do not wish to be alone tonight.”

“I have a deal for you.” She said before she could really think about what she was getting herself into.

“Akin to the one we had? Truth for a truth?” His brow moved up, eyes softening. He was amused.

“You give me answers,” she started, moving from the table, her feet softly hitting the floor as she walked the distance that separated them. “ And in return, I will attempt to enjoy your presence. I will not shut you out.”

He circled her, disappearing behind her back, only to reappear in his armchair, relaxed. “You assume I want that?”

“Don’t you?” She walked towards the table, standing in front of him, her hands resting against the wood.

He regarded her for a moment before answering. “Very well.”

Fenrel had what she wanted, yet it felt wrong to pursue it. There was something in her gut that warned her, but she pushed it down.

She nodded, and even though she had to focus on steadying her steps, and walked around the table and opened the cabinet by his side. His eyes followed her every move. As she placed the crystalline wolf statuette in front of him, his body flinched ever so slightly, eyes locked on it. She let the moment linger before sitting beside it on the table. “What do these do?”

He didn’t look at her. His throat moved slowly as he swallowed spit, his expression empty. Solas was considering his words, she knew it. “It is… a memory.”

“Of what?” She leaned in, not letting him break away and scheme an answer favourable to him. He could, of course, just vanish, but she had an inkling he wouldn’t.

He sighed, looking up for a fraction of a second before looking back at her. “Of things that can not be undone.”

“Things you regret?” She whispered, wondering if she was pushing too hard. Solas did not answer. He didn’t need to. His shallow breathing and tense fingers told her enough.

 “How can I see them?” She said, now her hand pressing next to his on an armrest.

There was no smirk on his lips, his eyes seemed empty. It was a victory,  but somehow it felt hollow. “The Lighthouse will reveal it.”

Just for a moment, he looked like a caged animal. She wanted to revel, soak in that feeling for a fleeting moment. She wondered if it would make the lingering pain of his betrayal lesser. “Was the deal worth it?”

“That depends.” He whispered, voice soft, yet with an edge she couldn’t recognize. He leaned in, almost closing the distance between their faces, before disappearing. His voice still hung in the empty space before her. “Are you?”

Chapter Text

That morning, she woke from a dreamless sleep. It was oddly comforting, if only for a moment, until she saw him standing at the foot of her bed. She glared at him, pulling her blanket up to her chin. “You have been here all night?”

“Would it matter if I did?” Solas smirked, his eyes tracing the outline of her dishevelled hair, the curve of her neck going to her shoulder.

Fenrel exhaled sharply, shoving the blanket aside. She wished he would stop doing this.  His prison must have been a tortuous stay if it made him wait for her to wake up most mornings. “I don’t have time for your riddles. Either tell me what you want or get out."

Solas didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped—just for a fraction of a second—to where the blanket had slipped from her shoulder. His smirk deepened, reaching his eyes.“Perhaps I was simply missing the company.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She grabbed the nearest object—a pillow and hurled it at him. “Out.”

It landed on the empty ground because the bastard had moved. He now leaned over her, his eyes tracing her every feature. Fenrel’s breath was uneven, and she didn’t try to mask it, just pulled her blanket closer to her chest, made uncomfortable by the fact that Solas was too damn close. He wasn’t touching her. He didn’t need to.

His eyes traced the line of her throat before flicking back to her face. “Another day of going nowhere.”

 “And?” Her tone was sharp, dismissive. She wished it felt like a weapon.

Solas didn’t answer immediately. He was watching her too closely like he could hear every thought she was shoving down. Like he knew—

No. No, he didn’t.

Fenrel exhaled sharply, pushing her blanket aside. The shift made his gaze flicker downward, just for a second, just long enough to make her stomach clench. And that was when she realized—

He was doing it on purpose.

A slow smirk passed over his lips, but it wasn’t the usual arrogant twist—it was deliberate, precise. Like he was waiting for her to catch herself slipping. And she nearly did. For one awful second, her mind drifted—wondering, imagining, feeling the weight of his presence like a touch that hadn’t happened. And would never happen. Fenrel gritted her teeth and forced herself upright.

 “I don’t have time for this,” she muttered, pushing past him and walking toward the closet, picking up clothes from the floor.

Solas straightened back up, turning to watch her. “For what, exactly?”

 “Whatever the fuck this is.” She snapped, pulling leather trousers on.

A chuckle. Quiet. Infuriating. “I think you do.”

She turned away from him, pulling off and throwing her nightgown on the floor, giving him a full view of her naked back before throwing a shirt on, whilst ignoring the way her skin prickled under his gaze. Hate, she reminded herself. She hated him. Solas tilted his head slightly, watching her too closely. She slammed the door of the room without even grabbing her shoes. She would find some in the infirmary, she told herself. Fenrel did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her rattled, even if it was too late. She wondered if it was veiled revenge for the statuette conversation, but preferred not to ponder it too long, still feeling the burn in her cheeks and chest.

***

After breakfast, Fenrel was restless. She wondered if she should catch Taash for their training session now, play music, answer missives, perhaps go for a walk in Arlathan. The annoyance from the morning hasn’t settled down as of yet. She could not sit idly, waiting for another rescue mission to drop in her lap, even if they eventually always did. She wondered if it was a beautiful day outside their pocket of the Fade. Solas was quiet, so she hummed to herself as she strode towards Harding’s humble abode. The hum was strained, forced, just like the thoughts she tried to push away from him. The greenery Harding slaved on day in and day out was starting to sprout, and the room felt more like a garden now than before. Fenrel and Harding barely spoke in the days following Minrathous, and sometimes Fenrel wondered if her choice had put a stop between them.

‘You’ve been awfully quiet these days.” Fenrel walked in with a little greeting, startling Harding, who was potting yet another new plant.

“I know. Just thinking.” Harding did not look Fenrel in the eye. “But we haven’t talked in a while, have we?”

“Yes, Harding, about that voice…” Fenrel scraped her mind for memories before Treviso or Minrathous happened. They did not even have a chance to discuss anything before it all fell apart. "Solas cannot help with the dagger. He said that thing eludes even him.”

“The voice gave me the instructions, didn’t it?” Harding tilted her head, one hand on her hip. “Voice said that I was touched by the ancients and that I should seek it out. Seek her out.”

Fenrel was not thrilled about the thought of Harding trusting strange voices in her head, but she could hardly be the judge herself. "Do you think this voice has answers? About your magic, about what happened with the dagger?"

“She must!” Harding exclaimed with a wide, but yet contained, grin on her face. “What if she’s like me? Maybe that’s why only I heard her. She said to look to those closest to Stone to locate her.”

“Orzammar, right? That day after we saved that injured Veil Jumper…”

“Yeah. That did not work out. I have reached out to them.” She shook her head as she spoke “Orzammar requested that I stop harassing their citizens with my talk of “dwarven magic”.”

Fenrel walked over and fell into Harding's armchair, feeling that it was going to be a long conversation. “That sucks.”

“Well, I’m not going to find answers in Orzammar, that’s for sure.” She rolled her eyes.

“So, what now?” Orzammar were the closest to the stone. Fenrel could not see much of another way out than through.

"I was thinking…" Harding lingered for a moment before settling down on her cot, wiping her dirty hands down her pants. "The voice said, "Look to those closest to the Stone". What if she never meant Orzammar?”

Fenrel did not say a word, but her face must have said enough.

“There is another great thaig. The original capital of dwarves. Kal-Sharok.” Harding looked at Fenrel, searching for a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, but when she couldn’t find any, she continued. “It was lost during the First Blight, and its people survived in isolation for hundreds of years. They re-emerged, oh, some twenty years ago?”

“And you think they’re closer to the stone?” Fenrel was catching on.

“Orzammar can’t help. What have I got to lose?” Harding shrugged. “Besides, I’m already working on contacting them. You don’t spend ten years in the Inquisition without making some contacts.”

Harding looked as if despite all that happened she did not let go of her “can do” attitude, even if something more lingered under her grin.

“So I am not even needed.” Fenrel grinned back, standing up. “That’s a refreshing thought.”

As she turned to leave, she glanced back at Harding and saw it again. A shadow of something on her face. Like sadness. Betrayal. Anger. “Hey, Harding. If you are angry with me, we can just talk.” She offered, walking back to her.

"Rook, that's the issue. You don't talk." Harding answered without hesitation as if she was preparing for this moment. "Not about the ritual, not about what happened to Varric, not about Treviso or Minrathous, or Neve, for that matter. You don’t talk. You close the doors and write missives. You pick up your daggers and leave for yet another mission or training session. You’d do anything to not talk.”

Fenrel stood awe-stricken, unable to speak for a moment. That was a bit of an ironic timing, she had to admit. "I talk plenty, I talk to—“

“Solas. You talk to Solas. That's the issue." Harding stood up but didn't move. "You should not trust him. You should not keep these things to yourself. They will fill you up and become poison."

Fenrel could not find words to explain the position she was in. It was bad enough they knew she could visit him in her dreams. She could not imagine what would happen if they knew of their current setup. Also, it was not like her to go and cry on her team's shoulder. She was not used to having a team in the first place. Of course, she would first go to Varric, or—

“Yes, I talk to Solas because he is so warm and welcoming and not because I am stuck with him,” Fenrel said, unable to look at Harding because she knew of the choice she made. She promised to try to enjoy his company. Against her better judgement.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?” Now Harding scoffed, flailing her arms in defeat. “I am afraid of what will happen once that poison spills out.” Harding sighed, rubbing her freckled forehead.

“Nothing.” Fenrel shot back. What poison? Yes, she was tired. She was pissed. She wanted her old life back most days. On other days, she just wanted to be done with this so she could find a better one. It was not poison to feel this way. "Nothing will happen because I am fine. You worry too much."

“These days you talk a lot like a person who thinks they know better than everyone else,” Harding muttered, breaking eye contact.

Fenrel stood frozen, her gaze now locked on Harding. “Lace…”

 “You should go, Rook.”

***

Fenrel walked to Bellara’s artefact studio, still sore after the training session with Taash. Being mocked for her stamina got the best of her and she tried to prove herself capable of training beat for beat with Taash. She did not know how wrong she was in believing so. She could barely lift her arm to knock on the door. Fenrel’s mind drifted to the stash of elfroot in the infirmary. She might visit later.

“Okay Bellara, what’s your lead on getting us a Fade expert…” Thoughts drifted out of her mouth as she stopped one foot in the room, the other outside, and looked at the strange visitors. “…for the team.”

“Good evening,” Said tan skinned woman, her makeup almost as dark as her hair, with a voice that was like silk to Fenrel's ear.

“GREETINGS,” said the floating dark void in a robe beside her. Whatever it was, it reminded her of the Caretaker. Just much, much darker. Even a little menacing. Fenrel finished approaching them, trying not to look like a startled doe.

“Rook!” Bellara was in her usual cheery mood. “You know how I’ve been writing to a senior expert who might be able to help us? Well, right now, he is on an expedition, so I reached out to his colleagues to find him. This is Lady Myrna and Vorgoth. They’re necromancers.”

Fenrel looked over Myrna and Vorgoth again, raising her brow. “Mortalitasi?”

“Yes, but not like that! They’re from Mourn Watch, I mean.” Bellara seemed eager to work with necromancers beyond reasons Fenrel could comprehend.

When the woman spoke, Fenrel was once again surprised by the beauty of her voice and had to keep herself focused on the words instead. “Your friend’s request for a Fade expert was urgent. How darksome are things outside Nevarra?”

Fenrel looked at them, unsure what to answer. The world was falling apart, but slowly, in pace, they could keep up if they didn’t stop moving. “Ah… medium?” Slipped from her mouth and she was surprised by how nonchalant she sounded. How quickly has the apocalypse turned into everyday life?

“I see.” Myrna didn’t seem to have a taste for ill-timed jokes. “Bellara’s correspondent is Professor Emmrich Volkarin. A Fade expert and a powerful psychagogue.”

“YOU WILL NEED HIM” Vorgoth’s voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Somehow Fenrel knew that Mourn Watch was the only place something like that could exist. There was something undead about them.

“Well…” Fenrel straightened, her hands resting on her hips. “Where can I find him?”

***

“Grand Necropolis?” Lucanis stood with his back turned to the door, looking at Fenrel. “You drag me and Spite to Grand Necropolis?”

“Technically, I’m dragging you to the Shrouded Halls inside the Grand Necropolis.” Fenrel shrugged, approaching the entrance, and walking past him. “And you can blame Bellara for it. It was her idea.”

“Rook!” Bellara gave her a fake disapproving shout.

“Let’s keep moving,” Fenrel said, opening the heavy metal door. Its hinges sang a broken song, like a fork dragged over the plate. “Unless you want to get more intimate with spirits roaming around.”

They walked through Shrouded Halls, their footfalls bouncing off the walls like some twisted echoes, and Fenrel quickly understood how this part of the Necropolis got its name. Dark and foggy, shadows playing with your mind and senses, light touches of something or someone you could almost mistake for a light draft. The place looked like it had been abandoned for centuries, but it was never empty. She could feel her magic reaching out to the Veil which was paper thin in these halls.

“Does the magic of the Fade make you uncomfortable, Fenrel?” Solas’ voice silked through her mind and she had to stop herself from looking over her shoulder for him. He said he could not manifest physically outside the Lighthouse and she was inclined to believe him on that count. But with Veil this thin, her mind drifted to the possibility of him escaping. “Conditions for that are not optimal here.” He reassured her.

“So you have thought about it.”

“Wouldn’t you if you were in my place?” He teased. Fenrel chose to ignore him. He knew the answer. She would not be held down in any prison, with any chains. She would rather die. But she bit back the words and carried on, down the stairs, into the belly of Grand Necropolis.

As they approached yet another winding corridor without seeing anyone alive, she murmured. “Well, we’re here. But no sign of the professor.”

Bellara walked forth, her head barely keeping up with turning from one side to another, her wide eyes drinking in every detail of the sad grandeur of death. “I hope he’s here… And that he doesn’t mind us disturbing him…”

“Or spirits,” Fenrel added.

“He is a senior necromancer, I don’t—“The next word in her mouth was stolen by a gasp. “Oh!”

Fenrel and Lucanis caught up with Bellara and turned to their left in the direction she was looking. He was leaning over skeletonized remains laid out on a stone altar, arms raised high, dancing the spell in the foggy air, painting it bright green. As his hands moved, so did the remains. They rose from the table in a fluid motion, as if there was any true life to them, and stepped towards them. Fenrel could see in her periphery Lucanis quickly moving back, closer to the exit, dagger raised. She kept her hand on her own, yet did not feel the need to pull it as her eyes followed the mesmerizing sight. Bone merged with metal. A crown of thorn upon it. It picked up the pickaxe lying by Fenrel’s feet and walked and walked. Only then did she notice the nearly translucent aqua-green wisp rolling around in its opened-up skull and two other skeletal workers already gnawing at the crystals with their pickaxes on the further side of the room.

“Visitors!” A kind, gentlemanly voice came from behind her, making her turn sharply. The necromancer who just raised the remains now was turned at them. Tall, lean, long fingers adorned with many Nevarran gold rings, and bracelets hanging down to his elbows. And a spectral skull encased in a golden cage for a face. “What a marvellous surprise! Any trouble with the lift? Our last guests were stuck for hours, poor souls!”

Bellara and Fenrel exchanged a look that could only mean “Who goes first?”. But neither did. Lucanis was still standing close to the exit, his eyes scanning the strange man before them.

“Oh!” Man chuckled, as if he just realized something funny, waved his hand upwards and the spectral skull disappeared, uncovering a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, his moustache meticulously trimmed. He said the next words while approaching them, his hand stretched out for a handshake. “Professor Emmrich Volkarin, of the Mourn Watch.”

Bellara jumped on the opportunity to shake it without a moment’s hesitation. “Hello, professor! We’ve never met, well, in person, but I’ve been writing to you.”

Fenrel could swear Bellara’s voice went up by a few octaves. Fenrel was so distracted by the sights that she did not notice Lucanis standing by her side once again.

“Bellara?” Emmrich's eyebrows shot up, his other hand cradling Bellara’s palm now, too. “My dear girl, what a pleasure! Surely you didn’t come all this way just to see me?”

“Um, actually, we did. You see, we need a  Fade expert—“ Bellara said, finally breaking eye and hand contact, leaning back towards Fenrel.

Fenrel cleared her throat, catching the professor's attention. "I'm Rook."

“Charmed.” He said, taking to shake her hand with a gentle touch, though his eyes did not match it. It seemed like he was investigating her. She smiled, trying to hide how unnerved she felt by this intrusion. It was as if he knew something no one was privy to in this room.

“I liked that bit with the flaming skull.” She attempted to be funny, to move him from whatever observations he was having.

“Oh, it’s nothing really.” She noticed that he talked a lot with his hands. “Just an evocation of the Flame of the Last Steps.”

She did not know what to say or feel. Her paths have never directly crossed any necromancers and now she was unsure how she felt about the practice, so she just grinned out. “Oh, well, that looked great.”

“Thank you! You know, I’m never quite sure how these spells strike someone from outside Nevarra.” A sudden shriek deeper in the halls made them turn their heads, but Emmrich Volkarin did not seem worried by them. Unlike Lucanis. He was positively frightened, despite his face being set in stone. His doll-like eyes said enough. "I'd be pleased to continue our conversation after I tend to some small business here. Would you mind accompanying me further into the Shrouded Halls?"

Fenrel could swear she heard Lucanis wince as she agreed to follow Emmrich. Fenrel and Emmrich walked step by step, both looking ahead. She did not know what to say exactly. She was not thrilled by the idea of necromancy, that much was clear, but this particular necromancer seemed harmless enough and Bellara liked him, so she supposed she would too. She could feel Emmrich’s gaze turning back at her every few seconds.

“Is something wrong, professor?” Fenrel asked, not stopping.

“There are particular special inconsistencies in the fade surrounding you, warps, almost like a leak clinging to you, interwoven… with the very essence of you.” At this, she stopped.

"Perceptive," Solas murmured before she said anything.

“Spooky.” She smirked, forcing herself to look unbothered.

“Not many carry the Fade this closely within without inviting it in,” Emmrich watched her for a second. “Though you, my dear, seem to have been forbidden the choice.”

She looked back to see how closely Lucanis and Bellara followed. They had a few more feet to spare. “How do you know, professor?”

“I can see changes in the fade around you, following you. Though you, Rook, do not appear to be particularly unsettled by them. Understandable, since some hauntings are preferable to being alone. If you wish to speak of your passenger…” Emmrich continued, but they did not have time. Lucanis and Bellara closed the distance.

Fenrel whispered, panicked. “Wait, not here.”

Emmrich looked back at their companions, then at her. “Very well. Later, then.”

***

“I know, it’s a lot, but I swear we’ve seen the blighted Elven gods ourselves.” Fenrel pressed once again how dire the circumstances were, and Mourn Watch listened.

Myrna looked at her and muttered. “It would explain recent oneiric disruptions.”

“At the least!” Exclaimed Emmrich in the most subtle way one could. “The implications of what Rook’s witnessed are—ah, thank you, Manfred!”

Everyone in the room except for Mourn Watchers turned and watched as a skeleton wearing a backpack, gloves and goggles walked in with a tea tray. Undead servant? Even in death, you cannot escape slavery, Fenrel scoffed in her mind, trying to keep her face straight. Nobody said a thing, and the awkwardness of it all made her open her mouth. “Uh, hi?” she said to the skeleton.

“My assistant, Manfred.” Emmrich looked at the undead creation with such love in his eyes that for a moment Fenrel lost her convictions of their relationship being a slave and a master sort of one.

“YOU SPOKE OF DANGER TO THE FADE.” Vorgoth, to Fenrel’s relief, interrupted the pleasantries.

“The Elven gods plan to tear it wide open to get to the blight.” Fenrel was tired of telling the same tale each time she came across possible allies, but she swallowed her annoyance and continued. “And they’ve already messed with it. Demons, tears in reality… Our team needs a Fade expert.”

Myrna glanced at Emmrich and back at Fenrel. “Many Watchers never depart Nevarra. But with events so dire—“

“I’d be delighted to assist!” Emmrich seemed a tad overeager to join them, but Fenrel brushed it off as him not understanding the scope of their mission.

Vorgoth, despite not having a face, seemed worried. Fenrel could not explain how she knew, she just did. “IT HAS BEEN MANY YEARS SINCE YOU LEFT US.”

“Well, yes, but Elven gods? Ancient magics? I couldn’t bear to miss this!” Emmrich punctuated every word that left his mouth with his hands. “Besides, I’ve spent my life exploring the Fade and speaking to spirits. If Rook needs an expert, none are better qualified than I.”

Fenrel thought back to a mere hour ago, them making it through hordes of undead demons and Venatori mages, and her genuine surprise when this gentleman showed his battle prowess. “And you’re good in a fight. We went through a lot of demons. Welcome aboard.”

“Wonderful!” Emmrich, in a way, reminded Fenrel of Bellara, and she knew that those two would spend many sleepless nights researching yet another peculiarity they’d find around the Lighthouse. “I’ll gather my things. Come, Manfred!”

As Bellara, Lucanis, and Fenrel watched Emmrich leave for his chambers, Solas’ voice echoed in her mind. “And so you have your team.”

***

Emmrich settled into the Lighthouse rather quickly. Despite some reservations from the team in regards to necromancy and heavy on bone motifs reliant décor taste of Emmrich, he had no problem taking over the study next door to Fenrel’s bedroom. Room was previously inaccessible just like Taash’s, and when they opened up, it seemed that the Caretaker catered to their needs. Taash got a spacious room with little to no things to set on fire and a huge bed made for her imposing frame. Emmrich’s room sprawled through two floors, a spiral staircase its centrepiece. The first floor was equipped with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he quickly filled with various knickknacks. Until now, Fenrel did not pay that much attention to their living quarters. She did not have to. Ever since the Caretaker appeared, everything that was wrong with the Lighthouse would be fixed before they would come to notice it.

And when she came to think of it, every room seemed like a perfect reflection of their inhabitant. Except for her. Despite her clothing in the wardrobe and on the floor, despite her barely started and forgotten to read books, bed that was never made and sofa that she would still sometimes begrudgingly fall asleep on, it did not feel hers. Not like Solas’ studio. It was a space she felt unknowingly drawn to, spending more and more nights, sometimes waking up in the armchair with letters still in her lap. It had a bed too. She pondered if she should move when Emmrich cleared his throat, snapping her right back to the real world.

They sat in the Caretaker’s boat, taking them to what the Caretaker called as Heights of Athim. She has been there once—when she and Harding went to look for Eluvian which would take them to Anderfels. Emmrich has expressed interest in exploring more of the Crossroads and Fenrel happily obliged. Days between missives were slowly driving her insane and Solas was of little help even when she was starting to admit that he was better than being alone.

Bellara joined in as well, against Fenrel’s wishes, which she did not voice. She thought this trip would give her and Emmrich a chance to discuss her connection with Solas in more detail, but she did not want to raise suspicion by anyone hearing it.

“Are you more ashamed or afraid?” Solas inquired.

Fenrel rolled her eyes, refusing to answer. However, she did not shut him out. Did not slam the door of his prison in his face as much as she wanted. She has promised to try to enjoy his company in exchange for honesty, and so far, it has been enlightening.

“Do you hear that?” Bellara asked as they unboarded and all three of them stopped in their tracks. Beyond the howling wind, she could hear it. Qunlat words echoing off the snowy mountainside.

Drawing her blade, Fenrel said, “Antaam. That’s what Solas warned us about. Gods are sending their lackeys to infiltrate the Crossroads.”

Fenrel had to remind herself to not be surprised when Emmrich pulled his staff from its holder with no hesitation. It was still hard to wrap her mind around the idea of this soft-spoken, yet somewhat theatrical professor being so keen to throw himself into a fight. They ran in the direction of Antaam, weapons ready, and Fenrel was glad to feel the thrill of the fight after peaceful days. For once, voices in her head were silent. Except for one.

As they reached the open stage between derelict buildings, Antaam seemed to have been waiting for them. They did not know that Fenrel was waiting for this moment too, as she unleashed the pent-up energy, lighting charge after lighting charge. Amidst the fray, her eyes caught onto something on the further side of the yard. An ark. Green vines wrapped around its curves, the shimmer that seemed to exist purely for the purpose of catching her eyes. Solas’ memory. She disengaged from the fight, letting Emmrich and Bellara finish off the last soldier. He hit the ground once Bellara’s enchanted arrow hit his heart.

Fenrel picked up her pace as she heard Bellara say, “Hey, Rook, maybe we should think about—“

“Bellara, these are important.” Fenrel approached the archway with no resignation.

Bellara stopped a few feet away, while Emmrich quietly observed the unfolding situation. “But why, Rook?”

“They help me understand—“ She cut herself off, thinking if she was truly going to say what was on her mind. He wondered if she was afraid of them knowing. “Bellara, he’s in my head. I need to see whatever it is that he wanted me—someone to see”.

Bellara seemed confused by Fenrel’s fire to argue the point. She stepped back, her face etched in worry. “Rook”

“Oh, my dear.” Emmrich sighed. “Perhaps Rook is right. Understanding in circumstances such as ours is often the very first step.”

Fenrel smiled sadly at him in thanks. They both knew that it was not about the fight against the gods. And Emmrich seemingly was willing to carry her secret.

When Bellara did not protest, Fenrel turned to the entrance, her mind calling out for Solas. “Anything to share with me before I dive in?”

She was greeted by silence. It felt like something was missing. He must have been back in his prison, and she was afraid she knew why. She exhaled and took a step into his memory, only to find a steep drop from the edge. Fenrel could hear Emmrich and Bellara scream in surprise. They were in a cave, its entrance a few feet away. A narrow stone path was waiting for them when a familiar voice called for her. “Andaran atish’an. Lasa ghilan.”

He was welcoming someone. She did not stop to listen, just followed his voice.

“Spirits, Fade-friends, come forth. Enter the circle. Reveal yourselves.” The other voice she recognized in an instant. Felassan. As she reached the end of a stone path and entered a small gathering area, she could see Solas and Felassan standing together, shoulder to shoulder.

Felassan was around her height and she realized how pitiful she must have looked to Solas. A child throwing tantrums at a god. And yet, he obliged. She could not see a reason behind it no matter how desperate she was to figure it out. She would figure him out.

“Whatever happened here, it’s personal.” She said out loud to Emmrich and Bellara.

“Spirits.” Felassan addressed the crowd they were looking over, the three of them included. “The Dread Wolf asks for your assistance on a crucial mission.”

“The false gods, the Evanuris, have overreached.” Solas looked at the crowd, yet his eyes seemed empty. As if something was driving him to do this, something only he was aware of. “I shall humble them.”

The words carried over the hollow valley they stood upon, the wind scattering them. Was this the point where he knew that there was no way back? Was this right before it? Fenrel’s mind ran through everything she knew of his rebellion, which wasn't much. Details were scraped away by history and biases, manuscripts rewritten to favour the blighted gods in Elvhen histories. Few and far between clans knew of what Dread Wolf had actually done. Her clan was one of those and with it being gone, her lone survivor, she carried on the pieces she knew, now realizing that they did not scratch the surface.

“Within their citadel lies a relic with the power to imprison even a god. With it, I can bring their tyranny to an end forever.”

Fenrel’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of Wolf’s fang. Weapon to imprison Gods. The irony of seeing the fight to retrieve it did not go over her head. She did not know if she wished to know how many were lost, what sacrifices had been made for her to have it now. Her price was Varric. What was Solas’?

“You are Spirits of Chaos, Disorder, and Disruption.” As Felassan spoke, she noticed the faint blue glow on her skin. As she turned and looked at Emmrich and Bellara, she could see the same blue aura enveloping them. Just like the spirits gathered around them. When Felassan spoke, she knew that they were now spirits of chaos, disorder and disruption too. "We ask you to disrupt the citadel's defences. Give us the opening to get that relic. For freedom!”

Spirits, Solas and Felassan faded into a dream when a new path forged itself to the left of Fenrel. She did not spare it a thought. Dreamscapes started feeling more real than actual life to her at this point. More tangible; less painful. She followed the path, hearing Emmrich and Bellara close by. “We’re spirits of disruption. Let’s act like it.” She shouted to them, following the way up the stairs.

They ran into yet another circular yard, only to be immediately greeted by a dozen sentinels, yet Fenrel was momentarily distracted by the sight of burning wood in the middle of the yard. It seemed like a regular tree, except for its branches being made from wooden hands and its body being littered with tormented faces as if living flesh was fused into it. Once sentinels closed in, she got her mind back on track, exploding her power outward, throwing them away with force. She did not spare them a moment to recuperate, freezing the playing field, and letting Emmrich and Bellara do more targeted attacks.

“Remember, these memories can hurt us!” Fenrel shouted at her companions, flicking her dagger to take yet another sentinel down. “Stay sharp!”

They pushed through the onslaught, Fenrel seeing a ladder on the side of the building nearby and signalling Emmrich and Bellara to follow her lead. Once they climbed, there were yet more fighters waiting for them. She did not stop. She could not stop. Fenrel needed to see the end of the memory and this drive pushed her to fight with more rage than she was used to. Then she allowed herself. Perhaps it was the result of her being confined to The Lighthouse for a few days. She did not know, and she did not care. She just fought. Once the last soldier went down, she looked upon the carnage, her chest rising and falling in quick succession before she shook off the feeling. Then she looked around and saw a ballista. If she were a spirit of disruption, what would she do? Fenrel asked herself before seeing the wall surrounding the courtyard below. There must be a way to break through into the citadel. And ballista could help her do so.

***

After yet another horde of defenders was beaten, Fenrel pushed with all her might on the metal gate separating them from the deeper recesses of the citadel. She could feel the heat radiating from it, but she did not stop. She walked back a few steps before ramming her shoulder into again until the door buckled under the pressure. Fenrel fell face-first into the ruination of a building, only its outer walls still standing. Spirits of chaos and disorder have already passed through here, as was evident by the fires set. The destroyed centre of the building was overtaken by mangled wooden bodies.

She stopped and stared at them for a second, unsure if her mind was playing tricks or if she could actually hear low moaning and crying sounds mixed with the crackling of fire. She did not want to know if those humanoid-shaped wooden figures were once alive. Smoke was getting into her eyes. She didn't bother wiping the tears away, just tightened her shaking hands around her weapons. The licks of fire she could feel rising upon her skin like bile in her throat were caging and there was no soothing voice to make it all go away, so she moved. Pushed forward, trying to catch up with the fight.

Leaving the building, she heard his voice again, the shake in her palms subsiding. She knew it was wrong to feel this way. She knew it was wrong to seek solace in him. And yet it came so effortlessly these days, despite her wishes.

“They’ve changed their plans. Elgar’nan may be a tyrant, but he is not a fool.” Solas and Felassan walked ahead, untroubled by the sounds of the battles raging around the citadel. “That means the relic is genuine. We are close. And Elgar’nan is afraid.”

Solas stopped in his tracks to give orders to his general. Fenrel looked from the path below, trying to find any hesitation in his voice or body. But there was none. He was resigned to win the day. No matter how. “Put our strongest in the vanguard and prepare to breach the citadel. It will not be easy, but we shall win the day.”

Felassan looked down at them. “Disruption, lead the charge and do what you do best. Whatever champions the gods send against you, bring them down.” With his words, the path ahead opened.

That was it. She could see the main building of a citadel just beyond the stone bridge they now stood upon. As she raised her dagger, she could hear Solas shout “Death to all tyrants!” and she agreed. Fenrel, Emmrich and Bellara pushed through one wave of enemies after another, slowly making their way up the bridge. They were nearly there. Just a few more waves to withstand. They could do that.

“For victory!” She could hear Solas’ voice as she cut down yet another sentinel. She did not stop. The gate was within arms' reach. As she reached it, yet another wave of enemies poured out from the citadel, quickly and surely overwhelming them. She lost sight of Emmrich and Bellara. And suddenly everything went white. She fell. The sizzling heat on her skin made her cry out in pain. Her entire being was on fire. Skin melting, flesh blackening. She screamed until her throat went hoarse, until she had no vocal cords to scream with, everything burned away by a cleansing fire. It felt like her whole being was turned inside out, nerved endings exposed to the cool air before losing any sense. Every moment was an eternity. Eternity she was now stuck in and all she could think of in her last moments was if people in Minrathous went through this while she failed to save them. She could hear Varric's reassuring voice being drowned out by blame in Tarquin's and Neve's words. Fenrel would've cried if she had the eyes to do so. She could not hear her breath and heart beating, for she was already dead when white went to black and to white again.

And suddenly she was alright. Standing beside Solas and Felassan. When she looked around, Emmrich and Bellara were nowhere to be seen. Echoes of spirits’ dying screams lingered, just like the smell of smoke and ash.

Felassan’s face was warped in grief. “Disruption fought to the last, and it was all for nothing. We couldn’t take the citadel.”

Solas and he looked upon a mess of ashes and melted metal, amongst which she could see a wooden silhouette of a woman. The realization came over her. "No, that's not… That body's… me?"

She thought of all the wooden figures she saw along the battlefields of this memory. Just how many did it take for Solas to get what he wanted? How many have died?

“It was not for nothing, my friend. The distraction spirits gave us allowed our agents to retrieve the relic.” Solas reassured Felassan.

Felassan’s mouth fell agape. “Distraction?”

“No force could have breached their citadel.” Solas’ voice carried no notes of doubt. “But it was necessary for the enemy to believe we were committed. A heavy sacrifice, but one that gave us a real chance to end the war.”

With every word from Solas’ mouth, Felassan leaned into himself more, stepping backwards from his god and a friend. Fenrel, unlike him, stepped closer, hand resting on her dagger. He deserved to be punished for it. But she did not dare pull the weapon out. “You willingly sent all those spirits to their deaths? Solas…” His voice cracked. “We’re supposed to be better than that.”

“They died true to their nature, doing what they loved, Felassan," Solas said as a matter of fact, walking away from Felassan. She followed him, trying to grab him by the hand and force him to look at Felassan’s grief, but her hand just slipped through him. She was not real in this memory. She was not even alive to them. 

Solas turned to look at Felassan with a gentle smile, his eyes going straight through her, unseen. “Let that be a comfort, that this war did not corrupt them into something different from what they were supposed to be.”

When the memory faded and she found herself standing with Emmrich and Bellara, no one said a word. They all knew what he did. And as proof of it, a blue wolf statuette stood by her feet. The Lighthouse hasn’t revealed how to use them yet. But she had a feeling that once it did, it would only make matters worse.

The silence enveloping them was broken by Emmrich’s pained voice. “All those spirits…”

***

Fenrel tore her armour off as she stumbled into the room, smoke and ash seeped into her hair, and her throat sore. “Solas? Solas—“ She turned to look over her shoulder, expecting to see him waiting for her, but to her begrudged disappointment the room was empty. Her head also felt that way, void, missing something she did want in the first place. “Solas!” Her voice rose, knowing that if anyone was listening, they must have thought her insane. Alone in an empty room, screaming for a man she supposedly hated. No, not supposedly, she reminded herself.

She dropped down on her knees to the floor, his name still in her mouth. She would not allow him to avoid her, not after letting her witness that. If he would not come to her, she would come to him. She had questions to ask and answers were what she would get. Fenrel pressed her eyelids shut, her fists trembling in her lap. “Solas—“

The shift was unfamiliar. The waking world let go of her too swiftly, the gentle fall into the abyss of his prison exchanged for the abrupt drop into somewhere strange. She did not need to open her eyes to know. The air was crisp, almost chilly. Like an early Parvulis morning. She could recognize the autumn fingers running through her hair, yet the magic surging on her skin was unknown. It felt like something more than what she knew of. Something ancient, unruly, yet peaceful. She opened her eyes slowly before shutting them back again. “No—“ She gasped, pressing her palms against her lids. “No, this can’t be.”

Fenrel knew this place well. She recognized its treetops, its valleys and rivers. Rushing water sang the familiar song. She walked the paths below in the days past, but these were not the same. They were not almost obliterated by time, you could not see the footprints of many carrying a part of these woods away with them. Fenrel opened her eyes again and let the sight take her again. The ruins she came to hold close to the heart were no more, taken over by the thrumming heart of a city, broken roads hanging above, and the interwoven tapestry of bridges connecting the buildings. Curves of them felt like nature herself carved them, spires reaching for shimmering skies. Magic itself felt tangible, just like spirits roaming the streets below. She realized she stood upon a balcony; looking over the city so vast, so unruly, so whole, it felt like her own heart might jump into its innards. Flowers she had never seen before bloomed, wrapping themselves around the balcony railing she leaned on. “Arlathan.” She muttered, the word sticking to her throat.

“Home.” His voice came unexpectedly, startling her.

She turned to look at him, losing her footing for a fraction of a second before steadying herself. “What is this? How did you—“

“I am still in the confines of my prison, this is… A mere illusion.” He sighed, for once his eyes focused on something else than her. “A pale reflection of what could’ve… could still be.”

She glanced over her shoulder once more, letting the silence hang between them. This mirage was breathtaking and heart-wrenching, she had to give him that. But that was all it was. It wasn’t real, unlike her questions. “I am not here to ponder ages past. I am here to—“

“You are here to ask me about spirits of chaos and disruption. You are here to ask me if their sacrifice was worth it.” He now looked at her, his body still turned towards views of Arlathan.

“And instead of answers, you give me this? An unrealized dream?” She scoffed, following where he was now looking. She could hear the chatter of the unfamiliar Elvhen dialect, conversation flowing and it oddly giving her a feeling of freedom.

“This is the answer, Fenrel.” He nodded towards the city below.

She stepped closer to the edge, looking again, more closely. None of the elves wore Vallaslin. None of them were bound to the gods. The spirits among them were those of compassion, kindness, inspiration, and hope. The statues that adorned the buildings were headless; gods taken down. Laughter was the music of these streets.

“I did not need to order them to their death.” Solas’ voice barely carried over the comforting murmur of the city.

Fenrel finished his thought before he could. “Because they went willingly. They knew what they were fighting for.”

Neither said another word for what seemed like hours. She could feel his gaze burrowing under her skin. She knew what he expected of her and yet she could not give it to him. No matter what he thought of her, she was nothing like him. “I will find a better way.”

“How many more cities will have to fall before you do?” He moved in front of her, Arlathan hidden behind him.

“I am nothing like you.” She whispered, finding it hard to believe her own words as his words reached her heart.

“Not yet.” He gave her a sad smile. “But I was you, once.”

She stepped away from him, not looking at the streets below. They both knew exactly what he was doing. “I could not do what you did. I could not destroy the world for some ideal”

“Do you truly believe it brings comfort to those in Minrathous? Those who had to survive your choice?”

“Do not dare to compare what you did with what—“ Her feet moved before her mind and they stood at an impasse, her finger pressing against his chest.

“Would you not give anything to fix the wound you have inflicted upon your home?”

“I would not destroy the world to appease my ego, Solas.” Her finger was still pressed against him, standing there like an unmovable object against an unstoppable force.

“Do not mistake resurrection for destruction.” Despite the tightening of his jaw, his eyes remained pleading.

“Such a resurrection you planned.” She clasped her hands, a vexed laughter shaking her frame. “What will remain once ashes settle?”

Fenrel did not have time to retreat as his hand grasped her shoulder, locking her into his lavender gaze. “All would be right. Flowers would bloom again.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “If you opened your eyes for once, you could see that flowers bloom now too.”

Solas stood there, his mouth agape, eyes searching for something in hers. Doubt. He would not find it, she told herself. The illusion behind him began to crumble, Arlathan falling back into ruin, as she tore away from his grasp and called for the waking world, her body hitting the floor of her empty bedroom. She swore she could feel his hand grasping for her before she slipped away. When she opened her eyes, his face was hovering above hers. She did not say a word, wishing for him to see what she thought of this through the reflection of himself in her eyes.

“Was this your attempt to make me understand? To agree with you?” She could've scoffed or curled her fists, but she was tired of fighting today, so instead, she just lay there.

“You do understand.” He whispered, also resigned. They were both exhausted of their own circular argument.

She sighed. He knew, of course, he knew. "That does not mean that I agree."

He loomed over her for a moment longer. She made no effort to get up. She just stared blankly at him, waiting for him to give his final word. His eyes were still kind, despite what was said. Somehow, it was worse than anger. “Rest well, Da’mi,” He said, before retreating back to his prison.

Chapter Text

SOLAS’ POV

“Finally,” Illario Dellamorte greeted Fenrel and Lucanis without moving from his seat. Café Pietra was something Lucanis would bring up often in conversations with Fenrel, and Solas could scarcely see the appeal. It looked like a regular establishment, though somewhat charming, drowned in the golden light of the lanterns that decorated every corner. Lucanis pulled a chair for Fenrel before settling down next to his cousin. “I thought you might leave me here all by my lonesome.”

Illario Dellamorte was the kind of man who would try to win over just about anyone with his sleazy smile. Solas unwillingly crinkled his nose as Illario’s eyes glued themselves onto Fenrel as if trying to tempt her. To his disappointment, she did not pay him much mind, her eyes stuck on her assassin friend.

Lucanis cleared his throat, speaking in a bit higher tone than usual. "Please. You'd think I'd ever pass up Café Pietra’s coffee?”

“You see, Rook?” Illario scoffed. “My cousin is all stomach and no heart.”

Fenrel did not respond, she just rolled her eyes, not even glancing at him. She did not like Illario one bit and wondered when or if ever he would catch a hint. 

Lucanis slightly nudged her hand, laying next to his on the table. “Don’t mind him. Illario cannot appreciate anything but himself.”

Before Illario could come up with a witty remark, which did not want to come naturally, Lucanis continued. "They serve a speciality roast here.  Andoral’s Breath. Bitter and sweet, like a kiss goodbye. You should try it.”

Both Fenrel and Solas could notice Illario staring daggers at the scene unfolding before him, and Solas had a feeling that he understood him in this instance. Unlike Illario, he did not need to watch, and yet he stayed seated, his hand on the thread connecting him to Fenrel, fingers pressing hard against the pulsing magic, knowing he could sever it and choosing not to as she spoke, her voice softened at Lucanis. “That’s… my dream cup of coffee.” She did not move, but her eyes ran over the café quickly and her smile dropped. “Nobody’s listening. Should we get to business?”

“There’s still one at the table three.” Lucanis’ voice was low and he leaned in as if continuing their flirtation over the coffee.

“She just left to follow the waitress.” Illario sighed, watching over Lucanis.

Lucanis leaned back in his seat. “So, you have something for us?”

“The Crows I sent after Zara have picked up her trail. They say she’s gone to Vyrantium.” Something in the way he said made Fenrel perk up in her chair. Solas had to admit he was not paying that much attention to the Crow drama, but now he was also intrigued.

“If she was here in Treviso to kill Caterina, she can’t be in Vyrantium already.”

Lucanis nodded, his expression somewhere in between smiling and worry. “Rook’s right. Zara’s given you a false lead, cousin.”

“You have better information?” Illario’s jaw flexed ever so slightly and Fenrel narrowed her eyes. Solas could sense her growing suspicion of the man, even when she could not place her finger on why exactly she found it hard to trust him.

“We’re compromised. There’s no other way Zara could even touch Caterina. You need your eyes here. In Antiva.” Lucanis reprimanded his younger cousin.

“Zara would never be foolish enough to stay. Not with you out for blood.” Fenrel leaned in with Illario’s words. Zara would never be. She now knew who the rat amongst the Crows was. Her eyes quickly shifted to Lucanis, who clearly did not hear or refused to hear what his cousin just unwillingly admitted. He knew Zara.

'Of course she would." Lucanis released a frustrated sigh, rubbing his forehead. “If Crows protecting her are here.”

“Rook, reason with him, would you?” Illario’s fist lightly banged the table, distracting her from the thoughts. “He’s being paranoid.”

“Lucanis is correct. Zara came after your home and killed one of you. She’s not done.” Fenrel spat back, now looking at Illario. “But we are done here. You should go.”

Illario did not need to be told twice, to her surprise. Illario scoffed, pushing back his chair with more force than necessary. “Fine,” he said, voice thick with irritation. He paused, glancing at Fenrel once more as if expecting her to change her mind. She did not. With a disappointed sigh, he stomped off, leaving the Crow and the Rook at the table.

***

“Bitter and sweet, you called that blend. “Like a kiss goodbye”.” Fenrel smiled, glancing at Lucanis. “So, what would a first kiss be?” She inquired, her voice low, words hanging just between them. Illario was gone, and she could finally lend herself and Lucanis a moment’s peace. But Solas was there, and he was listening. He listened when they walked through the markets of Treviso, Lucanis picking out gifts for everyone on the team. Solas listened to his surprised voice as Fenrel gave him Wyvern-tooth dagger. He watched Lucanis’ eyes soften each time they looked at each other, he felt how his hand lingered on her waist longer than was necessary as they navigated the market. Solas did not know why he kept watching.

Things they were doing had no relation to their battle, and yet, he found himself following her every waking moment. Solas told himself it was nothing. Idle curiosity. A need to understand her and the team. And yet, his thoughts strayed too often. He should not care. He should not watch. And yet, as she leaned in—her voice softer than he had ever heard it—something in his chest tightened, something old and unbidden. He curled his fingers against the thread binding them, testing its weight, its presence, wondering if she could feel the way his thoughts circled her like a wolf in the brush. If she did, she paid it no mind.

Lucanis released a low, expectant chuckle, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly. If Solas noticed, there was no doubt she did, too. Yet she leaned in closer, listening intently.  “Honey and lavender cream. Sweet, intriguing…” Lucanis followed her suit, shifting in his chair, and moving his body closer to her. “And you?” He smiled, his eyes tracing her lips. “How would you describe it?”

Solas could hear echoes of doubt running through her mind, and yet she did not listen to them. What’s the harm in a little flirting? She said to herself before answering Lucanis, even if it carried a certain unease. "First kisses? It's been a while." She laughed, and her voice was soft. Solas was used to hearing that jarring, pins-under-the-skin chuckle she would give him so much that the gentleness of this moment stirred him. "I might need a refresher."

Another shy smirk from Lucanis and Solas was done. There was no point in listening further, he told himself as he let go of the thread holding onto her at the moment, the golden light of nighttime Treviso fading into nothingness.

***

Fresh air rushed into her lungs as she stepped through Arlathan's eluvian. The familiar song of the trees enveloped her, beckoning her heart into the forest. Assan set himself loose, Davrin aimlessly trying to call his feathery toddler back, to no avail. Her footsteps crunched leaves right behind Davrin, as they strode towards the site he said would be good to train the young griffon. The sounds of him explaining Turlum and griffon habits reached her ears but left without being fully understood. As she walked through the ruins, her heart ached. It was not used to. After Solas showed her his lost dream that changed. She could hear faint laughter in the destroyed streets below just to turn around and see the wilderness. There was only the devastation wars left and nature reclaiming what was once the empire of the Elves.

Solas could have prodded, he could have said something, but he stayed silent. Her thoughts were doing enough. He enjoyed the early morning rays casting shadows through the trees, and the pinks and soft blues of the sky. In these little fragments, he could sometimes see a glimpse of home, or what was left of it. Enticing was the thought of speaking up, yet another argument would not grant him any victories. The change of heart was something he could feel coming by itself, but he was not sure of whose heart was changing.

Assan led them through yet another abandoned temple when Fenrel realized they were walking in silence for quite a bit. “So, how did you end up with the Grey Wardens?”

Davrin did not miss a beat. He kept his steady pace after his unruly half-bird, half-cat son as he answered. “Grew up in the Dalish Clan. I’d hear all these stories about things that happened thousands of years ago.”

That made Fenrel chuckle. Dalish and their stories. “We do love our history.”

Solas frowned at the notion, knowing how much of their histories were incorrect. He was, after all, named a god of lies, treachery and rebellion. Only one of those things he could take credit for.

Davrin answered with a laugh. “Except I wanted to make history. Didn’t fit in. Got bored. So I went looking for adventure.”

“How’d that go over with your clan?” Fenrel heard many stories of elves leaving their clans, most of them she encountered while breaking them out of slaver camps or Venatori basements.

“As you would expect.” Davrin shrugged, turning to look at her.  “Poorly. They felt like I rejected them.”

Her brow rose. “Did you?”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He said, even though his head slightly shook in disagreement.  “Clan life wasn’t for me. I had to get away. I suppose you can relate.”

“Not exactly, no.” They made their exit from the ruins, and Fenrel stopped to look at the landscape that opened up in front of them. So much beauty. And yet, so much was lost.  “Wasn’t given much of a choice.”

“How come?” Davrin walked back, joining her to admire the view.

She exhaled sharply. She could have waved her arm and said it was nothing. And yet, Harding's words spun in her head. Perhaps she could try this talking-to-your-peers thing. “The blight. The horde came up on our clan suddenly. All that I knew was gone in a single night.”

She pressed her lips tightly, taking in a shaky breath. She could remember her mother’s ragged breath as she ran through the woods, pressing Fenrel’s tiny body to her chest. As the child cried, she pressed her palm to her mouth, whispering something softly, lovingly, despite the desperation threatening to break her voice. And then it was morning. They were in a cave, waiting for her father to return with news. News of their clan being gone, them–only survivors. And so they walked until they reached the first human settlement, or what was left of it. Fenrel could not remember much except for the smell of fire and ash and the metallic taste of what she knew now as blood hanging in the air. Humans let them join their ride to the closest city, still standing.

Davrin sighed. They were around the same age, so echoes of the fifth blight must have lingered in his past, too. Fenrel was relieved to think that at least that time around blight never reached the north. She wondered if anything would be left of Arlathan if it did. “And how did you end up in Tevinter?”

“Denerim.” Her breath hitched. There was a time in life she could retell this story without the shake in her voice or eyes glistening, even cracking a joke. She wondered how come now it became a pain between her ribs again. Grief had a funny way of twisting a heart. "We reached Elven Alienage. Some people offered a way to escape the blight. My parents, being naïve, agreed. We boarded the ship.”

Silence hung heavy between them. She wondered if she should clarify before Davrin did it himself.

 “A slaver ship.”

“Yes.”

“How did you escape?” Fenrel could see Davrin shifting closer, his hand moving as if he wondered if comforting her would be too much. She hoped he wouldn't. It was too early in the morning to fall apart. Solas sighed at this notion but held onto his silence. He could have rummaged through her memory and scraped all of this together. He could have used anything and everything in his arsenal to break and mould her, and yet something stayed his hand. Solas held his breath and listened to her shaky voice as she answered.

 “There was a skirmish between Antaam and Tevinter magisters on the docks of Ventus. Slavers did not bother to tie children down.” She could not continue. Fenrel could not tell him how her mother’s pleas for her to run would still wake her from sleep. She was not even sure if the voice she remembered was one her mother had. It’s been so long, and yet, when the ground was unsteady beneath her feet, she found herself back on that dock, running for her life, only to be found by her destiny days later, starving and cold, hiding in an alleyway, as dock town burned around her, slaver ship with it. It wasn’t until months later that she learned that no one else made it out. Over her cowering figure leaned a man, with gentle eyes and voice, spoke Elvhen as he offered her bread. He looked as scared as her when he walked her to the military barracks and hid her in his office. Weeks later, she was in Minrathous, and life was never the same. “Enough about me. You’re out in the world, looking for adventure… What happened then?”

Davrin shook his head with a displeased smile. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Please continue, I wish to know the people I work with."

 “So do I, but as you wish.” He shook his head again and motioned her to follow, as they needed to catch up with Assan.  “I got my ass kicked. Went broke. I couldn’t go crawling back to my clan a failure. Doubt they’d take me back. It forced me to figure out what I was good at. Always had a knack for hunting. ”

Davrin went on to tell about his hunting experience as they picked up their pace. Assan was getting unruly and running further and further ahead of them, not minding a thing Davrin was yelling after him. Fenrel tried to tell him that it seemed like Assan was following something, but there was no need as they soon enough ran into a bunch of nugs that the curious griffon had finally caught up to and was now watching them closely. Davrin went on a spiel about Assan getting fleas, while the animal stared at him, dumbfounded. Fenrel rarely knew which battles to stay away from, but this time she picked correctly, and stood nearby, amused.

“At least he’s having fun?” She suggested, trying to calm Davrin’s fatherly panic.

For standing on Assan’s side of the fight, Fenrel was quickly assigned to search bushes for gingerworth truffles; a said delicacy for griffons. She did not oblige. “So, how did you go from hunter to “slayer of monsters” “?

“Uncle Eldrin. An old elf I knew growing up.” Davrin beamed from the bush nearby before swearing as his sleeve got caught on a thorn.  "When I was a kid, I'd hunt just about anything. Rabbits, deer, foxes. Eldrin gave that purpose. Taught me the Way of Three Trees. The way of the arrow, way of the bow, way of the wood.”

“That sounds noble.” Fenrel smiled at him before moving on to another brush, with no luck of finding the truffles in sight.

Davrin followed, retorting. “I would guess somebody had taught you your ways for you to become a breaker of chains. In Tevinter, no less.”

 "My adoptive father was particular in his training, yes." She shrugged.  "He did not allow me to go into the mage circle. He could not risk putting a frail Elven girl with no legal status in Tevinter amongst a bunch of spoiled magi children. So he thought me all he knew."

Davrin raised an eyebrow. "But not healing."

 "It did not come to me naturally, and he said that I wouldn't need it if I killed anyone and anything that could hurt me first. And if I don't, it should be the work of lesser mages."

“Very Tevinter of him.” He gave her a knowing smile. Oh, the famous Tevinter hubris. One no one could find.

Solas smiled to himself too as Fenrel answered with a giggle.“Yeah, no Three Trees there.”

Davrin’s smile faded as he looked Fenrel over. “Yet those lessons didn’t linger for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Getting healed by lesser mages?” He murmured. “You don’t allow yourself healed at all. Chugging your elf root potions like coffee, which you also drink too much of.”

“I don’t—“

"Oh, right?" He laughed, but there was an edge to it.  "How many do you have on you?"

She rolled her eyes as words left her mouth. She knew she had a habit of packing more than needed. Especially since her injuries would more often than not heal quicker than expected. She suspected Solas, yet did not ask him outright and so he did not need to admit it. He would not allow her stubbornness to kill her before their battle was done. “Ugh, three?”

Davrin sighed. “See Rook, this is why everyone is worried about you. Talking to Solas, trusting Lucanis and his demon…”

Words bubbled in her chest and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to force herself to swallow them. Davrin’s distrust in Lucanis was evident, and she knew that sooner or later he would trap her in that conversation. The sound of their bickering followed her around the Lighthouse and it was only a matter of time before it would reach boiling point, and as much as she wished to tell them to suck it up, she resigned to watching instead.

After managing to keep her snark leashed, Fenrel pointed at Assan, running away after the nugs once again. An exasperated sigh left Davrin’s lungs as he pounced after the griffon, screaming his name. It did not take long for them to catch up and find a proud animal eating something off the ground. A quick look around and they came to the realization that perhaps the nugs were the answer to finding truffles and Assan was perhaps smarter than both Elves who just tried to teach him how to find them.

Wind danced through the treetops as they made their way back to Veil Jumper camp. It's been a week since they got in touch with Irelin and Strife, and they wondered if anything was afoot or if it was, for once, calm in these woods. They also needed to inquire about sending crystals, and there was no better way than to do it face-to-face. Bellara and Harding had been scouting the woods for quite a while now, and ever since Emmrich joined them, Veil Jumpers were getting back on track. Less wild magic to deal with meant more artefacts fixed and more areas cleansed from dark spawn. Despite the rumours of Venatori lurking around, there was yet hope to gain an upper foot against the escapee gods in these woods.

The shuffling of their boots against dried leaves was only drowned out by their breathing. There was an anticipation of the continuation of their last conversation, but Solas was acutely aware of how her jaw muscles tensed just thinking about it. She walked in circles in her mind, thinking of the ways to turn the conversation. Fenrel went back to their talk earlier in the day, realizing she had never asked the most important question. “So you were a monster hunter? Why become a Grey Warden? If you were making money on your own…”

“I didn’t leave my clan to get rich. Had to prove it was all worth something. I needed a cause.”

“There are easier causes than dying in Deep Roads.” She said, and it came out harsher than she meant for it to. Solas noted the tension that refused to seize from her muscles ever since Davrin brought him up.

“Says the one ready to fall on Venatori’s blade.” Davrin bit back, but there was no malice. Running after Assan for miles in full armour was exhausting for both of them, some irritation was expected. He seemed to have let go of their previous talk.  "But you might as well know that too… Darkness is a sparring partner. The greater the shadow you confront, the stronger you are for winning."

 “Fair, but only til’ you meet one you can’t beat.” She answered with a knowing smile.

“Speak for yourself.” He lightly punched her shoulder as they climbed up the hill leading to the camp. “I haven’t met one yet, nor am I planning to.”

Fenrel stopped, taking a big gulp of air. She had to remind herself to wear something lighter the next time they went for a trek through the woods. She could see Veil Jumpers coming in and out of camp just over the hilltop. So many elves. Faces adorned with Vallaslin. Many, far away from home. And yet Arlathan was seemingly home for every elf that has ever lived. She wondered how different life would have been if her clan was located somewhere else than Fereldan. Who she could have been. “Given a chance, would you go back? To your clan?”

"I could see myself going back. The question is if it's meant for me." He shrugged, offering a helping hand to make those few last steps to the top.  "What about you, if that were possible? You chose to get a vallaslin, after all.”

"It was a whim of a child who did not know better." Words spilt and she let them. The mirror she looked at every morning told her as much. Ever since Minrathous, she would avoid her reflection, a fact Solas was familiar with. At that very moment, she realized that despite trying to imagine who she could have been, she could not see it. All she could imagine was an empty patch of forest where her clan had once been and a hole in the wall as all that was left of the Shadow Dragon's hideout and one felt like more of a loss. It was easier to hear the shouts in Dock Town than a gentle murmur of nature, as the former was calling after her heart.  “I have come to realize that I might carry just a little too much poison to ever be a Halla again.”

***

Returning from Arlathan, they were greeted by a Grey Warden messenger standing on the dockside of the Crossroads. Ever since they found Eluvians connecting to their allies, their most trusted agents would drop in to deliver messages. Rarely did Fenrel’s paths cross with them. The Caretaker would collect the letters and deliver them straight to Solas' office, or rather, her new bedroom. Ever since Emmrich moved in, the thought of coming back to sleep in the aquarium room weighed heavily on her. Yes, it was closer to Varric, but with sending crystals they just acquired from Irelin and Strife, the distance would not mean much. Moreover, Varric rarely called on her. Ever since Minrathous, she found it hard to listen to his praises without snapping. Just for once, she wanted him to be realistic and say "Shit's messed up, kid. I don't know how we're getting out of this one." But he never did. Varric was many things, but an unrelenting optimist was an odd look even for him. Solas felt a flicker of fear, realizing that she could break the illusion of Varric soon enough and he did not wish to face the fallout before it was absolutely necessary.

One morning, stretching her limbs out on a painfully small cot that Solas dared to call a bed, she realized that despite the aches in her back and shoulders, the perpetual morning light of Lighthouse brushing her cheeks was something she could live in. Walking out on the balcony and seeing the heart of their so-called operation was something she could stick to doing every day. And so Lighthouse adapted. No more the torture rack of a bed, instead she found plush pillows and enough space to roll around, positioned just right so she could see over entire the room.

Messenger extended his hand to greet Fenrel. “Rook! A missive from Evka and Antoine. They said it was urgent and had to be delivered straight to you.”

Davrin and Fenrel shared a look. “Um, thank you. Did they say what it pertained to?”

The young Warden shook his head. Fenrel wondered what led him to pick up the mantle of darkness slayer. The boy did not look a day over twenty. Did he do it out of heroic aspirations like Davrin, or more usual means—was recruited as a punishment? Rumours of Wardens being recruited from prison cells and gallows reached just around any corner of Thedas. "They said it was of utmost importance. They will be waiting for you."

“When?”

“At your earliest convenience.” The boy’s eyes were glued to Assan. Of course, any warden would carry such a reaction, seeing an animal supposedly extinct, more of a symbol they wore without much thought than a possibility. One decorated his armour, too.

"Okay, thanks. Be careful in the Crossroads." She nodded, grabbed the letter and turned to go to Lighthouse Eluvian, eager to come back home. As soon as her back was turned, her fingers ripped at the parchment before Davrin snatched it away.

“Hey!” She jumped, trying to get it back.

"If something's so urgent, it must be Warden's business.” His eyes ran through lines of text.

“You are not working for Wardens, you are working for me.” Fenrel scoffed, trying to grab the letter.

“Antoine sounds worried. But uncharacteristically vague. Something is happening with the blight, they need help. Won’t say more. Obviously scared someone would intercept the letter.” Davrin murmured.

“The First Warden.” Fenrel rolled her eyes. She still wanted to have her word with that prick. Solas was glad to be the fly on the wall for that conversation. He expected it might end in a fistfight. Fenrel did not see the type to forget or let go of anything. “What’s the meeting spot?”

“Lavendel. Hossberg Wetlands.” Davrin sighed. “There’s a grey Warden fort out there.”

“Anderfels. Dangerously close to the First Warden, isn’t it?”

“Afraid he will try to lock your ass up again?” Davrin chuckled.

"I am. But I also have made arrangements to travel to Nevarra with Emmrich. Take this and go fetch Harding.” She handed him a red crystal. “Whenever you need me, concentrate on me and once it heats, talk. I will answer through mine.”

Davrin rolled the glistening crystal in his hand. It took up her whole palm but seemed pretty small in his.  "But I am no mage."

Fenrel smiled, shaking her head. "You don't need to be a mage to use these. As an elf, you should have a better knowledge of our historical artefacts. Or ask Bellara, like the rest of us.”

"I'll believe you. We'll leave at the earliest convenience, which is around the time I'll get a hold of Harding." Davrin nodded as they walked through the eluvian back to the Lighthouse.

***

“Damn it!” The scream was the first thing that greeted Fenrel as she stepped into Bellara’s studio. The next was a device bouncing off Nadas Dirthalen after Bellara threw it and was now flying towards Fenrel’s head. She dodged just in time. Bellara yelped. “Oh, no!”

Fenrel looked over the thing that landed inches away from her foot and slowly turned to look at Bellara.

“Sorry!” Her voice went up before a sigh. “Just breaking things.”

“Need some help?” Fenrel glanced over the Nadas Dirthalen. Despite Bellara spending weeks day in and out working on it, it did not seem to be working.  “I can, I don’t know, kick it or something?”

“Oh, yes! Just be careful. Some things don’t do well.” Bellara smiled, stepping away from the archive as if giving free rein to Fenrel to hit it to her heart's desire. Solas had to hold back his irritated groan. He knew of the device well and that meant he would not help activate it. Whatever knowledge it held, knowing its creator should have stayed buried. For a moment, he considered letting them astray or suggesting a fix that would break it permanently, but that would have been a poor show of hand. "If you break them, I mean."

“What kind of “don’t do well” are we talking about?”

Bellara thought for a split second. “Oh, you know. Reality tears. Wild magical energy. Also, for some reason, bees. I… don’t know why. And I don’t know why this won’t work. I thought I’d figured it out. But it keeps breaking. And I can’t get my thoughts to line up.”

“You fixed the eluvian and countless other devices around Arlathan. You’ve got this.”

“The Eluvian was easy. Once I replaced the resonance crystal and adjusted the lyrium lens, it worked fine. I mean, I had to re-align the matrices. But it just worked. And Arlathan is just the things I did before we met. Not like this thing.”

“Bellara…” Fenrel sighed and Solas knew that she was about to lie to make her feel better. “I don’t understand half the words you just used. You’ll figure this out. Whatever “this” is.”

“The Archive Spirit. We—I heard it was gone forever. But here it is.”

Both Fenrel and Solas caught on Bellara’s slip of the tongue. Bellara rarely talked of her brother, but once in a while she would slip, her face falling for a fraction of a moment.

"So what does it do?"

“It knows things. Whatever its creator knew, at least. So much knowledge. All the wonder of Elvhenan”  

So much for Anaris’ knowledge. Solas scoffed, knowing full well the archive’s creator. Anaris was never the cleverest of them all, and memories flooded Solas. He reminisced for a moment too long, seeing Anaris swearing that he would get back at Solas for tricking him. Solas delved into the memory so deep that the current almost carried him away from the thread to the reality he was holding on to. He pulled on it to anchor himself and was back in the back rooms of Fenrel’s mind.

“Sorry, I am a rambler.” Bellara rubbed her hands together nervously. “Ruined a lot of relationships. Most of the people I’ve been with didn’t care for it. And… I’m doing it. Again.”

“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t bother me.” Fenrel shrugged. “I do deal with Solas, you know. That man loves to hear himself talk.”

Bellara chuckled at it, and Solas had to stop himself from doing the same. She was not wrong, in a way. Really?  He echoed and heard Fenrel answer, “Oh, there you are. You’ve been uncharacteristically unintrusive these days.” Solas smirked to himself, preferring not to answer and rather listen. After the dream of Arlathan, he wondered what it would take for her to reach for him again, so he stayed out of sight. He did not expect it to come this way. She naturally fell into thoughts of him, with no anger or frustration, just thinking of him in passing instead of overthinking their last interaction. At this very moment, he realized that perhaps he was the one fixated on the view of her peering over the balcony at the world that could be if his plans came to fruition.

“Oh!” Bellara’s exclamation drew his attention back to the conversation at hand. "Well, good. Okay, the Nadas Dirthalen. I’ll get back to it. Soon. But I think I need a break. Maybe take a nap. And I can finish later."

“Sounds like a good plan. I just came to give you these sending crystals Irelin gave me. She gave me the demonstration, but you could show the rest of the people here how to use them.” Fenrel passed the bag to Bellara before turning to leave.

"Hey, Rook," Bellara called after her.

“Yes?” Fenrel stopped in her tracks.

“Just so you know… Neve’s back.”

***

Lighthouse was as always, shaded by pinks and blues, skies wide open above the floating ruins, a dreamscape that became their reality and home. Fenrel took unsteady steps from Bellara’s studio, immediately looking to her left. Bellara was right. The wisps were back, circling the detective's office. The blurry silhouette of a dark-haired woman moved behind the window glass, obscured by many objects piled up in front of it, yet the sway of her hips was something Fenrel could have recognized anywhere. Fenrel’s throat tensed as she swallowed spit before stretching her neck slightly to each side and cracking her knuckles. She shook off her hesitation before approaching the door. She did not knock. A perceptive detective must have been expecting her for a while now.

“Neve, you are back.” Her fingers let go of the door handle as she pushed the door behind her to close. It did so with a thud that made Neve turn sharply.

“As you can see.” If she was in any way surprised to see her, Neve’s face did not betray a thing. Solas was impressed by the control of her emotions this woman seemed to have, and he could feel that pang of jealousy in Fenrel, too. She was painfully in tune with how much her face betrayed her real feelings. Sometimes she swore Solas could read her through her eyes, and she was not too far off.

Neve stood behind her desk as Fenrel moved to the middle of the room, forced nonchalance in her step and voice. She wanted to bite. She wanted Neve to know just how exactly annoyed she was with the lack of news from Minrathous. Lucanis and Bellara had to talk her down more than once from going home, and she had a sickening gut feeling that they knew more than they let on. Solas wondered if she truly wished to face reality or just wished to be treated differently, not as something fragile. "Did not think of mentioning your comeback in a missive?"

Neve shook her head so slightly, in a "blink and you'll miss it," move.  "I'm not ready for personal talk if that's what you're here for."

 “Okay then, tell me about Minrathous.” Fenrel evened her weight on the feet, putting her hands on her hips. Solas came to recognize this as her demand pose. She would only leave this office with answers, no less.  “No vague bullshit from your missives. What’s happening?”

A dry chuckle left Neve’s mouth before any words did. “Like you care! You left our city to burn.”

Jaw and chin muscles in Fenrel’s face twitched, a spasm she had no control over. She pressed her eyelids shut, inhaling deep, trying to focus on her chest rising to stop herself from biting back. “That is unfair, and you know it.”

“Is it? You ran straight to Treviso.”

The slap of hands against the wood made them both flinch as Fenrel closed the distance between them, and a sting of her palms crashing with the tabletop vibrated to her elbows. Despite her efforts to keep control, her body acted ahead, her voice rising. "Treviso wouldn't have made it."

Neve stood there, unmoved, her expression the same as before. Tired. Her usually meticulously straightened shit was now creased in places, there was a coffee stain on her sleeve, and her under eyes were more sunken in than usual. Fenrel did not pay it any mind, but Solas did. Solas caught the tremble in Fenrel’s hand, the way she flexed her fingers as they ached. She wanted to hit something when Neve said,  “As if Minrathous did.”

"Either tell me the situation or watch me go straight to Dock Town. I had enough of your three-sentence letters and, "Don't come back". It's my home too. You have no right to banish me from it.”

“Fine.” Neve pinched the bridge of her nose as she exhaled.  "Most of the Shadows have retreated into the outskirts of the city, collapsing slave tunnels behind them, so Venatori could not find them. A third and many more Dock Town people in any way associated with us are dead. Bodies hung out to scare the city into submission."

Fenrel’s head hung low, breaking eye contact. She pushed her palms harder against the wood grain, short breaths following in quick succession. For all her efforts not to visualize, shadows of bodies swaying in the wind of the port were painted on her eyelids. She could almost hear it—the creak of ropes straining under the weight of the dead, the stifled cries of the living who had to walk past them. Minrathous, her home, her battlefield, had become a graveyard. Fingers trembling, she pushed herself to look back at Neve. “And the rest?”

“Unaccounted for. Gone.” The resignation in Neve’s voice echoed like nails being hammered in the coffin that now housed Minrathous.

Fenrel did not need to ask who was responsible, for she already knew. “Venatori.”

“Most likely.”

Solas smiled to himself when he heard echoes of a plan shaping in her mind. There was time to grieve. There was a place. Which was away from here and now. “What about the Threads? Are they affected?”

Neve’s shoulders slumped and her hand reached to pull on her armchair to sit in. “Of course. The maker-forsaken city is in shackles, nobody is unaffected. Venatori has taken some of them, too."

Fenrel did not skip a beat. If there was a possibility of doing just about anything to save her home, she would seize it. A shake in her hands eased as she straightened her back. "Tell Elek to get me in touch with his boss.”

“Nobody knows who runs the Threads… Well, except for Elek.” Neve raised a brow. That was the most emotion she seemed to be willing to land Fenrel. “But why would he betray such knowledge?”

“I have a proposition they can’t turn down.”

“Why is that?”

"If Shadows are gone, the city falls to ruin. No city, no profit for the Threads." Hands crossed against her chest, an uneasy smile. There might be a sliver of hope, after all, Fenrel told herself. "They must have a vested interest in saving their clientele. And it starts with rescuing our people."

“Viper would never agree to it.” Neve scoffed at the notion.

Fenrel stilled at the mention of him, her hands dropping. "Ashur could not possibly still be leading. Not while being blighted.”

“As if you left him any other option, abandoning us like that.”

Neve did not know what she was talking about. If anyone could understand the decision she made, it was Ashur. Ashur, the one who stood for her to stay in the Shadows after every failure she delivered. As long as more people lived to lose their shackles, the more innocent had the opportunity to live another day, he did not care for her methods. He would have not pushed her out of the city if it wasn't for Tarquin. If anyone else would have chosen Treviso over Minrathous, it would have been him. “Don’t put words into his mouth. You told me to go. You wrote to me to stay away.”

“What do you know about what he feels? As if you answered any of his missives ever since taking over Varric’s operation.” Neve’s words were laced with truth that stung like poison. "You have been out of his orbit for a year. People change, you should know since you did."

A tremble in Fenrel’s fingers returned, spit stuck in her throat. She wanted to rebut her words, but she was right. She was angry at the Shadow Dragons, and more often than not at Ashur, for sending her away. However, it was not why she did not answer his missives. She just could not find ways in herself to tell of how much he hurt her. Scar tissue hurt her more than the initial wound down the line. It was not Neve’s business, so she just said. “Well, run it through Tarquin and Ashur, then. Get me word back from Elek as soon as possible.”

She turned and left without giving Neve a chance to argue further. Emmrich was waiting for her and wallowing in her regrets wouldn't do her much good.

***

“So, what are we doing today? Displaced wisps, another haunting?” Fenrel and Emmrich made their way through the bowels of Grand Necropolis, her innards no longer going numb and tingly from the discomfort. Ever since they recruited Emmrich, she has spent a fair amount of time down in the palace of the dead and grew to like unruly wisps trying to play with her hair and unidentifiable whispers, making her skin crawl. The dark, cold and damp was oddly comforting and reminded her of tunnels running underneath Minrathous. With fewer bones, too.

While Davrin, Bellara, Harding and Taash spent their fair share of time working with Veil Jumpers and Lords of Fortune, Fenrel, Emmrich and Lucanis spent their time accepting Crow contracts and cleaning up messy spirit business in Grand Necropolis. Uncovering lethal poison, qamek, an operation brewing in the streets of Treviso saved them much-underserved heartache, and also served to delay whatever plans Antaam had with the gods. Their dealings with frightened spirits around the necropolis led them to hints of Venatori seeking something out in the halls, but they were yet to discover what. Fenrel suspected it was precisely why Emmrich invited her for this outing, but could not tell why he would tell her to dress nicely and leave her armor behind.

“Oh dear,” Emmrich gave her one of his gentle smiles, "I am afraid this is one of the social visits. Well, at least for you. I have duties to attend, and imagined you would enjoy a light reprieve.”

“Emmrich,” Fenrel started, unsure where she was going with it. Solas could see hands reaching out to her ever since Minrathous and yet she was blind in her grief to notice them.

“You deserve a break, Rook.” Emmrich softly wrapped his fingers around her forearm to lead her down the stairs through the Path of Sighs. Sometimes Fenrel wondered why necromancers were so offended to be seen as disturbing, while simultaneously being keen to name things and places in such a way.

She rubbed her thumb into her palm as she cleared her throat. There was uncertainty in her step as there was in her heart as she asked. "Then I suppose it's as a good time as any to speak of my—“

“Your passenger, Solas. Ah! An Elven god! Must be as thrilling as it is terrifying, isn’t it?” Emmrich proclaimed enthusiastically.

“Thrilling is one way to put it. I don’t know where to—“ She cut herself off. Was this a good idea? Fenrel asked herself, then she reached for Solas. Solas shifted in the corner of her mind. You do not seem to trust the answers I have given you. You deserve to seek alternatives. Solas answered. She nodded. “If I would only ask for this to stay—“

“Oh, but of course, darling! Anything you say will stay between us.” He tilted his head slightly. “I am well aware of certain members of our team's opinions about Solas and the connection they perceive you have.”

They passed through Vault of the Beloved, the long pathway between rows of doorways leading into more halls of mausoleums. The path was surprisingly empty of the undead. Any other day they would have to fight a horde which would reanimate not even a day later. It seemed their wards held, and at least for this one day, they could have a peaceful walk.

“Yes, well, imagine if they knew the real extent.” Fenrel glanced at Emmrich, who seemed unworried. Hands crossed tightly against her chest, she tried to keep in walking rhythm with him.

“Well then, start at the beginning.” His hands beckoned her to tell the story.

“You do already know of the ritual and how we barely escaped it?” Her arms dropped for a second, cracking knuckles, stretching fingers, before crossing them again.

Emmrich nodded.

“I was injured on the site, bleeding.” She did not wish to relive the memory. Her chest tightened, pushing her to hurry the motions of telling it. “Solas, when he was being drawn into the fade, shot one last desperate spell, tethering himself to me. But with raw magic and the scale of a failing ritual…”

“It had an unanticipated outcome.” Emmrich finished for her.

“That’s a soft way to put it.” There it was. That jarring, bitter chuckle Solas has come to find so familiar.  “First, I could reach him in my dreams and he led me to believe that it was the only way we could communicate. Then there was a lingering feeling of being watched. Thoughts that felt like not my own.”

“So the trickster god had shown his hand, eventually? May I inquire as to the why?” They stopped in front of the door separating them from the Memorial Gardens. Emmrich has talked of them, but they had yet to visit. Today finally seemed to be the day to do so.

“Emmrich. I need you to swear to me that you will never, ever tell anyone of this.” Fenrel looked him straight in the eye.

“Yes, of course.” His hand landed on her shoulder with a light pat before withdrawing.  “You can put your trust in me, Rook.”

“You have heard of Treviso and Minrathous dragon attacks.” She looked for his nod and then continued, despite her vocal cords straining at the thought of telling this out loud. “Thing is, I was mortally injured in Treviso. I was the only mage on the field, with no way to heal myself and so I was—“

“Dying.”

“Yes.” She clenched her jaw with a nod.

“But you have lived. Because of… Oh, no.” Emmrich’s eyes widened with realization. He stood there, unblinking, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows raised until his head slowly shook and brows furrowed in worry and fear. “Oh…dear.”

“Solas. He…" His name rolled off her tongue heavily. Solas could scarcely believe that this connection she held so close to the chest was now in the open. He knew it was only a matter of time, and yet he expected more of it. The scrutiny she was willing to put herself under astounded him. Just like how soft her voice sounded when she swallowed hard, trying to force words out and felt as if she betrayed herself,  “He offered… He… I said no, but he still…”

Words threatened to choke her. She wished she could stop them from leaving her mouth, but floodgates were already open and the latch was broken.

Solas wanted to tell her no, to keep it between them, not push this topic further and yet, he could not deny her attempts to find the truth, which no one on this earth was privy to. Not even him.

“He saved me.” The acceptance was what stunned him. She wrestled with this thought for weeks. She went back and forth on how it was just part of whatever plan he had. She saw her life as a piece on his board and nothing he could value until these three words left her mouth. And then she stilled, and so did Solas.

The uncomfortable silence stretched for a moment too long, letting her frantic heartbeat fill Solas’ thoughts.

“Healing you through your blood magic connection?” Emmrich’s expression wavered—curiosity, fear, and something else tightening in his features as if grasping for words and finding none. “Oh, Rook.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Fenrel shifting weight on her feet, her eyes wide, searching for something in Emmrich’s face before he caught up. She was scared. She may have hidden the tremble in her hands well, but the doe-eyes look she gave him betrayed her.

“Transfusing the magical energies between two beings separated by metaphysical planes? That’s unprecedented!” Emmrich’s face shifted to surprise and then quickly shifted to scientific interest. He waved his hands as if he did not mean to worry her. It was a bit too late for that, but she kept silent. “Well, that puts to rest my curiosities of how you have been mending yourself so well between our skirmishes, seemingly only on Elfroot. He must still be mending you!”

"Yes." She rubbed her temple, one hand still wrapped under her ribs, holding herself together. Solas did not deny it because they both knew it to be true.

“Has he been influencing your decisions, attempting to take control in any way?” Emmrich’s curiosity turned into worry, and his hand once again brushed her shoulder in comfort.

“No. And no.” She shook her head in a sharp move, eager to deny, to cling to her autonomy. She did not know who needed to hear these denying words more, her or Emmrich, but she did not dare wonder. She was sure, to an extent, that her thoughts were her own. They had to be. Solas had promised her the truth, and while she had no doubts he lied about it, she expected just a bit of it, where it mattered. Solas finally broke his silence. I give you my truth, Fenrel. Her breathing eased even when she didn’t answer him, Solas could feel the acknowledgement through the tether wrapped around his palm. She steadied herself.  “At least not in the ways blood mages usually do. We just… talk.”

“Talk? In your head, I assume?” Emmrich raised a brow.

“I… can see him. When he wishes to be seen, that is. And only in the Lighthouse—“

“Where boundaries between worlds are blurred, of course.” He nodded softly as if it was just another scientific discussion. Emmrich’s softness and relaxation eased the tension in her shoulders, but not enough to unlock them.  “Does he appear like a spirit, or—?”

“No, he’s there… in limited physicality.” Her voice dropped, eyes darting away, unknowing how to explain what she meant.

“Limited physicality? Rook, darling,  I might need more to understand the particularities.” He rubbed his hands, head inclined slightly to the side in confusion.

“He cannot interact physically with the world itself, except for—“

"Oh, Rook," Emmrich exclaimed, not waiting for her to finish, one hand laying on his heart. “Oh, if I could only have a conversation with Solas, I have so many questions.”

Her head leaned slightly back, brows furrowed in confusion, lips slightly agape. She almost blurted out, “Really?” before stopping herself. "He, unfortunately, has stated that the nature of our connection eludes him as well."

“Oh, how infelicitous that is!” His hands flailed in disappointment.

 "Yes." She nodded, despite not being sure if she agreed. Solas has spent countless days walking front and back and taking every turn in his prison, trying to work out how his spell could land him in such circumstances, and came up with nothing. Sometimes wild magic came up with bees, sometimes with… This. Ever since imprisoning Evanuris and creating the Veil, he had the most prudence in his acts around magic. Except for the moment, everything fell apart. He tried not to show his frustration with the unknown, and yet he knew that she had caught up on it. "What I wonder is… is there a way to break this connection? After all of this is over?"

Emmrich lowered his head, breaking their eye contact. He blinked slowly as if bracing himself or her for the truth, but she ran ahead. "You are not sure."

“Rook, there is no way to predict what would happen in such circumstances. Without fully understanding how it works, without examining you both…”

“Solas is in the prison made for gods. There is no way to examine him, not unless he escapes.” Solas could hear the slight crack in her voice with the last words.

“Then, my dear, I am afraid I cannot help you. Your connection is beyond anything ever perceived by anyone alive—Oh!” Suddenly, his head shot up, eyes lit. “You may need to give me time, but I may know just who to contact about this matter.”

Worry in her brow evened out as she exhaled, her chest slightly falling in. “Thank you, Emmrich.” She could have almost hugged him. Fenrel did not know if she would make it through the end of this… but if she did, she would have hoped to be the only presence in her head by the time she could rebuild her life. She could not afford to think of what it would feel like. Solas was the one constant in the world that seemed to be falling apart. One constant that shouldn’t have brought her that uneasy comfort.

Solas wished for her to live through the end of this, though there was no relief on his face. He told himself it was pragmatic. He told himself it’s the way it’s always been. Rook was the means to his ends, and yet he wondered if he would miss Fenrel’s voice when all was said and done.

Emmrich and Fenrel stood in the comfort of newfound camaraderie for a moment and Fenrel could feel heat radiating from her chest. She could’ve mistaken it for the joy of the flowering friendship if not for the voice that erupted from underneath her armour. “Ro-Rook?”

She fumbled to pull the sending crystal from the sewn-in pocket of her jacket, grabbing on the now glowing crystal. “Davrin?”

“Hey, it works!” Harding’s voice reverberated in the hollows of the Grand Necropolis.

“What’s happening?” Fenrel and Emmrich were both leaning over the crystal in her palm, waiting for a response.

“You—You—“

“Veil’s pretty thin here. It must be affecting the crystals.” Emmrich retorted.

“Hossberg. Now, Rook.” Davrin’s voice was rushed, annoyed.

Fenrel and Emmrich exchanged a look.

“I’m on my way. Wait next to eluvian.” Fenrel sighed, pocketing the crystal. “I’m so sorry, Emmrich.”

“Nonsense, dear! I’m coming with, if you may allow.” Emmrich gifted her one of his soft smiles, already turning away from the doors to Memorial Gardens.

“Your duties require you here. I cannot steal you away to this extent. Davrin and Harding are there.” She put her hand on his shoulder, returning the smile.  “Do what you must. We will meet back at the Lighthouse.”

“Of course, Rook.” He smiled, stepping back. “Be safe out there.”

She nodded, turning on her heel and throwing herself into a sprint. Despite not wearing armour, she still had Wolf's Fang and her dagger strapped to her thighs and prayed that whatever happened would not require the use of those.

***

Cold and moisture in the air clung to her skin as she stepped through the Eluvian situated in Grey Warden Fort. She was glad to find it was at least in an obscured area and a bit annoyed with herself for not asking Mourn Watchers to lend her something warmer to wear before she ran out of Grand Necropolis. Or she could have asked the Caretaker in The Crossroads as she was racing to reach the correct Eluvian that would take her here. She encountered a few Venatori lurking nearby, or rather, they encountered her for the last time before succumbing to the injuries she had dealt them by sneaking up from the back. The pristine outfit she selected for a peaceful walk with Emmrich was a mess, and she did not look any better. Teeth clattering, hands instantly wrapping around herself. It’s been raining in Anderfels, and by the cold seeping into her bones, it's been raining for days. Sun had already set over the swamp and she could see torches lighting up the village below the stronghold. Solas willed his magic to leak through their connection, a slow dribble of warmth, just enough to make her comfortable, but not enough to betray himself. She would not forgive herself if Antoine and Evka saw her as a shivering mess.

“Rook!” Davrin and Harding were waiting by the side entrance to the halls of the fort. “You took forever.”

“I was in Nevarra. Unfortunately, there's not yet a straight path from there to here." Her eyes rolled in annoyance, but her hands stopped trembling, the chilling fingers grasping her muscles had let go. She rolled her shoulders. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. She thought. “So, why the rush?”

“Antoine and Evka asked us to take some samples of the blight that has spread around the village below.”

“Lavendel.” Harding interrupted.

Davrin motioned for Harding and Fenrel to follow. “Antoine wanted to see what gods have done to the blight. Safe to say, it’s…”

“Not good.” Fenrel finished for him. They walked through a stone corridor leading to the main hall of the fort. Antoine was leaning over glass jars filled with what seemed to be body parts of ghouls, blight puss and other things she did not dare to guess.

“Antoine?” She addressed him, but he didn’t pay her much mind. Evka stood beside, hands on hips, her face stuck between frustration and worry.

“Antoine!” Evka tapped his shoulder, but his deep brown eyes were locked onto the jar, seemingly listening in. “Antoine!”

"Yes? Ah." He murmured and leaned in closer to the object of his observations. A flinch rolled over his body as if he just realized that people had arrived and waiting for him. Six eyes were glued to Antoine, waiting for answers. "Yes. The blight samples. They’re like nothing we’ve seen before. Or anything in the Warden records. And I can…”

He stilled for a moment, his eyes stuck on one spot on the floor as if he was listening intently. "And I can… I almost hear voices in it. The gods calling the blight.”

Fenrel blinked slowly before saying a word. Solas was impressed that she somehow did not know the rumours of Warden's abilities. “You can hear the blight?”

Davrin cleared his throat. “Just ask me later.”

“Okay.” Fenrel shifted weight on her feet, preparing to ask the next question. "That means you believe us? Is there enough to show the First Warden?"

Evka’s head lowered. Dwarf stood there, shoulders hunched, hands resting on her trusted axe. “We knew things were bad. But if the blight’s being called, the situation’s more unpredictable than we thought. We need to—“

Heavy boot steps interrupted before words followed. “I give you two reins, and this is where it leads? Chasing Rook’s lies?”

Fenrel’s fingers curled into first before Solas had time to react. She turned sharply, her face already set in stone. Calm down. Solas murmured, hoping she would listen. I am calm. She seethed, but the clench in her jaw betrayed her more than a storm bubbling in her chest, the familiarity of a lie leaked through their thread. She was anything but calm. The air left her nostrils with such force it could almost cut. The First Warden stood in the doorway, his massive frame shading whatever light tried to reach the room from the outside torches.

“First Warden, I—“ Fenrel made her attempt to interrupt the man, but his eyes rolled over her in patronizing ways, before his hands rested on his hips and his voice boomed again.

“Stay away from the blight and the Wardens. How many times must you be told?” His eyes darted to Davrin. “And you, getting involved with these—“

“Okay, okay!” Fenrel shouted over him before he could continue, stopping herself a second before she started cursing the man. She breathed in and tried to put her best foot forward. “We have evidence. Evka and Antoine—“

“Are too easily distracted.” He cut off, his accusatory glare now landing on them.

Evka stepped in front of Antoine, as if ready for the brunt of the fallout. "Rook knew something was wrong."

Antoine stood by his wife, not allowing her to do so. “I can hear it in the samples. The gods… She’s telling the truth. The blight has changed. And that changes everything. ”

The First Warden’s face was carved from stone. He did not care. “It changes nothing. Your sensitivity to blight is useful, Warden Antoine. But you’ve had more than one snake in your ear.”

“Won’t you listen to yourself?” Fenrel’s voice shook, but she managed to keep it low. She knew that creating drama wouldn't accomplish anything. "No one here wants the blight to spread. We can work together."

“You’re in no place to make offers.” He scoffed. “You tampered with a ritual that unleashed blight, as you have admitted yourself. You did not know what you were doing then, and you don’t now.”

“Now wait—“ Fenrel started just to be cut off by Evka.

“If gods control the blight, we need to change how we approach it—“

“Archdemons control the blight, and we’d sense if one had risen.” First Warden pressed back. An immovable force of a man he seemed to be, and Fenrel could barely hold her frustration in, biting her cheek until Solas felt a metallic pang in his mouth. "We'd make sacrifices needed to fight it."

Antoine’s voice hitched as he tried once again to talk sense into his boss. “But we—“

“The blight has increased. Now is not the time to lose focus." Armour clanged as he shifted on his hip, "Wardens Evka and Antoine, are you sworn to fight the blight?”

Evka sighed in exasperation. “Yes, but—“

“Then report back to Weisshaupt and do so.” First Warden turned to look at Fenrel. “ And you — I should throw you in the cell for the arrogance of showing your face here alone."

Then, without another glance, he turned and strode toward the door. The heavy wood groaned as he slammed the door behind him, but even with it closed, they listened until they could not hear his metal boots hitting the stone anymore.

Evka’s and Antoine’s shoulders sagged with relief mixed with worry. After a moment of silence, Evka was the first to talk. “That went poorly. Even for a talk with him.”

“Do talks with this man ever go well?” Fenrel smirked, forcing the rage climbing in heat waves through her throat down.

“Eh…” Davrin’s face said more than words could.

“So much for convincing First Warden.” She sighed.

Antoine forced a smile. “We can’t give you the order, but you have us.”

Evka nodded and wrapped her hand around Antoine's forearm. "We'll keep tracking the dark spawn and the blight. We'll do what we can."

"And if we learn the gods' plans, you will too," Antoine reassured.

“Antoine, Evka… Thank you. We will do what we can, too.” Fenrel motioned Harding and Davrin to take their leave. It had been a long day, and she was dreaming of crashing into the soft pillows and not having to think of the world collapsing all around for a few sacred hours.

Walking to the Eluvian, Davrin complained of the First Warden’s stubbornness and the way he ignored Davrin’s presence as if he was written off as a Warden for joining the fight against the gods. Harding and Fenrel listened before Harding broke the flood of frustration coming out of him.

“Hey, Rook?” Harding and Fenrel hadn’t talked much after their argument, merely exchanging pleasantries around breakfast or dinner tables and short reports after coming back from missions.

“Yes, Lace?” Fenrel had hoped that using her name would break the spell of tension between them, but it was to no avail so far.

“Lady Morrigan wants to meet. She asked for you to arrive at Cobbled Swan, tomorrow at noon"

“Minrathous? What is Morrigan doing there?” Fenrel stopped in front of Eluvian, its blue glow making her red hair appear almost black in the night.

“She’s not one to divulge the details in missives, but it must be important.” Harding walked past her, back into the crossroads.

Davrin and Fenrel shared a raised eyebrow look between the two of them. Morrigan with the news. In Minrathous. That might spell trouble, from what she knew of a woman and Solas agreed. Something was afoot. Fenrel sighed, “Well… fuck.” Before following after Harding.

Chapter Text

Fenrel pulled the mask over her mouth, up to the bridge of her nose, until only her eyes and forehead were visible. The hood followed, shrouding the bright red of her hair now tied back from her face. She patted her thighs—the daggers were there, snug beneath the folds of her cloak. Looking over her shoulder, Fenrel saw the odd sight of Neve without her hat, dark hair hidden under drab Venatori robes. Harding and Lucanis were similarly disguised.

Fenrel had insisted she only needed Harding for the meeting, but they refused to let them go alone. It was a miracle Taash agreed to stay back, and it was only because Davrin offered to go and train Assan in Arlathan. Emmrich and Bellara were fine after being reminded that Nadas Dirthalen still needed fixing.

"Rook…" Neve murmured, stepping closer. "It is terrible what you'll see. I did not wish for you to come back to it."

"I know." Fenrel nodded, staring at the murky surface of the Eluvian instead of Neve. "But I must."

With those words, her boot crossed the threshold between planes, and she closed her eyes. As she stepped through, the smell hit her hard. It slammed into her, thick and cloying—a putrid mix of rot, blood gone sour, burning flesh, and something sickly sweet that clung to the back of her throat. Her stomach lurched.

The warmth from Lucanis' palm seeped through her clothes as she slowly opened her eyes. The smell did not do the sight justice. The putrid, rotten, acidic and sickly sweet stench lingered, enveloping them like a heavy blanket, one she wanted to shake off. The night of the dragon attack flooded her mind, images of carnage cutting between then and now, the fresh blood becoming blackened stains, ones that clung to her soul. Her eyes ran back and forth through the mess of bodies strewn around what was left of Shadow Dragon's hideout. These are the same bodies from that night. She told herself, This is fine. I can do this.

Deathly silence was a harsh juxtaposition to sight possessing her feelings, but with Lucanis' hand wrapping around her forearm, she found it in herself to remain steady. Even though the muscles under his fingers shook uncontrollably, neither acknowledged it. "Let's move." She said through gritted teeth.

They made their way through an empty pawn shop, a familiar space now ripped apart and left for dead. Lorelei, the owner and Hector, her guard, were gone. The door to the street was left ajar and as Fenrel approached it, her boots stopped to a halt. Feet away from the entrance in the middle of what used to be a busy market street now stood a seller's cart, one she recognized. Some morons who used to present themselves as wannabe pirates would sell various knick-knacks from it. Their inventory was always messy, with items ranging from great weapons to cursed jewellery. Now their cart carried only their bodies, twisted beyond recognition, but she knew of those rough leathers they wore daily. For years, she had passed them on her way into the Shadow Dragon base. Seeing them was a sign that she was almost home. Now, the cart's owner lay mangled, propped up against the wheel, his blood staining the cobblestones, flies circling the rotting flesh.

"The killings… This is…" Fenrel's words and thoughts failed, choking her. "They were just merchants. They did nothing wrong."

"There is no limit for Venatori cruelty." Lucanis stood beside her as if ready to catch her if her body failed from shock. It wouldn't, as it was too numb, not entirely there. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her ungloved palms until bleeding crescents formed and yet the sting did not come.

Fenrel. Solas' voice reached from beyond the void encroaching on her consciousness. Let go, you are hurting yourself.

What does it matter? There was no bitterness in her answer, instead, it fell flat, devoid of feeling.

You will get your revenge. But for now, you have to keep moving.

She did not respond for she knew, that once this was over, the Venatori would learn of justified cruelty. They would learn of what those who call this city home are willing to do for it to never be seen like this again. She moved, or rather, her body moved through the motions, carrying her through the streets that were now a graveyard to all she loved.

The deeper they went, the more bleak things seemed to be. Every street corner was guarded by Venatori who did not pay mind to the suffering seeping into the bones of the city. She wondered if blood stains would ever wash out or if their history would forever be stained by this. Was there hope for Tevinter, once the gods would be defeated? Fear grew in her heart and ran through her veins, poisoning everything in its path.

Wharf Crossing was just ahead. The convergence of paths right before reaching the docks. The place of life, or rumours, of colour and movement. Except the colours were now Venatori black and red, crimson of the blood pooling, black of putrid flesh. The ropes creaked as bodies swung from the gallows, their slow, uneven sway a song of torment for all to hear. Their bodies despite the rot still wore the leathers that were like a second skin for her. Shadow Dragon insignia, the snake, glinting at her. Fenrel's eyes traced through the crowd gathered around. None dared to look up. She wondered if the Venatori weren't hiding in the corners, would the screams of civilians drown out the sounds of the ocean, the sounds of limp bodies smacking against each other in the wind?

Every step made her muscles scream in agony, for she had to drag herself ahead, tearing her eyes away and forcing them to only look ahead. They were almost at the Cobbled Swan. Voices of townspeople leaked into her mind. Homes lost, family members missing, public executions, rumours of Archon passing, their lives as they know it lost. It's my fault. I should've let Treviso burn. It's all my fault. Poison ran through her mind as her hand clutched against her chest, her body doubling over, unable to breathe. Oh no. Not again.

Breathe. Solas stepped through the poisonous cloud of self-doubt, his voice like a shield from reality settling upon her.

Please don't make me tell you what I see or feel. She forced a laugh. It might actually kill me.

He did not answer, yet she could feel hands on her shoulders. She lifted her eyes warily, expecting to see Lucanis there, yet he was not there. Neve, Lucanis and Harding were yet to catch up. She must have rushed ahead. As she turned she saw Lucanis running towards her, wiping his blades against his cloak. "Some Venatori clocked us. Had to take them out discreetly. Are you—? You did not notice, Rook. What's happening?"

"It's…" How long was she disoriented? How could she not notice Venatori closing in? Sun was hanging straight above them. They had no time, for Morrigan was waiting. "I'll tell you later. Let's get to the Swan."

***

Hood was the first thing to come out, the mask following right after as Fenrel's foot crossed the threshold of Cobbled Swan. Lucanis and Neve stood guard outside, in case any unwanted guests tried to follow after. The cracked stone floor tiles, the smell of decades-old ale drenched into them with no hopes of washing off, the lacquer on wood and familiar lingering scents of food. Fenrel breathed in deeply, reminiscing the afternoons spent at the corner table with Ashur, planning the next mission or just grabbing a drink after work. Ashur. She had to visit him someday.

"Why did Morrigan want to meet in Minrathous?" Harding spoke up, swaying on her hip before her hand landed on it, the pose she struck whenever she was impatient, bored, interested or truly, just whenever. "Isn't she helping Veil Jumpers in Arlathan? We crossed paths more than once there, she could've—"

"Indeed." Morrigan's voice crept down Fenrel's spine like a chilled silk scarf, making them both turn to face the Witch of The Wilds. "But today, we have a guest, and she needed the anonymity that only a city provides."

"Whoever your guest is, they could've chosen Treviso. That one provides safety along with anonymity." Fenrel scoffed as a human woman in her thirties, with long, chestnut hair walked up behind Morrigan. She was taller than anyone in the room, her frame one of a trained warrior, except for her arm. The left arm below the elbow was replaced by an intricate prosthetic, a familiar sign carved into the palm. The arm Solas ripped away from the Inquisitor. The legends have already spread of the brave Inquisitor standing up against the betrayer, one that caused the hole in the sky and demons pouring out of the sky. People in the Inquisition apparently could not keep their lips shut. Tongue-in-cheek jokes about what Inquisitor was doing alone with Solas were a common form of gossip amongst Fereldans she came across for years.

I was saving her life. Solas murmured.

Fenrel had to stop herself from rolling her eyes to not look insane. I am sure the knight-enchantress was very thankful for you taking a limb needed to defend yourself.

She managed. I knew she would. Fenrel could almost hear a hint of a smile in his words.

"Rook, you remember how Varric and I served the Inquisition?" Harding ran straight to introductions, which Fenrel did not need. She was well aware of who stood before her.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan." Fenrel stretched out her arm. Inquisitor had no qualms pressing it, her sturdy hand crushing Fenrel's fingers. For a mage, she was surprisingly strong. Fenrel had to remind herself to push harder in her training with Taash and Davrin.

"I wish we could be meeting under better circumstances, not under the so-called gods threatening to blight the world." A smirk passed her lips, one that did not reach her eyes, which were shadowed by sleepless nights. The plight of the leader.

Morrigan sighed. "A blight that spreads wider with each passing heartbeat."

"Morrigan and Harding told me about what you have accomplished since taking over for Varric." The Inquisitor had a familiar look in her eyes. One Fenrel came to know from Solas. Inspecting, intrusive. For a moment she wondered if she picked it up from him during his time in the Inquisition. Solas replied rather quickly.

No, but it made us rather good friends quickly.

People watching? Fenrel rubbed her brow. Really?

"You've put together an impressive team, and you've got the best— maybe the only chance—to stop Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain." Inquisitor continued.

"You're putting too much faith in me." Fenrel's voice betrayed her irritation. Putting together a team and helping with chores did not feel like much progress when gods could wipe an entire town in a night, erasing traces of good from it like dust.

"Varric did believe in you. I never doubted his judgement before and I am not gonna start now." Inquisitor bit back.

Fenrel scoffed. She knew pretty well of the messes the Inquisitor got the whole of Thedas in, as she knew that some could've been avoided if she listened to Varric. Or at least it was how he told her. "Sounds like I'm here to clean up your mess."

"Rook—" Harding punched her in the shoulder, unable to control herself in the face of such disrespect.

"No. Harding, Rook is right. This is my mess." Inquisitor glanced at Lace before returning her attention to Fenrel.

Harding was not having being shushed like a child, her voice rose above Inquisitor's. "The Inquisition sealed the Breach and stopped Corypheus! We saved the world!"

"We also left southern Thedas vulnerable to the Qunari invasion, as the Exalted Council showed. Look at the state of Treviso and Rivain and tell me I couldn't have prevented it."

"But we didn't start any of this!" Harding was losing her cool, and Fenrel rested her hand on her shoulder, as a reminder to calm down.

"We did our best, but our best had consequences." Inquisitor smiled, but it was a tense, false smile. One Fenrel could recognize, one of someone who blamed themselves for not doing enough. "When those consequences became apparent, I disbanded the Inquisition rather than let it turn into something someone else had to stop. Too many leaders claim credit while avoiding responsibility. I won't be one of them. So, Rook… I am asking you to clean up my mess."

You both carry the weight of the world I broke and are expected to fix it. Solas' voice wormed through her mind.

Are you at least sorry about it?

I am sorry about many things. He sighed. This included.

"And while you do so, Rook, the Inquisitor will do her best to ensure that the rest of the world remains intact." Morrigan talked before Fenrel could even agree to help. Her agreement did not matter. Yet she wished she had the choice to voice it. "A daunting prospect, given that most of the South is under siege by dark spawn."

Harding shifted on her feet and Fenrel could see a faint tremble in her lower lip as she spoke. "It's that bad?"

"If not for Inquisitor, the South would have collapsed completely. She has not been idle while you were assembling your team."

This was worse than Fenrel thought. "I thought the gods were mostly active up here. Is it really that bad in the South?"

Inquisitor took over from Morrigan. "Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain are mostly interested in the North, that much is true. But they have deployed their forces to the South. Their new twisted kind of dark spawn are spreading bigger corruption than any Blight in history. Dark spawn have cut through the centre of the Orlais, Val Royeaux and Halamshiral are barely holding out. Ferelden would have been lost already if not for the help from Orzammar. With Denerim lost, the Fereldans are holding the line at Redcliffe. The Free Marches have the worst of it. Acting Viscount Aveline Vallen led the evacuation of Kirkwall."

Ferelden was almost gone. Denerim. Fenrel could faintly remember the stench of the alienage, the side-eyed looks humans gave her family even while their city was under siege during Fifth Blight. And she could remember those who gave out food. Those who dressed the refugees. The cobblestone streets. Memories were faint and fragmented, but there. Unlike Denerim. And Kirkwall. Oh, Kirkwall. She did not know how to break such news to Varric. He would be proud that one he trusted with his viscount post managed to evacuate, but it was an ill salve for the heart that knows the loss of home. The tall tales he told of Hawke and Hanged Man would linger in her mind. Hawke. Is Hawke safe? She had to ask Harding to contact her.

"Maker—" Harding gasped, "We didn't know. My ma…"

Inquisitor lowered herself to Harding's eye level, firmly taking her by the shoulders. "Do not worry. I called in a favor with the Divine. Your mother's safe with some old friends."

Harding's hands twitched for half a second as if she tried to contain herself from hugging the Inquisitor. "Thank you."

"Inquisition may be gone, but my name still carries weight where it's needed. I've used it to unite people where it's most needed." Inquisitor nodded to Harding before straightening up and looking at Fenrel. "The South is my problem, not yours, Rook. You stop the gods, and I'll make sure the rest of Thedas doesn't fall to the blight. Tell me what help you need."

"I assume I already have your information sources. Dorian, Morrigan, Harding, Va—" Fenrel swallowed hard. Gears spun in her head for a fraction of a moment. "Funding. This ship is not cheap to keep afloat."

Inquisitor laughed, which startled Fenrel. "Bold. That will require my name to carry a little more weight than usual, but I will make do. Now, can I steal you away for a private word?"

Fenrel looked around and nodded, gesturing Inquisitor to follow her. She knew every nook and cranny of this establishment like the back of her hand, yet she led the Inquisitor to her usual spot. One she and Ashur frequented.

"Fenrel." Inquisitor started.

Fenrel stopped mid-sit-down, her eyes locked onto Inquisitor. Varric. Of course. He would write weekly missives straight to the Inquisitor, updating her about their hunt for Solas. She wondered what the letter after the night Varric recruited her looked like. "I prefer to go by Rook."

"Of course. It is easier to hide behind a title when the whole world sees you as nothing more than it." Inquisitor smiled, sitting across the table. "I do, however, prefer Adeline. The world can have the Inquisitor."

"So…" Fenrel cleansed her throat. "Adeline, why the private word was needed?"

"Solas." Inquisitor, or Adeline, Fenrel had to remind herself, put her elbows on the table, leaning in, her face resting on her hands. "How is he?"

Fenrel blinked slowly, staring ahead, dumbfounded. "He maimed you, he betrayed you, he ruined your life, letting his failure create the Breach, he—"

You don't need to retell her life story. Solas mocked lightly.

Adeline rested her palm on Fenrel's, stopping her mid-sentence. "He was my friend. Perhaps still is. I still believe he is worth saving. Whatever that belief is worth these days."

Tell her not to worry. I am good, all things considered. Solas proposed.

You can't seriously expect me to— Fenrel tried to dismiss him, but it was Adeline who asked her. Who was she to deny her the information?

"He is okay. Stuck in his prison, but that's probably for the best." Fenrel forced a smile. She would not tell Adeline that she was his designated source of entertainment. If Morrigan was as good as legends said, she had already relayed the base news that "Rook can visit Solas in her dreams" to the Inquisitor.

Adeline sighed. "It must be awfully lonely. For all Solas' pretend grandeur of a lone wolf, he quite enjoyed the company in Inquisition. I enjoyed his company, too. Varric has probably told you tall tales of our friendship, and let me assure you, those weren't inflated."

"Seeing you still believe in him, they must be true. Though it is hard to imagine him as a shoulder to lean on." Fenrel leaned back in her seat, her eyes lingering on Inquisitor's fingers still lying atop hers. "But you can't possibly be wasting precious time you could spend in the South just to speak of him."

"Funny you say that." Adeline released Fenrel's hand, turning and rummaging through a bag over her shoulder. The blue shimmer in her obscured hand was familiar to the point she knew what it was before the Inquisitor placed it on a table. Wolf statuette. "I found it right the time Solas' ritual failed when he was pulled into the Fade. I have examined its magic numerous times over the weeks. It's tied to the Veil. To him."

Fenrel stared at the statuette, wondering if this was the missing piece to make Lighthouse show her how to use them. "I know what these are. Though I doubt Solas would like me to divulge this information, even if it's you."

You are correct. Solas sounded relaxed, as if he was not afraid of her telling his secrets. Though that was unexpected, considering she did just tell a lot of them to Emmrich.

"He trusts you. That's a rarity." Adeline cocked her head to the side, examining Fenrel.

"Trust is a strong word. More so, we are both victims of our circumstances."

"Then take the best out of it while you can. This war will take the rest." Inquisitor murmured, resting her hand on Fenrel's again. "You look awfully pale. Have you been sleeping?"

"I am fine. There's just a lot going on." Fenrel sighed, pulling her hand to herself, letting it rest in her lap. "You should know, it's not your first run."

"I also know what I felt after the fall of Haven. The nightmares. The irritation. The jumpiness. The fear of not being able to beat the odds." Adeline leaned back in her seat, her gaze burning Fenrel's skin. "I also know how easy it is to become blinded and not see the hands reaching for you to pull you from that pit."

"Did Lace put you up to this?" Fenrel scoffed. She did not expect Harding to plan an intervention such as this.

"I am not blind to the suffering the ritual and destruction of Minrathous must have brought upon you, but yes." Her lip corner lifted only slightly. "Do not cling to the titles and battles. Hold on to yourself and the moments between. Those will remind you what matters. Good luck, Fenrel."

And with that, she stood up, leaving Fenrel alone at the table.

***

"I still can't believe you talked to the Inquisitor like that," Harding fumed as they walked from the Docks in The Crossroads in the direction of The Lighthouse Eluvian.

"In the end, we found common ground, didn't we?" Fenrel murmured, undressing from Venatori's robes without breaking her stride. Lucanis and Neve started ripping them off, still back at the boat, and now they walked in their casual clothes. Caretaker appeared moments later to take the disgusting garments off Fenrel's hands.

"Yes, but—"

"We're also going to be judged by what we did and even more so by what we did not do. I already am." Fenrel cut off conversation at its roots, making Harding fall silent, but not before she gave a look, one that meant she was not going to forget this transgression. Fenrel preferred not to think of the issues between them that were mounting up.

Fenrel stepped through the Eluvian, excited at the thought of a hot bath to wash the stink of death that lathered her from head to toe just to slam straight into the source of warmth. The open shirt, the scent of wood. "Davrin?"

"Rook, you are here!" Davrin did not seem happy to see her. If anything, he looked frightened, his knuckles pale, sending crystal pressed into the cresses of his palm so deep she was surprised he did not cut himself. "This stupid thing wouldn't work—"

"Probably because we were crossing Eluvians and Crossroads, Emmrich has said that they—"

"Rook, we have no time. I just got word and—fuck—it's worse than I thought. First Warden's calling everyone back to Weisshaupt." He rubbed his forehead, sighing. "Everyone except me seems like. Guess the first Warden didn't like me joining your team."

"He did stare daggers at you in Hossberg, but calling Wardens back from all over Thedas is a big step." She motioned him to go inside the Lighthouse instead of lingering in the Eluvian room. "What's the reason?"

"I don't know exactly." He answered, following. His face was flushed, droplets of sweat misting his neck and forehead. "But I've heard rumours of a massive dark spawn horde on the move. Even hearing there's an Archdemon with them."

Come to talk to me. Now. Solas' voice boomed in her mind, urgent.

Wait a moment, will you? She snapped, rubbing her temple. He and the news were giving her a headache.

"The gods. They have an Archdemon. D'Meta's Crossing. I was right." Fenrel could feel the chill creeping down her spine. That gods damned dragon Ghilan'nain controlled. Solas knew. He knew and did not warn her before this very moment, and it was his sudden urgency that told her all she needed to know. Heat rose in her chest, simmering under her skin. She forced herself to swallow it down. Now wasn't the time. "How much time do we have?"

"Hard to tell, the dark spawn moving through deep roads make it hard to predict." Davrin shrugged, but his shoulders were tight as a string. "Rook, if the gods have archdemon.... Warden lore says Archdemons only show up during a Blight. Doesn't say anything about Elven gods. The rules have changed and we're going in blind. We need to know what we're up against."

Fenrel cracked her neck from one side to the other, letting thoughts wash over her as they spilt from her mouth. "Does Weisshaupt have an Eluvian? If it does, get Bellara and tell her to figure out a way for Vi'Revas to take us straight there. Tell the rest to gear up. Since we don't know how much time we have, we have none to waste. I'll go talk to Solas."

SOLAS' POV

He appeared behind her just as the door of his study closed. Mere inches between them, his hand so close to brushing away a stray strand from her shoulder. He wished it was not his first thought, not in such a dire situation. Not in any circumstance, and yet he watched as her shoulders rose, ribs expanded, as she breathed in before turning to face him.

"I guess we can skip the debriefing." Seeing how close he stood, she did not flinch, did not step back. There was a set in her shoulders, one he was unfamiliar with. A steadiness. Determination. Or perhaps blind courage in the face of a certain destruction.

"And you have questions." He breathed, refusing to open the distance between them. From this close, he could see that the determination was a slippery cloak with which she tried to hide the fear that furrowed her brows and shook her lips. Her hair was a mess from ripping off the hood, her braid falling apart before his very eyes, strands falling out of it like curtains.

"You know how archdemons are related to the gods. Ah-Ah!" She shushed him as he opened his mouth. "Don't try to spin it. The dragon in D'Meta's Crossing did Ghilan'nain's bidding, and so did the dragons in Treviso and Minrathous. Archdemons are dragons. You knew all along and now you will tell me what you know. Are they like blighted dragons or something else entirely? I also need to know how to deal with the gods if they show up at Weisshaupt."

Solas inclined his head, looking from behind the hand she held up to shush him. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, lowering it, but not letting go. "First, answer one question."

"We've been through this many times. You agreed to help me. I agreed to… tolerate you."

Solas smirked and then damned himself. The flicker in her words was enough to make him slip into amusement he did not want to find himself in. Only then did he realise his hand still hadn't let go of hers. He let it fall, the warmth he so rarely felt going with it. She pulled it immediately to her heart, taking a shaky step back. "What did you think my help would look like, Fenrel? Late-night conversations, jabs, constant stepping on each other's toes? Despite the entertainment we both might find in it, I need to know that you are prepared for what comes next."

"I could just lie to you." She shrugged, pretence seeping through her every move.

"Indeed. But you would only be betraying yourself, and it would be for nothing." Their eyes locked, neither willing to break it. "I know the shake in your voice, I know how your tongue traces inside of your cheek right before you lie. I might be here, but I am always inside you."

"Fine. Ask away. I don't have time to spare for this… nonsense." She scoffed.

"The First Warden. How are you going to make him see the truth of the danger?"

"I tried diplomacy. I tried being firm. Nothing worked." She sighed.

"When I asked you why you should be trusted to lead the fight, you said that nobody else was doing it." He could see the void between them in his prison, the moments he fought against her trying to subconsciously close the rift he so carefully put between them. Now she stood within arm's reach and he wondered how exactly she succeeded at breaking down his carefully crafted defenses. "That sufficed for me, but you will need more to convince the Grey Wardens. They see themselves as destined to lead this battle. You cannot defeat Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain without the Wardens. What will you do to bring them to your side?"

He knew all the routes she was running through her mind. Convince the First Warden. But he hated her guts. Men of pride do not listen to reason, even if it's being slapped against their face repeatedly. Talk to other Wardens, and warn them. But they will be blind to their command until death strikes them down. They would wait too long and have no time left to regret it. Let the Wardens try to defeat the gods themselves. How many Wardens will die before the First Warden realizes his mistake? All of them? That was a likely probability.

For any choice she would make, he was already prepared with a story from his rebellion. The particularly cruel warlord he had to drive insane with the ridicule that followed his every step, and when he fell, his slaves rose to Dread Wolf's ranks. Spirits of emotions long since forgotten because they waited instead of rebelling against Elgar'nan and were subsequently wiped out when there was no one left to feel the emotions they embodied, nobody to remember their existence and sustain it. Their hesitation was their destruction. The village that did not heed his warnings of Ghilan'nain. The shrieks turned into the grunting of animals as Ghilan'nain twisted their bodies beyond the limitations of nature. Voices that still haunted him. Warning them did not gain him peace. Saving them would have. Had he known back then what he knew now, so much suffering could have been spared.

"Whatever it takes." Her words shattered like glass on the floor. Now it was Solas who took a step back, his eyes darting around her face, searching for doubt. All he could see was fear. One that gnawed at your heart and left it screeching and bloodied, a veil of ache that could not be silenced. Grief. The never-ending torment of losing your home that could never be given back was one he knew of too well. And… vengeance. She would get her share for all she suffered. He could see the bodies swinging in the streets of Minrathous reflected in her eyes, how her hand unknowingly rested on the side dragon pierced in Treviso. All that she lost. All that she was afraid to lose. She would avenge it. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"I… see." Solas was rarely at the loss for words. He was ready to fight tooth and nail for her to see what must be done, but it was too late. Now, he had to learn to deal with the beast this war made. One he knew well, for he was one. "You have answered my question, and I owe you an answer in return."

"Yes. The Old Gods of Tevinter. The Archemons." Fenrel wavered in her words. He knew she suspected that Tevinter tale that Archdemons were their tainted gods in incredibly powerful dragon form. They were hidden away in the Black City and the dark spawn would find them and taint them, thus starting the new blight with Archdemon leading it. That, however, was far from the truth.

"There never were Tevinter gods." Solas expected a flicker of shock on her face. Instead, he found indifference mixed with curiosity. The world that she knew flipping on its head frightened her no more. "The Archdemons were once high dragons. The Evanuris bound them as the source of power. When I imprisoned gods, their dragons remained free. That was my mistake."

"The old stories of Tevinter gods have them whispering in the dreams of ancient magisters. How did they do that, if they were just tools for Elven gods?"

"I could not understand what power such a connection would wield because I never bound a dragon to myself, for I believed that to enslave another creature was immoral." He sighed. "I thought the prison I have made was perfect. But their dragons were the conduit through which they spoke to dreaming minds."

Fenrel shook her head in disbelief, followed by a chuckle. "And thus the Tevinter legends were born."

Solas nodded. "The Archdemons were always merely the weapons of Evanuris."

"Okay… then we need to find the gods before they reach for their "weapons"," She murmured, one hand rubbing her chin, deep in thought.

"Unfortunately, the dragon thrall's life force is bound to Evanuris as both power and protection." The hardest part was about to be laid bare and he stepped closer, his body leaning down to look her straight in the eye against his wishes. "You will not be able to kill, or likely even harm, one of Evanuris until their dragon thrall is slain."

"Okay…" She sighed, her eyes looking somewhere above his shoulder, unfocused. Deep in thought and not paying attention to him, his eyes lingered on the burgundy blood markings etched into her skin. Dirthamen. At least she picked an interesting one. He could not blame her for finding it hard to look at herself and only see the mark of something she fought her entire life against. "What can you tell me about their Archdemons then?"

"Each is different, shaped by whims and the ego of its master." Solas inhaled sharply as she focused back on him, and they both suddenly became aware of the mere inches separating them. He wondered if her heart was also pressing against her ribs. "Elgar'nan is the lord of tyranny. He would have ruled alone had Mythal not forced him to share power. Those who are strong, he moulds into dictators themselves with visions of godhood. Those who are weak, he crushes. His Archdemon reflects him. It is huge to feed his ego—the epitome of dragon kind bent to his will."

She smirked, and he noticed that the distance between them grew shorter. He did not know which one moved first. "Damn, tell me what you really think of a guy."

Solas chuckled, but it was bitter, yet his eyes did not stray from her. The distance became unbearable, and he chose to circle her, pace agonizingly slow. He always found that the stories were better told with slight dramatic flair. "He is cruelty and arrogance personified. All of the Evanuris were flawed, but he made them all worse."

Her eyes followed him, her body turning in the direction he went. "And Ghilan'nain?"

"In contrast, she was a servant of Andruil whose skill at making monsters earned her promotion to Evanuris. She is brilliant, ambitious, and completely unconstrained by anything you would understand as morality." He stopped and turned to look at her, letting the weight of his words settle. "In a kinder world, you would never need to see what she has done to her Archdemon. In this world, I only hope you can kill it quickly."

She swallowed hard, nodding. "Got it."

That unwavering resolve unnerved him, but his voice remained steady. "In any event, the Evanuris will not be vulnerable until their Archdemons are dead."

"Any other surprises I should be aware of?"

"Even with their dragons dead, the Evanuris are powerful and well protected." He continued circling her, his hand brushing past her side as she turned to look at him. "You will need to use my dagger. It can pierce their enchantments and strike them down."

"So, kill a dragon and stab a god?" She smirked, yet the fine lines around her eyes did not appear as they would when she smiled honestly.

He stopped in his tracks. "Yes. Even a single opportunity to strike Evanuris down will be rare, fleeting, and costly. You will not have another chance to catch them unawares. When you strike, you must be fully prepared."

"Understood." She nodded and turned, going towards the dresser. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to gear up."

He flicked his fingers, and the Caretaker appeared, a set of armour in his hands. Solas motioned for spirit to give her the armour. The least he could do was provide her with the proper equipment, one that would reduce the likelihood of injury. "Then you should do that properly. And when you land your shot, I will be there as I always am."

ROOK'S POV

Footsteps bounced off the walls of the Eluvian room as Fenrel walked up to her companions waiting. Everyone was armoured up, faces set in silent resolve.

"Is the Eluvian ready?" She walked right into the middle of a circle surrounding the mirror.

Lucanis looked her over from head to toe. "What's with the get-up? Had time for armour shopping?"

"It's from… Caretaker. A token of good luck, I suppose?" Fenrel knew full well what she looked like. Aged brown leathers. Golden plating. Details she could recognize in Solas' outfit. Details eerily similar to the plating Felassan wore. She wondered if it was truly a good luck token to be dressed like one of Solas' sentinels, as she shifted in the armour. She wished it was uncomfortable, she wanted it to be ill-fitting, and yet, it fit her like a second skin, better than any armour she ever had. Somehow, that was worse.

"I still can't believe it. They're attacking Weisshaupt? The Wardens aren't prepared for that." Davrin paced around, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his shield strapped to his back. Assan was following him with his eyes.

"The gods are going straight for the throat. Unless we cut theirs first…" Fenrel's eyes landed on Lucanis. In an outstretched hand between them lay Solas' dagger. "After the archdemon is dead, whatever god has followed them there will be vulnerable. Wolf's fang can finish the job. Lucanis, the honour is yours. Whatever you do, make them pay. For Treviso—"

"And for Minrathous." He nodded, lingering just for a moment before taking it. "Do not worry, Crows collect their debts."

A popping sound interrupted the silence that fell between them as Taash flexed her neck. "Who gets to tell the First Warden we're dropping in?"

A nervous laugh escaped Fenrel's throat, which sounded less like a laugh and more like a fork dragged on a plate. "I was hoping to skip that part. Nobody answered if Eluvian is ready."

Harding was surprisingly quiet, recounting arrows in her quiver, readying for a fight to come. Neve flexed her fingers around the handle of her staff. Emmrich has pulled out his battle attire instead of his usual necromancer fit. Everything was not the same as any other mission, and they all knew it.

"They've got Eluvian in storage, down in the vault. It was a gift from the Dalish." Davrin offered information.

"Ours should go right to it," Bellara added. "Probably. I think."

"That's… reassuring?" Fenrel smirked, her hand gripping her dagger more tightly. "Hopefully, the vault is not hard to escape."

"I can just burn through the gate." Taash shrugged.

"Let's get to it then." Fenrel turned to face the Eluvian. "We sneak into Weisshaupt nice and quiet. No one sees us. We look around for Antoine and Evka."

"Was there a plan after that?" Neve asked.

"Take out a god," Fenrel answered, rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles before pulling out her dagger and stepping closer to the Eluvian. "End this today."

***

High shelves and even higher ceilings. Lots of artefacts. Walls and floor from stone. Griffon insignia on many of the things crammed into the space. She did not need to ask Davrin as they stepped through, for she knew they were at Weisshaupt.

"Wait…" Davrin's voice carried a note of irritation and confusion. "This isn't the vault."

She stopped and turned to look at him. His face was its usual stoic self. "Fuck. They moved the Eluvian?" She murmured, seeing Lucanis stepping out from the Eluvian. His one leg was still back at the Lighthouse as the floor beneath them shook, as impossibly heavy steps moved the building they were in. Lucanis disappeared into the mirror and not a moment later Davrin was slamming into Fenrel, knocking her down on the ground, his body shielding hers as the wall behind the mirror exploded, rock and wood flying everywhere and the mirror was gone. The dust did not get a chance to settle as Fenrel pushed Davrin off her and ran to the edge of the room that had become a steep drop several flights below. "Lucanis!" She screamed, trying to see him from the rising dust.

"Don't worry, the mirror did not break! Lucanis got back in time." Davrin tapped her shoulder, looking down to the hole where that part of the building used to be. Was it the archdemon? Did it sense them? Thoughts ran through her mind as Lucanis crawled out of Eluvian.

He screamed, "You call that "nice and quiet"?"

Davrin and Fenrel shared a look, their shoulders dropping in unison as they tried to hold back the laugh. Bellara was coughing up dust beside them. Fenrel shouted back, "Sorry! Catch up when you can!"

"Shhh! Dark spawn outside!" A voice. One neither Davrin, Bellara or Fenrel expected that made them all turn sharply. A cloud of black hair, dark skin, a stature that barely reached Davrin's pelvis. A child. With the sounds of the crash settled with the dust, they could also hear the scratching at the door. The wailing. Davrin exhaled sharply, and Fenrel knew he could sense how close the dark spawn were. She just cared how many of them.

To drag her thoughts from the upcoming slaughter, she turned her attention to the girl. No older than she was when the Fifth Blight came. Fenrel's eyes darted around the room. No sight of other people. No sight of corpses, either. The child chose a good place to hide. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, waiting by the door, as if she needed escorts to leave this place.

"What are you doing here?" Fenrel walked up to the child, looking her over. She did not seem injured or blighted. That was a relief, even though Fenrel had no idea what to do with a child in such circumstances. Leaving her here seemed like a good option, but she did not know if it would last long. What kind of onslaught could Weisshaupt doors hold? How many dark spawn before they break down?

"Hiding, duh." The girl rested her hands on the hips, lip corners up, though her eyes were wide with fear. "There are many dark spawn behind the door."

"Stay out of sight—?" Fenrel just realized she did not know what to call the child.

"Mila." The girl grinned. The innocence of the moment almost drowned out the sounds of the world ending behind the door. Fenrel did not dare wonder if Evka and Antoine were okay.

"Rook." Fenrel nodded. "Sit tight. Don't leave this room until we give a clear signal. We'll be right back."

The heavy step of her boots felt leaden by the moment as she approached the door. Her fingers curled around both handles and with an exhale, she pushed only to step into chaos. Sounds of steel against the blighted flesh, the crackle of the fire, the curses from Warden's lips as he drove his sword into the ogre's gut. The dying screams. Fenrel stood still for a second that stretched into eternity. Soaking in the sights of ripped-up, mangled bodies. Blood splattering on the walls. Ghouls making their way towards them. Ghouls making their way towards them. She did not think as she pulled her daggers out, her right hand feeling odd not being balanced by the weight of Wolf's fang. She only hoped that Lucanis was taking good care of it, as the lightning slipped from her veins into her weapons, energy crackling in the air as she threw herself into the nearest ghoul.

"Don't let them near the girl!" She could hear Davrin shout as her blades dropped two more ghouls, attracting the attention of an ogre.

"Got it!" Bellara's voice sounded from somewhere above, as she already found a vantage point to shoot ghouls down from.

Fenrel sheathed her weapons in a rush as she saw an ogre gearing up for her. If she could just pick the right moment… Power in her hands grew, a ball of thunderous force expanding as she moved her palms apart, an orb floating between them. "One…" She exhaled sharply. "Two…" Followed by an exhale. Three." She threw her hands towards the monstrosity, its body convulsing and charring instantly upon impact with the orb, ghouls in its proximity getting caught up in the chain reaction, scorch marks burning into the ground they stood upon. Another ogre was making its way across the yard as Davrin's sword went through its chest and Bellara's arrow splattered its rotten skull across the lawn.

Fenrel did not find a moment to catch her breath as another wave of ghouls crashed onto her, making her release yet another chain of lightning, electricity making her hair stand, and the smell of the charred rotten flesh made her gut curl up. "Where are all the Wardens?" She screamed, pulling a lyrium potion from her belt and downing it in one gulp.

"Sounds to me like there's a battle outside!" Bellara shouted back from somewhere Fenrel could not see her. Smoke was still rising around her feet from corpses she laid to rest. Davrin's trained hands were hacking at the ogre he held down on the ground with his foot pressed on the chest. Finally, a sickening thud sounded as its head rolled over the stone path.

'We're on our own!" Davrin stated the obvious.

"That's fucking—" Fenrel grunted as she pushed her quickly drawn dagger through the ghoul's eye socket, kicking it in the chest to push it away. The eyeball still dangled on the blade as she rammed it into another ghoul's neck. "—great!"

"Okay!" Bellara was running back towards Fenrel and Davrin. "That was all of them."

Fenrel looked around to make sure, whilst wiping her blades on the cape. Once all she could see were bodies, she called, her voice echoing through the yard. "Mila!"

"I did not expect the ogres!" Mila said cheerfully as she caught up with them. Fenrel looked over her lyrium potion stash. At this rate, she could only hope she could restock soon.

Davrin patted the child's head with his less bloodied hand. "You know your dark spawn."

"My dad's a blacksmith for the Wardens." Mila looked them over. For a child her age, she seemed oddly calm in the face of such horrors. Fenrel's stomach turned, thinking of what she must have witnessed already to be this calm. A normal child would be a screaming, crying mess with snot running all over their face. But not Mila. "And who are you?"

"Reinforcements." Fenrel tried to keep her voice steady despite the lack of time to catch her breath after the fight. "Do you know Antoine and Evka?"

"They're probably in the war room. I can show you." The girl waved them to follow and ran ahead.

Now that the ghouls were dead, they could clearly hear the battle raging outside the fortress walls. Bellara, Davrin and Fenrel stepped side by side, none of them commenting on it, but she knew they all wondered the same. How long will the Warden forces hold?

The main pathway to the war room was blocked, as they soon found out. But Mila was a clever child, a curious child. One that went around finding all the secret entrances of the fortress while her father bent his back, making weapons and armour for the Wardens. She led them straight to the secret passage, hidden just beyond an archway. At first glance, it looked like a regular wall. Except for the body slumped in front of it, the sword rammed through his midsection, blood pooled and congealed already. It's been hours since the attack began. Fenrel damned herself for wasting time with Solas.

"That's… commander Janos." Davrin stepped away from the body as recognition flickered in his eyes. His hand fell from gripping his sheathed sword, and he used it to close the corpse's eyes. "One of our best."

"I'm sorry, Davrin." Fenrel stood beside him, unsure of how to comfort him. There was no comfort in such terror. There was only moving forward, but she felt the need to spare this one moment.

"He didn't go down without a fight." Bellara reminded Davrin.

Mila cleared her throat behind them. "You'll need to pull the sword out. It's blocking the mechanism of the door."

With these words, Fenrel could now see the faint outline in the stone of the hidden door. She wondered if Janos, in his final moments, picked this very spot to prevent the door from being opened and the dark spawn pouring in deeper into Weisshaupt. She leaned over him, one hand resting on a cooling shoulder and gripped the sword, which was jammed so deep into the body, only the handle was visible. With a sharp move she pulled, the body leaned to the side and the stone behind it separated their path forward. "You died a hero." She murmured to the corpse before straightening up.

They entered yet another storage room, this time filled with precious items. Little would gold help them now. Fenrel moved through the room with her eyes fixed on the door.

"When did the dark spawn show up, Mila?" Bellara asked the child. Getting the information was a smart choice, one Fenrel skipped over and was glad to have a team for that. They think so she doesn't have to. Not in this chaos.

"Oh, a few hours, maybe? Not too long ago, they started climbing the walls." Mila said, and it was clear what the battle raging outside was. The main share of gods' forces must've been down there.

"Well, let's hope they haven't made it through yet," Davrin murmured, stopping in front of the door next to Fenrel, his sword already raised. For all this terror, she was glad that at least they left Assan in the hands of The Caretaker and Manfred. The wisp, spirit and the griffon seemed to get along and she could not imagine them following them into the pits of blood. Though they undoubtedly would.

Just beyond the door, Fenrel could hear Lucanis' voice. She could swear Neve shouted something back. "Seems like they found their way," Fenrel smiled as she pushed on the door, eager to regroup with companions.

The door creaked and struggled under invisible force as if the air itself wanted it shut. Davrin and her nodded at each other and rammed their shoulders into, making hinges groan and open. They stumbled out on the outer wall and Fenrel's eyes immediately caught the flashing purple of Spite's wings. "Lucanis!" She shouted for him before her knees buckled as an overwhelming, all-consuming force pressed down on her. She tried to force herself up, but could not. Her body would not listen.

The sky parted. The voice boomed. An echo of the ancients. Of undestroyed. All powerful. Devouring. She knew that face. She knew its mangled, deformed, macabre face. She knew the ancient, unblighted, masked face. She knew she kneeled before false divinity and she could not make herself stand.
"Solas," She gasped, begging for his help. Her thoughts could not get through to him. Her face burned and as she forced her eyes sideways, she could see Davrin on all fours, his sword beside him. Bellara, clawing at her face.

"Grey Wardens. I wield the power of the blight. Today, you face the finest child of the gods!"

More bodies fell to the floor. The shape of their ears mirrored her own. The marks were etched into their face to celebrate the false gods.

"You were once the children of ours. You bear the marks of our divinity and your devotion. But it is for nought. Your devotion cannot save you, but it can serve us."

For a moment all Fenrel could hear was the ringing in her ears. The pressure mounted up as if her head was about to explode. And then Ghilan'nain broke the silence.

"Yield."

The sound of steel hitting the stone as all the Elven fighters dropped their weapons made Fenrel's stomach twist around itself.

"And you, the Dread Wolf's pawn. Give me the wolf's dagger and set yourself free from the shackles of his care."

"Rook?" Lucanis' hands. Those were Lucanis' hands wrapping around her shoulders, yet she could not move her neck to look at him. He tried to pull her to her feet, but Ghilan'nain's tyrannic foot was laid upon her. She was paralyzed. "What's happening? Get up!"

"Lu-Lucanis… She's—She's in our heads… the vallaslin…" Her hands twitched as she wanted to grab the Wolf's Fang from him and just throw it to the gods, finish the torture. But instead, she dug her nails into the stone until they broke. "Get the dagger… away from… me."

She screamed for Solas, but her thoughts were only occupied by flashes of Minrathous burning, Wardens falling, the world drowning in blight. "Solas!" Her voice went coarse as she pleaded for one god that could save her.

"The Dread Wolf cannot save you. The Dread Wolf has already lost. He will weep once he sees what I'll make of you."

Fenrel’s arms gave out, her face crashing into stone with a thud, pain lacing through her jaw and temple and still lesser than the pain slowly dragging her mind apart. She wanted to give up. She had to give up. There was no point in struggling against such power.

Fenrel. Solas' voice came sudden and urgent, the crushing weight of Ghilan'nain's voice lifting from her mind in a moment.

"Look how quickly Wolf runs for his pawn." Ghilan'nain mocked, but Fenrel found the strength to sit up. She could see Neve and Emmrich casting wards on Bellara and Davrin, their bodies being freed from the paralysis of a curse.

"I know what he does to those he cannot save. Will he kill you himself, I wonder?" Ghilan'nain's voice ripped through her mind one last time before falling silent.

"You took your sweet time," Fenrel coughed up, looking further down the outer wall. The Elven wardens were attacking others and falling on their swords. "No!" She shrieked, jumping on her feet and running into the heat of the ambush. "What are you doing? Stop!"

The first warrior whose hand she managed to stop mid-swing spat through gritted teeth, "They have given in to whatever that thing in the sky is! We cannot risk—" He shoved her away, pushing the sword through his comrades' side.

She pushed past him, raising her arms in desperation to shield another elf, one whose face bore the mark of Elgar'nan from an axe coming towards him. Fenrel could barely hold her own when the elf turned and jumped on her, just for his guts to spill over her armour as the other Warden hacked at his side. She could hear the wailing man kneeling in a pool of blood, cradling his friend's face. "I'm sorry Valis," He wept as his blade went into the side of the neck of a man in his lap and blood bubbled on dying lips.

The elves' lifeless bodies littered the outer wall in seconds and there was nothing she could do about it.

"How does it feel, Dread Wolf, to see them all die for you again? Your pawn can rebel all she wants, but you have already lost. You will continue losing until there is nothing left."

I will keep Ghilan'nain out of your mind. But you have to move. Solas pleaded with her, his voice cracking and her unwilling feet turned her away from the massacre, back to her companions. Bellara's face carried nail marks and Emmrich's lovely hand hovered over them to heal. Ghilan'nain's face still loomed over them, silent for now. Ghilan'nain won't hold back for long. Move.

Fenrel grabbed Lucanis by the elbow, pulling him to face her. "Lucanis, you have to promise me one thing. If she takes over and if he—I can't fight her off, you need to kill me." She stopped for a moment. Words stuck in her mouth as she looked over his shoulder at Davrin and Bellara still on the stone floor.

Lucanis grabbed her chin, pushing her to look at him. "Rook, are you insane? I can't—I won't. You cannot ask this of me."

Her eyes were stuck on them. They could not fight with Ghilan'nain threatening to break them down any moment. She was protected, but what about Davrin and Bellara?

Lend me your power. She pushed the thought with force, one she hoped he would feel.

What?  Solas' voice faltered.

You can channel it to heal and protect me. You can channel more. I can save them if you help me.  She pleaded. She could see Neve and Emmrich still casting their wards, but she knew no mortal power could stand against Ghilan'nain.

You don't know what you are asking for. It might not even be feasible. Solas was not wrong. She did not know if what she was asking for could even work. But she would be damned if she didn’t try.

Then trying won't hurt.

It might. He pushed back.

Just do it.

He fell silent and she wondered if she pushed too far. A jolt of pain went through her as a sudden heat ran through her hands. Something ancient, volatile, soothing and terrifying, comforting, yet otherworldly. She raised her hand in the direction of the ones she wanted to save. So he could actually do it. Tell me what to say.

His words poured through her mouth as the warding spell settled over Davrin and Bellara. Her veins throbbed and burned, muscles spasming, threatening to give out.

This is hurting us both. Solas' voice sounded wrong as if being gritted through the teeth.

Will it hold?

For a while. Yes. He sighed, and the blue glow around her hand died out. Her body felt like a house of cards, ready to collapse, but she forced herself to stand straight. Whatever Solas did drained her mana reserves as well. Her vision blurred and the pounding headache made it hard to think. What was she doing a moment ago?

She sighed. Taking a break to cast wards in the middle of asking to be killed was terrible timing.

"I'll do it." Neve stepped beside Lucanis, staring Fenrel in the eye. "But you better not give me the reason."

This war is lost without you. Solas' voice pierced her mind. You will not fall under Ghilan'nain's influence. This, I promise.

Fenrel scoffed, Afraid of losing your pawn?

Move, so I don't have to. He nudged her again. As Davrin and Bellara got up, Fenrel waved to Taash, Harding, Neve, Lucanis, and Emmrich to follow. Mila ran with them.

***

Eight of them surrounded Mila as they fought their way through the last horde of dark spawn separating them from the war room. Davrin, whose side was pressed against Fenrel's in their defensive stance, gasped, fingers locking on his temple.

"Davrin? What is it? Is it Ghilan'nain?" Fenrel grabbed him by the shoulder, nodding at Emmrich to shield them.

"No, Rook." Fingers released his head, and he shook it slightly. "It's the archdemon… Wardens can sense it. I can hear the Calling."

The Calling. Whispers from beyond that called wardens to go into the dark roads and die. Vallaslin wasn't even needed. Ghilan'nain's pet could drive any Warden, Vallaslin or not insane. Fenrel would have rubbed her shaky fingers against her forehead in frustration if her hands weren't busy holding daggers. She could not force out a single lightning strike if she wanted. They needed to get inside to mend themselves and refuel mana or they wouldn't last long. The screech of the dragon reverberated through their bones, but none of them turned their attentions to the sky, for they were too busy pushing through ghouls. They needed to get away from the outer wall now.

"How's Lucanis gonna stab a cloud with a dagger?" Bellara's panicked voice cut through the heat of battle. Ghilan'nain's face loomed over them, watching their every move.

"One thing at a time!" Fenrel screamed back, elbowing one dark spawn in the neck and stabbing another straight through the mouth. "First, let's get through that fucking door!"

From somewhere below, a bell rang. "What does this mean?" Fenrel screamed at Davrin.

"The outer wall has been breached. They are retreating inside." Davrin said, pulling his sword out of the last ogre and running towards the others. "All the dark spawn will soon be here. Let's kick this door down."

He did not need to say twice. As they were preparing to assault the door, all standing in the lineup, shoulder to shoulder, Mila pushed past them, pulling something on the side of it and murmuring, "And now you can just use the door handle."

They all looked at her for a moment. Fenrel's face twitched as she had to stop herself from breaking out into a burst of laughter. She pushed her eyelids shut, took a deep breath and prayed to no one in particular as she grabbed the handle and pushed the door. They all clamoured in; her walking ahead.

"Good luck!" Mila wished them as she ran to the Wardens.

They stood around the table, a layout of the fortress drawn on it, figurines presenting the dark spawn hordes stationed just around anywhere. They were ambushed, and the darkness was closing in.

"Archdemon's attacking the north wall!" One Warden shouted.

Evka's voice cut through the chaos. "Signal a retreat! Fall back to the trap!"

Another warden chimed in. "Can't see the signal fires through the smoke!"

Evka did not skip a beat. "Try the horns!"

Warden beside her reiterated. "The Archdemon's too loud!"

The First Warden did not lift his head. He stood at the table, neck hung, eyes tracing over the cleanly drawn lines of their pride and joy which would soon turn into their tomb. He did not see the uninvited guests pouring in as Fenrel approached the table.

"No one's retreating!" First Warden screamed at his subordinates, a small trickle of blood dripping from his ear onto his gauntlet.

"There's no choice, ser. We're under siege—we have to fall back to the dragon trap!" Evka approached him with determination. She would not let this foolish man doom them all.

"Forget the trap. Send word to commander Janos. Rally outside the wall." He was still playing with his Warden figurines, putting one down to illustrate the position the commander should take.

Fenrel spoke up, dropping her bloodied daggers across the table and knocking over his toys. "Janos is dead."

That got the First Warden's attention. "Rook!" His voice trembled with anger. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here because you did not listen. And now it's too late." Fenrel looked at the man and heat rose in her chest. All this death. All this torment. The sacrifice. All could've been avoided if only he weren't so blinded by his ego.

"For you it is." First Warden spat back. Fenrel could see Antoine standing behind him, his eyes wide with fear.

"Better than what Janos got," Fenrel shouted back and in a quick step, closed the distance. "What about all the other Wardens?"

"Arrest them!" The First Warden commanded, but the Wardens standing guard hesitated.

"No!" Antoine tried to stop the First Warden from walking away. His fingers dug into the First Warden's arm, knuckles white. "You need to listen to them! We are under attack by a god!"

Finally, one Warden moved, rope in his hand, signalling Fenrel to give up. She smirked, holding out her wrists as if daring him. He walked closer, but his hands shook as he tried to wrap it around her flesh.

"Do you hear yourself? There's no such thing. Stop finding excuses to be a coward." First Warden pushed past Antoine. "We'll stop the enemy outside the walls."

Fenrel looked at the trembling fingers of the Warden, trying to tie her up, and mustered her strength to push him aside. Wardens were so broken apart they could not even arrest a person properly. She got in First Warden's face, an angry chuckle escaping her lips. "Outside the walls? The enemy is outside the window!"

The First Warden did not back down. "Grey Wardens don't hide in our castle. I won't ask good soldiers to turn tail and run. We're an army of steel holding back the blight. Order every blade out of Weisshaupt!"

"We'll all die, ser!" Evka slammed the table, making the last of the figurines fly off.

The First Warden leaned over the table, his armour clanging against the wood. "That's an order, Warden!"

As he walked back to the middle of the room, he crashed into Fenrel, who was waiting, her hands itching for the moment. She sighed. She held the urge down for way too long. "Can't say I didn't try…"

Her knuckles smashed against the First Warden's cheek, whipping his head back. She would've felt pain if the adrenaline wasn't still coursing through her veins. Fenrel watched as the man leaned back like a felled tree, his armour hitting the stone first before his head bounced off it and fell to the side. Unconscious, but his armour moving betrayed that he would have a hopefully prolonged nap. Something dangerously close to a chuckle echoed through her skull. At least Solas was amused.

Wardens, who until now did not murmur a word, pulled their swords, raising them at Fenrel as she stumbled back, showing her unarmed hands. Evka ran into the middle of the scene, hands out to stop them. "No. Listen to Rook. That's…" Her voice faltered for a moment. "An order."

Blades in Wardens' hands hung unsteadily for a beat before they sheathed them. One by one, the Wardens turned to Evka. A nod. A salute. She returned the gesture before turning to Fenrel. "Okay, Rook—I assume you have a plan?"

Fenrel stood there, her mind numb because she could scarcely believe she made it that far. "This dragon trap you mentioned—tell me about it."

Antoine chimed in. "It was built 900 years ago to stop an archdemon, but—"

The red painted the walls. The flicker was quick but unmistakable. The shriek that followed it was not a warning. It was a sentence. She was hoping to outrun it until it was necessary, but it found them first. The flap of the wings—

"Get down!" Fenrel screamed, grabbing Evka and pushing her onto the ground, throwing her body on top of Evka. The blast threw other Wardens flying. The armoured bodies hit the wall with a smack that made Fenrel's mouth water and bile rise in her throat. Antoine kneeled beside them, choking on dust. Fenrel dared to raise her head and see the window side of the room blown to pieces, the Wardens' lifeless bodies closest to the attack radius. The panic threatened to crash and break her, but there was no time. Solas told her to keep moving and so she would.

Fenrel, Evka and Antoine bunkered down behind the flipped-over table in case the archdemon decided to try its luck again. She could see her companions and remaining Wardens doing the same around the periphery of the room. They were sitting ducks. "Where's the trap?"

Antoine wiped the dust from his face,  his voice raised amidst sudden post-explosion silence. "Other side of the fortress! But it's never been used!"

Fenrel sighed, leaning back, banging the back of her head against the table in frustration. Why nothing could go according to plan which she had to admit she did not have in the first place? If they sit, they die. That much she knew. Either Solas' protection would wear off and Lucanis, Neve, Taash, Emmrich and Harding would be forced to kill her, Davrin and Bellara, and then all remaining Vallaslin-wearing Wardens, or the archdemon would not cease its attacks until the war room was nothing but a scorch mark. The dark spawn would start clawing at the door soon, too. They had but minutes to patch themselves up and go into the unknown. "Fuck it," She exhaled. "It only has to work once! Let's go!"

Evka exhaled sharply. "A plan's a plan. And right now, it's the only one we've got." She turned to the remaining Wardens. "You heard Rook. Move."

Chapter Text

Emmrich followed closely as they stepped from the war room deeper into the fortress. Fenrel could feel his watchful eye and had little patience left in her to ignore it.

“Emmrich, just spit it out." She murmured, looking over the armoury, halfway listening to Evka explaining to the Wardens about mending the injured, warding the elves from Ghilan’nain’s influence and someone bringing Fenrel’s group the much-needed supplies.

“Rook, that warding magic you used, it is not something…” He sighed, leaning in closer and bringing his voice down to a whisper. “… You wield.”

She nodded weakly. “It is not.” His raised eyebrows gave her a hint that he was already running through the possibilities. “It’s Solas’. It was either that, or…”

“I understand.” Emmrich lay his reassuring hand atop her shoulder. “But Rook, it is incredibly reckless and dangerous, you don’t know—“

“I know, Emmrich. And I would do it again if it meant keeping you all safe." She shrugged, watching how Neve and Bellara helped Wardens with their warding spells, Harding and Davrin gave out elfroot potions to those injured.

To her surprise, Emmrich pulled her into a hug. A moment of stillness felt unnatural amidst the chaos and she stood there with her hands hanging by her sides, until she gave in, her forehead against his collarbone, hands awkwardly laying on his back. She could hear him murmur, "Dearest, you burn so bright. Don't burn yourself up before the day is through. We will all need you on the other side."

“Listen to Emmrich, he is a wise one.” Lucanis’ voice cut through the noise in the room, and she could feel him slipping the lyrium bottles into the belt pouches on her side. Finally, she let go of Emmrich, him not moving away first, as if letting her go into the fight on her terms.

Solas? She did not need to pull on a thread, for it felt as if he stood beside her, behind her, and within her all at the same time. She wondered how come their connection was never this clear to her before.

In desperation, you lowered your inhibitions. Solas answered.

Just like you when you decided to tether yourself to me back then? This was no time to tease, yet the warmth in Emmrich’s arms reminded her to seize the moment while it was still there.

At their lowest, people tend to surrender their worst.  Solas mused, though his voice carried a sombre note.

And what’s ours?

Pride.

Ironic you say that, da’fen. She smiled to herself forgetting, that there were eyes on her, waiting for the command.

You are no better, da’mi.  Something in their tether said that he was smiling too. Those were no happy smiles, for they both knew what came next. Kill a dragon. Stab a god. Words easily said, proving harder by the minute to uphold. She stepped into the middle of the armoury, clearing her throat.

“All right, this is about to get a lot worse. Any hand that can pick up a weapon, must. Weisshaupt is just the beginning. We give the gods this and next, they'll take the rest of Thedas." She looked over her friends, readying their weapons. The wardens were barely bandaged up enough to stand. "This is bigger than any of us. But we must trudge on. Are you ready?"

Evka stepped beside her, raising her axe. “Wardens, take up arms.”

“Lucanis, Davrin, you’re coming with me.” Fenrel nodded to them. “The rest—go with the Wardens. Take down as many of those monsters as you can. We’ll meet you at the trap.”

She looked over her bloody but already healed hands and pulled her daggers out, approaching the door. Lucanis slipped like a shadow beside her, and the light bounced off Davrin’s sword as he stood by. “Well, this is it.” She nodded to Antoine to release the door and stepped back out onto the outer wall.

Few wardens that still stood guard on this part of the wall fell quickly, flames of a passing Archdemon burning them into the scorch marks upon the stone. A few lyrium bottles she managed to down between the war room and the wall would have to suffice, she knew, yet still spoke in profanities under her breath as she raised a shimmering shield above them three. It would have to hold until they ran through the length of the wall to the next obscured area. Archdemon was out of sight, but its roars shook the walls beneath them.

“Outnumbered. Trapped. You will not hold.” Ghilan’nain’s voice echoed through blackened skies. Fenrel could barely see the outline of god’s face amongst the clouds through the smoke. Ghilan’nain could not break their minds through within, but she still held hope they would break under the threat of standing against her.

“Don’t listen to her.” Fenrel reminded Davrin and Lucanis as they made their way. The closest battlements were nearby, but there were no Wardens to be seen.

“Surrender to your fates. Defeat. Death. Destruction.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Fenrel murmured as she lowered the shield,  letting the power crackle through her fingertips and she shoved it into the face of the closest ghoul. The flash of Spite's wings clashed against the dark of night as Lucanis jumped on the closest ogre, his daggers sinking into its fleshy neck. She could hear the grunts of Davrin as he fought three ghouls at once, his steel cutting through them cleanly.

“Your deaths will not be wasted. There is potential for new forms in your flesh.”

“The south gate’s been overrun!” A desperate Warden’s plea cut through Ghilan’nain’s menaces.  Fenrel could not see the one who shouted, but the way forward was clear, the ogre's guts spilt around them, blackened blood seeping into the stone. Blight grew over the path that, according to Evka, should let them access the Front Gate wall, one that should get them closer to the trap.

“Move away from the boils or you’ll get to know what a blight shower feels like!” Fenrel shouted at Lucanis and Davrin before forcing a focused stream of lightning towards the pulsating boils. They exploded, spitting a liquid remarkably similar to a weird mixture of blood and snot in the surrounding area. Some spots of it seemed to contain pieces of flesh. Fenrel did not stop to question, just ran ahead through the opening.

Instead of the Warden forces, they were met with shouts from a distance away. "We're surrounded! Signal for reinforcements! There are none!"

Fenrel would've looked around for the desperate soldiers if she had the time before her daggers slipped into the gut of the first ghoul that jumped her, and she drove them deeper in until the creature stopped twitching. Ghilan’nain’s words rang in her ears as she glanced at the ghoul's face. The bulging blackened veins marbled the paper-thin white skin, no lips in sight and eerily exposed teeth. From this up close, she could see how regular they were. How similar to her own. Was this what Ghilan’nain did to those she captured? Was this the god’s mercy? The overwhelmingly suffering until you are twisted into something beyond understanding, the only sound leaving your mouth–animalistic grunts? She knew, if she gave it too much thought, she would break, so she kicked the pathetic creature away from herself, not sparing it a moment of pity. She could not afford it as she raised both hands, a lightning streak forming between the blades of her daggers, ready to char more abominations coming their way.

They ran ahead, seeing only more monstrosities waiting for them. “Where the fuck are Wardens?” Fenrel screamed.

Davrin’s voice cracked a smidge as he shouted back. “They’re dead!”

Fenrel could curl up into a ball, and scream until her lungs gave out. She wanted to. A slight tremble had already settled in her wrists as she raised the daggers again. She could see in her periphery Lucanis' chest rising and falling rapidly. Lucanis was never out of breath. Davrin never lost his cool. And there was yet another fight ahead.

Fenrel pulled the cork out of the lyrium potion with her teeth, spitting it away before downing the liquid in one go. Spite’s wings unfurled again. And they threw themselves into the fight.

The chafing of armour, the clang of steel, the suffocating smell of smoke. The splash of blight cutting across her cheek, the Ghilan’nain’s mockery. All blurred as the Warden's horn sounded.

“What’s that for?” Lucanis and Fenrel shouted in unison.

“Calling reinforcements to east battlements!” Davrin shouted back.

Lucanis wiped the blood from his cheek as he kicked the ghoul over the edge of the wall. "And where are we?"

Fenrel gasped, catching her breath once the ogre before her fell on its knees. “The east battlements. We are the reinforcements! Keep pushing!”

More dark spawn were climbing up the walls. Ones that were already fallen still twitched, as if something forced their mangled bodies to reanimate. Fenrel shouted to Davrin and Lucanis to follow, and the three of them made their way up the stairs. The east battlements were gone, and there was nothing they could do about it but move ahead.

“You fight what you call the blight. Pointless. It was always ours to control.”

They finally made their way inside as two horns sounded. They stood beneath a crumbling roof, doubled down, catching their breath. “Two horns. What does that mean?”

"The outer defences are gone." Davrin sighed.

"Outer defences? Please don’t tell me—“ Fenrel looked through the side exit of the building just to the outer wall gone.  “Shit.”

“Mierda.” Lucanis swore beside her.

"There is another way to the trap," Davrin reassured them, though his voice was betraying him. “Through the library. It will take longer, but we’ll get there.”

“Fuck.” Fenrel sighed again, pulling out her sending crystal and pushing her will onto it, the stone instantly heating. “Harding, can you hear me?”

“Rook? Where are you?”

“Our path has been cut short.” Fenrel could hear the strain in Lace’s voice. Their fight must not be going too well, either.  “We are going through the library. Meet us there.”

They made their way through the inner part of the fortress, Davrin leading them through the barracks. No Wardens in sight. No bodies either. Ghilan’nain’s voice was barely a whisper behind the stone walls. Inside, the barracks looked like a painting. A moment stopped. Before the attack, some Wardens were lying down, imprints of their bodies still were evident in the sheets. Casual clothes were left on the floor in the rush to armour up. The water basin overturned, spilt in the rush and left to lie in a puddle on the floor. An apple with one bite taken out of it. She closed her eyes and at that moment could see the stack of letters on her table back at the Lighthouse, the open balcony door. Assan and Manfred chase the Caretaker through the yard. Lucanis’ stew still sitting in the pot from last night’s dinner.

You’ll get home. Solas' voice cut through the somberness.

You sound so sure of it.

I let myself hope. Solas sighed and she could swear she felt his breath on her neck as she opened her eyes to the reality. She had to come back. They had to make it through.

Through the barracks to the courtyard, to even more slaughter. Ghouls have surely overtaken the fortress, and Fenrel could see a slip of desperation in the way Davrin swung his sword. With more of his dwindling force, with more frustration, followed by grunts. Fenrel nodded to Lucanis to watch Davrin’s back. Giving in to the distraction of fury in such a fight could prove to be lethal, so she would not let him stand alone. Another lyrium bottle, her vision dizzying as she dropped the bottle.

You are going to get lyrium poisoning. Solas seethed, though his voice carried something close to care.

She let him worry as she leaned close to the ground, letting her hands rest on the stone, letting the ghouls come to the easy prey before icy veins sprawled from underneath her palms and wrapped around their bodies, buying her precious moments to take their frozen bodies down with an orb.

They were getting close.

“Do you hear that noise?” Lucanis asked, flicking dark spawn blood off his daggers.

“Sounds like ten thousand dark spawn knocking on the door.” Davrin sounded resigned. It was their only way through. With no outer wall, the door they stood in front of was their salvation or damnation, and Fenrel did not want to ponder which it would come out to be.

The three of them forced their way through the door to end up in yet another courtyard, except this one lacked dark spawn. They let themselves walk for a minute, no one speaking. They were all drenched in various blighted liquid, their leather stained black and their weapons.

“Rook!” Emmrich’s voice cut through the ambience of a closed court. She raised her head to see him just ahead, running on a building wall, Harding not far behind, pointing towards something before throwing a Veilfire torch. “Torch will lead the way! Be mindful of dark spawn ahead!”

Davrin sighed. ‘We just need to make it to the bell tower first. You can hear the bells. We are not far.”

But as they made through the next fight and the stones of the bell tower crumbled above them, hope seeped from their bones quickly. Despair in their voices grew. They could not cut their way through the bell tower. Three of them had to make it to the library. They pushed forth and could only thank sheer luck for running into dark spawn stragglers that could easily be taken down.

They made their way through the bell tower ruins, now lying between them and the library, Bellara’s voice comforting them from somewhere above. “Oh, Rook! Keep going—the other are looking for another way out!”

“Your tactics are primitive. Old patterns. Desperate thoughts. None will save you.”  Ghilan’nain’s voice broke through the noise again. Fenrel pushed her eyes shut, rubbing her temples. Perhaps Solas was right. There was something wrong with her body, numbness in her fingers growing, edges of her vision shimmering blue. All they needed was to get to the library. There, Emmrich would know what to do with her issue. She just had to push a little more.

Another fight, another lyrium bottle, and now her knees trembled. She needed to offset the effects before it was too late.

Solas.  She called but was not sure it was needed. Beyond the fatigue taking over her muscles, there was something else there. Something so familiar she wondered how she had not noticed until now.

I told you—

Not now. Can you slow it? She pleaded.

I do have a vested interest in your survival. He sighed.

Is that a yes? She asked, with no answer. The tremor in her thighs released its hold, her feet steadying on the ground as a chill ran through her veins, its icy hands grasping her all over, encapsulating her. Thanks.

They cut their way through yet another boil pile, no one caring to move away as blight splashed all over them. Davrin wiped it from his face with a sigh, and Lucanis’ eyes briefly flashed purple as Spite murmured “Disgusting.”

They entered yet another training ground, but with a quick scan of their surroundings, could not see any ghouls lying in wait for them. What they could see was a body, or rather, parts of it, strewn around the grounds, the warmth of its spilt guts creating steam as it hit the cool night air.  Fenrel walked straight over the mess, not paying attention to the slippery carnage her boot sunk in. She rattled the gate separating them and their way to the library. The big metal gate was not something they could kick down. The sounds beyond it suggested that wasting mana on blowing the door out would be a mistake. There was no way out of there. Fenrel wiped her bloodied hand on her thigh before pulling the sending crystal from her pocket. “Neve?”

“Ro—Rook!” Neve said something else, but words came out gargled. Fenrel’s eyes unwillingly turned to the sky, wondering if Ghilan’nain could interfere with their connection.

“Neve? The gate to the library is blocked! Open it!” Her hand clutched the crystal to the point its edges were digging into her skin, her bloodied knuckles tense. All thoughts she could spare were focused on Neve.

“We just got here. It’s bad.” Neve sounded panicked. Davrin, Lucanis, and Fenrel glanced at each other. Neve was not panicked when Minrathous fell. She was pissed, but not this. Neve did not have an afraid bone in her body.

“Open the bloody gate and run for cover!” Fenrel shouted back. “We’ll catch up!”

Silence. Three of them stared at the sending crystal, holding their breath.

“Neve?” Fenrel’s voice cracked, afraid of what it would mean not to hear the answer.

“Got it.” Neve’s voice came back, and they all sighed with relief. “Don’t get yourself killed.”

Fenrel could swear she heard steel sinking into the flesh and felt the heat radiating from the gate as they stood and waited. In the stillness of the moment, she could see how heavily Davrin’s shoulders moved as he exhaled, the emptiness in his eyes. This was his Minrathous. His home, the Wardens' home, was falling into ruin and all they could do was try to outrun it long enough to reach the snake's head and cut it off before it was too late.  Lucanis’ eyes flashed purple with increasing frequency as his body was too fatigued to fight Spite. But even Spite was silent.

The gate flew open, and Fenrel could see the blue and white leathers of Neve flashing ahead as she and Taash retreated. Many ghouls were laid to rest, and it was clear that Neve and Taash had to fight tooth and nail to get to the gate.

They were finally out on the street level of Weisshaupt. Further away from the outer walls, Fenrel could only hope for an easier stretch as they walked the empty road. A vine made from something that could only be described as rotten flesh crawled on the ground before them, rising to the skies and then hitting the ground to the side of it, as if fighting someone.

“Go on, tear down the Weisshaupt! But if I am still standing, you’ve got a fight. Now, die!” Evka screamed as they rounded the corner and the last they saw of her was the vine snatching her by the waist and retreating.

“Evka!” Fenrel and Davrin screamed, sprinting towards the abomination, but it was too late as it was out of sight. They stood trying to see where the thing took Evka as three horn blasts rang in their ears.

Davrin sighed as he took Fenrel by the shoulder, making her look at him. “Three horn blasts mean… We make our  last stand.”

Fenrel stared at him, unblinking. Her mouth fell agape as fear finally settled in her stomach, so heavy, she fought herself not to throw up on his shoes. “No. It can’t be.”

“Rook.” Davrin shook his head.

She took a shaky breath, turning away from him, looking at the street ahead. “We only have to make it through the library. Trap archdemon. Kill Ghilan’nain. We still have time. We can do it.”

“Rook…” Lucanis stepped in front of her, trying to hold her in her step. She walked around him, picking up her pace.

“If Weisshaupt falls, we’re all doomed. I won’t let that bitch take this day.” She could hear their footsteps following close. They only needed to make a few more hundred feet and they would be at the trap. As they walked between buildings, the silence was unnatural, almost macabre. The sounds of struggle were the ambience of this night, not the calm. It felt like something was about to go down. She could see the library up ahead, just one more street. And then the ground shook, pushing her off her feet, back hitting the stones.

The metal plating of her armour bent from the force of the impact, digging in between her ribs. The silence rang in her ears as another tentacle sprouted from the ground and blocked their way forward. They scrambled to their feet, turning to run back, but there was no way back. The fleshy vines crawled towards them from both sides of the road now, the sickening sound of wet flesh being dragged across the ground.

“We have to go back!” Davrin screamed as if his eyes could not catch up with their reality.

“There is no back!” Fenrel's voice was breaking, but she forced her knees not to buckle. If this was to be their last stand—

“Hey, up here!” Mila shouted from somewhere above them and the screeching sounds of metal as she released the ladder from the wall beside them sounded like salvation.

Fenrel did not hesitate. She grabbed onto the cold metal, forcing her tired limbs to climb faster until she collapsed atop the wall before jumping on her feet again and hugging Mila. It must have shocked the child as much as it did her because they sprung apart in a second, and Fenrel forced a soft smile with a nod. “You’re a lifesaver, Mila.”

"Dark spawn almost had you for lunch." The girl said, waving them to follow her.

Fenrel did not question where the child was leading them. “Let’s not hang around for dinner then.”

A few dark corridors later, they were back on the street and Fenrel could almost collapse in relief, finally seeing the library building ahead. “We’re almost there.”

“And there are a lot of hurlocks out front," Davrin murmured.

“You think we can make it through?” Lucanis answered, holding up an elfroot potion to his lips. His potion belt was empty. So was Davrin’s. Fenrel ignored the sway in her knees and an ache in her lungs. She looked at her stash and passed her elfroot potions to them.

Lucanis stared at the bottles. “Rook, what are you-“

"Don't worry, I don't need them." She glanced at him with a look that begged him not to argue.

You are not going to— Solas did not finish his question before she spoke up. Facing certain death she almost wanted to tell them the truth. Almost.
“Don’t worry about me, just take them.”

“Pry the mortals off the walls. Kill them all.” Ghilan’nain’s voice drowned out whatever Lucanis was telling her.

“We have to move. Now.” Fenrel patted his shoulder, pulling her daggers out. "Mila, hide. When you see an opening, run inside."

The three of them looked at the dark spawn horde between them and the door before sharing one last look and throwing themselves into the fight.

***

“Your battle is already lost.” Ghilan’nain’s voice ran down Fenrel’s back like cold water as she grunted, pulling all her strength to fight off yet another hurlock. She could see Davrin swinging his sword with only one hand, his cuts getting weaker, blood dripping from the injured shoulder, and not being able to lift his sword. True to his Warden status, he pushed through the pain. Their backs were turned to the library door, dark spawn closing in.

“The Wardens cower. Hopeless. Overrun. Dying.”

“We’re still standing!” Fenrel shouted back, her dagger hitting the chest of an ogre in front of her over and over again. “You cannot win this day, Ghilan’nain!”

“Rook…” Lucanis breathed beside her, doubled over, catching his breath. “She’s right.”

Fenrel lifted her head from the ogre she had just killed, to see five more coming. They were overrun. “No…”

Fenrel. Solas' voice pressed at the back of her head. You need to retreat.

But the Wardens—

They are already dead. Solas pushed.

She choked back tears that came on suddenly. Not all of them. Not yet.

It matters not. You cannot fall with them. He pressed again.

Ghouls were getting closer by the second. Davrin, Lucanis and Fenrel now huddled together, inching backwards, their eyes darting between monsters coming for them. There were too many. The three of them could not take them. Fenrel was only glad that Mila managed to slip through inside while they fought off the first wave. She hoped that Mila did not pay attention to Griffon emblems still hanging on the rags some of the dark spawn wore. The bodies they fought were moving back up. Twisting and re-breaking their gnarly flesh. Rebuilding. Absorbing the remains of Wardens who fell before they reached the library. Fenrel’s heart shuttered at the realization of what was to be made of them after their eventual fall.

She cannot have me. Not like this.  Fenrel thought, as her heart thudded in her ears. Over it, she did not hear the door creaking as it opened or Taash shouting. A sharp yank on her arm pulling her backwards and the gust of cold air as the door slammed in front of her, her back hitting the floor with a thud. When she opened her eyes, it was Taash who looked at her.

“Get up. Help us hold the door.”

Fenrel jumped to her feet, giving herself a fraction of a moment to do a head count. All seven of her companions were there. They all made it. They were in the library.

***

They weren’t the only ones who made it. Once the door was barricaded, Fenrel could breathe a little easier, seeing Mila finally reunited with her father.  The blacksmith reassured them that the dragon trap would work. Except, for the small issue of getting the dragon to land. The choice was obvious, and yet Fenrel hesitated for a moment before letting words go. “Lucanis, the dagger.”

Lucanis stood staring at her for a moment before pulling Wolf’s fang from his belt. She knew she could trust him to carry it to the end of the line, which they were quickly approaching. One last outer wall run and they would be at the trap.

Fenrel took the dagger out of his hand, ignoring the little pullback he did. He doubted her so-called plan, but this was not the time for an argument. "I guarantee this will get Ghilan’nain’s attention.”

“And then?” Lucanis stared daggers at her. A mix of worry, fatigue, and frustration written all over his face. His crow leathers stained with blight, his hair dishevelled, the usually poignantly straight posture of a trained assassin slumped. They were all beyond tired. There was only so far adrenaline could carry them. She wondered if Ghilan’nain’s taunts were wearing them down as well.

“She sends the archdemon after me.” Fenrel exhaled, looking around the room, making sure everyone understood the plan. "We trap it, Davrin kills it, and Lucanis… you take your shot.”

“Just like that?” He reiterated. There was nothing simple or easy about her plan, if they could call it a plan at all. Ghilan’nain could just snatch her and the dagger, taking both Solas’ only connection to the waking world and the only weapon that can kill gods. Archdemon could kill them before they would manage to land a blow. The possibilities of things going wrong were endless.

“It’s the best I’ve got.”

“It’ll probably get you killed.” Lucanis looked at her as if he wanted her to step back. His pleading eyes were something her heart could not take.

“Lucanis…” She wondered if there was anything she could say to calm him, but she found nothing. She knew well how close they came to dying today. How little possibility of them surviving there was. “We either die here or out there. I would rather fight until the end.”

“Right…” The voice she did not expect came from behind him. Evka, bloodied and beaten, with an axe still in her hand, walked up. "Let's do this then… While the remaining Wardens still listen to me.”

“Evka… you’re alive.” Fenrel could not believe her eyes. They saw the blight taking her. And yet she stood. There still could be hope there.

“The blight and I had a little disagreement.” Evka shrugged, even though her face strained from pain. “I’ll rally the others. Someone decked the First Warden and left me in charge.”

“Yeah... Sorry about that." Fenrel returned a weak smile.

"I know the way to the trap," Davrin said, still sitting while Neve and Emmrich worked on his injured shoulder. "Give me five minutes and let's pray there's not much dark spawn between us and there."

***

The library was a mess, though an empty one. No ghouls or Wardens to be found. All survivors stayed on the lower floor to prepare for the battle to come. They made their way up the elevator and were greeted by blight boils covering the floor, walls, and shelving, sprawling through every single thing that once made the library a piece of art. The three of them sighed.
"Let's just find our way through this mess," Fenrel murmured, walking around the first boils in their way. She would not spare her energy to destroy ones that were not impeding their way to the trap. Neve and Emmrich did not have a solid solution for lyrium overdose, but the healing they could apply combined with Solas' help steadied her enough.

"This is the most you can take," Emmrich said, putting three lyrium potions in her belt. "Any more would have adverse effects. It's surprising you lasted this long before reaching us."

His eyes betrayed that he knew full well that it was no surprise, but he would not betray her while Neve was listening. Fenrel was shocked, yet thankful that he kept his word so well. Separating from the group was the hardest part, not knowing if all of them would come out the other side. Thinking about it, she realized her hand was gripping Wolf's fang tucked behind her belt. The cold of the metal was soothing and familiar. The weapon that now was like an extension of her was also her harbinger of doom. The only thing that could set off Ghilan’nain was in her hand.

What you are doing is a fool’s gamble. Solas murmured, his voice tense. Ever since she took the dagger back, he whispered in her ear about retreating. He pleaded, he raised his voice. For moments, she wondered if he was right.

I know. She sighed, not fighting him anymore. But what will become of Thedas, if I don’t?

Now she, Lucanis, and Davrin walked amongst the blight.

“Once an Archdemon’s trapped, a Warden must kill it, right?” Fenrel asked Davrin, who was looking around at the destruction of the library. The look in his eyes was a familiar one. It was the one she carried when stepping through the Eluvian in Minrathous. The utter annihilation of a heart. 

“Yeah…” He sighed, not looking at her. “And die doing it.”

“Oh.” Fenrel knew of the legends, but until those words left his mouth, she did not think of what they meant. He was their Warden. She picked him to go into this fight, knowing what must be done. “Davrin…”

“Rook, every Warden is prepared for sacrifice.” He reassured her, even though his voice betrayed him. “I’m ready.”

“Davrin…” Now she was the one who touched his shoulder, making him look at her.

He lightly shook his head. “Who knows, maybe someday they’ll hang my portrait in here.”

“It’s not over yet.” Their eyes met for a moment and she knew that they both did not believe it. Even if they got Archdemon to land, there were no guarantees any of them would make it out of there alive. But they only had the way forward now.

“It will be soon enough.”

“And then I will kill Ghilan’nain," Lucanis murmured, interrupting the moment. If they managed to kill an Archdemon, Davrin’s sacrifice wouldn’t go in vain. It couldn’t.  Though it was wishful thinking that Ghilan’nain would show herself in the flesh, as for now, she taunted them as a mirage in the skies. Fenrel had to believe gods wanted Wolf’s fang bad enough to take unnecessary risks.

“It’s the door ahead.” Davrin pointed at the door grown over with the blight. The short rest they managed to catch between their run to the library and this moment barely patched them up, and Fenrel winced as she forced the power of the ice storm through her fingertips. The cold both soothed and hurt her as she blasted it on the blight, leaving it up to Davrin to shatter with his sword, and that was it. Behind the door, the straight way to the trap awaited, yet none dared to touch the handle.

“If we don’t make it…” Lucanis started as they stood shoulder to shoulder.

Fenrel wanted to say that they will. But with the adrenaline lessened, and her heart beating more steadily, she could not lie to herself like that anymore. "At least we will have done our best."

***

The griffon statue, one point Ghilan’nain would not miss her from, was just ahead. Between it and them stood a group of ghouls and the three of them glanced at each other with a sigh, unsheathing their weapons. They did not have the energy to spare before the Archdemon, but they needed one last push. "Let's go then," Fenrel murmured to herself, throwing herself into a sprint towards the fight.

Spite’s wings fluttered in her periphery vision as Lucanis dove in between the ghouls, his daggers making quick work of their necks. Davrin smashed one of their heads in with his shield before throwing it at another’s midsection.

Fenrel kept her fingers off the lyrium bottles. She had to hold off them until it was absolutely necessary, she told herself, and relied on her daggers instead, dragging the stuck hilt deep from the ghoul’s clavicle to its navel, black goo oozing over her fingers. She pulled it out, flicking the liquid aside before grabbing the ghoul beside her and slashing its throat, feeling the blade resist as it trailed against the bone. As she turned, looking for the next victim, it fell with a flaming arrow stuck from its shoulder blade. Fenrel’s eyes darted around until she saw the Wardens stationed in the building beside the Griffon statue. She could see the dragon trap right next to it.  There weren't many of them, but they had arrows. When the horn blasted, she knew what they meant.

“Run!” She shouted to Davrin and Lucanis, pushing them to make their way up the stairs to the statue. Flaming arrows rained down on the remaining ghouls.

When you challenge her, we won’t have much time. Solas said.

Fenrel stopped mid-stairs, looking at the dagger in her hand. What do you mean?

From this close, I won't be able to hold up the wards for long. She will try to break you. She will find cracks in your psyche and try to pry you away from my protection.

Then hold on stronger. Fenrel pushed back.

Fenrel… He breathed.

Now it was she who pleaded. And picked up her pace up the stairs in case he decided to argue. Give us a chance. Hold on as long and as strong as you can.

Atop the stairs, they clawed their way through more blight tendrils warping the archway to the statue. The stone beauty stood proud, its resemblance to Assan uncanny. She thought of the little animal at home. The predator. The warrior against the blight. The symbol of Grey Wardens.

The altar where she would put herself as a sacrifice.

She turned the Wolf’s fang in her palm before giving one last look to Davrin and Lucanis. She could hear them and Solas calling her name as she turned and walked in front of the statue, Wolf's fang lying in the palms of her hands. The tether pulled her back as if Solas' hand was wrapped around her forearm, pleading with her one last time to stand down. She kept on moving.

The understanding dawned upon her, its icy fingers creeping down her spine, a rock settling in her stomach. Heart pounding in her ears. Spit in her throat felt like a glass shard as she swallowed before whispering to herself, "And now… I die."

She walked towards the edge of the opening surrounding the statue, Wolf’s fang raised above her head. “Hey Ghilan’nain! Come down here and fight like a real god would!”

The purest black of the night sky before Fenrel suddenly shifted, wind gust pushing her back, but her feet firmly planted as she looked up at the sky that was tearing itself apart. The deep blue of the storm clouds rolled in, pressure building in her veins. And the violent blue of ghostly eyes amongst the clouds, followed by the sharpening outline of a face.

“The Dread Wolf’s knife? Retrieve it!” The so-called god shrieked, the  Griffon statue and the stone floor beneath Fenrel shaking and shifting. She almost lowered the dagger, some ancient instinct screaming to kneel. But she didn’t. She would not kneel for a false god. Not again.

The flap of the wings as they tore the air was the first thing she heard before she saw it. Its shrieks pierced through her eardrums, somewhere further than pain, making her gasp and push the palms of her hands against her head. She could see Davrin buckling on his knees. The Archdemon. The Calling. “Davrin!” She screamed, pushing Wolf’s fang behind her belt and running towards him. The dragon clawed its way into the trap. But it was not in the correct place. Fenrel glanced between the dragon and Davrin, pulling the dagger back out and raising it once again.

"Hey, you freak, come and get it!" She screamed at the creature, wildly swaying the weapon around. It stepped ahead, trap-activating tiles under its feet moving. "Come on, come on...”

She murmured to herself as a prayer, not letting the dagger down, waving it as an invitation.

The creature moved once more, raising its head and standing on its hind legs before another screech left its grotesque mouth and it dove towards her. Before she could jump back, it was Lucanis' arm wrapping around her waist and pushing her over the edge, the three of them rolling down the hill behind the Griffon statue, their armour clanging. The sound was quickly drowned out by the noises of chains rattling and metal screeching. The dragon activated the trap and as Fenrel pushed herself off the ground, she could see the spikes launched into its body, spearing it through in multiple places. The terrifying screams leaving its jaws were dangerously close to the cry of a wounded animal.

The archdemon was down.

Its body was pinned under the chains, blackened blood leaking from orifices. Its cries mirrored Ghilan’nain’s wailing, tearing through the surrounding air. But there was a hymn of voices rising above it, and as the three of them stood, they could see the remaining Wardens on the rooftop, what little there were left, cheering, weapons raised.

The creature still breathed, and Davrin pulled his sword as they approached.

“Davrin—“ She reached for him, but he walked ahead, stopping just for a moment.

“Give Assan a hug for me.” He could not look her in the eye as he said those words.

Before she could try to think of anything before she could say that would make any of this easier, and before she could say her goodbyes, a familiar voice came from behind her. "Stand down, Warden."

She knew who it was before turning. Fenrel expected him to be out for longer. The First Warden stood proudly, even with his face bloodied, even while he had to lean on his sword to stay straight. “My war, my glory.”

“All you can claim is the lives lost tonight.” Fenrel scoffed. “Such a glory.”

 “I will get penance.” The First Warden grumbled, walking toward Davrin. Davrin looked back at Fenrel as if asking, "You're gonna let him do this?”

She did not answer. Dying to save Weisshaupt was the least The First Warden could do for them now. If not for his arrogance, who knows how many lives could have been spared, how many horrors avoided? She signalled to Davrin to stand down.

His way to the Archdemon was slow, agonizingly so. The man climbed on its body, resting his hand on its head for a moment, before raising his sword. This was it. Fenrel was afraid that if she breathed wrong, this moment of closure would shatter.

"As the supreme authority of Weisshaupt, I hereby declare this Blight at an end!” First Warden raised his blade to ram it through the creature’s skull as the obscene limbs of a monstrosity pierced through his body. The grey flesh wrapping itself around The First Warden’s body was one she knew. Ghilan’nain stood tall above her fallen creation, her tentacles wrapping tightly around the man’s body.

“Racing heart. Ragged breaths. A waste of useful blood.” Ghilan’nain pushed her hand through the First Warden's gut, the sound of dripping blood followed by screams of anguish from the Wardens. Fenrel grabbed Davrin by the elbow to stop him from running towards Ghilan’nain. He moved ahead once more and she could see Lucanis’ gloved hand grabbing him too. Davrin stepped back.

Ghilan’nain swayed her bloodied hand over the dragon, letting the crimson drip on it. “Lasa hedallin ghellara…”

The creature melted before their eyes, disappearing into a pool of blight where its body used to be. But it moved. The mass swayed and shifted, and as Ghilan’nain let go of First Warden's limp body, letting it drop into the writhing mess, it was not a dragon that rose from it.

“…Fenathra mellas…”

The creature that reared its head from the slithering blight was nothing like a dragon. Snake-like body, glistening moist rotten skin, horns protruding from places they did not belong. It was not a natural creation. It was a cruel parody of one. A cruel parody with a mouthful of sharp teeth that was now turned against them.

“Is this when we start praying?” Lucanis murmured beside her, brandishing his daggers.

"I think it's a little too late for that," Fenrel answered, but still searched for Solas behind the pressure building in her mind. Ghilan’nain was trying to get in. Davrin seemed normal, and Fenrel knew that Ghilan’nain must have been focused on Wolf’s fang.

Solas. She called but continued without waiting for an answer. You said I would make it home tonight. Do you still believe it?

She could hear how forced his chuckle was. I do. I hope.

“All right, let’s finish this.” Fenrel, Davrin and Lucanis shared a final glance before meeting their fate head-on.

It moved faster than they expected. Fenrel hit it with the first spell she could conjure—ice, lashing at its malformed face. Lucanis was already gone, a blur of daggers. Davrin screamed something she couldn’t hear—just a crack of bone, a shock of black ooze raining down on them. One horn was missing, but it still slammed its head into them.  The creature lashed out, ice pouring from its mouth.  Davrin and Fenrel rolled away, barely having time to stand up. Her ribs ached. The first lyrium bottle touched her lips. Its horn caught Lucanis mid-dash—he flipped and hit the stone hard. “Mierda!” Rang through the battlefield.

The creature did not yield. Only retreated. Fenrel pulled her second lyrium bottle. She had no time to think as she downed it. From the blighted mess now rose two heads. She could hear Davrin scream obscenities at the sight before the creature slammed at them again. Fenrel ducked. Rolled. Threw herself at the base of its neck, her palms touching its sickly wet skin, lightning surging from her. Blight boiled under the point of contact, catching fire. She could smell burnt hair and swatted at her head before rolling away again.

Lucanis landed on the second head, ramming his daggers into its eyes. It shrieked. The third head reared. “Why the fuck it has three heads?” Fenrel screamed, charging yet another chain reaction through the creature’s body. It spasmed beneath her before throwing her backwards. She heard a crack. She was sure it was her shoulder blade. The pain was somewhere behind the rush as she ran to help Lucanis. The orb flickered in her hands as she slammed it against the creature's head.

“It’s the real Archdemon!” Davrin shouted, his sword pushed deep into the neck, and he dragged it to sever the head.

"Was the dragon not real?" She winced as she tried to keep her arm raised. The pain of a broken bone was finally coursing through her. But she did not let go until the second head slumped.

The third one tried to pry Lucanis away as he repeatedly stabbed it. Davrin climbed it like a wall. She saw the sword raised once, twice—and then it fell.

A wet thud. Silence. Her ears rang.

Black blood soaked the stone. Lucanis groaned beside her. Davrin stood over the body, panting, hand still locked on the sword hilt.

It was over. The body still moved, but barely. “Davrin, kill it!” Fenrel shouted, fearing it would rise again.

Davrin did not spare a moment for goodbyes. He went determined, eyes locked on the target. He climbed upon its last remaining head, blade raised high, and when he brought it down, it struck true.

Yet Davrin still stood. He looked at his hands in horror, then looked at Fenrel. “No…” She gasped. Wardens are not supposed to survive killing the Archdemon. Was it not dead? Was—

Ghilan’nain’s scream rang in her ears when Davrin pulled his blade out and magic, one, Fenrel had never seen before, started leaking from the corpse. It streamed into Ghilan’nain as she writhed and wailed, her angry shrieks piercing the early morning silence. This was it. Fenrel pulled Wolf’s fang from her belt, throwing it. “Now, Lucanis! Finish her!” He caught it mid-air, Spite’s wings unfurling from his back.

He dove without hesitation. Wolf's fang was steady in his hand, aimed at the heart of a god. He was almost there.

Almost.

The blight tendril slapped him away, moments after the dagger touched Ghilan’nain’s skin.

Lucanis came crashing down into the ground only a moment before impact rolling to regain control of his drop. Gritted teeth, Wolf’s fang clutched in his hand. It was bloody.

And so was Ghilan’nain’s face as she wiped it and released a startled gasp upon seeing her now mortal blood. She screamed and trashed, raising her hands and the blight around them rising too. Lucanis stood there, staring at her, unmoving. Fenrel grabbed him by the shoulder. “Let’s go!”

He pulled back. “Give me another shot!”

The blight was closing in. Their way back was still open. She could not let them get trapped again. She doubted Mila could save them this time around. Ghilan’nain was mortal. That would have to suffice, she told herself even when she felt her still pushing against her mind. “It’s too late! Back to the Eluvian!”

She grabbed Lucanis by the shoulder again, wincing in pain from her shattered bone, grabbing Davrin by his forearm and dragging them into a desperate run for their lives.

***

They stumbled through the Eluvian, gasping and screaming. The blight was closing in on them as they made their final stretch from Weisshaupt, and Bellara rushed through the motions to reset Weisshaupt Eluvian to take them back to the Lighthouse after the remaining Wardens evacuated to Lavendel. They tripped over each other as they ran in, the mirror suddenly going dark behind them. Fenrel barely had time to take a breath as she started counting heads. All eight of them made it.

"What was that?" Harding screamed before Neve managed to grab her by the shoulders and usher her into the Lighthouse.

“Kitchen. Now.” Fenrel commanded through gritted teeth. Solas had barely managed to mend her shoulder before she fell and broke her wrist on their way to the Eluvian. It hung limp by her waist and every movement made her eyes water. She waited for the cold to seep through her bones and soothe them, rebuilding the shattered bone and exhaling more easily when the first pang of cold hit her.

They all walked in silence, dropping their bloodied weapons next to the Library door as they made it into the courtyard. Assan and Manfred were waiting for them, but upon seeing them, their excitement lulled. They were a sight to behold. Bloodied, beaten, clothes stained with blight from head to toe, armour plating bent. There was no part of them that did not go through this battle fully.

The unison of groans and winces bounced off the kitchen walls as they sat down around the table.

Harding was the one who ushered Weisshaupt residents and surviving Wardens alike through the Eluvian before they made their escape. “Before we left, Evka told me that the last of the civilians made it to Lavendel. Commander Janos and his people were the ones who held the line long enough for them to escape Weisshaupt. And the Wardens we helped are now there, too.”

“What’s left of them, you mean.” Davrin's voice was eerily calm and his eyes were empty. "Over a thousand… that's how many fellow Wardens I had. And now… One god. One Archdemon. That’s all it took to nearly wipe out our entire order.”

No one said a thing. How could they? None could find words after what happened to Minrathous. None could find words to atone for the deaths on the streets of Dock Town. And this was worse than any of that. Ghilan’nain escaped again after ripping their way of living to shreds. Fenrel leaned over the table, trying not to wince in pain as her still tender hand made contact with the wood. The pain was great, but the fiery roar of anger in her chest was greater. “We’ll make Ghilan’nain pay. For every person she killed. Every child left alone. There will be a reckoning.”

He pushed back in his chair and stood. “How, Rook? How? We all saw what she did. That’s beyond…” He grasped on his head, turning away. As if he could still feel Ghilan’nain’s voice gnawing at their resolve.

“We killed her Archdemon, though.” Bellara intercepted. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

Fenrel almost flinched as Varric’s voice came from behind her. She glanced back, just to see him leaning on her backrest. "That's an incredibly rare accomplishment."

“Yeah. After it turned into a snake monster with too many heads! I signed up to fight dragons, not whatever that was!” Taash panicked. “Are all blighted dragons gonna do that? I don’t know how to fight that!”

Emmrich patted Taash's hand as if trying to calm the storm down. “Well, at least we’ve made Ghilan’nain mortal.”

“Mortal or immortal doesn’t matter if we can’t get close enough.” Davrin slowly paced through the room, his hands not knowing what to do without a weapon in them. "We had our shot at her. And we missed!"

Now Lucanis moved from his seat. “Say what you mean, Davrin. I missed.”

“Nobody blames you for that, Lucanis.” Harding pressed.

“Yeah?” Davrin stepped closer to Lucanis. Fenrel jumped from her seat. "Maybe I do! This Crow has a demon inside him, right?"

Harding now panicked “Now that’s not—“

“And three of us had Ghilan’nain inside our heads!” Fenrel now stood beside Lucanis, readying herself to stand between them if needed.

“But how do we know we can trust him? Just because Rook likes him does not mean the demon wasn’t pulling his punches”

Fenrel’s mouth fell agape, heat rising in her cheeks. “Okay, that’s not fa—“

Bellara watched the scene unfolding with widened eyes. “Okay, hold on. Now we’re getting—This is what Ghilan’nain wants! She’s still in your heads.“

“Friends, please!” Emmrich shouted over Bellara. “What about your Vallaslin—“

“Emmrich, not now.” Fenrel snapped.

Lucanis stepped closer to Davrin, and Fenrel jumped between them, arms outstretched. “And you, Warden? What about the blight that runs through your veins? What about your Vallaslin? The same tools Ghilan’nain commands so effortlessly.”

“Just a moment, please—“ Emmrich now stood from his chair.

“That’s enough!” Fenrel screamed, her voice raising above others, palms pushing Davrin and Lucanis further apart from each other. “Stop ripping at each other’s throats! Sit down and listen to me!”

Davrin and Lucanis glanced at her, then at each other, before pulling their chairs back and sitting in them with a thud. The noise of conversation around the table fell silent. Looking over them, Fenrel sighed, swallowing her rage, steadying her voice.

“We’re on the same side. For the same reasons. We all saw the terror these gods will bring and chose to stand against it.” Now she paced around the table. “This team needs to depend on each other, not tear each other down. There is no other way to survive the odds stacked against us. We are the only hope we’ve got.”

Everyone was looking at her. Emmrich was the first to speak. “We’re all in agreement on that point, Rook. But the question remains—how? We barely survived against one of the gods.”

Lucanis murmured. “I nearly had her.”

"Nearly," Emmrich responded. “But you and Spite are not of one mind, Lucanis. Fight for control of a body… It’s no wonder you missed such a rare opportunity.”

Fenrel intercepted. “There’s no need to put blame on Lucanis or Spite. Three of us are compromised as well.” She looked at Davrin and Bellara.

“Yes, well…” Emmrich sighed. “I will craft wards able to withstand such influence, but it will require time and patience—“

“Time? How long?” Fenrel cut in his sentence.

“Weeks? Perhaps a month? In the meantime, I would suggest you three stay in—" Emmrich stammered.

“No. That’s not acceptable.” Fenrel’s fist banged on the table. “We can’t sit here and wait while angered Ghilan’nain is out there.”

“Rook—“ Emmrich pleaded.

She would not take it. “Find a faster way.”

"Rook, I think we've all been distracted," Harding spoke up. "I can't stop worrying about my new magic and what it means, Emmrich—“

“Yes, I’ve been preoccupied with the Hand of Glory we’ve found in Grand Necropolis and Venatori—“

“The Nadas Dirthalen. What it means for my people…” Bellara sighed.

“Rook, the Dock Town. Our people are still missing.” Neve finally joined in.

“Until these problems are resolved, we will not be prepared to face the gods. The moment of inattention—"

“Fine. I understand.” Fenrel grunted, sitting down. "We cannot afford to stumble. And yet, we also cannot afford to stop. We deal with these issues, but tracking gods' movements and figuring out their next steps is crucial. Next time, we will not have a second chance. Harding, can you send word to Evka? See if she has any rested scouts?”

“Scouts? Why?”

“The dark spawn that attacked Weisshaupt had to come from somewhere. I bet they’ll be headed back there. Take us straight to where the gods are hiding.”

“Got it.” Harding nodded.

"Bellara, contact Veil Jumpers. Tell them to ward off every member wearing Vallaslin. They are to stay away from tracking gods. That goes for any member of any faction with a Vallaslin. " Fenrel commanded again.

Bellara nodded. "Will be done, Rook." 

“Now, for the rest of you—“ Fenrel waved her hand in frustration.

“Look, nothing against Emmrich.” Davrin talked over her. “But what happened at Weisshaupt was more than a distraction.”

“So is what happened to Minrathous.” Neve agreed. “What the Venatori have done… What they’re still doing…”

“These are more than distractions, Rook.” Lucanis' hand brushed by Fenrel’s fingers lying on the table.

"Either way, we need more information to approach them now. We can't dive head-first again. Not like this. Not in our current condition." Fenrel looked around the table. “Go rest.”

This time, no one argued. Instead, they scattered away to their rooms without another remark.

She flinched when Varric, who just watched the scene unfold, spoke up. “So, how do you think that went?”

“Like fucking shit.” Fenrel groaned, rubbing her temples. “Davrin and Lucanis might as well invited each other for a duel. And they are right to be pissed after the horrors of Weisshaupt.”

“They stopped fighting when you told them to. That counts for something, kid.” Varric patted her shoulder, but this time she did not reach for his hand. She did not have the strength in her left to do so.

“They are better than me in that regard.” She murmured. “You should go rest. There’s nothing you can do for me now, Varric.”

He stared at her for a moment, before turning towards the door with a sigh. “If you say so, Rook.”

SOLAS’ POV

With everyone gone, she sat alone next to the empty table. The setting he would find himself often in. At first, she sat calmly, her body rigid, blood rushing in her ears, drowning out every sound. He stood behind the chair and watched her silently because they both knew she felt him there. Fenrel’s heart thudded in her chest evenly, yet frantically, as if a dam was breaking.  Her back collapsed. Her face lay on the table and her fists hit the wood repeatedly, jolts of pain rushing up her arms. A cry tore from her chest and he found himself reaching for her shoulder right before she stood up and stormed off, leaving the kitchen door open.

“Fenrel”. He followed after, appearing behind her in the study she just stormed into. She did not mutter a word as pieces of armour hit the floor, as she clenched her jaw in pain, touching upon her beaten flesh. He tried his best to mend all trauma, but it came on so suddenly that he could only put a dent in all the suffering her body was going through while holding the wards up against Ghilan’nain. Her pain threaded through him in cold flashes—white-hot where her wrist still throbbed, dull where exhaustion hollowed her. His magic pulsed where she’d taken it in, like a second heartbeat beneath her skin. With her armour down, he could see the faint blue lines webbing her skin where his power flowed when she took a claim of it.

He did not know why he agreed to it. He knew of the pain of losing ones you loved. Grief was his penance, and she did not seem to fear enduring one. And yet, he had said yes. Let her pull him in. He let her force him soften the edges of her grief. The true failure of it — him not being able to tell if he can ever step back from this course.

“Fenrel. “  He whispered again, taking measured steps towards her. She was now more of a feral animal than a girl who asked him to play the piano that one night in the fade. He watched her shaking fingers as they grabbed Wolf's fang, staring at the mirror. She finally looked up and their eyes met in the reflection. He had seen this scene before. The mirror was different, and so was the place he called home. There were a hundred ways pain could unmake a person, and this he found to be familiar. Fingers grasping on singed hair, blade pressed against it, she stopped in the movement of desperation and looked at him.

“Solas.”  She breathed, lowering the blade ever so slightly.

He steadied himself, closing the distance between them. “You have accomplished something no mortal has ever done.”

“I do not need your praise.”  She pressed Wolf’s fang to her locks and dragged it through, strands of red hair flowing down into her lap.

With every movement of her hands, she took a hitched breath, as if her ribs were constricting her. The tears streamed down her face silently, and she did not spare him another look as he leaned next to her, not daring to touch her shaking shoulders. Crimson rained into her lap and she did not look at it either, her eyes empty as she hacked at the strands.

“You need to rest.” He whispered, reaching for the dagger, and she looked back at him.

She was gone. He was back in his prison.

No.

No. No. No—No.

He shouted to himself, trying to grasp the tether for it to just scorch his skin.  He called for her to be met with silence. It stretched. He paced around his prison, calling for her over and over again, right until—

Sharp pain laced his face, seemingly digging into his bones. Solas screamed, kneeling over. His face was buried in his hands. Fingers grasping on invisible wounds.

Fenrel, don’t do it! Don’t—He sobbed, rocking on his knees as a familiar ache lanced through him. In his mind, he could see himself. He could see untrained hands hovering over his face. His own hands. His fingers trembling as he forced the power pull from his skin. The hot red. The unfamiliar liquid trickled down into his eyes, blinding him. It was the first time he bled. This body was still foreign to him and panic rose. His heart went into overdrive as it did now. The sound of it drowned out his sense of self. Heat streamed down his face. Not blood. Sob shook his chest as he cried her name and grasped the tether. It did not burn.

As he opened his eyes, he was not at the prison, not the void—the Lighthouse. His study. The air was thick with the scent of burned flesh and raw magic. He pushed himself up, not bothering to wipe his face.

“You stupid, reckless chi—“ He shouted when his eyes finally locked onto her broken form. Her chest was rising and falling in sharp, ragged gasps. Blood streaked her face—not the clean, deliberate marks of his removal, but raw, uneven, the remnants of magic wielded without care, without knowledge. “What have you done?”

She did not respond. In two unbroken strides, he was now dropping to his knees beside her, his hands reaching to see the carnage she had done before he could even think about it. “Fenrel”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. She was still, too still, staring blankly ahead as if she weren’t even there. As if something in her had left. His fingers brushed over her jaw, tilting her face toward him. It took everything in him to keep his voice steady, and yet it still betrayed him. "You did not have to do this."

Fenrel barely opened her eyes. An inhale. A gasping one. And a shaky exhale. He held his breath as she whispered. “Didn’t I?”

Her gaze met his. And Solas realized something far worse than the fact that she had done this. She did not regret it. She knew she had done it wrong, she knew she had scarred herself—they both could feel the pain, the damage, the way her magic had torn through her skin.

Solas swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "You should have asked me."

Fenrel huffed a quiet, bitter laugh. "Why?"

"Because I could have done it properly," he snapped, a sudden, sharp edge in his voice. "I would have done it properly. Without pain. Without harm. You did not have to do this to yourself."

Fenrel held his gaze for a long, stretched moment. And then—softer, quieter, almost amused—

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Solas stilled.

A sob finally broke from her deep inside her and when she leaned into herself, he caught her. He did not mean to, but once his hands were on her back, all he could do was pull closer. He expected her to hit him, to push him away. But she did not. Their breathing slowed, her bloodied forehead resting against his shoulder, tears staining the leather of his armour. His tears seeped into her hair. He could feel the heat of irritated skin, and he pulled gently back, cupping her jaw in the palm of his hand. She winced but did not push back.

“Do not take it away.” She pleaded.

Their eyes locked, he whispered as the cold of his magic drowned the fires of her pain, wounds closing. “I won’t.”

The wounds were sealed. Not perfectly. He wouldn't take that from her. He would not make it look beautiful. The scars were hers to carry. The pain—the choice—was hers. And she made it.

Her head dropped forward again, this time against his chest.

“You’ll hate me for this later,” she murmured, voice hoarse. “Perhaps you already do.”

He closed his eyes. Rested his forehead to the crown of her head, his breath coursing through her tangled, jagged-cut hair.

“I think it might be too late for that.”

She didn’t reply. But her fingers, bloodied and trembling, curled onto his forearm. He did not move until she fell asleep in the mess they both created.

Solas looked at the everlasting morning rays of The Fade playing on her face, soft and golden, catching on the jagged edges of her hair, that used to flow like the finest Orlesian silk over her shoulders. Ruined now. Like so many things about her. He wondered if it was his own malicious ego and selfishness to look upon the ruination of a hero he met months ago and see a sickly portrait of his days past. How easily back then he could look down on her, the overly confident child, as he told himself. How quickly that overly confident child overcame his convictions.

She lay on his chest, still, her fingers wrapped tightly around the leathers of his sleeve. Her chest rose and fell evenly, her warm breath lingering on the dip of his collarbone. Solas did not dare move.

He could’ve.

He should’ve.

He tried to reason with himself that he stayed only because she would get cold laying alone on the floor in her small clothes. He put excuse upon excuse into his own mind to avoid the truth. A god of lies, they called him. Then why it was so unfathomably hard to lie to himself convincingly?

He stayed. He sat in silence, holding what was left of her—of them—after the storm.

His hand traced faint blue lines running through her arm that lay in her lap. Remnants of his magic. His other hand raised,  fingers tracing along her temple, gently brushing aside a strand that had stuck to her cheek. Da’mi. Solas thought it was a clever nickname her father had given her when he stole it from her mind. Sharp, unyielding. A mockery for a child throwing tantrums in his prison. How could he be this blinded by his own arrogance? How such an insignificant name could strike so true? Perhaps our fate was foretold in the details we pay no mind to.

She shifted. A slow breath, a blink, and her eyes found his.

With her breath on his lips, he realized how close they were. Too close.

And yet he could not help but let his eyes drift to her lips. He thought of this. Of course, he did. More than once. It would not have been beneath him to use whatever was in his arsenal to bend her closer to his vision.

But when he realized he was not the only one letting his eyes stray, his conviction faltered once more. He needed it, and not for his plans. A thought crossed his mind, not as a calculation, but as hunger. One he did not know he could fight. One he did not know if he wanted to. But he wanted it.

His hand was still on her face, his thumb at her jaw. Their foreheads nearly touched. There was no rift between them, no false gods above, no war outside.

Just this.

When their eyes met and she did not pull back,  he knew this would be his undoing. He saw it now.

And he hated himself for not pulling away.

She would soon learn the truth of him and something in him dared to believe she wouldn’t pull away too.

Her gaze, sharp and steady now, locked onto his. Her mouth parted, just enough for—

“Distraction weakens our resolve,” she said, barely louder than a breath, “You said that once.”

But everything was different back then.

“I’m sorry… for what’s to become of us.”

Then he leaned in.

Hoping for her to save him from his damnation.

Instead, their lips met, his breath hitching as the hand on her cheek slipped between red locks and pulled her closer. He wished for resistance but he met none, hand wrapping around her waist as if he could not let go of this regret. As their lips separated, barely enough distance to inhale, he disappeared, letting go of the tether and her.

Chapter Text

The knock came on suddenly, startling her awake. She was glad for many commodities Lighthouse gave them, but most of all the stone door to the study that only opened upon her will. She tried to lift her arm. Useless. She grunted, forcing aching muscles to obey as she flicked her wrist and cried in pain as the still sore former fracture spot moved. She clung to it, leaning into herself, trying not to swear.

"Rook—" She could hear the metal tray and dishes upon it rattling. Lucanis gasped, and the metal hit the wood of the table quickly. "Eres temeraria, impaciente…"

Reckless, impatient. He would always turn to Antivan when frustrated.

She did not say a thing. She just forced herself from the ground, with shaky knees sitting down. "Do you have a death wish?" He sat on the corner of the bed, moving the hair sticking to the blood on her face.

"Rook is hurt." Spite interrupted.

"Do not worry, Spite," Fenrel murmured, pressing her lips into a thin smile. "And no. I do not have a death wish."

Her eyes finally met his.

"If I did, I would go out with that thing still on my face when Ghilan'nain is out there, seething."

"Rook…" His dark eyes were inspecting the damage.

She sighed. "It's that bad?"

"Nothing a little bath won't fix." His hand still lingered on her hair, lightly, as if he had forgotten what he was doing, caressing it. It fell to her shoulder, one that shattered on the battlefield, still aching. "You're as stiff as a corpse."

"I thought assassins left way before rigidity sets in." She attempted to joke and got a sad chuckle out of him. "And I also feel like one."

"Come on," His hand wrapped around her waist, the other dropping hers on his shoulder to lean for support. "The caretaker will put on a hot bath. It will help."

"We will avenge," Spite growled, stopping Lucanis in the step, his eyes flashing purple.

Lucanis shook his head, regaining control. "Don't mind Spite. He doesn't like the smell of blood on people we like."

Fenrel scoffed. "Tell him to take it up with Ghilan'nain."

"I don't need to." Lucanis smiled, nodding for her to walk with him.

Even though the entry to her room was not that far off the bathroom, it felt painfully long, and when her knees buckled, Lucanis did not let go. He did not comment. He walked her in, letting go of her and leaning on the doorway.

"I should let you... Do this yourself. I'll be just right outside the door." He gave her a wry smile, stepping back and letting the Lighthouse close the door in front of him.

She stood there, staring at the steam rising from the bath, replaying last night in her mind. Replaying the breath she felt on her neck the first time she bathed in this room. The softness in Solas' eyes when his hands healed the wounds ripped through her skin. And his lips. The scars that mapped his face, a sad mirror of hers. She shook her head, bracing herself before pulling the shirt off. It was drenched in blood and smelled like pain and sweat.

Water stung. She had to grind her teeth to stop herself from moaning in pain as she lowered her body into it. Rust peeled off her skin, painting it pink. There were still carelessly sheered hairs stuck to her collarbones. The warmth unclenched her muscles, her fingers releasing from the edges, letting her go under. For a moment, she let herself be swallowed by it. After Minrathous, she screamed. She raged. Now all she felt was weariness. The hopelessness. All-consuming desperation with something behind it. No. Someone. Her fingers grabbed onto the bath again. She came up to breathe in with a gasp, pushing his name out of her head. Fenrel would not call for him. She would not think of him. It was a mistake. One not to be repeated.

He twisted the pain against her. He let her feel this way. And she would not give in. Not again. She told herself as her hands frantically washed the crimson away from her face.

"I am sorry for what's to become of us."

What an asshole. She scoffed, silently shaking her head.

There were no "us".

She told herself, yet felt as if the kiss they shared rotted into her like a festering wound. She could feel the pull of the tether and pushed it away.

"Rook?" Emmrich's voice broke the eeriness.

"Lucanis," She seethed, emerging from the bath, and grabbing the towel. She did not bring clothes here. She panicked. "Give me a minute, Emmrich!"

The air behind her shifted, and The Caretaker cleared its non-existent throat. "Clothing, dweller." It put her casual clothes down and disappeared without another word. Warmed-up muscles did not fight as she was forced to brush against the material, red and blue blossoming under her skin, screaming angrily.

She knew the mirror was behind her, and she did not turn to face. Did not know if she could handle seeing what had become of her now. She could see the trembling fingers and taste blood in her mouth, in her eyes, drowning the world out. Her lungs constricted as she saw the image of a bloodied woman in the mirror. Manic. Lost. A woman on the ground. Broken. And a man beside her, his hands catching her in the collapse. Loving hands. No. Not loving. They could never be that.

She wouldn't let it be.

"Rook—" Emmrich stood in the door. "Oh—Oh dear."

His hand clasped on his heart as he rushed across the room. "Sit." He ordered her on the bench. "Let me take a look at you."

The green halo surrounded his fingers as he hovered them around her. "Shoulder blade. Wrist. Not completely healed. Lyrium poisoning."

"Yeah, it was chaotic—" She glanced off Emmrich's shoulder to see Lucanis standing at the door, his eyes widened, waiting for Emmrich to do his job. "You said you would stay behind the door."

"I sent Manfred to grab him." Lucanis shrugged.

Emmrich murmured to himself. "Solas did this on the battlefield? Impressive, though understandable he couldn't both keep the wards and—"

Fenrel cleared her throat, nodding towards Lucanis. "Emmrich…"

But it was too late.

"Solas?" Lucanis pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer. "Rook, what does Emmrich mean?"

"Lucanis, bring some fresh bandages. I need to stabilize her hand. You can perform your interrogations later." Emmrich glanced at him, his voice commanding yet soft.

"I told you Rook was hiding." Spite murmured as Lucanis left the room.

"Rook—" Emmrich sighed, lowering his head.

His magic curled around her wrist, which still lay in the palm of his hand.

"I asked you not to tell anyone. I asked for one thing." She shook her head, fingers rubbing against the temple. He opened his mouth. "Don't Rook me, please. Not now. What am I supposed to tell him?"

"The truth, dearest. It's as simple as that. You're not just leading this charge, Rook. You're shaping its soul. They believe in you. If you lie to them, what do we become?"

She shook her head, watching Emmrich's hand linger, pouring his healing power into her shoulder. "What me and Solas are… Is not easily shared."

"Mierda." Lucanis sighed, walking in. "What you are? And what is it exactly, Rook?"

She looked at Emmrich, eyes pleading for help, for a hint. But he just shook his head lightly.

She could lie.

She should lie.

But it was Lucanis. And the tether was pulling again. She would not give in to his commands. "He is in my head."

"Solas and you were chatting in your dreams for months now, how's that any news?" Lucanis passed the bandages to Emmrich, who swiftly took to wrapping her wrist. The injury was severe enough that even his magic couldn't finish putting it back together completely. Though the pain was only muscle-deep now.

"It's not only dreams, Lucanis. He… visits me. Heals me. Even touch—"

"How?" Lucanis stood near, his mouth agape.

"Blood magic. In Treviso I—" She considered if she should say the next words. "I nearly died. He saved me. And that sort of opened the floodgates."

Lucanis panicked. "You—You nearly died? Rook, where was I? How could I not see it?"

"We were fighting for our lives and your people. You cannot blame yourself for it. And that's beside the point, anyway." She motioned for him to calm down. He huffed and then took a deep breath.

"Then what is the point? Is he trying to take over you?"

She did not hesitate. "No."

"Do you trust him not to?" He crouched before her, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you trust Solas?"

"No." Her answer came too fast. Too sharp. "No. And I hate that—that I need him. That I am—whatever this is."

Lucanis nodded, almost like he was bracing himself.

"And do you trust me, Rook?"

She hesitated.

He stood. Backed away. "I don't need your confessions. But I needed you to believe I could handle the truth. You gave it to Emmrich willingly."

"I didn't want you dragged into it."

"I was already in it."

He turned to leave.

Her voice broke. "Lucanis—"

"If anyone knows what it means to be stuck with someone you don't want, it's me. Ask Spite." Lucanis stood up, turning away. "The truth will have to reach others eventually too, Rook. You can't keep tip-toeing the blade's edge."

And with that, he left her and Emmrich alone in a suffocating silence. The tether now felt like a leash around her throat, waiting to be yanked by someone she would rather not see. And yet he still lingered in her periphery. She ignored him. Instead, she turned to Emmrich. "Lucanis is right, isn't he?"

***

The first days, like steps, were pained. She could barely find the strength to leave her bed. The bloodied walls of Minrathous merged with screams of anguish in Weisshaupt, running laps in her head. When she woke, the shadow of a man in the armchair made her scream. She did not want to see him. But it was only Emmrich, entirely apologetic for scaring her so. He spent those first days by her side, working out methods of keeping Ghilan'nain's influence at bay from other Elves. His soft dialogue with himself became the comforting background noise. Bellara would bring her meals, and Fenrel wondered where Lucanis was.

They did not speak much of what happened at Weisshaupt or the argument that followed. They were too full of anger and hurt to speak of it. Finding a new normal seemed like a faraway dream, and they were caught in the limbo of a peaceful Lighthouse. Her mind would often stray to Davrin and a bloodied blade in his hand, standing over the corpse of Archdemon. And so, one evening as Emmrich left her to attend some business in Nevarra, she dragged herself to Davrin's workshop. If one thing she could be sure of, it was that Bellara and Davrin would be in their respective spaces, since leaving Lighthouse was not an option for them yet.

Her knuckles lightly tapped the door to his workshop. She did not wait for the answer.

"Davrin?" She inquired, walking in.

"Rook—" Davrin turned, wooden figurine he was working on in one hand, knife in another. It did not resemble one of the monster figurines he would usually work on for his monster manual. It resembled a person.

"Davrin…" She stood in the doorway, tears flooding her eyes. She did not mean to cry, but seeing him was the catalyst for the pain that simmered for days now. "I'm so sorry."

He looked at her face, his eyes widened with worry. He seemed speechless. "Yeah."

Words ran ahead of her. "I can't believe Weisshaupt is gone. It's always been there, protecting the world from the blight. And…"

"It wasn't supposed to go like this." Davrin sighed. He pointed at the figurines standing on his workbench. "That is Rounald. Malmont. Anya."

She looked at them. Wardens in their armour. Griffons carved into their chest plates.

"We used to argue: Who'd be the one to take an Archdemon down?" A bitter chuckle shook his chest. "Who would die so others could live? Not sure any of us believed it'd actually happen."

She did not know what to say. "When the moment came… You made them proud."

"Did I?" Davrin's voice rose. "Because I'm still here. They are not."

"I'd rather have you here, with us, than dead." Fenrel shot back. They did not go through all that to regret coming out the other side alive.

"And I need this to make sense." He grunted.

"Stop. You're overthinking this." She pushed back.

"Am I?" His voice was frayed and tired, yet still higher than his usual calmness. "A Grey Warden kills an Archdemon, and they die. That's how it works."

"Gods have changed the rules, Davrin. It has nothing to do with your ability as a Warden." She sighed. "Why is being alive a problem?"

"Because I didn't expect to be here!" Davrin's words felt like a punch. She knew. She saw it in his eyes when he went to finish the Archdemon. Still, it did not make it easier to accept. "Grey Wardens have an expiration. It pushed me!"

So did Shadow Dragons. She could not count how many she saw perish along the way. It did not mean their fight ended there. "There's more fight to go."

"And if we manage to pull it off?"

She did not know. She did not think that far ahead. Thedas where Elven gods weren't roaming the lands, tearing them apart seemed like an impossibility now. She could not see the end where all of them came out alive. But she could not tell him this. "You'll do what you do best: hunt monsters."

"Plenty of people can do that! I am talking purpose." Davrin shook his head, glancing through the window, not looking at her. "I feel like a blade sharpened all these years to confront the worst darkness in the world. And my blade struck true at Weisshaupt. What now?"

Fenrel looked at the beast by his feet. Assan played with one of the figurines, his curious eyes following the conversation. "You'll raise Assan to create a world where the light outshines the darkness."

"Yeah? Well, let me tell you. That—" Davrin's voice still pitched with anger before falling into a chuckle. "Will require a lot more gingerwort truffles."

She turned to leave. At least one part of her team was not crumbling apart. Except for… "While you sort that out, maybe you and Lucanis can try to bury the hatchet?"

He smiled. "Yeah…"

"He's having a rough time. All of us are." She wondered how others slept at night. Their physical wounds were mended, but the sense of dread lingered.

"I know." Davrin nodded. "It was an incredible shot he took at Ghilan'nain."

"Tell him that then." She returned the smile. "Fighting each other won't help us defeat the gods."

"Yeah…" Davrin murmured as she went to the door. "Rook?"

She stopped one foot already out the door. "Yeah?"

"We wouldn't have made it out without you. Spare some of that mercy on yourself, too. We're all in this together."

***

Fenrel sat in the corner of the common area, head buried in the book on blood magic Emmrich has given her. He assured her that the book could not provide the answers she searched for, but she did not care about it. Tether tightened its grip on her and she would not stop until she found a way to loosen it. Flood gates opened and she could not find a way to close them. Despite her better wishes, she felt him everywhere. She wondered if he intended it or if was it just a consequence of how things unravelled.

Fingers rubbed her tired eyes as the door opened and Neve, followed by Taash, barged in. Fenrel knew better than to settle down in the common area like that if she wanted peace and quiet, but the study felt suffocating to be in now. Not less suffocating than pitying looks on companions' faces as they would glance at her. She pulled on her hood, obscuring her features. Neve and Taash were arguing, that much was clear. Fenrel sighed, dog-eared a page, and closed the book.

"Taash, what's going on?" She rose from her seat, emerging from the dim light surroundings. "Something is clearly bothering you."

"My bet's on mothers and dresses," Neve murmured. Taash looked them over, hands crossed against her chest.

"It's just something my mother said the other day. That I act more like a man than a woman." Taash grumbled.

Neve nodded. "And you feel like you should wear dresses to make her happy."

Taash scoffed. "No. Can you imagine me in a dress? I'd look stupider than I — I'd look stupid."

Fenrel rubbed her nose bridge in frustration. At least the argument was simpler than things that went down between Davrin and Lucanis. "You wouldn't look stupid in a dress if that's what you wanted to wear."

"I don't want to wear a fucking dress!" Taash shouted, digging her heels into the ground.

"Clear and to the point." Neve calmed her. "So, what do you want? Your mother didn't just make you angry. Something she said got its hooks into you. Why?"

Taash exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes just a smidge. "It feels… Right. When she says I act more like a man. It feels right. Why does it feel right?"

Now Fenrel's ears perked up. She has met many Shadows in her training questioning themselves. Growing pains of coming into yourself.

Neve was clearly on the same track. "Taash, do you like being a woman?"

Taash rolled her eyes again. "Nobody likes being a woman."

"Ah." Fenrel and Neve sighed in unison.

"This is stupid. Forget I said anything." Taash turned to leave.

"Hey, it's not stupid." Fenrel grabbed Taash's forearm as if she could stop her from leaving. "I do like being a woman, but if you don't, maybe that's something to think about."

"But what does it mean?" Taash murmured.

"It doesn't have to mean anything. It can be just the way it is. Or it can be about what your mother expects of you, how it feels to be a woman, or just… be." Fenrel shrugged. "You don't need to have all the answers tonight. Just set out to look for them."

"But how would knowing help?" She pushed. "It won't change a thing."

"You are not alone in this. Others are looking for answers too." Fenrel smiled at her. "Neve could help you with it, isn't it right, Neve?"

"Some of my friends in Minrathous talk about not feeling comfortable in their skin. As a man, as a woman…"

That got Taash's interest. Fenrel stepped back, leaving them to their conversation, but carrying a sense of something new inside. As if life could be normal to some capacity even after the storm that passed. On her way to the library, Emmrich's book still tucked under her arm, she crouched to scratch Assan and listen to his purr.

***

It was a bright day. Beautiful, even. But Fenrel walked the beach with her head bowed, looking at her leather boots brushing against the sand. She stood for a moment, looking over the strip of sand where he brought her back from the brink. "I will be here," He said. But that was the issue, wasn't it?

She picked up her pace, leaving sand behind, exchanging it for the cliffs. Climbing took her mind off things. Of truths and lies and all that lay in between. As she climbed the first level, she could see over the horizon the storm brewing. She could taste it in the air. It was familiar, comforting, like the power at the tips of her fingers. Fenrel wished she could stay there just for a longer while and forget challenging the gods and all the other messes that came with it. But she could not, for Taash was waiting for her. She fixed the hood that was covering her head and moved. Being out in the open with her face changed was still weird. It was unclear if the face in the mirror was less or more her and the looks on the companion faces when they first witnessed it did not help. Davrin and Bellara could not hide their discomfort, Neve broke into worry. Harding was teary-eyed. In a way, it was like witnessing your funeral.

They saw her, but not as she was. The looks still clung to her—worry, discomfort, sorrow—as if they were laying flowers at a grave she hadn't finished dying in. And now she has left the procession still ongoing in the Lighthouse, unsure of what reason she was called to Rivain. Rounding the corner, she could see Taash in an unexpected setting.

"Are you… feeding birds?"

Taash did not turn. "Yeah. Some for you…. Some for you… Hey! Don't be a dick, that was for the little one. Stupid birds."

Fenrel watched as seagulls flocked around the feed. There was an unusual calmness to Taash she never has seen. Though, to be fair, it was a rare opportunity for them to be left alone. They were either on different missions or different sleep schedules and mostly bumped into each other on their off days. And on those Fenrel used to lock herself in the office, going over the letters and talking to…

"Did not expect to see this when you called for aid in Rivain." She dragged her thoughts from the room he lingered in back to reality. There were no signs of distress. A calm, peaceful day. Unbefitting for Taash or Fenrel, for that matter. Did Taash ask her out just to feed some birds? Fenrel looked at the bird feed in Taash's hands. "Need some help?"

"Sure." Taash shrugged a little enthusiastically. "You gotta spread it out. Throw it in a clump and they fight over it."

Fenrel grabbed the bird feed from Taash, mumbling. "I know how to do it."

Taash crossed her arms over her chest in a seemingly friendly challenge. "So do it."

Fenrel crunched her nose but still spread the bird feed in the fashion Taash just did. "Very demanding, no respect for the elders."

Taash rolled her eyes for a moment. Then her shoulders relaxed. "Sometimes I come out here to practice with fire. It's safer. No people around. Lots of water."

"How does it exactly work?" It was rare for Taash to talk about herself in such a calm manner. Fenrel tried to hide her surprise as she dug in deeper. "Is it magic? Or…?"

"It's not magic." Taash looked over the sea. "My mother says the Qunari used to be closer to dragons. Something in our blood."

"Those Antaam back at the beach…" Fenrel remembered the day they met. "They called you "Adaari"."

Taash sighed. "Yeah. Old Qunari word for fire-breather. A few, like me, are born every generation. My mother thinks Adaari were meant for something special. She's always looking for old texts for clues. Like a tablet, they found in Vinsomer's lair."

They walked further up the rock face, climbing up to another opening, to yet another flock of birds waiting to be fed. Taash continued the story. Fenrel wondered if Harding had set her up for this.

"My mother left the Qun not far from here. She got herself transferred to Kont-aar from Par Vollen. Smuggled me there and then walked out."

Fenrel took another fistful of bird feed from Taash and followed her lead in feeding birds. "I thought Kont-aar was well fortified. How did she escape with a child?"

"The Qun isn't a prison." Taash scoffed. "People can leave if they want."

"Do you miss living under the Qun?"

Taash shrugged. "Not much to miss. I was a baby."

Birds were fed. They stood and watched the waves crash into the shore below. "My mother misses it. She was an ashkaari back then. A scholar. "

"Why'd she leave?" Fenrel kicked a small pebble over the edge and watched it bounce from the cliff until it was swallowed by the sea.

"Me." Taash glanced at Fenrel and kicked a bigger rock down, both following its tip into the depths. "Shathann was worried about what the Qunari would do with a fire-breather like me."

"What would they do?"

Taash gestured to follow. Fenrel did not question. It was a day away from trouble, after all. She lowered her hood, letting the sea breeze caress the healing scars on her face. They were still red and angry, but it would pass. The pain would too, eventually. She was not so sure about the anger.

"She said they'd have me put in Antaam. Used me as a berserker." Taash spoke again, and Fenrel listened. "The idea scared her enough that she left her library and walked away from the Qun. And now here I am. Nor Qunari nor Rivaini."

A familiar story. Before all this, she wondered if refusing her Vallaslin would make her more Tevine. Though she tried to convince herself was a sign of rebellion. Sign of alliance with slaves she saved. She then wondered if it would finally mean letting go of the past and convictions she no longer belonged to. Would help make her stand in the Empire, not as a Dalish elf, but as something else entirely; herself. And Ghilan’nain ended this self-imposed argument. "I understand what it means."

Taash stopped in their tracks. "What?"

"To not belong." Fenrel shrugged, stopping beside Taash. They arrived at a small secluded beach, one Taash hadn't shown her previously. It was a day of surprises. Words that spilt from her mouth felt like a surprise too. "I was Dalish, then Tevinter, then exiled. Quickly turned into Rook. I used to have a name and now I only wield a title. Nothing fits."

"So, what is it?" Taash blurted out.

Fenrel turned to look at her. "Wh—What?"

"Your name. What is it?"

"It's…" She lingered for a moment. It's been so long since she said it aloud. A year. More than it. The only times she still heard it in full daily came from his mouth. One mouth that should have swallowed it. "Fenrel."

"It suits you." Taash extended a hand. "Hey, Fenrel."

***

The table was alive with soft noise—spoons clinking, fire crackling, quiet laughter skipping across the wood grain. Fenrel sat a little to the side, not quite at the head, not quite among them. But present. That was the first time in a week. Usually, it was Bellara or Emmrich who would bring her meals and look over her scars and wrist.

Steam rose from bowls of stew Bellara had made, and Taash, seated beside her, had already claimed two rolls. "Can you pass another, Fenrel?" Taash asked mid-chew.

Fenrel leaned over the table to grab it before she and the others around the table stilled.

Bellara blinked, glancing up from her bowl. Davrin, mouth half-open with some story he was telling Harding, stopped. Even Spite shifted like a shadow behind the Lucanis' eyes, their eyes narrowing with something that resembled curiosity.

"Well, that took you long enough," Neve said, smiling. "Don't look at me like that—I am a detective, after all."

Fenrel's shoulders tensed. She hadn't meant for that to happen. However, she did not know what she expected when she told Taash. She leaned back in her chair, a roll of bread still in hand.

"That's your name? Mythal'enaste, I thought it was Rook all this time," Bellara panicked.

"It is not," Fenrel said, quieter than she meant to.

"Oh maker, Rook—I completely forgot. It's been so long. How could I—" Harding stammered over her words.

"Fret not, Lace. Rook stuck true and quick." Fenrel shrugged, looking down at her bowl. Everything she held close to the heart was unravelling at a quicker pace than she anticipated, and she could not foretell if it was a good thing.

Taash didn't seem to notice the pause that followed, or maybe just didn't care. She just smiled, lips quirking. "Told her it suited her, does it not?"

Bellara lit up with a grin. "It does. It's beautiful."

Lucanis said nothing, but his gaze lingered softly. Protective. Steady. It flickered to Emmrich just for a moment. Emmrich caught it.

"To Fenrel," Davrin said, raising his cup. "It's about time."

"To Fenrel," Emmrich echoed, and even Spite gave a grunt that might have been approval.

Harding clinked her mug gently against Fenrel's. "It's good to meet you again, Fenrel."

She didn't know what to say. The name felt different in her mouth now. Not like something she had to leave behind. Like something she could come back to.

She smiled. Not for them. For herself.

The moment passed, the way all things did in the Lighthouse—quickly, softly. Conversation resumed. Someone cracked a joke about Assan refusing to eat anything cooked, and laughter filled the spaces her name had left hollow.

Fenrel stood and left without a word. She just needed air.

The courtyard was silent, with everyone around the dinner table. For a moment, she wondered if she should visit the music room. It's been so long since she has visited. But seeing his self-portraits on the walls of her peace was not something she wanted to face now.

Behind her, the door creaked open again. She didn't have to turn. The quiet of the steps she learned to recognize.

"Lucanis."

"Don't worry, I didn't come out here to speak of him," he said, voice quiet but sure. "I just figured if I were you, I wouldn't want to be alone."

"I'm not alone." She bit back a bitter chuckle. "Not really."

Lucanis stepped beside her. "Still different, though. Hearing it. In the Ossuary, my own name felt like a punishment. Until you came around and gave it back to me."

"I didn't think it would be weird," she admitted. "But it was like… Taash opened a door I didn't realize I'd locked. Though I have only myself to blame for that."

He nodded softly. "And now you're standing on the threshold."

Fenrel nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. "I don't know if I can step through. Or if I should."

"You don't have to decide tonight."

They stood like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder. One of Neve's wisps was lost and tugging at her hood. She didn't pull it back up.

Lucanis glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "It suits you, you know. Fenrel. It fits. Like something sharp and unyielding."

Da'mi and Solas' voice echoed in her mind. She would not allow it.

She let out a soft laugh. "You gonna start calling me that now?"

"Only if you let me."

For a second, she said nothing. They exchanged a glance. Lucanis murmured, "I want to."

She turned to face him. There was no shadow of hurt or betrayal in his eyes. He came to terms with what happened days ago. Perhaps, once again, he was giving her space. From all this, she did not expect to find a calm shore to come back to. One that would keep her back on a battlefield and off it. She did not know if she deserved it. The kind of quiet, unshaken loyalty. "Alright," she said. "You can."

His lips turned up into a half-smile. "Good. Because I was going to, anyway."

***

Another morning was upon them. An early one, at that. A wisp woke her up in the library. She did not bother getting to her room last night. Somebody, however, did bother to come in and put a blanket on her, which to not much surprise smelled like incense and myrrh. Emmrich. One of Neve's wisps tugged on her hair as if asking to follow. She conceded with a grunt. She could hear grunts coming from Taash's room. Early morning workout. Lights flickered in Bellara's studio. Already working on Nadas Dirthalen. As well as lights in the kitchen. Lucanis was, as always, having a restless night, even though Spite would now rarely try to take control.

Fenrel walked to Neve's office, finding the door already ajar. No wonder wisps have spilt into the courtyard.

"Morning," Fenrel yawned, stepping into the room, only to be greeted by Lucanis and Neve already in discussion.

"Neve—that coffee in the kitchen. You made it?" Lucanis stood with a concerned look on his face.

Neve smiled. "Keen eye."

"Did you boil it? If so, why?" Fenrel could not help but snort at his worried face. It was just coffee, after all. But not for Lucanis.

"I'm not picky." Neve shrugged. "I got a cup, and it does the job. That's all I ask."

"I…" Lucanis sighed with disappointment. "… don't know where to go with this." He glanced at Fenrel.

She giggled. "Don't look at me like that. That's not how we make it in Minrathous."

Neve laughed at that. "It is in my apartment."

"I…" Lucanis stammered. "But… Why?"

"The better question is what the coffee's for?" Fenrel knew that Neve's wisp did not come to wake her for nothing.

"What isn't it for?" Neve's face fell back to its usual aloof setting. "The Venatori are tightening their grip on Minrathous. They treat Dock Town like their personal playground. I've heard more cries for help than I can count. And the Threads have answered your call."

"The Minrathous crime syndicate?" Lucanis' eyebrows rose. He turned to Fenrel. "You contacted them? They are criminals, Fenrel."

"I don't think that smuggling, extortion, protection rackets and general unrest are something above things Crows get themselves into. Plus, we have shared interests." Fenrel shrugged.

"For what it's worth, they stay out of slavery and hate Venatori enough to keep picking fights," Neve added.

"See? Perfect business partners in crime." Fenrel joked though Lucanis did not seem amused. "What did they say to my proposal?"

"Elek wants to talk," Neve said.

"Elek?" Fenrel's smile faltered. "I thought we would be getting in touch with their boss."

"There have been complications." Neve sighed. "Elek will tell us more once we're in town."

SOLAS' POV

It has been days. Days without her reaching for him. Days he resigned to staying in his prison, tightening his knuckles, resisting the tethers pulling on his heart. He told himself he would not. He would keep himself seated in the pit of his torment and engulf himself in the ideas of what comes next. Of the future, he never planned for her to be in. The future, that she now haunted. A future she now haunted. The vision, once clear, was now obscured by green eyes and righteousness. He told himself it was nothing. Just grief collided against grief, and yet the warmth of her lips against his lingered.

She hasn't reached for him once. It was as it was meant to be. It was right.

Then why did the look in her eyes, when their lips parted, feel right too? The worst kind of right.

One he could not afford. One he has promised himself not to reach for.

And he did not. Not ever since coming back from Uthenera. He reached for bodies, pretty eyes and sweet lips, let the Dread Wolf take them and vanish with the break of dawn.

He did not linger.

He has never feared the closeness of the skin. He feared loss of self in it.

He would never stand at the end of the bed of a lover, waiting and fearing that they would wake. Except for now.

Solas' fingers pressed on a slither of a tether and he did not let go when he could taste her presence.

She was sleeping in his study, one she had remade into a home. Breath shallow, body curled into itself. Wrist wrapped with fresh bandage, body swallowed in crisp linens. Her face. Her face was one thing he could not tear his eyes away from. He stared at the absence of Vallaslin, foreign like his face once was. Her power, her pain. His finger instinctively brushed against the faint marks on his cheek, one of many that mapped his face, like trails of comets in the constellations of freckles.

He should have taken her fearlessness as a sign of someone who would see this through to the end. Sign of someone ready to make sacrifices, that fight such as theirs required. The sorrow he did not wish for still tightened its grip. Neither of them wanted it. She told him once, "You think I want you to understand me?"

What he did not wish was for her to understand him. Not in this way. But it was too late to take it back now.

"Understanding is not a choice," He told her then and now damned himself for how right he was.

She did not sleep peacefully. She turned and murmured, the red of her hair reminiscent of blood spilt against the white of the sheets. He berated himself once more as he kneeled beside the bed, a low voice carrying a song long forgotten.

Melava inan enansal

ir su aravel tu elvaral

u na emma abelas

in elgar sa vir mana

in tu setheneran din emma na

The movement of her limbs seized the twitch in her lip stopping. He was still kneeling, his hand aching to move the hair that stuck to it. He turned from her before the need to speak—to touch—to apologize; to repeat his mistake—overwhelmed him.

The study door was cracked open, a sliver of light bleeding onto the balcony beyond. The wind tasted familiar. Solas stepped towards it. He leaned at the frame, unwillingly looking back once more.

In this very spot, they exchanged words.

"Why does the thought of me touching you frighten you so?"

"Because I do not know what lies beneath it."

Little did he know, he should have shared that fear.

Perhaps he did. Still, he had held her like she was his to hold.

How could the tether turn into unravelling? Perhaps the Inquisitor was right to warn him of blood magic. Perhaps not. It did not matter now. Not in the web of things already set in motion. For it, he would have to abandon his heart once more. At this moment, looking down at what Felassan has created from the place Solas have built could not bear more poetic irony. The Lighthouse courtyard was still in the perpetual morning rays. The sky was soft and yet, he could still see the horrors of Weisshaupt playing out in her dreams.

He stepped out onto the balcony. Everything was just as he remembered, though different. Before he left for his ritual, he left the space in a state of disarray. He did not care for it. Not in the way Felassan would've. He forbade The Caretaker from making any changes. He left the place as the fading reflection of what once was. What still could be. A reminder for oneself that everything he has sacrificed was worth everything he could regain. The bitter taste of loss lingered under his tongue for too many millennia. One day, he could look down upon this with a smile. He knew he could, as his eyes trailed the familiar cobblestones below.

The wind shifted.

He didn't sense the eyes until they'd locked with his.

Below, crossing the path toward the library building, Harding paused mid-step. She looked up. The morning light caught on her orange hair. Her bow was slung lazily over one shoulder, and her mouth parted in disbelief.

They stared at one another—silent, unmoving.

In that instant, he saw and felt it all: the blood on his hands. The memory of Varric stumbling back. The echo of his voice when he called him "chuckles" for the first time. "Master Tethras," Solas would respond with a nod. The card games around the campfire. The constant chatter from Cassandra about Varric's newest writing or complaining about his character. Harding standing in the rain, raindrops trailing the scar on her cheek as she smiled and introduced herself. The polite conversations. Little jokes once they have travelled together far and wide enough.

The stories they once shared in another life.

The warmth Harding once carried for him turned to something he had not seen. Harding, he knew, was the one to greet you with a smile. One who was to always offer help. The comfort of the evening's sun. Harding, he once knew, did not know the pain of losing. She did not know what it would mean to live without Varric.

He didn't wait for her to react. Didn't give her the chance.

He let go of the tether, slamming the door of the waking world in front of himself.

Chapter Text

The morning of the trip to Minrathous came, and Fenrel was up early. The Caretaker had already swung by, a fresh set of clothing lying by her bed. She dressed quietly, deep in thought of the upcoming day. As she was about to leave, only then she realised that something was off about the room. She could've sworn there was a familiar smell lingering. Fresh and woodsy but also akin to an Andrastian prayer service. But it couldn't have. She hasn't seen Solas since Weisshaupt. Did not speak to him either.

She shook the thought off, fearing that thinking of him would pull on the thread. Still drowned in thought, she went outside, crossed the empty courtyard and opened the kitchen door to flinch at the sight of the shadowed figure in front of the fireplace. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, the realisation that it was only Bellara dawned on her.

"Good morning," Fenrel said, joining her by the flame. "Your turn to cook breakfast?"

It seemed she was not the only one lost in thought this morning, as Bellara stared ahead, humming some lullaby under her breath.

Fenrel cleared her throat. "Hey, Bellara, are you okay?"

"Oh!" Bellara suddenly turned towards her. "Hi Rook! Oh no, wait, or is it Fenrel now? Because I don't want to—"

"Whichever you prefer, Bel." Fenrel smiled at her, trying to work out why Bellara seemed different today. She seemed sad. "Are you okay?'

"Yes. Well. Um. Can I ask you a question?" Bellara stammered over her words. "Actually, never mind. Don't worry about it."

"Bel," Fenrel sighed, "You are running ahead of the conversation. Can we rewind a little?"

She exhaled heavily. "Right. Yes. Okay."

They stood silent for a moment, Bellara gathering her thoughts. "It's just. You know. The elf thing. We're fighting our gods. Our gods! It feels a little surreal. And I know surreal."

"Yeah. It's… weird." Fenrel did not know what to say. "A whole lot of elven customs are feeling kind of weird right now."

"I'm worried about our people." Bellara's eyes were glued to the fireplace. "Or… more like, how other people see us. Maybe people don't trust us. Maybe they shouldn't."

The heat was rising in her chest, but Fenrel pushed it down before her voice could rise. It was not Bellara she was angry with, after all, "Our gods aren't us. We can't judge people by their rulers – especially if those rulers are tyrants. They marked and enslaved generations of elves. It was their fault. They clearly had another choice."

"Are you talking about Solas?" Bellara glanced at Fenrel.

She nodded, not returning the look. "Him and everyone who helped him. He chose better. Other gods could too. It was never the elves' fault. It was always down to greed and self-corruption."

"That feels too easy." Bellara shook her head. "Like we're not taking responsibility. And, I don't know. I feel guilty. Anytime I think about it, really."

Fenrel knew that feeling well. Every time she thought of Varric. D'Meta's Crossing. Minrathous. Viper. Weisshaupt. But the blood on her hands was shared. She had to tell herself that to continue moving forward. All that self-blame and nowhere to push it, but down. "Who's that helping?" She asked, but was not sure if she was asking Bellara or herself.

"Who's what helping?" Bellara looked at her, confused.

"Guilt. Feeling guilty."

"Well. No one, I guess. But then what should we do?"

Move forward. Never stop. That was all that Fenrel could think about. "Killing two gods sounds like a good start." She murmured as the door of the pantry opened and Lucanis walked out, rubbing his eyes, hair dishevelled.

"Hope you did not attempt making coffee", He jokingly glared at Bellara. As he walked by, his hand brushed against Fenrel's waist in a familiar way. "Morning."

Minutes later, the morning ruckus was in full swing. Davrin chased Assan, who ran from him with an unfamiliar bone in his beak. Manfred tried to steal a butter knife, but Lucanis' hand was quicker and snatched it before their skeletal friend could join Assan in wreaking havoc. Emmrich looked only slightly concerned about Manfred's fascination with knives and instead took it as an educational opportunity. Neve was nose-deep in some Nevarran serial she borrowed from Emmrich, while Taash was snoozing off by the table, as Bellara served breakfast. Harding came in late, with her bow already on her shoulder. Clearly back from shooting practice.

Breakfast went on with their usual plan layout: who's working on what, are there any new missives or calls for help they needed to respond to? With Emmrich still working out how to dampen any possible effects Ghilan'nain could have on those wearing vallaslin, Bellara and Davrin were bound to The Lighthouse. Bellara was making progress with Nadas Dirthalen. It finally gurgled something dangerously close to actual words. She was sure she knew her next steps. Davrin spent most of his time working on his monster manual and writing letters to families of fallen Wardens.

Taash was planning on visiting the Lords of Fortune sometime soon and wanted Fenrel to join. Harding finally got news back from Kal-Sharok. They were waiting for Lace to arrive. Antivan Crow spies were climbing on Zara Renata's heels. All wheels were in motion; Fenrel only needed to pick a track. No matter what, Minrathous came first.

"Hey Rook," Harding said mid-chew, "You had a guest the other night?"

"Mmm?" Fenrel mumbled coffee still in her mouth.

"There was a man on your balcony." Harding shrugged. "For a moment I thought I was going crazy— "

Fenrel's mind spun for a moment. She was alone most nights. If she wasn't, she was with one of the people around the table. Even Emmrich now felt comfortable enough leaving her alone to sleep. The smell. The gods' damned smell. She gave a grin which did not extend to her eyes. "Oh, that? Oh, it's just Ghost. One of the Shadows." She blurted out the first name from her past that came to mind.

"Well, your Ghost scared the shit out of me." Harding snorted, a bite still in her mouth. "From afar, I almost thought it was Solas. But that would be crazy, right?"

Fenrel pushed the lump in her throat down with her coffee. "Right."

She left the table soon after, humming an elven lullaby from her dream ringing in her ears. She could think of him later. Minrathous could not wait any longer.

***

Nothing changed in Minrathous since the dragon attack and Venatori took over. Even the bodies on the streets were the same, just more rotten, scavenged by feral cats and rats. Leaving Shadow Dragons' hideout, Fenrel and Neve took the long way to the Cobbled Swan, where Elek said to meet him. Not the most obscure place for a man fearing for his life, but Fenrel appreciated the comfort of familiarity.

Some resemblance to normalcy could be found in the tragedy of Minrathous. Sellers were back on the streets, though fewer and more scared. Citizens moved around their business, their eyes already trained not to look at the unsavoury parts, and not flinch when brushing shoulders with Venatori guarding every street corner. Fenrel did not bother with a disguise. Neve's sources told them that Venatori were on the lookout for a long-haired elf with Dirthamen's vallaslin and a way bigger nose than Fenrel had. Their poorly illustrated "wanted" poster did not reflect reality, so she felt free to move in her own way. Neve did not wear her disguise because she did not care. If Venatori were to come after them, they would learn their lesson.

They left their companions behind. It was a Minrathous thing, after all. And alone time was something they desperately needed, not explaining their Tevinter ways.

"You lied," Neve said as they walked a narrow alleyway. "Ghost died during the initial Venatori takeover. Could not construct a better lie?"

"I was caught off guard," Fenrel murmured, not bothered to defend herself. Emmrich and Lucanis knew, which meant it was only a matter of time before Neve would figure it out or drag it out of them. She was surprised it even took a week.

"So… Who was it?" Neve asked nonchalantly, but her undertone was pressing.

"I think you already know." Fenrel talked in a deadpan voice.

Neve stopped and turned. "You must be kidding me. How?"

"Ask Emmrich. Or better yet, don't. He has his theories, but we're not about to test them." Fenrel shrugged and walked past her, making her way closer to the docks.

Neve sighed. "Of course, Emmrich knew. Who else?"

"Lucanis."

"I'm guessing Emmrich let it slip." Neve gave a bitter laugh.

"He sure did."

"And what now? When are you going to tell the rest?" Neve continued pushing.

"Well, at least three of them will freak, and Taash won't care that much." Fenrel shrugged.

"Fine, but the longer this drags on…" Neve sighed. "We can't trust him. You are safer with all of us knowing. Remember what he did to Varric. And they were friends."

The Cobbled Swan was around the corner. Fenrel did not bother to argue with her and just made her way in, looking around for Elek. She did notice him rather quickly, as he was interrogating a Venatori tied to a chair. The tavern has truly changed its way of life lately. She almost missed being able to just walk in and have a pitcher of ale in there.

"Let's try this again," Elek said to the Venatori, his words followed by the sound of his fist making contact with the man's gut.

"Neve, Rook, glad you could make it." Elek's attention turned from his prisoner.

"I see you have already started without us." Fenrel motioned to his bloodied knuckles and the beaten state of his victim.

A woman snaked past them, coming into view. "Ceda, hello to you too." Neve greeted the woman. "The Songbird of The Cobbled Swan. And a spy for the Threads?"

Her performances were never Fenrel's cup of tea, but tea was not the thing she visited the Swan for anyway.

"You got it." The woman purred with a sickeningly sweet voice. And there was Fenrel, who always wondered if Ceda only used it for paying customers. Now she knew it was not the case.

"Okay, you called. We're here." Fenrel went straight to business, her eyes locked on Elek. "I expect this is about my proposal."

"It would be. We want the scales tipped back in our favour as much as Shadows do."

Fenrel knew it was only the beginning of his response. "Except for?"

"Cut to the chase, Elek." Neve agreed.

"The Venatori are taking our and your people and are not shy about it. They walked into the Swan and abducted our boss." Elek kicked the shin of the captured Venatori in frustration. The prisoner did not react. Elek must have spent a while on him before Neve and Fenrel arrived. "Makal Damas."

"Damas?" Fenrel inclined her head. "Well, that's interesting."

"You always kept your leader secret. Pulling the strings from the shadows…" Neve mused.

"They're now scared, Neve. No point in hiding." Fenrel said as if it were a matter of fact.

"Yeah, well, Venatori found us out. Dragged him out under the guise of securing the Dock Town." Both Elek and Fenrel scoffed. "Ceda was performing at the time. Saw the whole thing."

"They don't lack confidence." Fenrel shook her head in silent surprise. "And you don't either. I offered a deal, and the way this is going, I see that we're here to save both yours and our people."

"We've had our differences, but the Threads are better neighbours to Shadows than the Venatori, wouldn't you say?' Elek gave her his oh-so-famous flirtatious grin. "The cult has an inside track on our members… They're watching us. But you—"

"I can just walk right in." Fenrel nodded. "We get your boss back and get the Threads support in return, is what I am hearing."

"They're holed up in the Thread Market. I'll get you access. Still won't be easy."

"Nothing ever is in this town," Neve said. It was time to meet the infamous Threads leader.

***

Elek did give them access. Too bad his key holder was lain dead at the entrance of Thread Market, and the Venatori were waiting. In the heat of the fight, Fenrel could swear one of them said, "Don't touch the redhead, she's the one Elgar'nan wants", right before Neve's icicle went through his chest, bursting out in a bloody shower, his body succumbing instantly. Upon realising what Venatori had said, she could feel heat rising in her chest despite her not being angry. Just confused. What would Elgar'nan want with her? She wondered if feelings could leak through the tether as her fingers grasped the daggers tightly. What if this was Elek's plan all along? What if he was one compromised Thread? Selling her out for the highest bidder, there was – Elgar'nan? She could not linger in doubt, for they would find the truth once they made their way through Venatori bodies.

"If I hear 'for the glory of Tevinter reborn' one more time…" Fenrel said the Venatori catchphrase mockingly, "I'm gonna hurl."

"Somebody's in a mood today." Neve gave a passive laugh.

"Yeah, in a mood to kill some Venatori bastards." Fenrel followed Neve into the inner market territory once Neve finished taking down the wards. "Aren't you?"

"Always," Neve answered, pointing forward. "More are waiting."

The market was crawling with blood mages. Nothing unexpected from Venatori. She has seen this many times before on Shadow Dragon missions. The true vermin of Minrathous. No matter how many they took down, more would eventually spawn. But she and Neve made their way through them effectively, until only the last barricades separated them from the Thread private dock. With no signs of Damas, it was the last place they could look. She hoped he was not moved or disposed of.

Walking through the dockside building, looking for their way to the seaside, Fenrel noticed a blood-smeared note on the table. "She is chosen. Follow her, and we will save Minrathous. Have faith." She read the note aloud before putting it back down. "Who's she?"

"Shh. I heard something. There's someone behind this door." Neve shushed Fenrel, ear pressed to the closest exit.

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Fenrel grinned, catching up in two quick steps and pushing the door open.

That was the second time she walked in somewhere just to see a man slumped on a chair, visibly beaten. The Tevinter tradition. From his expensive leathers and Venatori mage standing by, Fenrel made an educated guess that they had found Makal Damas.

"Quite the setup," Neve spoke up. "That's Makal Damas? I could take him off your hands."

"He's not mine to give." The mage growled. "Damas serves our best."

Damas rose from his seat, knees straightening in an unnatural way, yet the show was stolen by his eyes, glowing red.

"Hello, Neve." Damas' voice sounded like it was overlapping with itself and another, haunting and mocking female voice. "I've missed you."

"You know me." Neve did not seem rattled.

"Damas doesn't. But I do." His body moved like it was being puppeteered. "You stopped me once. But my purpose remains…"

Neve's voice went low as the acknowledgement hit. "Aelia."

The bloodstained note suddenly started making a lot of sense.

"Rid Minrathous of this criminal. Kill him." Damas' body twitched from blood magic's control over him. Whoever this Aelia was, she had an incredible pull on her power. For a moment, Fenrel feared what Solas could do with their blood connection. "Will anyone notice in Dock Town? I won't be stopped."

"What have you done, Aelia? Speaking directly through him. Puppetry." There was more interest than fear in Neve's voice. Some disgust, too. "The blood magic needed…"

This was nothing compared to the power Solas held. But he had not used it this way. Fenrel wondered if it was because he couldn't or wouldn't.

"Impressed?" Blood mage mocked through Damas' mouth. "It pales next to the power Tevinter once had."

Yet another mage disillusioned in the dreams of Tevinter power. For those not born of human blood and not touched by fade, the power Tevinter held was in the fist it used to grind them to dust.

"Say the word and we kill this bitch. Together," Fenrel murmured to Neve. She did not want Damas to die, but with the connection so entangled, killing him would land a major, perhaps fatal blow to Aelia as well.

"How familiar." Aelia mocked again.

"Enough." Neve barked at both of them.

"The risen gods showed me the path. To our legacy. To our salvation. I am this city's future." The voice distortion got worse.

Fenrel tightened her grip on her daggers, leaning in, ready for the strike.

"And you'll stay out of my way." Aelia seethed, raising Damas' hands. She could channel her power through a non-mage. Fenrel had to push thoughts of Solas away. There was no time to panic about her surviving him. She had to worry about living through now.

As Damas' feet lifted off the ground and a red glimmer of power gathered in his hands, Never said to Fenrel. "We need to subdue but not kill him. Trust me."

"As you say." Fenrel nodded, sheathing back her weapons and focusing the staggering orb between her palms. The not-killing part proved to be harder than expected. Aelia threw Damas at them with the full force of her obscene power, her blood magic trying to leech off them too. One desperate spell after another, rolling on the ground trying to avoid Damas' attacks, and Fenrel had to stop her hand more than once from landing the fatal blow. She did, however, hear a nasty crack of bone when she threw him to the ground.

She fell back to protect Neve, who worked on subduing the Threads leader until he staggered, the glow of red in his eyes flashing. He fell onto his knees, and Fenrel did not wait long to pull out her dagger, pointing it at him, daring Aelia not to move.

"Aelia." Neve started. "Taking over Threads. It secures Venatori a little more power, but I know you. There's more. You're setting us up. For what?"

"For Minrathous. Our ancient power restored." Aelia and Damas gasped between words. "Our destiny renewed."

Ancient power. Elgar'nan. Fenrel had no doubts the gods were behind this.

"And damn the lives it takes. We've played this game before."

Aelia purred despite blood dripping from Damas' mouth. "The game never ended."

"Neve, just say the word and I'll—" Fenrel stepped ahead, blade raised.

"Loyalty." Aelia mocked. "You'll gain nothing at her side beyond the fate you deserve."

"This is between us, Aelia." Neve was angry. That was new. "Leave Rook alone."

"Minrathous is broken. But you like it. Does it flatter your ego to leave the city as it is? To prove your cynicism right?" Aelia lifted Damas' hand, geared towards Fenrel. She did not have time to react as Neve stepped between them, raising a shield of mana to protect her.

"I am your hope. I'll change these streets. Starting with Dock Town. It could do better." Damas' body trembled, unable to hold the stream of power. Aelia's magic shattered against Neve's protection. His body slumped, yet Aelia said her parting words before blood magic faded. "Goodbye, Neve."

Makal grunted as he fell to the ground. Aelia did not kill him. That, sadly, was yet another show of her incredible control over her blood magic. Fenrel moved to help the man up, just for Neve's hand to pull her back. "We have to make sure it's him."

"Venhedis," the man groaned.

"Yeah, I think it's Damas," Fenrel said, passing Neve and pulling him up. "How bad is it?"

"Fucking cultist snakes." He hissed through gritted teeth. Fenrel sat him back down in the chair that somehow managed to stay standing during their fight. The Venatori mage had fled. There were only the three of them on Threads' dock. "They'll pay for this."

"Perhaps you should calm down before we feel threatened or unsure about you being truly free from Aelia and take you out," Fenrel whispered to Makal before going back to Neve.

Makal Damas did not argue. "Neve Gallus. If you're here, Elek sent you."

"You're welcome." Neve gave him one of her reserved smiles. Lucky for Elek, he did not send them to a trap like Fenrel expected for a moment, or this day could've turned out differently.

"You did me a favour," Damas said proudly, yet still winced, holding onto his side. Fenrel might've kicked it in the struggle, but that was hardly her fault. Things were just moving so fast.

"Actually, it's part of the deal with Shadow Dragons. Which, you now basically signed with blood. You can thank Elek for that." Fenrel outstretched her hand, waiting for him to press it.

"You must be the Mercar girl. No resemblance to him. So rumours were only half-false."

"And what was the other half?" Fenrel rolled her eyes. The rumour of her being her adoptive father's illegitimate child was rampant for a while, and everyone loved ignoring the fact that elves and humans could not have elven children.

"That you had his gall." Damas' gaze flicked to Neve. "I've got dirt on Bataris, the bastard you two stopped with red lyrium relict."

Neve inquired, "Enough for Shadows to make a move?"

"Consider it a bonus to our deal." Damas forced a grin.

"If your dirt can truly take Bataris down—" Fenrel once again offered him a hand to shake. He was looking at Neve. So it was a deal with all of them. Or none of them.

"Do it." Said Neve, and Damas shook Fenrel's hand.

***

"Halos? You are really thinking about food right now?" Neve shook her head as they left Threads' hideout after handing over Damas.

"It's been ages since I had the best fried fish in Tevinter, and killing Venatori works up an appetite." Fenrel walked briskly through the homely streets. After hearing that Elgar'nan was going after her, she wondered who put up those wanted posters. She wondered what Solas would think of this revelation. She did not worry about Venatori coming after her right now, for they probably already heard the news of what went down in the market and knew that Threads were now behind her, too. Cobblestone by cobblestone, they would retake their home, never to be enslaved again. Never to enslave others again.

"Rook…" Neve started, walking behind her. "I was wrong about you. After the dragon attack."

Fenrel did not stop, despite almost tripping over the stone upon hearing those words. Neve throwing herself in front of Aelia to protect her was an apology enough. "It's fine."

"No, it is not fine." Snake's head upon Neve's staff hit her chest, finally making Fenrel turn and look at her. "I was being unfair. You do care about Minrathous. Of course, you do. It's your home too."

"It's all water under the bridge now. I trust you with my life, and hope you do too."

"Of course." Neve nodded. "But what about Solas?"

"What about him?" Fenrel tried to get a read on Neve's feelings about the situation. As always, it proved impossible. No wonder she was such a good detective. "If you tell me what your story with Aelia is, deal."

"You're making a lot of deals these days." Neve smiled as they shook hands.

"Just the nature of the business of saving the world." Fenrel said, "But first, we should eat."

***

They stood on the pier overlooking the sea. "Do you ever wish you'd said no to joining Varric?"

"No… I just have a bad habit of picking jobs that go sideways. Aelia is one good example of it. Won't even start on my leg." Neve sighed. "You'd think I'd learn."

"You said you take jobs worth taking. Isn't saving the world one of those?" Fenrel mused. "Isn't it why someone from the  Gallus family would be down here, trying to protect this shithole of a Dock Town that we call home?"

Neve shook her head in disapproval. "You are not that different, Mercar. Upper cities will never be seen as those who have Dock Town's best interest in mind."

"But if it's not us, then who?" They glanced at each other before falling quiet for a while. Waves broke at the side of the pier. Seagulls wouldn't stop their cries. Blue-grey skies and the storm brewing ahead. The most typical afternoon one could witness in Dock Town. Neve was the first to break the peacefulness of it.

"Varric said this job would end with Solas." Her eyes traced the lul of waves ahead. "We'd stop the ritual, then I'd walk away."

Her plan was similar. Have fun with the dwarf, stop a god, make a return home or find a new life. Varric believed she could, and if she couldn't, he promised her a place in Kirkwall. "Seems like forever ago now."

"If the world falls, the city goes too. It's not like we'll find work then." Neve joked bitterly.

"You are fighting literal gods to save a city that would stab you in the back?" Fenrel scoffed. "That's truly something, Neve."

"Look who's talking." Neve laughed shortly. "People keep telling us Minrathous is broken - and they're right. It's corrupt and petty. Saving the world won't fix it. We should take small wins, Rook. Halos serving fish another day. Getting past another scrape alive. Sometimes we're lucky. Sometimes we get more. But tables always turn… It's better if you know it's coming."

"There's gotta be something good to look forward to. You know, between gods, cultists, Antaam, blight and who knows what else." Fenrel stood for a moment in thought. "Oh."

"Oh, what?" Neve looked amused.

"We can always look forward to another dinner at Halos after the job is done."

Neve laughed. Genuinely. Fenrel was thrown off for a moment. Neve Gallus, being amused, was not in her cards for today. "You want me to bet surviving this mess on some fish?"

"Not just any fish. Halos' fish." Fenrel said with the utmost serious tone she could muster before too breaking into laughter.

***

Fenrel skipped her training that day, much to Taash's disappointment. Killing Venatori was workout enough, and she dragged her aching muscles back to her room. With heavy footsteps, she approached the armchair and collapsed into it. Hours after taking off the armour body still felt awkward. A bit too light for her liking. Ungrounded. At least she got most of the blood off her hair this time.

A bundle of letters was already waiting for her, but she did not have the heart to read them this instant. More trouble, more aches, more pleading for help. Without Davrin and Bellara out on the battlefield, they had to pick their fights carefully. Which meant not picking them with shaky hands, blood crusted under nails and scattered thoughts. They could wait until morning.

There was something else waiting on her table for her to make a decision. A wolf statuette. Giving off that faint blue glow that never faded. She picked it up, turning it in her hand. She could call for Solas and demand that he explain how to make them show what they're intended to. The temptation to see him was creeping into her mind more than she wanted to admit. The refusal to do so stayed strong. So instead, she called for something else.

The Caretaker appeared immediately upon thinking about it.

"Dweller, do you require my assistance?"

"Yes." She said curtly, showing the statuette to the presence. "How do these work?"

"Dweller may put them in front of destroyed frescoes to see reflections of the past."

Fenrel looked at The Caretaker, confused. "Frescoes?"

"Dweller may need to pay closer attention to their surroundings."

Ouch. She did not expect this helper to be this biting. "Put this in front of the wall and I see the past? That's it?"

"Yes. And no. You are missing two more, Dweller."

"Two more? How do I obtain them?" She watched Caretaker with curiosity. There were no more memory arches in the Crossroads. They have checked carefully for them.

"They have been displaced by Wolf's enemies. Find them. Destroy them. Retake the Crossroads. And truth shall be yours, as Wolf intended."

The Caretaker disappeared without waiting for more questions. Fenrel sighed. Nothing related to Solas could be easy, it seemed.

"Caretaker!" She shouted.

"Yes, Dweller?" The shape floated in front of her as if it hadn't just disappeared.

"You had known Solas for how long?" She asked. "Since the rebellion?"

"I had known Wolf since I came into being."

She stared at it, unblinking. "Does that mean… Did-did he create you?"

"You are correct, Dweller." The Caretaker seemed almost happy to confirm it.

"Did he make all of this?" She motioned around her room.

"Some. Some were made by Slow Arrow."

Felassan. They worked on their rebellion here, together. She never gave it much thought, but it made sense. "What else can you tell me of those days?"

"I can give you what Wolf left behind, Dweller," Spirit said with a solemn voice, a stack of letters materialising between its ghostly palms. "Words from him, from a friend and from those who would undo your world."

Fenrel stretched out her hands to take them, as Caretaker continued. "Do not judge by action alone, recognise the thought behind it."

Before she could acknowledge its words, it was gone again, but now, she had pieces of Solas' past in her hands.

***

The tender blues stretched in front of her eyes as she sat on the floor of the balcony, legs tucked under her, blanket wrapped tightly. She could've brought the chair, but somehow cool tiles through the thin material of her pants felt grounding. The chatter of the courtyard faded as the evening went on. It was a book club night. She once again forgot to do the reading. Though nobody cared, she told them to go on without her. She would find plenty of text to rummage over in the office.

The thing was, she did not.

She spent her evening rearranging the room with the help of the Caretaker. With everything moved around, it felt like a breath of fresh air she was afraid to hold. His shadows still lurked in the corners of her vision, and she wondered if Solas was waiting for an invitation. Wondered if she should extend it. It had a weird allure. But so did the thought of cutting their tether. She spent many nights at Emmrich's office, mulling over ideas on how to dampen it. She asked, begged, and demanded that Emmrich sever it. He refused. She knew he was right. She knew that deep down, she did not even want it gone. But it was easier to deny what she wanted.

A dark shape moved below, crossing the yard. Lucanis walked, his shoulders relaxed. She shifted in her spot to see better where he was heading, only for their eyes to meet. He was carrying a tray of coffee. She smiled and nodded at him, silently accepting his offer, flicking her fingers so the door to her room would open. She rested her back against the balusters of the balcony, counting heartbeats until he appeared.

"You're sitting here all lonesome again." Lucanis came onto the balcony, lowering the tray beside her before sitting down on the floor.

"I am not lonesome if I am here with you." She murmured, taking the coffee he offered. "You're skipping the book club for me."

"Perhaps your company is closer to the heart." He winked, his cheeks reddening as he lifted the cup, swishing the liquid inside before sniffing.

"More than those invigorating, steamy scenes?" She returned the wink, following his steps.

Lucanis' eyebrows shot up. "You said you did not read it."

Fenrel shrugged, words followed with a giggle. "I skimmed."

Lucanis shook his head lightly, his body leaning towards her ever so slightly. "Then yes, more than those scenes. Though a sunset would make this even more pleasant."

"For an assassin, you truly have a heart of a romantic." She blurted out, immediately stopping herself before saying more.

Lucanis sighed. "In certain circumstances, I suppose I do."

"Wouldn't have expected it from Demon of Vyrantium." She said, her smiling lips touching the rim of the cup before taking a sip in thought. "But then I guess we're all full of surprises."

They drank their coffee in silence, eyes locked on the horizon and floating buildings ahead.

"I spoke with Emmrich." Lucanis broke the peace. "He explained the tether to me."

Fenrel sighed. "It's more of a leash, truly."

"Are you the one holding it?" Lucanis teased lightly, yet his eyes were mournful.

"I... am not sure. It's like we're both pulling on it." She spoke quietly, eyes fixed ahead as if afraid to look at him and see what was running through his head. "I thought killing two gods would be the hard part… not surviving one."

"He can't be that bad. He did save you." Lucanis murmured, but it did not seem like he believed his own words.

"I am starting to believe he is not." She answered. What she did not say was that it was the worst of it. Knowing that he was somewhere deep down better than he believed himself to be.

"If you don't mind me asking… What is he like?" Lucanis asked gently, leaving just enough space between words to hang.

She did not want to think about him. Not in that way, not now. She wondered if it would pull him closer, and open the door she tried to barricade. But perhaps setting words free would move the stone lying on her chest ever since Weisshaupt. "Charming. Smart. Irritating. And so, so sad. There is insurmountable grief behind his eyes." She whispered. "He tried to save his people just to forsake his world. Just to find it gone once he woke. Only one way to fix it. Can you imagine what it does to a person?"

"Loss and hope make people desperate. Dangerous." Lucanis spoke in a whisper, too.

"After Minrathous and Weisshaupt I wonder…" Her voice drifted off as she turned to look at Lucanis. ".. I wonder, if there was a way to set it right, wouldn't I be the same?"

"No. Because people survive and make do. Nothing can bring back those who have died. We can only preserve what is left and rebuild into something new." Lucanis sighed. "Besides, I'd stop you before you went that far. I am sure you would do the same for me if Spite ever won."

She blinked, startled by how gently he'd said it. No edge. No judgment. Just the truth. She did not respond, just leaned her head on his shoulder, their backs resting against the balusters, hands lying in their laps, coffee mugs set aside.

"You never told me what happened in Vyrantium." She murmured.

Lucanis chuckled. "You never asked."

***

The warm oranges and reds of the ballroom seared her eyes. She stood in the doorway, looking at the checkered floor and lush drapes surrounding the space. Mercar mansion. One of those rare nights, her father would allow magisters into their home. She looked around for his greyed hair and the staff he used as a walking cane, his back pin straight despite his age. The room was gilded and grand, just as she remembered it to be, but it bled wrong around the edges. Too still. Too loud. The music didn't belong at a gathering like this, where laughter once rose like smoke, and chatter mingled amongst bodies. The music drowned all the sound out. Yet, there was no sound to be found. No one spoke. Now, the tables were laid, but no one sat. Couples spun in circles, their moves unchanging, as if their bodies were stuck in a loop. The faceless mess of bodies moving to a distorted rhythm. The dancers had vanished and reappeared mid-step. A crystalline chandelier glimmered over her head, light bleeding everywhere, yet the corners of the room were shrouded in darkness.

She looked down, half expecting to be still wearing her leathers. Instead, a dress hugged her shape, its bodice glinting in gold, pattern repeating one of her armour, an intricately crafted snake wrapping itself around her arm, from wrist to shoulder, yet feeling like it was not even there. Maroon layers of the skirt shifting with her.

"Care for a dance?" A voice came from behind, and she stilled.

Her fingers instinctively curled into the fabric of her dress. She had to will herself awake.

Yet, her body, the betrayer, turned towards him.

"Why here?"She whispered breathlessly.

"I expected you would tell me." Solas stood at a respectable distance, his usual armour exchanged for something more suited for a ball. Robes draped around him, more reminiscent of those portrayed in murals of Evanuris. Proud, regal, even. His eyes told a different story. They were soft. "After all, it was you who reached for me."

"I did not." She frowned. She was not even thinking of him for hours before going to bed. Or tried not to. 

"It matters not, does it? We are already here."

"Wake me." She demanded.

Solas shook his head with a smirk. "But you were the one thinking of me. You think of me as often as I do of you."

"Don't." She demanded again. "This is not real. You are not real."

"I never am," he said. "But you are, Da'mi. Even here."

"What do you want from me then?"

"For you to stay very careful." He stepped closer, his hand reaching for her face. She instinctively leaned back, just as his fingers brushed past her cheek, the warmth of his touch passing her skin. His eyebrows furrowed, yet he let his hand drop. "Elgar'nan is after you, and it is not as trivial as you pretend it to be."

"I am also after him." She shrugged off her discomfort. "We might meet midway."

"You are not listening to me, Fenrel." Solas moved, getting yet again closer, now his hand on her shoulder. She was used to his circling and pulling back whenever the distance got just a little too short. Not this. "Elgar'nan wishes to bestow his will upon anything that does not bend to his wants. The Eldest of the Sun will burn away any insubordinate creature that may cast a shadow on his light. And he will destroy anything he deems to be mine."

"Fearing for your pawn?" She mocked him, harsher than she meant to, yet did not stop. He left with the morning rays and haunted corners of her vision for the past weeks. At least this, he deserved. "That's an unbefitting look on you, Dread Wolf."

His eyes ran over her face, waiting, searching for cracks in her demeanour. She would not budge. "You are the furthest thing from a pawn to me, Fenrel."

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, his fingers still splayed on her shoulder, his eyes pleading. She wondered if the anger she felt upon hearing that Elgar'nan was looking for her was not her own. She let her crossed hands drop, muscles in her jaw untense. "What does being careful entail, in your mind?"

"You cannot stand against Elgar'nan with logic or bravery." He looked at her as if he wanted every word to sink in skin deep. "Your team is what will get you through this. Right now, you are hurt, and you are angry. But that anger, properly focused, can forge your team into a weapon keen enough to cut through any obstacle. If you keep standing by their side, they will return it with loyalty, and you will not need to order them. They will volunteer—"

He did not need to finish the sentence. She knew full well what he meant. "Solas, no."

"Fenrel," He sighed, stepping back, his hand letting go of her. "A cause like ours is bigger than any one person. It is even larger than our own wishes. They will not thank you for sparing them if the world falls to the blight."

"I knew I might need to make a call like that when Varric put me in charge…" She knew back then that war had a cost. She has already started paying it, and yet, "…It will not be made unless every other choice is exhausted."

She was not sure if he was more annoyed or impressed. "Ever so self-sacrificing. Standing against the Evanuris alone will only get you killed."

He said it with such conviction that she did not dare argue. There was a memory behind those words, and she wondered if it might be one she would soon uncover.

"Better a sacrificial lamb than someone hiding behind duty to excuse the ruin they have caused." That got the reaction she did not expect. Regret. A flicker of something she only saw twice. When he asked to carry his apology to Varric. And when he kissed her. "Anything else you would require of me? Or is it time I wake up?" She asked, unable to look away.

"As I have already stated… A dance." He stepped closer, offering a hand. He smelled familiar. Like a dream she had once dreamed, a frosty morning, magic forcefully strained through sadness.

She looked at his hand, unblinking. "A dance? After this, after what happened, after what you— You must be joking. Is this some twisted entertainment for you?"

His eyes flicked to her mouth for a moment too long. She was not the only one haunted by the memory of a shared regret.

"Fenrel, do not put your blame solely on me. It was a mutual surrender." He stepped even closer.

"I was hurt, I was beaten, broken, and you— "She seethed, closing the distance with her finger to his chest. "I did not care that hands which cradled me could also smother me."

Solas flinched. Something in his expression changed, so slight it might've been imagined. "And yet," he said softly, "you reached for them again."

"That wasn't real. Nothing with you can be." She bit back but did not move.

"It doesn't have to be real. Only true."

She hated how the dress moved with her breath. Corset like a cage for a rattled bird, which was her heart. She hated that her body didn't wake, didn't run, didn't fight. Instead, her pulse climbed as his hand remained outstretched—steady, waiting. And her fingers trembled against his chest, eyes lingering on his mouth, the taste of a mistake haunting her.

"One dance," he said.

"It won't change a thing." She said in a hushed tone, their eyes locked.

"That's the tragedy this fall." His voice fell too when she placed her hand in his. His other hand found her waist, pushing their bodies together, he pulling her deeper into the dream. "Neither of us knows how to let go."

She followed his sway, their bodies falling into a rhythm. "I tried."

"You wanted to sever me like a rotten limb." His breath brushed against her hair as they spun in the circle. Only now did she notice that the dancers were gone. There was only them.

She forced a laugh. "Oh, did it hurt your feelings, Da Fen?"

"It would've if I believed you would do it." He returned the laugh. It left his chest effortlessly, in a way that made her wonder if he was truly Solas or just something her mind put in her dream to keep her occupied. "But it seems like we already passed the threshold."

"You said it was mutual surrender. But it was not, was it? For you would never actually pass that threshold." She whispered into his neck. "I do not exist in your plans as anything other than an obstacle."

His step slowed, hand sliding to her lower back, pushing their bodies flush. He leaned closer, his warmth lingering against her cheek. "I do not see you as an obstacle."

She scoffed. "Fine. A nuisance then. Means to an end. Do not tell me I am wrong." Her lips brushed against his skin as she talked.

"You are…" He murmured, his breath stilling for a moment. "…a complication I never accounted for."

He would never see you coming, Varric once told her. She wondered what he would think of this.

"One I cannot afford." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Then let go."

"Neither of us can, Fenrel. We're too entangled."

The dance stopped, yet they still stood, fingers sunk into each other, as if unwilling to let go. She wanted to tell him she hated him. She wanted to push him away. She wanted him to let go. The lights dimmed. The ballroom faded, her dress and his robes going to their original form. When she opened her eyes, her bed felt lonely.

Chapter Text

Morning came too quickly, she told herself, dragging her aching body out of the bed. Solas‘ touch still lingered, his smell clinging to her like honey or dried blood. She did not care which, really. His hand on her waist, pulling closer into his orbit, stripping her of her resistance and his breath on her cheek was the only thing she could cling to, while still spilling poison from her lips. “We‘re too entangled“ He said and her doubts were undressed, standing bare before her as she woke. He was right, but he could not be. Not if she did not allow it.

Her way to the kitchen was lain with the thoughts of him, despite her better wishes. Everyone was still asleep. She knew Lucanis would be there if she knocked, but her feet carried her away from it before she could do it. She made the tea in silence, measuring her steps so as not to alert Lucanis in the pantry. She was sure, he could hear her, but her trying to be quiet should have been a sign for him to not engage.

He did not. The kitchen door swung open pushed by her shoulder, as both of her hands were busy with filled-to-the-brim cups.

The infirmary door was ajar, so she forewent knocking, just nudging it open with the mug in her hand.

“Hey-“ Varric was already up,  in his usual sitting position. “I would say Rook, but today you resemble a Brood.“

“I didn‘t sleep much.“ She said, setting down the cups on the bedside table, and sitting down on the edge of his bed.

“No kidding.“ He chuckled.  “Let me guess: pointy ears, know-it-all attitude, terrible fashion sense?”

 She smiled one of those tightly-pressed lips smiles, “Varric.”

“You don’t have to tell me. But I’ve known you long enough to see when something’s eating at you.” Varric raised his brow in a challenge while reaching for his cup. Movement and a wince escaped his mouth.

“You look like—“

Varric pushed through the move, taking the cup, and wiggling himself into a more comfortable position. “Like shit? No need for flattery in the form of trying to avoid the conversation at hand.”

She took her cup too, burying her nose inside it for a moment. The cold from the floor seeped into her bones, despite her being well dressed. Perhaps it was just remnants of a dream clinging to her. “He warned me. About Elgar’nan. And the cost of this war.”

“The noble sacrifice? Do whatever it takes?” Varric inclined his head, the disapproval written all over his face. “He said it like it was not a threat, like he was protecting you.”

She scoffed with a grin, nodding. “Do you need the rest of the tale, or have you already made it out?”

“Yeah,” Varric said, sipping his tea. “Classic Chuckles.”

They sat for a moment in familial silence. He knew the story already. The tether, the saving, the push and pull. The words spilt out of her to him only while others had to drag on the invisible rope to get them out.

“For what it’s worth, kid, I think he means it,” He said. “The warning. The... care. It’s one thing he can scarcely pretend, despite his luscious titles.”

“And you still care about him.” She looked him over. His bruises haven’t faded. The carnage of the ritual was set in his body, unwilling to leave. She wondered if he would ever get better or if this was it.

Varric gave her one of his fatherly smiles. “You do, too. Wouldn’t be sitting here speaking of him otherwise, Rook.”

“Oh, so now it’s your turn to dig through my brain?” She laughed, and it did not feel weird. In the warmth of Varric’s shadow, everything somehow felt easier. “Haven’t I had enough of it?”

“Wouldn’t dare. I leave that to Neve—she’s the note-taker. Probably has a file on you thicker than my leg.” He tapped his thigh, still trapped in metal construction meant to set it back. They should’ve taken him to a doctor, but Master Tethras was a stubborn man.

“That she does.” Her smile fell with words that followed, “He said we’re entangled.”

“And you think he says that to all the girls?” Varric teased.

She glared at him. “Not helping.”

Varric held up a hand, palm out in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll be good.”

She took another sip of her tea. It tasted like nothing.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, more softly now, “that maybe it’s not about what he says. Maybe it’s about what he doesn’t.”

She didn’t respond. Varric studied her for a long moment before sighing. “Let me guess. You let him close.”

Her lip twitched, her jaw set tight, and her eyes still sunk in the remaining tea. “Just enough to remind myself why I shouldn’t.”

“And did it work?”

“No.” Her voice broke with a bitter chuckle, which she washed away with the tasteless liquid. “It never does, does it?”

“You can hate this all you want, kid. That doesn’t mean you stop hoping he pulls his head out of his ass.”

At this, they both laughed.

“Enough about Solas. I should tell you of Minrathous, Threads and Shadows.” She nudged his leg with her now-empty cup.  “Sounds like one of your stories, truly. Might have taken some inspiration.”

***

Morning rushed past her, and soon enough, she found herself in the courtyard sparring with Taash. The rules of the fight were simple: no axes, no magic, no sniffing and absolutely no biting. The first two were obvious, the rest came from experience. Initially, Fenrel did not find the idea of fighting someone twice her size appealing, but took it as an opportunity to improve herself. Just like now, lying on the cool stones, she knew where she had gone wrong. She should have stopped talking once Taash stopped smiling.

“I take it a trip to Minrathous proved frustrating.” Fenrel pushed herself up from lying on her belly and sat back up. “Though no need to take it out on me…” Her voice trailed off as she rubbed her shoulder. It still wasn’t right, even weeks after Weisshaupt.

“That’s not it.” Taash seethed. “Just confusing. They have their fancy terms, but…”

“You can always try different things until something feels right.” Fenrel offered.

“Yeah—Lucanis! Back from Diamond so fast?”

Fenrel pushed herself to stand and saw Lucanis approaching from the direction of the main building. There was a deep-seated frown on his face. “Hey, you good?” Taash poked him a little again.

“No. We need to get back to Treviso.” Lucanis slowly shook his bowed head.

“You could’ve just said so through the crystal,” Taash grumbled, but Fenrel gave her a shut-up glance. If he couldn’t say it through sending crystal, it must have been something he did not want to be overheard by mages smart enough to look for such communications.

“They found Zara.” She said, and after he nodded ever so slightly, she continued. “Get your gear and get to Vi Revas, Taash.”

***

Their feet hurried over the shingles as they crossed yet another Trevisan rooftop. It would have been a beautiful evening if not for the rush and the burn in their lungs as they chased after leads for Zara Renata. The Crows caught the first one, and now they were there to finish the marathon. She could see Illario’s shape darkened by the sun setting behind him, as he stood waiting for them on the roof ahead.

“Why is he here?” Fenrel murmured as they slowed their walk, she and Taash catching their breath, while Lucanis did not seem frazzled. She had yet to figure out why they couldn't just get here from the street level instead of risking broken necks from a nasty fall.

Lucanis exhaled heavily. “Illario loves being the centre of attention in matters not pertaining to him.”

“A peacock amongst crows?” Fenrel rolled her eyes, straightening out her  Crow leathers. It was a lovely gift from Teia, though, a little tight and showing more skin than she was used to. “How charming.”

“He loves to think it is.” Lucanis gave her a half smile that fell quickly with Illario’s chaffing tone greeting them.

“What took you so long? Did you stop for a coffee again?”

“Are you sure you two are related?” Fenrel whispered with a scoff, stopping beside Lucanis as they reached the other Crow.

“Illario, what are you doing here?” Despite his better efforts, irritation seeped through Lucanis’ teeth.

“I’m coming with you, cousin.” Fenrel looked over Illario. Did not even bother to exchange his fancy dressing pants for something sturdier. Clearly cut from other cloth than them, not armed to the teeth for a fight. The only weapon in sight was a smile. “No arguments.”

“This is my job.” Lucanis drew the line that Illario was sure to cross.

It did not take a moment for Illario to push back. “This is Crow business.”

“How did you even know we’d be here?” Lucanis cocked his head to the side, brows furrowed with suspicious curiosity.

Illario, true to his sleazy self, avoided the question more blatantly than she could expect when his blue eyes turned to her, as if he had just noticed her presence. He was a shit actor, that she could say from the way he followed her every move on their approach. “Ah, Rook, always a pleasure. Touring the city with my cousin?”

“Don’t change the subject.” She cut bluntly. “Lucanis told you not to come.”

“This isn’t your type of job, cousin. There’s no one to charm into dropping their guard. Only lunatics.” Lucanis was, for once, not having it at all. Fenrel wondered if being this close to catching his jailor would push him and Spite to the edge. "All you can do is get yourself killed.”

“You think I’m not good enough?” Illario’s voice echoed in the oh-so-famous Antivan pride, hurt.

Lucanis could not help but scoff at his cousin, though his answer still carried care. “Are you?”

“Fine”, Illario’s hand floundered in defeat. “Have it your way, cousin. You know best.”

“You better go back to the Diamond before it gets dark”, Fenrel tapped Illario’s shoulder as they passed him on their way ahead. “Wouldn’t like you getting caught by cultists. Side quests are exhausting.”

***

Chantry's surroundings were stunning, she had to give Andrastians that. No matter which city or building of feverish faith, there was stoicism-inspired awe about it. She did not care much for the preferred faith of Thedosians but caught a glimpse of Lucanis murmuring what seemed to be a prayer on the steps. She and Taash let him do his thing, withholding unneeded commentary, as they looked around. There was a chill to these strongholds of faith that no amount of Antivan stained glass could melt. No decorum could hide the ugliness of what the belief has wrought. Dropping a flower in a pool of blood could not withdraw the pain that brought it there.

They walked inside silently, weapons drawn, ready for Venatori just around the corner. To their mild surprise, there were no cultists in the foyer. Only the gaudy red and gold wallpaper made her eyes hurt. White and black marbled floors. The obscenity of frivalouness while those who came to pray to the Maker where begging on the streets for scraps amidst Antaam occupation.

Their steps echoed in the empty hall as they turned the corner, and another until a wide neve was ahead, aisles of benches on each side. Transept was lined with cultists, some plight to the risen gods upon their lips as a war mage stood in the middle of them, hands raised.

“Dragon of Night, hear the prayers of your faithful.”

Praying to Elgar’nan, no less.

“Would you look at that?" Fenrel released a low whistle. “They are hiding in the chantry. That must be against a few of the Chantry tenets.”

Killing on the chantry grounds was too, so she found it a good day to be a nonbeliever as lightning charges grew between her knuckles as she picked up speed, giving moments for cultists to notice them coming. The plush carpet of the divine did them a favour by hiding the sound of their steps. The mage who led the forsaken mass spoke as bodies of her faithful were falling around her like flies.

“You dare interrupt? Venatori, make an offering of their blood for lord Lucasan and Lady-" The last word was swallowed by the bubbling blood in her throat as the mage fell and Lucanis wiped the blade of his dagger against the leather on his thigh.

“That was Porcia.” His boot moved the slumped body of a mage. "Zara's favourite Dreamer and soothsayer. She used to come to the Ossuary to read bones.”

"Was she usually off-leash like this?" Fenrel did not bother looking over the bodies. She tightened her boot laces with its heel surrounded by blood pouring out of Porcia’s neck.

“Not usually, no.” Lucanis shook his head, checking for damage on his rapier. She could hear the nasty screech it made against Venatori's armour as Lucanis misdirected his attack. “If Porcia’s here, chances are so is Zara.”

“Your best guess for her location?”Fenrel snooped in the corridor nearby just to see if it was empty. The building seemed endless, and she did not want to entertain the thought of checking every crevice.

“Best guess? Somewhere damp and dark. A crypt, in this case.” He motioned her to the corridor on the other side of the pews. “Let’s look around. The opening mechanism should be hidden somewhere nearby.”

They patted the walls, tried to move the torches, jumped on floor tiles that seemed even a little crooked. Nothing came of it. Until Taash started pulling books from the bookshelf shadowed in the nook of the corridor and suddenly it creaked, moved, and revealed the stairway down obscured behind it.

“It’s always books.” Taash scoffed, dropping the last one to the floor and making her way towards the basement entrance.

The dampness and rot assaulted her senses as Fenrel followed Taash down. The squeaks of rats was the first thing she got accustomed to before her eye sight caught up with lack of light. The floor was flooded as they descended deeper into the guts of the house of the Maker. Muddy waters rolling off in droplets from her black leathers as they splashed their way forward.

“Zara will not escape me now.” Lucanis seethed, dragging his feet against ripples.

“We’ll finish the job.” Fenrel agreed, the tension in her shoulders setting back in.

They encountered only one Venatori guard. Expected more. He clearly did not expect any intrusions and had little chance against Taash’s axes. Soon their way led them back up to the dining area of the chantry. Empty. The itch for a fight Fenrel felt burning in her palms was left unsatisfied as they made their way outside, into the innards of the yard. She was almost delighted to hear another cultist baiting for a fight as soon as they stepped out.

No Venatori, no fanatic, no guard of Zara’s could stand in their way. As her two most beloved fighters fell, Lucanis commented, “Nonus and Decimus. I don’t know if those were their names or if Zara just numbered her guards.”

Making their way to yet another building, Lucanis stopped for a moment. “We’re close. I can feel someone using blood magic. A lot of blood magic.”

Fenrel stopped beside him. “You can sense that?”

“It makes the back of my eyes hurt.” He sighed.

“So you could-?” She did not want to complete her question with Taash this close to her.

“Yes. Looking back, I should have paid more attention to it.” His words sounded painfully close to regret.

The sweet stench had already reached her as Taash spoke up. “There are bodies. A lot of them.”

At least they knew what to expect, she told herself as she opened the door. She was not prepared for the state of the bodies in there. Dried up as if any last drop was wrung out of them. Broken, mangled, torture signs all over. She forced her eyes away, but there was no escaping buzzing flies and the smell clogging up her senses.

“Look at all the corpses,” Taash groaned. With that keen sense of smell, Fenrel could not imagine what the feeling this to look upon such a sight. “They just left ‘em here. That’s messed up.”

“The blood ritual, such an amount would be needed for…” Fenrel’s voice trailed off as she tried to keep her eyes above floor level and not let them stray towards the carnage, knuckles whitening over the hilt of her dagger.

The trail of corpses led them downstairs. Lucanis did not need to say a thing about sensing blood magic because she could smell it now, too. The lingering iron in the air, thick, velvety, wrapping around her skin. The sheer magnitude of power behind the door they stood in front of was delirious and sickening. Her hand caught Lucanis’ elbow before he could push the door open. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

His eyes widened, soft, for the moment as he turned to face her, before falling back down into a frown. “Fenrel, this is our only chance.”

“Just know that I’ll be watching your back.” She murmured, pulling him into a half-embrace. His hands did not hesitate to wrap around her, pulling her closer. The warmth, the hint of coffee grounds, even the lingering scent of wet Assan’s feathers. A piece of home amongst the terror between her hands.

“You always do.” He said before letting her go and setting his sights on the prize, which was to be Zara’s head.

The hinges cried as the door flew open but they did not step in. Not right away. Their eyes stuck on white and gold walls of communal bath now giving off an eerie red glow. It was not a light. It was a marbled reflection cast by blood that now filled the bath that stretched through the bigger part of the space. The fog risen, rolling over ripples of wasted lives. No, not fog.

Steam.

The blood was still hot.

Fenrel did not dare wonder how it was possible. Bile rose in her throat, and like numerous times before,e she swallowed, but the shake in her wrist could not be so easily calmed. Just like the urge coiling down in the pit of her stomach, its tendrils reaching inward, spreading through her mind. He would pull her back from this edge. If only she called.

She settled her eyes on Lucanis, pushing Solas past the walls of her mind again. She could make it through without him.

For Lucanis, she could.

“Lucanis," Zara's voice echoed across the blood-drenched tiles, her steely grey eyes fixed on them, as they finally stepped closer. Only her shoulders were visible, for she was down in the brutal red of blood she had spilt up to her collarbones. Was she naked? It seemed so. It made Fenrel’s gut recoil. “It’s terribly uncivilized to drop in on a lady unannounced. Now the evening’s ruined.”

For all Fenrel knew of herself, she would not give Zara the pleasure of seeing their discomfort. “Of all the ways this could go down, I didn’t expect we’d catch you in the bath.”

Zara Renata rose from the depths, blood slicking off her naked flesh, congealed in places, dripping off others. She’s been here a while. “This interruption won’t last long.” She purred, her fingers stroking the surface of the blood, transforming it into what seemed like scythes.

They drew their weapons quickly, and with the song of the metal brushing against leather she could hear Taash murmur “What the actual fuck?”

“Just stay out of the blood,” Fenrel called back, looking for the best position to strike. “It will leech off you.”

The red reflected off Lucanis’ blades, and purple flashed in his eyes as he threw himself and Spite into the fight. “You’re mine, Zara! This ends with my knife through your heart!”

With a bath so vast, Fenrel soon found herself knee-deep in blood despite her wishes and knowledge. She could feel Zara’s power drawing on her and gritted her teeth as she took a lyrium potion with one hand, and charged lightning through her blade with another. She could hear Taash’s frustrated groans as her axes could not break the distance the blood mage forced between them with her controlled attacks.

In moments like this, Fenrel could understand the magnetic appeal of blood magic. The pulse of power was undeniable, and yet, it disgusted her to no end. She sent the flash towards the mage, knocking her backwards, straight into Lucanis’ hands, which were eager to pull her apart, but the bitch blasted him away before his blade could make contact, his back splashing the blood around, sending an outwards wave as he was submerged for less than a moment that took him to get back on his feet.

“Temper, temper, Lucanis”, Zara teased as he missed another shot, Lucanis being blown back by her blood tendrils.

His shoulder hit a column in the corner of the room, a scratch left by his armour in the paint as a mark of his crash. He winced as he was getting up, and Fenrel raised her hands to hold off yet another whirlwind attack from Zara’s scythes. They could not hold their ground long, not like this. Not with her blood magic weakening them, not with her refusing to call for Solas. Not with him not offering help.

Sparks crackled between her knuckles as she forced herself to think above the fray of the fight. There must have been a way to turn Zara’s power into weakness. There must have been—

“Get out of the blood!” Fenrel shouted, grabbing Lucanis by elbow and pushing away from herself. Taash looked at her confused but did not argue and with a swift jump stood a distance away.

Lucanis shook his head. “What are you doing? She’s my kill.” Spite flickered in and out of his eyes, Lucanis’ body twitching, trying to hold on to control, his dagger turned on her if only for a flash before he wrestled it away.

“Trust me.” She pressed and pushed him over the edge of the bath. As he scrambled to his feet, she turned her attention to Zara and let the remaining mana flow through her shoulders to her hands, to the fingertips now dipped into the blood. Blood was thicker than water. But it still reacted like it.

It was Lucanis’ kill. She knew. She might not have been a Crow, but a Shadow also knew how to honour a contract.  She found it in herself to ground the power just enough not to be fatal as it escaped her body, the little reprieve lyrium gave her, leaving with. With blood this congealed, she counted seconds before what she set free reached Zara’s naked flesh. One thing any lightning wielder had to learn early was to be deadly while not singeing a hair on their own head. Fenrel learned her lessons well and now smiled when Zara’s muscles started contracting mid-swing, her blood scythes falling apart as her body convulsed.

The smell of burning hair was overwhelming. The screams from Weisshaupt threatened to drown out her sense of victory. She pulled her trembling hands out of the blood, forcing her mouth to cooperate, shouting. “Now, Lucanis, finish her!”

He did not need to be told twice. Black leather boots separated blood in ripples and waves as he made his way to his mark.

Zara lay on her stomach, and for a fleeting moment, Fenrel feared she pushed too far, but then she saw her lungs expanding ever so slightly before she shifted. Blood mage lifted herself weakly, hand trembling, different from before. Fenrel looked upon her with confusion, seeing wrinkles lining her face where moments before there was youth. Fenrel could not believe the vanity and audacity to use blood magic to make oneself look better. Doing so to gain more power was something she could stomach. Not easily, but could. However, this sent shivers down her spine and tingling in her hands, the familiar itch for a kill returning.

“So serious, Lucanis! Why don't we talk?" Blood mage still had the gall to talk back and negotiate. The Crow contracts were non-negotiable. “I can tell you much about Venatori… and our pet Crows.”

One she talked to was no Lucanis. The burning fuchsia of his eyes told Fenrel that Spite had taken over the wheel. She did not know just how worried she should have been about it. There was a tight set in Lucanis’ jaw as he forced his eyes shut. He was pushing Spite away.

“You want to know who betrayed you, don’t you?” Zara lured him, but Fenrel knew it was a good hook. They needed to know the truth. They needed to get real revenge for what was done to Lucanis, Spite and Caterina. “Who sent you to the Ossuary?”

Lucanis' grip on his daggers tightened. He murmured under his breath, a vein in his temple outlining the tension. Spite did not want words. Spite wanted blood. But Lucanis was unlike Spite. He was kind and patient. He straightened himself up, eyes glaring at Zara. His voice was unlike his own, raspy, a whisper away from a growl as he spoke. “Talk.”

“I knew you were— “  A shadow dropped from the support beams high up over them. Dressed in his usual attire, the blues of the Crows, the shine of silver threaded through expensive material.

“Illario?” Lucanis stepped ahead, his cousin blocking his way from Zara Renata.

Illario did not skip a beat. “I told you. This is Crow business.”

“Amatu—“ Zara’s voice broke in a cry as Illario turned in a swift motion and grabbed her by the throat, the snap of the bone echoing throughout the communal bath. The naked body of the blood mage collapsed as soon as he let go of her. Blood from her skin now a stain on his leather gloves. He did not spare her a look. Did not have much time for it either. Fenrel was stuck in watching the play that was unfolding too quickly to understand as Spite’s wings cut through the air, pushing her backwards, making her fall, and Lucanis was already pinning Illario’s slender frame to the ground, blade to his neck pressed hungrily. “No! Mine!” The intertwined voices of both Lucanis and Spite roared.

Lucanis’ knee was driven into his cousin’s chest, one hand inching closer to the skin of his throat, another trying to pull back. He was wrestling himself as Spite growled and pushed. The shake in Lucanis’ hands was what made her unfreeze.

“Get.” Lucanis groaned.  “Illario. Out!”

Even after being spit in the face like this, Lucanis still cared for his cousin more than he deserved.

Her hands trembled too. She scattered to her feet. “What—How do I—“

“Fenrel, I can’t—“ Lucanis’ plea was cut short by a pained groan. Spite was stronger than him. Or more willing. The blade now pressed against Illario’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood.

Illario pushed his free hand to the pin on his chest and shouted. “That’s enough!”

And that was when Lucanis collapsed, falling backwards, his eyes dazed, but no sign of Spite.

Illario stood quickly, directing with his hand at Lucanis by his feet. There was no sleaze in his voice, no charm in his face as he simply said to Lucanis, “Relent.”

Now it was Fenrel who threw herself in between the men, pushing Illario away. “What did you do?” She screamed, her hands hitting Illario’s chest. “Blood ma—“

“I did nothing. I don’t know what happened any better than you.” Illario spat, stepping back.

“For a Crow, you are truly a shit liar.” She scoffed but stopped paying him mind and turned her attention to Lucanis, falling to her knees beside him, her hand on his cheek, looking into his eyes to see if perhaps he had hit his head in the fall. He looked at her like he was shock-stricken.

“You have to get Lucanis out of here. Keep him away. From Treviso. From the Crows.” Illario went on, but his voice did not show any genuine care. Just as coldly as he snapped Zara's neck, he was exiling Lucanis. “He’s a danger to the family.”

She turned to him, a handful of swear words ready on her tongue—only to see Illario leaving. She cradled Lucanis’ head in her lap, waiting for him to get out of the haze.

“Lucanis—“ Taash’s voice sounded wrong. A little broken. “What did that bastard do to him?”

Lucanis’ lips moved, but his eyes, though still dazed, were only on Fenrel. He did not muster a word. Perhaps he did not know what to say, perhaps he couldn’t.

“We’ll get you home soon.” She promised, nodding to Taash to lift him.

She ordered Taash to take him to Café Pietra and only talk to the Crows they knew worked for Viago.

***

It did not take him long to feel better, and he sent Taash to check on Fenrel at Cantori Diamond. Lucanis left Café Pietra and came back to the Lighthouse without waiting for them. She wondered if it was anger or Spite that drove him out this quickly. Fenrel went to Cantori Diamond to relay news of what happened, fearing Illario would try to do so first, spin a narrative, and turn Teia and Viago away from Lucanis. Amatus. Zara Renata called Illario amatus. Endearment held for lovers. A word no one in their right mind flung around easily. Just like no Elven would call just any stranger Vhenan.

Crossing the courtyard, she skipped pleasantries with companions hanging around. Harding suggested she should give Lucanis space. All she could see was red. And still, more than her anger for him, fear whispered to her heart. She did not want to leave him alone on an eve such as this. She hoped he was knocked out by exhaustion as she lightly tapped the door to his room. Instead, she heard his voice. “Come on in.”

“You’re… awake” She sighed, walking inside.

“Yes.” He sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to you.”

She knew what he wanted to say. He did not need to. Him losing control over himself, over Spite, was not a thing she would see as shameful. Not in the circumstances Illario has put them in. If Lucanis did not do it first, she would have gone for Illario’s throat, too.

“And… There aren’t words enough to apologise. I never wanted you to see me like that.” He could barely look at her.

She shook her head, a smile crossing her face. "And yet, I am still here."

He did not return the smile. “We need to talk about Illario.”

"He dares to command you to stay away from the Crows." Words left her mouth more angrily than she intended. "He says you're a danger to your family."

“He’s not wrong. If I cannot stay in control…” Lucanis sighed, standing up. “He used blood magic to control Spite.”

“I have noticed. What I don’t understand is how a non-mage could do that.” Fenrel murmured, leaning against the wall. “Lucanis, I know this must be hard to hear, but… Illario must be the one who sold you out. He has strange connections to Zara Renata. He used blood magic on you. Against you.”

“He also knew what ship and when I would board the night I was captured.” His voice was steady, almost void, as realisation was descending on him, one he would rather shake off.

Fenrel’s breath stilled. She’d wanted to be wrong. She wished she were wrong.

“And if we confirm that he betrayed you?” She watched him closely, trying to find a break in his resolve.

Lucanis did not flinch. “Then Maker help him.”

***

Evenings that followed were a mess. Spite would take over exhausted Lucanis and try to leave. He hept repeating, that Lucanis was breaking his promise. That he wanted to be free. Bellara had to lock the Vi Revas so Spite could not take Lucanis’ body on an unexpected trip. The unspoken agreement was that no matter what happened, someone had to be with Lucanis at all times.

Now it was Taash’s turn, but when Manfred came running into the library, pointing his fingers built from naked bone towards the kitchen, Fenrel jumped to her feet. “Lucanis.” She murmured to herself, sprinting to his room, just to find Taash standing guard by the door as soon as she barged in.

"Demon's back," Taash grumbled.

Lucanis sat on his bed, hands crossed against his chest, purple eyes flashing.

“I don’t think Spite ever leaves, actually.” Fenrel attempted to joke, but the exhaustion of sleepless nights chasing Spite was catching up to her.

“Then he’s acting weird.” Taash shrugged. “Weird-er.”

Lucanis breathed in deep, nostrils flaring. As if trying to inhale the room itself. “Smells like melon and woodsmoke.” Spite attempted to move towards the door.

“Hey, no!” Taash barked at him like an unruly mabari. “No. Sit your ass back down.”

Spite did not budge. Fenrel glanced at Taash. “You should go. I’ll handle this.”

Taash gave her a look but did not fight. Taash would love to poke at just how often Fenrel and Lucanis were alone together, but even she knew better than to tease now.

“Now. We get to talk.”  Spite leered as soon as the door closed.

“You’re right.” She forced a smile. Talking to Spite often came down to something akin to calming a toddler. “Let’s talk about you getting out of Lucanis’ body or starting to behave.”

“Lucanis.” Spite grunted. “Made a deal. He hasn’t kept.”

“What deal?”

“Break our chains. Kill. Escape our prison. And live.” 

Fenrel shook her head. “Isn’t that what happened? I broke you out of the Ossuary. You are free, Spite. You both are.”

“No!” Spite barked. “I want out!”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Out to where? Tevinter? Orlais? Nowhere’s safe for a possessed man, but here, with us, me.”

“No! No!” Spite did not listen. Did not want to listen. “He promised! Tell him—Make him—”

Lucanis’ body bent over in pain. Spite grunted, and suddenly the purple of his eyes was gone. Lucanis stood there, wide-eyed. “Fenrel?”

“You were sleepwalking. Again.”

Lucanis sighed, disappointment in his lack of control evident. “Spite was sleepwalking.”

“He didn’t go anywhere.” Fenrel softened her voice, quick to calm Lucanis down. “Nothing happened.”

Lucanis looked down as if incapable of looking at her. “I didn’t want you to see that. Again.”

"These things that are happening to you, do not change how any of us feel about you… How I feel about you." Fenrel reassured him, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. She wanted to spare him this constant struggle. But no one in the Lighthouse was forgiven the sin of being a hero.

Lucanis smiled to himself. “How do you always do that?”

“Do what?” She returned the smile.

“Break apart my perfectly gathered clouds of doom.” He rubbed his neck, eyes somewhere away from her. “You deserve better than to deal with my messes.”

“You spend every day dealing with mine. I thought it was part of our contract.” She winked at him. She was not sure if flirting with him was what she ever intended, but something about his wide, dark eyes made her slip into it seamlessly. “Plus, you are so much more than what you’re going through, and you wear it well, for better or worse.”

Now Lucanis’s eyes were on her as he bridged the distance between them. “Our contract? It is not a good idea on our part."

His hand leaned against the wall, right above her shoulder, his warm eyes a little too close. A little too loving. She froze. She remembered the now countless evenings and mornings spent in each other’s company. The coffee, the laughs. The comfort. Lucanis was simple, even with Spite. Real. Not a mirage in her head.  Safe. She could love safe. She wondered if he would lean in.

“Sometimes, a bad idea is better.” She murmured, and something coiled in her stomach. The expected butterflies were exchanged by emotion she did not expect. Anger? Envy? Jealousy? Was that her own feeling, she did not know. His name came to mind as Lucanis sweet talked “You like to walk a little close to the edge.”

His eyes were on her lips, and she knew where this was going. “So do you.” She breathed.

“At least I know I am doing it.” Lucanis purred, closing the distance between them. She knew it was right. But somehow it felt wrong. And when Lucanis pulled away before their lips could touch, she exhaled a shallow breath in relief.

“Lucanis?” Her voice trembled as her body did not know which emotion to settle on. She wanted this. She wanted him. He was here. She could have grabbed him and kissed him. Then why in the name of all unholy, when she closed her eyes for a kiss, she could feel breathing down her neck?

“I… I need to clear my head.” Lucanis did not seem to notice the war going on inside her. She did not stop him as he left the room. She counted his steps for a minute before following suit, making her way back to her room.

***

The night was quiet again. Too quiet. Fenrel stepped onto the balcony, hands wrapped around herself, looking down. Everybody has already gone to bed. There was only her and never ending silence of the fade.

And then—he was there.

No sound. He did not need to announce his presence. After days separation she could feel the tether pull in his direction as soon as he appeared. Just standing in the doorway, like he'd always been there.

She didn’t startle. Didn’t flinch. Did not turn to look at him.

“You should be more careful,” she said, not looking at him. “Harding is asking questions.”

“I did not think of the possibility of anyone seeing me,” he answered. “Did not stop to ponder if anyone other than you could.”

“You should have.  For a god of scheming, you are surprisingly bad at it,” she said, turning to face him.

Solas leaned against the door frame, watching her. “I may have been distracted lately.”

“Not by me, surely. You did not bother offering help in Treviso. Or speak for days at all, for that matter.” Her back turned on him again, her eyes fixed ahead, she said calmly, yet words had bite to them.

“You did not seek help, nor did I want to intrude.” She could swear there was a smile behind those words. “You’re capable enough to deal with such challenges.”

“Or, you are avoiding me,” she sighed, her eyes drifting in the direction he stood. “We’re too entangled in mutual surrender and all those other things you so like to say.”

“Would it sadden you if I did?” She could feel him step closer. “Isn’t me, staying away, what you wished for? It was you who said to let go, after all… and keep telling yourself that you do not need me all the while forcing yourself to shut me out.”

“So you just silently listen to my every thought? Now that’s a way to keep distance, isn’t it?” She rubbed her restless hands together, trying to ground herself against the temptation to face him.

He chuckled. It was light, and the air he breathed out grazed her shoulder. “If you stopped tugging on the tether, it would be more… manageable.”

“So now it’s the fault of the connection? No blame ever lies on you, does it, Solas?”

He stood silent for a second. “I do have to admit that I find watching you fascinating, but the tether is an undeniable factor in it. It’s getting stronger.”

“Stronger?” She asked, her head slightly moving towards him, lips agape. “What in the Andraste’s tits does it mean?”

 The Maker damned chuckles again. "It would seem that the more we give in to it, the more it exceeds my previous expectations of what it could do."

“Great.” She seethed. “Being tied closer to you was what I needed. And what will happen to it after all this? I hopefully defeat Elgar’nan, the world is safe, and I am stuck with the one who would tear it apart.”

“If only you weren’t so stubborn, you might find yourself surprised to see it another way.” Solas mused, leaning over her shoulder.

Fenrel exhaled heavily, looking him in the eye. “There is no way we both win and get what we want.”

“Only if you believe it to be so.” Solas’ voice was low, his eyes holding her stare.

"I cannot trust what you believe to be. I scarcely believe my own mind these days." She murmured, breaking eye contact, letting her sight drift to the courtyard. "You say of the tether what you wish, and I am supposed to believe that one day you won't take my body for a ride I would not come back from or find some other way to escape your prison."

“You carry so little faith in me.” She could swear there was a note of disappointment in his voice. “We’re nothing like Lucanis and Spite.”

"So I am supposed to just believe you? You can't expect me to have this noose on my neck and not wish for the chair under my feet." She looked back at him, laying her offer out for him to take. "Agree to speak with Emmrich, and that might gain you the trust you ask for."

"As you wish," His lashes fluttered, as he stood with a slightly surprised look on his face that did not take long to switch to a crooked smile as he walked back to the entrance of the balcony, leaning against it. "But do pray to tell how you expect it to work without everyone finding out? Or are you ready to face the truth for once?"

“Not yet. But…” She returned a half-hearted smirk. "I'll deal with the fallout as it comes."

He raised his brows. “Even Scout Harding?”

She did not want to think of that now. She might need to hide Lace’s arrows and bow before bringing this news. Fenrel shook the unwanted thoughts off, turning to face him.

“What are you doing here anyway?” She walked closer as if an imaginary string was pulling around her waist. "Days of silence, and you appear here, just as—," She thought of Lucanis. Of course. No timing with Solas could be coincidental.

He did not answer, so she teased. Solas appearing after what went down with Lucanis couldn’t have been a happenstance. She was not sure if she was even surprised.  “Afraid that I would have fallen into somebody else’s hands?”

He smiled, the violet of his eyes painted blue by reflections of the sky above them. “You do deserve to be in hands that can afford to hold you.”

She should have known better than to push but refused herself that logic. “And you wish yours could?”

He did not respond, his eyes glued to her, his body unmoving as she leaned closer. She stared at him one second longer. Then turned. The conversation was over. Lucanis was right, she was walking the blade’s edge for far too long.

Fingers wrapped around her hand, pulling her back, her body turning just to hit his chest. They stood frozen in the moment, face to face, two pairs of eyes searching for something in each other. They’ve been here before. He called it mutual surrender, for all that she hated about those words, it truly felt like one. That invisible string was now pulling tighter and tighter. She hated this. Hated him. Hated how much she needed this. Hated how he occupied all the empty spaces surrounding her. Hated how her mind and body sought him out.

In the Lighthouse dusk, she could see the faint scar separating the skin of his upper lip, the light marks painting his face, in a pattern she could not discern. The freckles that were like a spray of paint across his cheeks, the heartache in his eyes, a slight furrow between his brows as if he was asking something of her. His breath against her skin. The dread that filled her as Lucanis' lips were breaking distance was nowhere to be found. Instead, she felt tingling in her stomach and her pulse rising in her neck.

She hated him, she had to remind herself, as her fingers grabbed onto his collar, their lips colliding.

No hesitation. No warning.

Only hope that he would be the one to stop this ruination.

Solas stilled. For a breath. A blink. Then he moved.

Her hands found his face, half expecting, half begging he would disappear. Instead, his mouth crashed into hers like it was the only way to breathe. Desperate, quiet, lustful. Her body trembled, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t let herself think. If she did, she would pull back.

But Solas wouldn’t let it. His arms wrapped around her like something inside him had snapped. Wanting, needing, pleading. Like a drowning man holding on for dear life. Like he’d been waiting—aching—for this and cursing himself the entire time. Her curses faded in the sound of their shared breath. His mouth met hers again, fiercer now, teeth brushing past, catching her lip in the collision, drawing blood. In response, she bit back, smiling at the soft moan that escaped his mouth, his hands pressing on her back as if trying to pull her into him.

And when they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, panting—

“This is a mistake,” she whispered, breathless.

His eyes were closed. "Then let go," he murmured with a smirk, ever so slightly shaking his head.

But neither could stop.

Their mouths collided again—this time with all that was unsaid. With hunger. All the rage, the grief, the tethered ache that had twisted them into this thing with no name.

They collapsed into each other, and nothing mattered. He walked her backwards into her room, never breaking contact until her thighs met the edge of the table. Her hands clutched the fabric at his chest. His hand travelled around her back, sliding underneath her unbuttoned shirt, grazing her breast, until taking firm hold of the nape of her neck.  He broke the kiss only to press his lips along her jaw, her neck, a trail of heated desperation as he whispered things in Elvhen that didn’t quite reach meaning—only rhythm, only ache. Though she did make out two words. Ir abelas. She was sorry, too, yet refused to let go.

His hands found her hips. Digging into them, surely to leave marks behind.

A gasp escaped her as he lifted her and set her down on the table, her body curling around him like the tether that refused to let them part. Her fingers tangled in the fabric at his back. His mouth met hers again—open, hungry, teeth grazing teeth. Bloodied lips and sharp canines. As he broke the kiss again, his hand grabbing her waist, arching her over the table, his tongue sliding down her neck until teeth found the collarbone, all thought escaped her. There was only a need.

She should’ve stopped it. All she could think of was his hands. Maker—his hands. His breath thrummed in her ears. Him. She whispered his name like a blasphemy.

She didn't want it to stop. His lips came back to hers, hands desperately tearing her shirt apart, as hers fumbled with his armour.

Then—

Footsteps. A voice. Humming. Muffled, but near.

She froze. He felt it instantly. Their lips hovered, breath against breath.

And then—he was gone. Her shirt hung open. Her body still arched toward him. Blood dripped from her lip, the collarbone burning with marks of his teeth. The knock came, but she did not respond. Did not let the door open. Heat still lingered between her thighs where he’d pressed against her. For a moment, she wished he would pull her into his prison and finish what they started. But Varric was behind the door, and she needed to fix herself quickly.

Chapter Text

It was merely seconds after Solas left when the marks on her skin followed him. The sting in her lips receded, and she wished he would have also taken the itch in her palms from where she touched him. She flicked the hand for the door to open, waiting for Varric to enter. He had never visited her room before, ever since they landed in The Lighthouse. She listened intently, wondering if he would ask about blood on her shirt. But when she couldn't hear the metallic click of the cast on his leg, she turned her head to see the empty doorway. She took her steps carefully until she stood outside the room and looked down the empty corridor. There was no way he could leave that quickly. Perhaps she was mistaken and too deep in her thoughts to hear him walk away. She stepped back in, collapsing on the bed without bothering to undress, flicking her wrist again, the sound of stone scraping against stone as the room sealed itself again. She did not hear the final click as sleep had already claimed her. A dreamless one.

"Rook! Oh—sorry, Fenrel, get up!" A voice made her eyes open wide, momentarely blinded by sudden flood of light. She grabbed around the sheets trying to get her bearing as her head snapped to the door.

"Bellara?" Fenrel's voice rasped as her mouth was parched dry. "Why? What's happening?" She kicked off her blanket, feet hitting the stone floor, sending a chill up her spine, her body spasming for a second from sudden cold.

"It's working—Nadas Dirtha—Speaking" Bellara stumbled over words quicker than she could come up with them.

Fingers rubbed her forehead as Fenrel exhaled deeply, "Please, Bel, slow down." She glanced at the panicked mage. "First of all, how did you get inside? I made sure the door was closed."

"Oh, that? That is a very simple warding spell, ancient, of course, but minutes to dismantle."

"You broke my door down just to wake me up?" Fenrel shook her head. "You know you could've just sent one of Neve's wisps. Or, use the crystal."

"Well, see, I did that, but you still wouldn't respond, so" Bellara articulated with her hands, switching between nervously rubbing them to flailing.

Fenrel finally managed to get up, grabbing the robe from the armchair next to the desk, not bothering to search for boots. "Let's go then, just… please reinstate the wards later, okay?'

"Yes, yes, sure thing, Rook. I meant, Fenrel." Bellara turned on the heel, rushing from the room, as Fenrel dragged her feet behind. It was way too early for this. Bellara was clearly too caffeinated, and Fenrel not enough. "Still can't remember to—"

"Bel, I think I said you can pick one you prefer." Fenrel caught up with her, following her out the door of the library building.

"Rook. I like Rook. Fits you, you know." Bellara chattered, approaching her workshop with quick steps.

"Funny, Lucanis said the same thing about my name." She answered between the yawns, stepping into the cluttered room. More tools on the ground than usual. Scribbled paper all over the place. Fenrel could not remember the last time she actually visited Bellara, for she was constantly on the run, while other elven members of the team had to suffer isolation gifted by fear of Ghilan'nain's influence. Looking more closely now, Fenrel wondered if Bellara slept at all or was just driven to the point of deprivation by obsession over the thing that stood by their feet. Bel was already working it, delicate enchantments that Fenrel could not bother to decipher now. Not as if she could on the fly.

What months spent with the companions taught her was how different magic could be. Back in Tevinter, it often edged on elemental, rarely on necrotic, and in sadly rising popularity, it played on blood. Emmrich carried death with reverence. Neve delivered protection and disruption with control and Bellara, and Bellara brought unseen ingenuity to the craft. Watching her was a reminder of how much there was yet to learn.

A jarring noise threw Fenrel out of her thoughts back into the room as a translucent shape reminiscent of Arlathan's sentinels appeared, engulfed in an eerie blue glow. "This is Nadas Dirthalen. The Archive spirit." Bellara squelled, standing proudly beside the figure. "Archive, who did you belong to?"

"I cannot say." Voice was cold, disembodied, and yet, almost mocking.

"Who created you?" Bellara asked again.

"I cannot say," Spirit repeated in the same inflection.

"It's all it keeps saying." Bellara's fist was hanging by her side, tightening in frustration. "What can you say?"

"I cannot say."

At this, Bellara frowned, dipping her head. "Right. Deserved that."

Fenrel snorted, trying to keep the giggle down, covering her mouth. So much for the great archive. Seems like all ancient elves were insufferable.

"I thought you held that title for me, disappointing, truly, to share it with one of Anaris' creations" Solas' voice came on so suddenly, her head turned before her body could, just to see if he was audacious enough to appear in this space. He was not, but he was correct; the connection was growing stronger. She could swear his voice sounded like it was outside her body.

"You." It seemed like Nadas Dirthalen, after all, knew more than one sentence. It turned towards Fenrel. Though its steely mask of a face did not bear moving eyes, she was sure they followed her. "One who walks with the Wolf."

"How do you know?" Fenrel looked at the thing, curious. It could sense Solas, but how? That was an entirely different question.

"I cannot say." It went back to its original inflection.

Both Fenrel and Bellara groaned at that. "So, it won't tell us anything? What's the point of it then?" Fenrel mumbled, sitting down on the edge of Bellara's bed. Only the edge, since the rest of it was too covered with scribbles on paper.

"You simply ask the wrong questions. A common affliction of the weak-minded." The Archive spirit mocked them.

"Did it just call us stupid?" Fenrel's brows furrowed as she stared daggers at the damned thing.

"It's kind of mean." Bellara glanced back at Fenrel, as if unsure where to go with this conversation.

"So much like one who made it. Like calls to like." Solas murmured.

"Are you telling me to… bully it back?" Fenrel answered, unable to ignore the comment. His voice was a comfort, oddly, in the confusion of this morning. Clear.

"Do your worst." Even as ambient noise, he still carried a smile with his remarks.

"Do you think this Archive could reflect one who made it?" She asked Bellara.

"Oh," Bellara's mouth fell agape, eyebrows rising with surprise, "That's an idea… Cyrian learned a lot. Taught me a lot. About these archives. They have, well… not thoughts like us. But sort of… pathways, I guess. They can only respond to specific questions. Worded in specific ways."

She gazed at the Archive Spirit for a moment. "So. If you're powerful, like almost god-level powerful… How would you talk to someone lesser than you?"

"From my experience? Like a condescending jerk." Fenrel answered without a thought.

"Ouch", Solas retorted, but did not comment further.

"Right!" Bellara said excitedly, "Let's try it! Archive! Tell me who built you."

"One of the greatest of Elvhenan. A steward of her glory. Truly, I was blessed to bathe in his warmth." Archive Spirit looked down on them as it talked, its feet off the ground, floating inches away from the floor. "Anaris built me. And to him I shall someday return."

"The Forgotten One," Fenrel said silently, not meaning to interrupt.

"I cannot say." Archive Spirit took it as a question.

"Good point. It wouldn't know of the Forgotten ones. Dalish called them that. After their days." Bellara said. Fenrel knew of the tales well, especially the one that said that Solas walked both sides, Forgotten Ones and Evanuris, as if he belonged. The Forgotten Ones, whose names couldn't be said aloud, for they would come for you. A tale to scare children into submission.

"The nursery rhymes?" They exchanged a glance.

"Yes, the baby-snatching evil gods," Bellara laughed, and said mockingly, "Unlike the upstanding Ghilan'nain or Elgar'nan. Who knows how the Forgotten Ones were?"

"Well, they said Solas was one," Fenrel answered Bellara, surprised to not be interrupted by the voice.

"So, best case scenario, like him. Worst case… well, you heard the thing talk." Bellara mused, eyes glued to the archive.

"Right." Fenrel clicked her tongue. "So it could be dangerous."

"Could be…" Bellara's voice dropped from excitement to solemn worry. "But still, important. And invaluable. Everything Anaris knew? This thing knows. And our people deserve to know. If I can get it to tell me." She proclaimed, annoyance evident in her voice.

"That knowledge should stay as it is," Solas murmured.

"It's not up to you to decide for current elves. Not after you took all of it away." Fenrel bit back, more annoyed than she intended. If the Veil never came up, elves wouldn't be collecting scraps of what belonged to them. Wouldn't be risking what little ground they had in Thedas society to piece together history that would never be whole again. Solas did not answer.

"Archive," Fenrel stared at the thing, raising her voice. "Tell me about the Dread Wolf."

"An ideologue and a fool who will soon pay the price. When Anaris dispatches the Evanuris, he will spare a thought for Fen'Harel."

"Ouch," She thought, "What did you do?"

"It's rather a long story that I may share if you ask again", Solas answered, clearly amused.

"Tell me about the Evanuris." She commanded the Spirit again.

"A group of cowards. Hiding behind their more "powerful" magic and "superior" numbers." The archive articulated with its ghostly hands, light. Fenrel wondered if it picked up this habit from its creator. "Their jealousy of Anaris was palpable. Their war is unending. But Anaris will prevail."

Fenrel exhaled softly. "Well, I think we cracked the thing. And for that, Bel, I deserve my coffee." She bowed before turning and silently retreating with a wave. "Good luck with the prick!" She shouted over her shoulder, sights already set on the common room.

***

Breakfast was lonely for Bellara got Fenrel up before anyone usually wakes. She drank stale coffee and sank her teeth into one of Harding's creations. Jam and ham sandwiches weren't as horrible as they sounded, once you got through the initial shock and texture weirdness. Swallowing it was also a bit of a dry yet oddly moist challenge, but a generous amount of bitter coffee helped. Bitter. Not the one Lucanis made. After breakfast, she knocked on his door, expecting to find him in his usual dishevelled morning state, but upon opening the door to the pantry, she found no one, just a note. "Visiting the Diamond with Harding and Taash, do not fret."

So, Harding and Taash were out. That meant no training and no checking in with Harding about travel plans to Kal-Sharok. With Bellara busy and Neve supposedly having plans to meet with her Templar contacts alone, there was not much to do other than train with Davrin. Though he was also nowhere to be seen. With not much to go on with their Vallaslin still posing a risk, he could not be far. Probably took Assan out for a fly around the Docks in the Crossroads. She could go fetch her sending crystal and call him back.

"Or you could do something for yourself." Solas' voice came from behind suddenly, making her drop a wooden carving she was looking over in Davrin's room.

She turned. "What are you doing here?"

"You keep your head up, constantly looking for what comes next. What is wrong with stopping for a while?" He mused, looking around the room.

She laughed at that, making her way to the armchair in front of the fireplace at the back of the room. "Did you ever stop?" Fenrel bit, dropping in the chair, naked legs tugged underneath her, red mess of hair sticking to the sides, for she still needed to figure herself out this morning. Nothing was as usual.

"Yes, with the Inquisition. For a while, it was a stop." He leaned against the side of the armchair, looking down on her, with eyes that were unlike his. Like he was thinking of the same, she was once her eyes drifted to his lips. He smiled. "Yes, I am thinking about it. Is that how you wanted to start this conversation? You kissing me?"

"I would rather not speak of it at all." She murmured, forcing her eyes to the tongues of flame dancing around in the fireplace, heat in her cheeks rising. The least of all, she wanted him to stick around in this proximity after the events of last night. "You promised to talk with Emmrich. Still up for that?"

"You go and I will follow," Solas answered, his voice soft like a promise. "Though you would rather dress up rather than venture into his study in this… attire."

Her eyes rolled, followed by a scoff. "Seems like someone had a taste and now wants to see me undressed."

"It wouldn't be the first time," He teased, "Just this time you would be aware."

"You ancient, perverted—" She turned her head to scold him, but Solas was already gone.

***

Steady, deliberate steps echoed off the library walls as Fenrel approached the entrance to Emmrich's domain. The faint scent of rosemary and myrrh lingered even feet away from the door, beckoning her closer and yet she stopped mid-step, inhaling deeply, letting it envelop her lungs for a moment. It's Emmrich, she told herself. He ought to expect this. The reinforced door wailed mournfully as she pushed on it, opening just enough for her to slip through and shut itself with a metallic thud. The aroma inside was stronger, now accompanied by the comfort of old books and molten candle wax, and something that could only be felt back in Nevarra for their oddly charming funerary rites.

"Emm?" Fenrel called, waiting for a moment. First came the clattering of bones as Manfred made his way down the stairs, already hissing his hellos. Emmrich's gentle steps followed soon after.

He tilted his head, studying her. "Rook, dearest. You are up most early. In good spirits, I would hope?"

Emmrich was already in his full attire, hair meticulously brushed, not a bracelet on his wrist out of place. Between here and Davrin's room, Fenrel managed to find herself in the bath and back in her room, dressed up in some more gifts from Teia. It seemed like the seventh talon loved sending her friends expensive gifts, for a crow messenger would visit at least once a week, with yet another package and a note, "For the Shadow Crow". An odd name she has given Fenrel, but she did not complain. It felt like being welcomed into a family, one that until now she had not known she was to be part of.

Fenrel's hands did not find a place to settle on, shifting between rubbing each other, to settling on her hips, then to crossing against her chest, legs starting to pace.

"Well, Emm, about that…" She glanced at him, walking in a straight line from one side of the room to the next, turning upon reaching the bookshelf and walking back. "Promise me, you won't freak out."

Emmrich regarded her with a curious look. "Rook, what is this about, if I may ask?"

"Emmrich, I think… You already know." She sighed, stopping in her tracks.

"Solas." She called for him, and before she could finish the thought, atmosphere around her shifted, a light brush of leather against her elbow as he announced his presence. Behind Emmrich, Manfred hissed once, tilting his head. Then went still, as if observing.

"Professor Emmrich Volkarin. I have heard much of you." Solas spoke, moving to stand beside her, her catching him in a glance. He looked relaxed, oddly. "It is a rare pleasure to meet a master of his craft so dedicated."

"Well." Emmrich stood still. Too still for what Fenrel was used to. Not even a jingle of his bracelets broke the silence, for how unmoving he was. "I suppose introductions are unnecessary, given your reputation precedes you."

"As I have told you before, Solas can appear in the Lighthouse. Recent…" Fenrel stopped and looked for words. "I used to think his appearances were limited to me. But that's changed. Or was it never the case. We are not clear on that."

"To be fair, possibilities of this… connection have not been explored thoroughly." Solas added, "For no fault of Fenrel, of course. Though a more thorough investigation would be appreciated, for the tether is growing stronger and yet the full nature of it eludes even me, though she would not believe my word in this matter."

Emmrich regarded them for a moment, a moment too long.

"You're not what I expected," he said finally. "But then again, few things are."

His fingers twitched, a gesture toward the centre of the room. "Shall we begin? I assume you don't mind being observed, for you have shown yourself to me, Solas?"

Solas stood still, regarding Manfred. "That's a curiosity in a skeletal body. Is that something of a norm back in Nevarra, professor?"

Fenrel's elbow made contact with his side, though that did not make Solas move. "Don't deflect."

"I cannot help but be curious." Solas retorted with an amused look.

'Were you also curious when you used the nature of spirits to extinguish them for your gain?" Emmrich cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head. "Don't confuse my civility for sympathy, Solas."

Solas went slack before he furrowed his brows. The spirits of disruption might have still been a sore spot, despite his telling that ends justified the means. "Note taken", Solas answered curtly, but stepped closer to the grey-haired necromancer.

Emmrich looked at him closely, leaning in. "Huh, well, that's most unusual." His hand brushed past where Solas' shoulder was, his ringed fingers driving straight through where they were supposed to meet flesh, poking out the other side of the body.

Fenrel flinched upon sight of that. Solas was not lying about at least one thing.

"Rook, dearest, I am aware you just… elbowed him, but could you touch him again for reference?"

She shrugged, stepping closer, her hand lying on his warm leathers as it was supposed to, fingers sinking in, to show that she was actually holding on. It should have felt like nothing. A simple action. Yet her mind drifted to the night before, same leathers crunched in between her fingers as he devoured her flesh like a starved dog, and she wanted it to continue as if it was not the stupidest decision she had made.

Emmrich walked around both of them, his bangles jingling like little brass bells as he lightly clapped his palms. "Marvellous!"

Solas arched a brow. "You're enjoying this."

Emmrich paused mid-step, turning back toward them with a smile, wide, giddy.

"I'm studying it," he corrected. "What you are, how you are—this shouldn't be possible. You are not projected, and yet not embodied. Your essence is... localised, bound, and yet..."

Fenrel blinked, mouth agape. It couldn't be that easy. "You understand this?"

"Oh, I don't understand anything," Emmrich beamed. "But I can observe. Now—if you would kindly stand there…" He gestured Solas toward a stone table that Fenrel learned against her wishes was meant for corpse whispering, "And you, Rook, dear, stand opposite. Yes, just like that. Face him."

Fenrel obeyed slowly, folding her arms but keeping her gaze on Solas. His eyes met hers without hesitation. She hated how softly he looked at her, while his eyes would shift to slight discomfort as he watched Emmrich. He gazed at her with a smirk, his hands behind his back, shoulders tensed under observation.

"Now," Emmrich murmured, stepping back, eyes flicking between them. "Think of him."

"I am, and way too often, mind you", she said flatly, yet she rummaged through her mind for something about him to think of. How he stabbed Varric. He used blood magic to tie himself to her. How he sat in her head for weeks, just watching her? How he dares to look at her like…

"No, not like that," Emmrich chided gently, as if explaining a concept to a stubborn apprentice. "Think of a moment. A true one. Something with weight."

Solas' gaze flickered from her to Emmrich and back, his voice uneasy. "That is unnecessary."

"Oh, hush," Emmrich said with a grin. "Let Rook concentrate."

Fenrel exhaled. Closed her eyes. She didn't mean to think of his hands under her shirt. Of teeth at her collarbone and the heat of his breath against hers.

But she did.

The tether between them pulled tight.

Manfred hissed again. Low. Recoiling.

Emmrich's expression changed. The giddiness vanished, replaced by focus, his eyes narrowed, and movement slowed.

"There," he whispered. "That—do you feel it?"

Solas nodded once. His voice was low. "Yes, we always do." His eyes were unmoving from her.

"Wait—you can see it?" Fenrel's eyes snapped to Emmrich as she realised what he was speaking of.

"Yes, it appears it is the very same disturbance in the fade I took notice of enveloping you upon our first meeting," Emmrich said, circling them slowly again. "And it's reactive. At first, I thought it was clinging to you, but actually, it's both ways! Like a conduit. Like it's feeding off the thought passing between you and pulling closer with it."

Fenrel opened her eyes. Her heart was hammering. "Feeding?"

"It's aware," he said. "Not sentient, not its own being. But responsive. A fragment of raw fade magic bound by blood magic to both of you, and you've... built it into something between you, from repetition. From intent. It's evolving." Emmrich's eyes widened as he fell silent, his hand gripping his chin as he turned from them in thought.

"Evolving into what? What exactly is it doing?" Fenrel walked around, facing Emmrich.

"It's pulling Solas closer to the waking world, despite him being bound to his prison. But I suspect he already knew that." Emmrich answered, unwilling to meet her eye.

"Professor, I had my suspicions, but it does leave me in a lighter mind to know them somewhat confirmed," Solas said, still stuck in his place, hands behind his back.

"If it's pulling him closer to our plane, what is it doing to me, then?" Fenrel's voice rose and broke, hands by her sides shaking, as the thought seeped in.

Emmrich barely glanced at her, his voice wrought with worry, unsure. "It's…. Too early to tell."

"And what if the connection is broken? What happens then?" She did not probe further.

"I'm not entirely sure… We need to perform more testing." Emmrich now paced. "Have you ever tried moving things between the planes? We need to know if this only affects you or the items surrounding you as well, how wide the connection can cast its net…"

Solas glanced at Fenrel. "She has brought the music room piano once, it seemed... real enough."

"And is it still there?" Emmrich regarded Solas with a curious look.

"No, it went away once she… finished the conversation."

"Ah, that's…" Emmrich rubbed his chin. "Have you tried bringing anything to her?"

"No, he hasn't. Not that I'm aware of." Fenrel answered for Solas. "Why do we need to know this?"

"Oh, it is just to feed my curiosity, know how matter behaves in the confines of this tether, as you call it."

Solas was not paying attention anymore, not really. His eyes were locked on the mess of paper on the corpse whispering table, running quickly through the pages. "Is this the ward you have created against the influence of Ghilan'nain, professor?"

"Oh?" Emmrich's eyes widened as he was just drawn back from his thoughts of the tether. His hands clasped in front, eyes dazed from running across possibilities. "Yes, it is. I bear no surprise, for you are observant. It is in the finishing stages, you see, but since you have known the gods—Evanuris, personally, I don't mind getting peer reviewed on this occasion."

"Fenrel, could you pass me the papers?" Solas said, his voice low, as if not used to asking for help in such a manner. He glanced at Emmrich. "I can't exactly interact with the waking world without her input. That door would not open for me. The space I occupy in here depends on where she is."

"Huh." Emmrich's face went from slightly surprised to amusement as he watched Fenrel give Solas Emmrich's warding notes.

Solas scanned the symbols quickly, lips barely moving as he read them. "This glyph is unstable," he murmured, more to himself than anyone. "You're mirroring too much of the fade response through the anchor of the ward, which would work brilliantly for Bellara, for she is a mage, but is a mortal flaw for Davrin. In his case, warding a fade adjacent item he could bear on his person would strengthen the ward and eliminate risks of it failing due to lack of fade connection in him."

"I…" Emmrich came closer, peering into the papers in Solas' hands. "I could have wards ready by tomorrow morning."

"Emm, that's great news," Fenrel lightly touched his shoulder in support. "We could finally all get back to work."

Solas gave her back the papers, which she carefully laid in a stack on Emmrich's table. She could not bear to understand the working mess that Emmrich and Bellara were used to. Even Neve, though she used her handy clue board. Fenrel's desk is a meticulously curated space of never-ending tasks. Growing up with a military-bound father had its perks.

Solas spoke again, "Though these wards might seem of utmost importance, I do not believe Ghilan'nain would dare a show of force like that again. From what we experienced in Weisshaupt, it was not stable nor particularly fruitful, just a scare tactic. Next time, they know you would expect it, and for all their flaws, they would not abuse their old toys in lieu of new ones."

Fenrel's eyes rose from the notes, eyebrows furrowed, yet fear was evident in her look. "What are you saying…"

"It will get worse," Solas said grimly. "And for that, your team needs to be ready."

The tense silence befell the room, only Manfred's disapproving hissing bleeding through it. Manfred now stood next to Emmrich, as if trying to comfort his creator, who stood with a solemn look, worthy of a Nevarra funeral ambience.

"Perhaps we should leave Emmrich to attend to his duties, for everyone is seemingly taking a day for themselves." Fenrel motioned for Solas to go, or rather, disappear. He did so with little protest, perhaps eager not to be under Emmrich's scoping eye.

As she turned to leave, it was Emmrich's voice that stopped her. "Rook, you remember the Hand of Glory?"

Of course, she did. The strange disembodied hand they found once they dealt with the Venatori and demon intrusion upon the Grand Necropolis, the very same day they first met. She did not think much of the artefact, for those were piling up quickly in the Lighthouse. Some more useless ones were sold to Treviso artefact dealers, cultural ones were given to Lords of Fortune to be passed back to their cultures through their contacts, and odd ones… Well, odd ones stayed, some being worked on by Bellara, Neve or Emmrich.

"Hard to forget." She answered, turning back to face him. "You managed to figure out what those Venatori in Necropolis were doing with it?"

"The hand is how they broke in." He said, displeased. "The simpler undead are blind to their bearer when its tapers are lit. Sadly, only a death mage could have provided them with this forbidden necromancy."

"And they are working with Venatori, which cannot go undealt with."

Emmrich nodded once. "Agreed. I've made some inquiries and tracked down one of the death mages' victims. Well, his body, to be precise."

"And my wild guess is that some corpse whispering was involved in getting the information out of him," Fenrel smirked. Emmrich was famous for his corpse whispering abilities, as he himself told, often invited to speak to the dead, sometimes to solve their murders, sometimes to dispute unclear wills for grieving family members.

"Yes, surely, it was. A name was given." Emmrich made a dramatic pause. "Blackthorne."

"And I am guessing this name means something to you?" Fenrel asked. She was unfamiliar with whatever it was, a place or a person.

"Blackthorne Manor is an abandoned country house outside Nevarra city." Emmrich talked with his hands a lot. "Our victim mentioned spirits. If they've also fallen prey to forbidden magic, they'll need our help as well. Let's depart for Blackthorne once the wards on Bellara and Davrin are placed. I am sure they would appreciate a chance to stretch their legs."

Fenrel stood around, her feet unwilling to move, her mind running through ideas. "Hey, Emm?"

"Yes, what is it, Rook?"

"Could..." She stopped, knowing that Emmrich won't be the only one hearing the question. "Could Solas use me to escape his prison?"

Emmrich stood, his hands wringing one another, eyes darting away from her, before they came back. "Whatever lock Solas has put on the prison, it must require a stronger failsafe than to bond to a mortal, and he is yet to overcome it. If Evanuris could not escape it in millennia, I wouldn't…"

Fenrel nodded. "Thank you, Emmrich." She turned to leave, her last words said more to herself. "But he is not like them."

***

Do something for yourself. Damned would she be if she took his advice to heart when all she was now was being consumed with thoughts of them. She wondered if it was the tether toying with her, even if it lacked sentience to do so. In the warm candlelight of Emmrich's quarters and submission to interrogation, he looked painfully close to a man he so claimed to be, proving harder for her to sneer at the way his eyes softened when he watched her. Proving harder not to drift to his breath against hers. Blushed cheeks and strange anxiety growing beneath her heart, she threw papers she was not paying any attention to away.

She looked up, glancing at the balcony door, just for her mind to find its way back into his arms. She scowled, pushing herself out of the armchair, not bothering to flick her wrist to open the door, just forcing it with thought alone. Bellara was quick to rebuild the wards, seemingly stronger now. She made her way out to the common space of the library, empty now, weirdly lonely. She considered dressing up and leaving for Minrathous, perhaps even visiting Viper while at it. But she was unsure of his newest safehouse location and was not in the mood to deal with Tarquin. His missives were enough for one day. He was still pretty displeased with the alliance she made with the Threads. Also, it was one of those rare days she could leave her armour behind, flowy layers of fabric pooling around her legs, skirt swishing with every step, loose top, ribs finally unconstrained to inhale deeper. Sometimes freedom was in the littlest of things.

Her fingers cradled the soft material of her sleeves as she hugged herself in thought. She did not notice herself walking in circles and stopping before the music room door. It's been a long time since she visited. Longer even, since she played.

The door opened as if sensing her hesitation. It can't hurt. She told herself, making her way inside, steps slow and steady. The room looked exactly as she remembered. Drowned in the golden light of every stunning sunset she has ever laid her eyes upon, pure gold pouring through large windows, various items of the past abandoned in the warmth of it.

Piano, and its lacquered surface the only darkness in this pocket of fade. Well, it, and murals Solas have painted. Her feet firmly planted beside one, eyes followed the colors bleeding one into another, the anger, the anguish, the loss and memory all lain bare for anyone to see, yet hidden away. She turned her back on it, sitting down on the bench, fingers grasping the lid and pushing up to reveal the keyboard.

Keys carved from bone, yellowed now. As her fingertips trailed their surface, no song came to mind. She could still see the note sheets of the duet lying atop the piano, and a smile tugged at her lips. She hasn't thought of that night ever since it happened. Drunken shenanigans were sometimes better forgotten.

The warmth enveloped her still hand, and she closed her eyes as his fingers lay on top of hers. "Fancy seeing you here," Solas murmured, his thigh brushing past hers as he joined her on the bench.

"It seems you don't know how to stay away from me today." She finally glanced at him, and she was right to keep her eyes closed. In golden light, the way he looked back at her was borderline affectionate and thus could not be true.

"And you cannot stop lying to yourself, even after…" His hand moved from her hand to her cheek, brushing a stray strand away, lingering on her jaw, eyes on her lips. She wished he did not look at her like lovers do.

"It was a mistake." She cut down, looking away from him, though his fingers did not let go of her face.

"One, you cannot stop thinking about."

She now turned her body away from him, even as the heat in her cheeks had already betrayed her enough. Her hands trailing the keys again, too stubborn in her mind to pick one song and press down.

"I remember the first time we sat like this," Solas said, still watching her.

"I truly wish you didn't." She scoffed, though a memory came to her with a smile. "You called me inebriated. And a terrible player."

He chuckled at that. "The first sentiment was correct and understated, and the second one… I told you, you were playing it wrong, not unpleasant, da'mi."

Her smile fell. "You rummaged through my mind for that nickname."

"Not so much as rummaged, more so accidentally walked into your dream and heard it." He said, more confession than excuse, followed by a soft smile. "Though da'fen was worthy of equal response."

She did not quip back at that. Not much to say, with his leg touching hers and his fingers lingering on the keys nearby, the feeling of tether thrumming between them. For once, Solas found silence uncomfortable. "You haven't played in a while."

"That does tend to happen when your world falls apart, Solas." She said, voice void and bitter, hands dropping in her lap, away from the keys. She did not carry a song that would describe all that she felt, except maybe for the dissonant hitting of keys.

"It's important to cling to things we love when it does." His voice was still soft, and she wished he would stop being this gentle. It was unbefitting of all she wanted to believe of him.

"Is that why you kept painting?" She asked, a sudden need to know coming over her. "You painted in Skyhold, fled that life, just to come back here and paint it all over again. When Varric and I followed your scent, it was these murals we found everywhere you went, it's like…"

"I can't let go of the past?" He asked and answered, "Yes, for it reminds me of why I can't—"

"You can't give up." She finished for him. "Well, unfortunately, a song cannot help me with that."

"Ever so stubborn…" He said more to himself than her, his fingers pressing on the keys, gentle melody rising. Her eyes followed them, running through the slow ache of the song, knowing, if she were to move her thigh away from his, it would fall silent.

She did not move.

Just listened and watched.

Melody soon joined by his quiet humming, and yet missing something, she felt, as she followed along. It wasn't so terrible to give in to want, even so small. When she glanced at him, he smiled, and her arms almost ached for him again.

As notes grew slower and then silent, their gentle hum fading with them, he cleared his throat, his eyes coming back to hers, almost shy.

"The things Emmrich said..." He offered opening carefully, knowing her mind threaded that precipice. "I know you are afraid. Of it changing you. Making you feel things you shouldn't."

"And you are not?"

"No. For everything we feel is no fault of it." He said grimly. "It would be far easier to blame it than accept the truth, wouldn't it?"

They stared at each other for longer than felt necessary. She should have told him to go. Instead, she watched as he pulled a folded note from his sleeve, putting it on the keys, sliding towards her. Emmrich asked if they could move things from one plane to another. Now they had an answer for both, as she touched the parchment and felt its grain. When she looked back up, Solas was gone. She should have gotten used to it, yet it still stung.

***

Everyone came back. The dinner was, as usual, a bit chaotic, noisy and undeniably theirs. Davrin and Lucanis exchanging jabs, Neve offering Assan scraps under the table, Bellara telling everything about the Archive to Emmrich to be intercepted by the commentary from Harding and Taash. Lucanis avoided her. She did not probe closer, letting him keep his distance. Perhaps it was for the better, less emotional entanglement.

Back in her room, the note was still waiting for her. Why did it not disappear? The piano back then vanished from his prison once she left, why would the note not do the same as he left?

She stood and looked at the table, her heart threatening to climb through her throat. Did she even want to know what was written in it? Approach to the table was careful, as if the letter could hurt her. Maybe it could. Maybe she shouldn't open it, she told herself. Maker knows what Solas could have written there. Steps away from it, she turned towards the bed, peeling off the layers of clothes, before collapsing onto the edge of the bed. She glanced at the table once more. No. Fenrel told herself, frustratingly pulling on the sheet, enveloping her naked flesh in it and turning away, her eyes closed. They had important matters to attend next day, she told herself. She should sleep.

Not minutes later, the blanket was on the floor as she grabbed the note, unfolding it with shaky hands.

Fenrel,

I often return to the moment we first saw each other. It was not when you spoke my name in the void of my prison—it was before that.

You were on your knees in the blood of someone you loved, someone I loved, calling out to a world that had seemingly already failed you. And I was the one who looked down upon your pain and used it for my purpose.

Even then, you saw through me. The word God on your lips was a mockery of everything sacred, an insult, salt in the wound. Grown on the tales of The Dread Wolf, you chose to stand tall in the face of the myth that followed your steps.

The first thing you gave me was not reverence, but contempt. You said, "I stopped you from destroying the world." The accusation. The certainty. I still feel the weight your words carried.

You hated me above all, and yet, you stayed. You argued. You listened—grudgingly, but you did. And that, I think, is what haunts me. Not your rage, but your refusal to look away, refusal to give in to hatred.

I wonder, now, if you knew how much of yourself you were revealing back then. How much I saw. How much I still see, despite my better wishes.

—Solas

Solas' POV

She slept, her mind somewhere far away from him, yet dancing around the thoughts of him. He was there in the dark watching tether light up everything around, now not thin strands of the fade he had to reach for, but chains that would wrap themselves around him if he just wished so. She thought of him nearly as much as he did of her, made worse by the brave face she tried to hold up before him.

Hatred was not easy. It was not singular. It took from you. It ate you up until hatred was all there left, and she wanted to feel it. Truly feel it, instead of what gnawed at her when their eyes met. It would've been easier if she hated him, he agreed. He deserved it more than anything, and yet his heart buckled at the sight of her in golden light, feeling apricity in the unending stretch of his captivity.

The pieces were falling into their places, as they should have, and yet it did not ease the doubt stretching through his mind. It creeped on him as she watched his hands intently as they ran across the keys. It banged against the walls of his mind as she folded his letter and hid it deep inside the drawers like a secret to be shared with no one but herself. It stung as his hands cradled her now sleeping face, forehead to forehead, and she frowned in her dream, as he closed his eyes and imagined.

"Solas," Her voice reached him quicker than the view of all lost did. He turned and saw her back on the balcony where doubt first found him, familiar streets stretching below. These were not the streets he had then promised her, he knew. It was a dream, but not his. This one was built on the memory of what was.

He looked down upon himself to see the Dread Wolf armour shed, robes more fitting of those days flowing freely, all of his grace now matched by hers. "Solas, what are we doing here?" She spoke again, and he hesitated to answer for his mouth lost its sense of words upon witnessing her like that once more. Plans carefully drawn became juggled again.

"You asked me about Anaris, and I thought you would prefer this to a dry retelling." He walked closer, joining her in the evening sun, raining down on her.

She glanced at him before looking back down at the city. The Vallaslin all around, spires that scraped the clouds with the sign of the Eldest of The Sun atop of them, his majesty's face looking down on them from statues risen all over. Solas wondered if his memory of place was now tainted by his hatred, enhancing the oppressiveness of Elgar'nan tenfold.

"So…" She said. "This is a memory within a dream?"

He nodded, watching her take in the sights. All that he loved, all that he lost and her, was all he could see and think of.

"Take a walk with me," He finally managed to say, offering her hand, which he doubted she would take, only for her hand to wrap around his and make him wonder if the letter was at fault. There was no furrow in her brow, no talk back, as he led them inside the home, straight into his study. Artefacts all around, sketches of drawings he rarely found time for, notes, all left as he remembered. Pieces of him were scattered around.

She looked around curiously, not bothering to pretend not to stare. "This memory is like the one in the statues?"

"No." He shook his head as he ushered them down the stairs, only a door away from the street. "Those are deeper, more…"

"Painful." She said, "Well hidden. And impossible to unlock."

He pushed the door open as he turned to her. "Not impossible. It just requires having them all, for all pieces are needed to understand what happened."

"Caretaker tells me I am missing two." She said, her hand still in his as they stood in the doorway.

"Just ask." He said, willing to give her what she wanted. That was the least he could do.

She looked him in the eye, and his hands wanted to hold her face in that stare, keep the moment there longer. "Where are they? Why would you hide them so?"

His hand reached for her face, still hoping she would pull away, when softness clashed with his cold palm. "They could only be seen by someone worthy of the truth."

"Where are they, Solas?" She asked once again, and he could not deny her the answer.

"Crossroads. Find the gates and win them back from those I let down."

"And you're giving this to me freely, why?" Suspicion in her face was evident, yet gentle.

"It is not freely given, but it is yours to have. In exchange, I only ask for your company. Now," His fingers on her jaw, her face half drowned in shadows from the light hitting his back as he stood on the precipice of their journey. "Experience one unspoiled moment here before you learn what comes much later."

She watched him, unmoving, her eyes straying behind his shoulder, on the sunlit streets beyond. "Lead the way. Let's see what you got up to."

"I must warn you. The Solas you see now… Well, he was different once." He said with a smile, letting his fingers let go of her face, stepping back on the road of his past, her hand in his. "You might find yourself rather fascinated by him."

***

They walked away from the Arlathan to the outskirts of the city, their steps light as she asked him various things about how the city operated. He did not argue or ignore the questions, for it was always a joy to revisit the less muddied parts of the past. Their walk almost felt like comfort when he let himself forget why he brought her here. Their feet left the path and disappeared into the tall grass as he led her closer to the edge of Sylvan forest, wildflowers painting the bottoms of their clothes as they brushed past. The sun was almost down, and he knew as night fell upon them, the story would unfold.

The dusk grew, and they walked as if trying to outrun it, walking in the direction of the sun that was diving into the horizon. A lone tree, separate from the thicket close by, was not far from them as he stopped in his tracks. "This is a good spot."

"For what?" She asked, glancing at him, and then the tree, where a young man, naked, tied and yet proud, sat, staring at the woman approaching from the opposite side of them. Armoured, and yet oddly undressed, wild hair running to her waist, face marred by scars, one ear missing its point, blood and dirt crusted on her cheek, which was taut with a smile as she looked at young Solas' naked pride. Spear in her hand, wickedness in his eyes.

"Is that…?" Fenrel walked a few steps closer to look at the young man. "This is you."

"Yes." He nodded.

"And that is…?" She glanced at the mother of the hunt coming for her prey.

"Andruil."

Her eyes danced between the memories of Solas and Andruil for a moment. "Well what did you do to piss her off?"

He laughed. "Hunted one of her Halla."

She released a small gasp. "Solas."

"I know, I know." He shook his head, hung low. "Not always was I this wise."

"Very humble of you." She jabbed, but her sight remained trained on the story unfolding before them. Andruil was making camp. Darkness of the night nearly swallowed them before she lit the fire, watching her trophy with a curious look. She did not bother untying him, as her hands travelled his naked flesh, fingers rough as she promised to take good pay out of his body for a year and a day for what he had done to the Halla. He did not flinch once. Solas was now nearly impressed with his audacity. Under the warrior's grasp, he still dared to tease.

"You're being cocky" Fenrel murmured under her breath watching the play go down.

"These were different days." He answered, standing beside her, their faces painted in orange hues of the fire.

The darkness rippled as he arrived. Solas watched Fenrel watch Anaris stepping out of the shadows, disturbing the game Andruil was playing. Anaris' anger was always a bit misguided and explosive. Tantrum-like in quality. Screaming at Andruil to let his quarry go, for he came to kill him himself.

"Is that..?" Fenrel asked.

Solas answered. "Anaris, yes."

"If the two of you wish for my flesh so, why won't you sacrifice some of yours to get it?" Young Solas teased, blowing away a brassy strand that had fallen on his face. "A duel seems like a fair way to decide my fate, given the circumstances."

"Fen'Harel, stay silent." Andruil gritted her teeth. "This worm would not dare fight me anyway."

"Oh, you, one of Evanuris, always see yourself so above, so mighty" Anaris spun poison out with his tongue, never tiring. For a god so desperate to be followed, he knew how to make himself appalling.

"What did you do to piss him off?" Fenrel asked, as Andruil's and Anaris' argument for his flesh grew, and weapons were drawn.

"Ruined some of his work," Solas said solemnly. "It was not meant to be finished ever."

"Is that why you seem annoyed with the archive?" She was catching on quicker than he expected. "Does it know of that work?"

"If my suspicions are rightly founded, it should know."

They stood in silence as Andruil and Anaris circled each other, her spear abandoned for a bow, his hand holding a rather flimsy dagger. They witnessed as young Solas spun his words to warn Anaris of a flaw in Andruil's armour. As she staggered with the dagger handle sticking out of her side, blood spilling, making flowers sprout where she bled. As Anaris proudly turned to get what he wanted, steps away from Fen'Harel. As Fen'Harel told him that Anaris owed him for surviving against the Goddess of the Hunt. A creak of a bow string as kneeling Andruil shot him down, now both injured and collapsing, blood of divinity spilling freely until they succumbed to the slumber that would heal them.

"Who will untie you?" She asked when he motioned for her to turn back.

"Worry not, I have sharp teeth." He winked, taking her hand again, now without hesitation.

***

Night bled into dawn, and he knew morning would soon come for her too. He did not wish for it to take her away, as he led her back into his quarters, the door shutting softly behind him, and she again stood between remnants of who he was. The dream was slipping from his grasp, for he held it too long. Illusion unravelling, notes on his desk shifting places, mural above his never tidied bed repainting itself to a visage of something now more familiar. A mess of red hair against crisp white, lost in a dream, a lone wolf watching her sleep. His fingers guided her face to him so she would not notice the dream rearranging itself.

What Emmrich has told them was the truth, one he had known for a while. One he hoped would be more complex to work with. More challenging. But it was simple. Tether was there to use them or to be used. The feeling held in his chest was suffocating as she asked, "Why did you bring me here?"

"For you to see more."

"More of?"

"Me." He said, almost pleading. If she did, all of this would be easier. Or worse.

"I do see you, Solas." She answered, unflinching. "It does not make it right to feel what I feel."

"I told you it does not have to be real. It does not have to be right, either. Sometimes things are just the way they are, against what we want."

It would've been easier in the long run if he just stayed away.

It would've been easier in the long run if she just stayed away.

It would've been easier in the long run if he had not dared let his heart get away from him.

It would've been easier in the long run if she had clung to that hatred she had a little tighter, instead of pulling him closer on that balcony, for all he could taste now was her. He cursed the day he let the rift between them close, for it set him on a path of no return and yet he still pulled her down with him.

For all the betrayals she was unknowingly put through, this seemed like the cruellest one. It's so much easier on the heart to be destroyed by someone who did not hold you dear. Did not hold her like he wanted to hold her. Like he would hold her. For she was his key to all he ever wished for.

The dream was unravelling quick, he knew, and she could see it. The walls of his home melting away, giving back into the chill of his prison, warm glow abandoning them.

"Solas," She said, but before she could say another thing, anything that would shake his resolve, his hand found her waist, another, her neck, pulling her close. She didn't pull away. So he kissed her. No teeth, no tearing into her this time, just her in his hands and his heart. He kissed her like she was his solace, like a kiss could undo every cruelty she had been through and was yet to face in his name.

The perpetual dusk of The Lighthouse seeped through his eyelids, the fade trembling under their skin, as her gentle hands pulled him into her side and his robes gave back to the armour, and he found herself pressed against her body, lying in the bed.

He pulled his mouth away from her just for a moment, a breathless "Good morning," leaving his lips, as he kissed her again and again.

Chapter Text

He was there. Still there, his lips on her as she woke up.

"Good morning," Solas said, his eyes locked on hers, his mouth brushing against hers again, stealing another kiss from her, and another. His frame pressed against her, over the warmth of her blanket. His armour still carried the faint scent of smoke from Andruil's fire they stood by in the dream.

When he finally left the space for her to breathe, his forehead resting against hers, she whispered, "You're still here."

"So it seems," He smiled, hand reaching to cradle the underside of her jaw, pushing unruly hair away. Silence settled between them again. He didn't move, but she could feel the magic under his skin—their magic—thrumming in the sheets between them, the tether a steady pulse now instead of a distant hum. He held her waking body with a tenderness that seemed unfitting, wrong, comforting, soft. She should have pulled away, but no muscle in her body was willing to do so.

"What are you doing, Solas?" She did not notice when her hand cupped his neck, holding him close. Must have done so somewhere in between sleep and wakefulness. She couldn’t find it in her to hate that the flat of her palm fit the curve of his neck perfectly. A thought inside her curled, tempting her to kiss him again.

"What I shouldn't." His eyes, in the morning light, seemed closer to periwinkle than their usual amethyst sharpness. Against angular features, they seemed almost lost, velvet draped over iron. Taking her breath away. No, suffocating. She tried to tell herself, though it was useless. She let this happen.

She glanced over his shoulder, to her room, washed out by the pale pinks and blues of the Lighthouse. Not meeting his eye should have made this easier. "You should leave."

"You should try saying that again as if you mean it." His fingers drifted to her chin, directing her to look him in the eye.

"Solas," She said, taking her hands back from his skin, letting them lie in her lap. He surely knew how wrong this was. "You need to go before this gets worse."

"You don't want me to leave. You wish you did, but you don't." He talked calmly, his hand drifting away from her face. Her skin felt hollow with the absence of his touch. She despised how that confirmed the words leaving his mouth. How hard it became to blame anything other than herself for reaching for him.

"But I will do as you say."

The mattress lightened, the dip in it disappearing as he vanished. She sat up, head in her hands, brushing through tousled hair. All of this was her fault. No, it was his fault. She was not supposed to matter. She was the second in command. It was Varric who should have stopped him, and they would have never met eye to eye. Varric should've… She lay forehead on her bent knees, whispering "fuck" over and over again. It was easier than thinking of where all of this went wrong. Easier than trying to pinpoint the moment the idle curiosity mixed with irritation turned to intrigue, turned to… She threw the sheet away, rolling out of bed. Emmrich should have been done with the wards.

She pulled on the robe, once again abandoning thoughts of putting on shoes as the cold of the floor bit her feet, making her way out of the room to the bath chamber. Neve and Bellara sat on the centre-stage sofa of the library, cups of coffee steaming in their hands. Fenrel waved and said her hellos as she made it to the bath, slamming the door behind her shut. She undressed quietly, the thought of Solas watching her reflection in the mirror through her eyes, slithering down her back as a shiver. Naked, she stood watching the glass fog up from the steam rising out of the bath. The cold made her wrist and shoulder ache. No matter how much Emmrich healed them, it did not seem to help. Part of her felt wrong. Fear of carrying the stain of Weisshaupt within her bones settled in her belly. It was hard to outrun a death of a thousand if you carried it within you.

The water was hot, almost scorching, just as she wished. The heat made the ache numb. Beneath soapy water, her hand felt her own again. She turned it over, palm up, just below the surface, watching the water roll over it. A simple movement gave her an odd sense of comfort. Her father loved his, what he liked to call, joke, that people who preferred to bathe in warm water just missed the comfort of their mother's womb. She was sure he meant it as an insult, to poke fun at those who preferred physical relief over displeasure, but she did not care. When he wouldn't see, she would dip her palm with flame summoned into the water before bath time, anyway. He wanted to raise a scholar with the body of a warrior, in the pretence of saving her from trials of life, now she wondered if he put her in the way of them.

Be the strongest. Be the bravest. Be the sharpest.

Her friends, especially Varric, seemed to think she was. And still it wasn’t enough.

He wanted her to withstand the world, and now she wished to ask him why he didn't show her how to withstand her heart.

Water started losing heat to the stark cold of the stone room, and though she knew she could just wish the warmth back and Lighthouse would abide, she dragged herself from the water. So deep in her thoughts she was, she did not notice when the Caretaker brought fresh clothes.

Besides the black leather skin-tight trousers, she saw the red of dried blood, satin shirt. A shade was almost a perfect match for her hair. She dressed quickly, turned away from the mirror, kept her mind steady on the next steps, rather than the issue of Solas, or rather the issue of her feelings about him.

Breakfast seemed like a splendid idea after such a morning. She left the library, noting the absence of Bellara and Neve. Lucanis must have called everyone for a meal already. A stick dropped from Assan's beak by her feet as soon as she made it to the common room. She lifted it, crouching to tousle his feathers, "I thought we agreed on not throwing sticks inside." She pushed the thing into her back pocket, standing up, but Assan would not agree with such parenting and snatched it, running back to Davrin.

"Assan." He sighed, grabbing the stick from the unruly griffon. "Listen to Rook."

"Morning," She said, dropping into the closest empty seat, right beside Taash, still face down, eyes closed on the table. "You too, sleepy head."

"Taash is not sleepy, just hangover", Harding chirped up. "Davrin offered a bet and there was a bottle, or two, of rum —"

"No need to get into details now," Davrin said, stopping her in her tracks. "All Rook needs to know is that the book club is very fun and she should join us."

"Or Rook prefers having her sanity intact," Neve grumbled, coffee pot shaking in her hand, a stream of hot, dark liquid unsteady as she poured the cup.

"Would you pour me one?" Fenrel cocked her eyebrow, almost amused at Neve's hangover struggle. It seemed like only she got a good night's rest, considering everything. "What kind of bet involves all of you getting obliterated?"

"Join next time and find out," Taash grunted, straightening in the seat.

"Sounds like a challenge." Fenrel took her fresh mug from Neve's trembling hand, noting that it took a lot to get their detective to such a state.

"I believe it is." Lucanis finally spoke up, emerging from their cooking corner, carrying a plate of what seemed like a family-sized omelette. He regarded her for a moment before talking again. "Eat up, all of you."

***

Fenrel steadied herself on her feet, raising her hands as Emmrich instructed. The warding spells were not something completely unfamiliar to her, but she held her gaze strong, readying herself to follow his every move. So did Neve. Neither of the three could afford to make a mistake on a spell such as this. Bellara and Davrin stood in the middle of the room, finally done with their tirade of questions.

Will this hold off Ghilan'nain?

How do you know?

Can we apply it to other elves?

How could Emmrich possibly guarantee it without testing?

Emmrich stood opposite her, nodding sternly for both Neve and Fenrel to follow his lead. The never-ending questions still ran through her head, questions she could not answer without mentioning Solas' help in detail. She was not sure if Emmrich would not slip again in their retelling. She would show them the truth soon enough, once things settled a little. Though she was not quite sure of what settling would look like in their case. There was always something. Perhaps there would never be a correct time. She could not blame them for doubting their ability to stop Ghilan'nain. They even doubted her Vallaslin removal could save her; she was aware. Solas himself said Ghilan'nain paled in the power of Elgar'nan.

She did not ask him to help with performing the ward itself. Not in words, at least. Perhaps, she only hoped for it, somewhere deep down. Still, her veins ran cold, muscles in her arm spasming as his power joined hers, a trickle slow and steady, painful just to a point she could still follow Emmrich if they moved fast enough through the process. She fought the urge to close her eyes or distract her mind from the icy spikes tearing her flesh. Their connection was a shit bargain, she thought. All pain in return for little clarity and unsure footing. She set her mind on protecting them, on saving them. That's what it meant to be first in command: putting yourself last.

Neve eyed her, something in her look telling Fenrel that she noticed her Fade signature shifting as Solas joined the warding through her. Fenrel was to expect questions she would rather not answer.

With a swift yet elegant swish, Emmrich's wrist tied the wards in place, power flowing through her, cutting off just as quickly. However, Solas was channelling through her, was draining her mana reserves, and she had to steady her hand on a nearby table to stop herself from swaying on her feet. She needed to get to the infirmary. She could not leave for Blackthorne without refuelling. Mourn Watch made sure their lyrium reserves never ran low. Eyes shut tight, she shook her head, followed by rapid blinking. Her vision was blurry for a moment before getting back to normal.

"Rook?" Emmrich asked carefully.

She glanced at him, noticing worried looks around the room. "I'm fine. The spell... it was a lot. Is it done?"

"Most certainly. Now, may I ask you, Bellara, Davrin, to carry these notes to Evka and Strife, so the most competent mages of Veil Jumpers and Grey Wardens can start on this process?"

She and Emmrich would carry a copy to Nevarra on their way to Blackthorne. Neve was meeting locals in Dock Town later that day; she would make her way to the new Shadow Dragon lair as well. They all had a job to do. Protect the elves.

***

Hours later, just as the sun in the waking world should have peaked straight down upon the world, they parted at the Crossroads. Davrin and Taash made their way to the Anderfels to visit the remaining Grey Wardens, kill some ghouls, and collect the recent news from scouts that haven't been passed through missives.

Bellara and Harding made their way to Arlathan, ready for a quick look around some recent anomalies that have sprouted all around the forest and checking in with remaining Dalish villages, talking them into letting the Veil Jumpers ward their numbers marked with Vallaslin. Many of the Dalish were stubborn and would not heed the warnings of Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan being back. Some praised them, saying the elven salvation was upon them and Thedas would be set right again. Neither group inspired hope for the fight that was to come. Fenrel was unsure if she could kill desperate people hoping for wrongs to be righted, even if they chose tyrants to believe in.

Neve left alone, citing the privacy of the delicate situations residents of Dock Town found themselves in. They would be more willing to divulge in detail if only the name they knew of would come to question them. Fenrel did not mind it, for she knew trust was scarce to come by in Minrathous.

That left only Lucanis to join her and Emmrich for the trip to Blackthorne. He did not say much ever since that almost moment in the pantry, and she didn't either. Still, glances were passed and stolen. Hers, in shame, that she could not give him what he wanted, and in wonder of what would happen if she tried, which she had to quickly chase away. With Solas clinging to her being, it wouldn't have been fair to Lucanis. His eyes were clear. Regretful. Loving. That only burdened her mind more. They both stood around each other awkwardly. Something built to comfort them became a burden.

The Grand Necropolis was a quick stop. There was no Eluvian to take them straight to the manor, so they had to choose the old-fashioned way. In Minrathous, she did not have a need for horses, so when one was presented to ride outside the city, she asked about a carriage. All were taken out for a day. She was surprised to find that Grand Necropolis managed to house a barn in between the undead, but did not question it much. Both Emmrich and Lucanis seemed unbothered by the provided mode of transportation.

"You can't ride a horse?" Lucanis lifted a brow, not mocking, genuinely impressed by her inability.

"Ha," She scoffed, overlooking a mudded grey-coloured animal. She did not know how to even begin mounting one. "Best you can find in Dock Town is mules."

Lucanis smirked, swift hand grasping the reins, twisting them around the wrist, as the foot stepped into a stirrup, he pulled his body up and swung a free leg over the horse's back, gently lowering himself into the saddle. He freed his palm, offering it to her. "Lucky for you, I can teach a thing or two."

She looked at his outstretched arm. His amusement sank the heaviness between them. She took the offering, following his steps. Leg in stirrup. Pulling herself up. Hand almost slipping down the animal's shiny coat, wet from the ongoing drizzle, regaining balance and somehow landing in the saddle. "Now what?" She asked as Lucanis took hold of the reins once again.

"Hold on." His feet gently pushed the stirrups to the sides of the horse, beckoning it to move. As it lurched forward, Fenrel leaned backwards, her hand quickly grasping at the leathers Lucanis wore. He smirked over his shoulder. "You should really listen to me, Fenrel."

With the weather so dreadful, the gentle beast was in no rush. Emmrich said it would not take long for the manor was only a few miles away outside Nevarra city.

By no measure, she would have called the nature surrounding the city lush. Barely dressed trees became scarcer and fewer, exchanged by naked brush and bramble, twisted branches and roots lying low, close to the path. Though it was supposedly the middle of the day, a thick fog lay on the ground, milky, swirling. Greyish clouds above them were unwilling to let in any sun. The doom and gloom were evident as they approached the abandoned building. Glorious, never mind the wear and tear. Beyond the bulky iron gate, Fenrel could see the landmark of any Nevarran land – a tiny square, a greyish building, entwined in vines, the only greenery around. A mausoleum. No Maker-loving Nevarran nobility could bear to have a home without one. Death was the biggest honour amongst them.

Emmrich sneered at the abhorrent tradition of burning their dead rampant in other lands of Thedas. Until he spoke of it, Fenrel never questioned the way they were disposed of. Death was death; what did it matter what happened to you after?

The front of the building stretched three stories high, the rest of it running to the sides of the hilltop that was seemingly shaved off just to build it. There was a faint aquamarine glow in its glass window, and many eyes of the house were now looking down on them. Emmrich slowed and then stopped his steed. Lucanis followed. Other than the sound of horses breathing and condensation rolling out their mouths, there was the high-pitched howling of the wind. Animals seemed restless now that they had stopped, unwilling to continue the trip closer to the entrance.

"So," She arched her neck up over Lucanis' shoulder to take in the view. "Blackthorne manor, I suppose?"

"Emmrich, you think that necromancer working with Venatori stuck around?" Lucanis unhooked Fenrel's hand from his waist before making his way down to the ground, watching closely as she followed. This time, her foot slipped from the wet stirrup, and she lost balance, a firm hand gripping her underarm before she hit the ground, stopping her mid-fall.

"You are more distracted than usual, Fen," Lucanis murmured, helping her stand straight on the slick, muddy path.

"Am I usually distracted?" Her face snapped to him. She prided herself on her focus, but ever since the dragon attack it abandoned her more easily. Emmrich reassured her that sleeping more would help. The problem was, Weisshaupt only made her nights worse, though this morning she could not complain. She had a full night, even if her mind was out there in memory of Arlathan with Solas.

Lucanis' face was set in stone, worry carved into it. "Not ever."

Emmrich did not pay attention to either of them, looking at the manor waiting for them. "There's malaise amongst the spirits here. Some form of confinement. This must be the place."

He pulled a thing wrapped in a thin sheen of fabric from the bag hanging on his side. Untangled it carefully, letting it spring off his palm and float ahead, just a foot above and in front of them. The disembodied rotten hand, glyphs carved into the blackened flesh, bony slender fingers pointing up to the grief-ridden skies, a faint green aura surrounding it, the only spark of colour amongst the grey.

"Why'd you bring that?" Fenrel regarded the hand curiously. Living with a necromancer, she had to quickly learn to forget the unease that dead bodies could still instigate in her. She was more used to freshly fallen soldiers on the fighting field rather than the flesh given time to erode.

The eye-watering stench reminded her of Shadow Dragon's hideout, body parts never cleared, and people she knew reduced to a mass of meat, skin and goo. The Shadows hung in the streets, skin slouching off their limbs from exposure, carrions pecking at their necks until their bodies dropped to the street below. Venatori forbade Tevenes from cleaning the corpses out, forcing them to witness a natural reduction of their being day by day. Threads and Shadow Dragons already spoke of illnesses spreading through the city and risked their own necks to remove the dead, a seemingly futile effort to protect their town's people.

She had to remind herself to take a shallow breath, followed by a slow exhale. And repeat. She could feel his worry growing through the tether as well as the tremble in her fingers.

"Oh, it is essential we have Hand of Glory!" Emmrich pointed at the thing excitedly.

Fenrel swallowed the sour in her mouth, giving Emmrich a resemblance of a warm smile. "As long as you know what to do with it."

"It is a fascinating piece!" Emmrich was about to go on his usual spiel, but Fenrel used the opportunity to continue with the breathing. "The magic laid upon a Hand of Glory is complex. Whoever killed its donor left their mark."

"Well, it's only a hand" Lucanis stood beside her now, his fingers on her elbow, eyes wide, watching her chest rise and fall.

"It is not just a hand!" Emmrich grumbled.

"Mierda" Lucanis sighed, his hand now fully resting on her bicep. "I meant you do not have to kill a person to get their hand. You can chop it off yourself."

"Whether it is the amputee or the assaulter who enchanted it, it will lead us to them" Emmrich brushed off Lucanis' words. It truly did not matter much if their rogue mage had one less hand. "It would have taken extraordinary skill to layer the involutions on this artefact. What a waste of talent!"

Emmrich talked of their bounty with awe, reverence and just a little disappointment. Fenrel's chest finally calmed to a steady flow, breathing without having to think about it. She glanced at Lucanis' fingers still lying on her and spoke. "You truly carry a lot of passion for your work, Emmrich."

"Death is one of the primordial forces." He sighed, his eyes reaching far off to the horizon and the house that stood upon it. "It breaks bonds as it lays the ground for the new. At times, something is stirring about the elegance of it."

"That is something we can agree on," Lucanis answered, flinching just a little as a piercing cry came from the abode in front. "What was that?"

"A spirit," Emmrich said with a heavy exhale. "Forbidden necromancy can twist spirits. We must find this death mage —"

"Then we should get moving before nightfall." Fenrel pointed with her chin, signalling for the men to move.

As they made their way into the grounds of the manor, they found the metal gate already torn open, its bars bent out of shape like tree branches. They regarded the barred door for a moment, wondering if blasting through it would announce their arrival prematurely.

"Some mausoleums quite often are connected to the house itself," Lucanis said, looking at the lone building on their left.

"And how do you…?" Fenrel lifted her brow. It was probably best not to ask Antivan Crow how he learned of secret passages.

"Some jobs require an element of surprise. Illario would usually take ones that required some flair." Lucanis shrugged, making his way to the mausoleum door. It was the first time Lucanis brought Illario up with no heaviness in his words since Treviso. The door was reinforced, and a lock hung opposite of hinges, rusted so bright Fenrel wondered if one tactile hit wouldn't shatter it. "I can pick this."

He plucked some sharp little utensils out of many hidden pockets of his leather and got to work. Fenrel stood by, reading the inscription on the wall. "Here lies Lord Stoddard Ludlow Blackthorne, last of his line. His life and death spanned the —Oh, the rest is gone."

"Blackthornes were a prominent family back in their day. It's a shame Stoddard was the last." Emmrich said, "To live so long and leave no one behind to mourn you. No children, no spouse."

Emmrich's words carried a heavier, more fatalistic tone than usual. Fenrel knew how he feared his mortality, now she wondered if he feared not doing enough with the life that was given to him.

"Emmrich, at your age, you don't have a family either," Lucanis said as the lock finally snapped open. Seeing Emmrich's expression, Fenrel had to stop herself from kicking Lucanis' shin. She had to, but didn't.

"I am perfectly aware, Lucanis."

The door swung open, and they were greeted by the stairs leading straight to the hole in the ground. The stone interior smelled musky, the air stale, and the walls blackened with mold, which reflected the warm light of the flame that sprouted from her fingertips. They made their way down to find columbarium walls filled with bones, ribs and phalanges cracking under their feet as they stepped on the floor. Somebody has gone through the skeletons housed there. The tomb was bigger than its outside indicated, and soon they found stairs that lured them even deeper. Lucanis reassured them that there must be a way leading back up and into the house. He had to reassure them again after they had to fight twenty or so particularly grumpy undead.

"We must be close. The death mage must have left them here on purpose." Emmrich said, and he was right. Soon they found a ladder that led to the first floor of the manor, some side corridor that must have been recently used, judging by the disturbed dust on the floor.

"The Hand of Glory's magic points inward, to the northeast," Emmrich said, his voice low as if not to wake the restless spirits.

"I don't like this," Lucanis murmured, following after them as they quickly made their way down the corridor. The house was both eerily silent and loud, wooden floors creaking, water dripping and echoing from somewhere, wind howling from somewhere above them. Some windows must have been broken. There was a thick blanket of cobwebs sprawling across the ceiling above.

They entered the foyer quietly, only their footfalls bouncing off the walls. The faint glow of veilfire now lit the rotten insides of the manor, and thus Fenrel let the flame inside her palm die out. They took the flight of stairs up, not looking back at the first floor. More corridors stretch forever to either side. Fenrel walked in front, following the direction Emmrich gave.

There were glass displays containing various luxurious-looking items inside, untouched. Fenrel wondered if the manor was too far out for anyone to loot it or if there were other reasons no one would bother breaking in. Turning to the right of the corridor, they walked out into the open space of the mezzanine room used as a library, which sprawled lushly to the walls of the rectangular room, with shelves in between stacked tight, only small pathways left between them. The air itself seemingly shifted as they moved, and sparkles crackled at her fingertips without her willing them to do so. It seemed like something was calling upon her magic, upon the fade within, but when she reached for Solas, she could only feel their tether as if it had been drowned out, muddy, unclear. "Emmrich?"

"Yes, I feel it too," Emmrich answered without skipping a beat.

"What is it, Spite?" Lucanis said face scrunched as if something was amiss. "Torture. Tied. Set. Free."

Spite sounded rather disgruntled, pained. "The fade is weird here; we should look for the source of the disturbance." Fenrel rallied the men as she walked closer to the opening to the floor below, as if something was calling for her. "The magic feels agitated. I have seen this before. During Venatori rituals, when they would draw a lot of it…"

"The spirits are pressing closer to the Veil than they should." Emmrich agreed.

"That is odd. I cannot reach Solas here. It's like the tether is muddled over." She glanced at the floor below, seeing the door with sigils glowing ghastly chartreuse, intricately carved on each side.

"These sigils… They can't be…" Emmrich spoke, his voice unfittingly shaken.

"What is it, Emm?" Fenrel could not read the inscriptions. She could barely read any Nevarran, and very basic at that, but these did not seem like anything she had ever seen.

"Our rogue necromancer has hidden something terrible behind this door." For Emmrich to sound this grim, things must have been worse than expected.

"Can you open it?" Both Fenrel and Lucanis asked, fumbling over each other's words.

"The door's seals are drawing on the magic elsewhere in the manor." He watched the sigils closely, leaning over the bannister, his eyes narrowing. "Fueled by suffering."

"Tied. Howling. East. West." Spite was talking again, more exasperated now.

"Yes, Spite. Hand of Glory points to the northeast and southwest." The rotten limb was still floating before them, fingers switching between directions. It took a conscious effort not to stare at it, but Fenrel managed. She could go just fine by Emmrich's instructions.

***

They headed northeast first, for that wing of the enormous house was seemingly the closest. Spite grew more and more vexed as they neared the bed chambers. The doors were open to all of them, except for one. As they neared, Fenrel caught herself peeking into the other rooms, her eyes just grazing the interiors. Rooms were prepared for children in a house where a man with no heirs lived. The insides of them seemed from a century past, frozen in time. As if he had hoped to fill them and then left them like this until the day that never came. The toys were untouched, beds perfectly made, all covered with a thick layer of grime.

The master bedroom door swung open with little resistance, acidic green light pouring over them, so bright that Fenrel could see emerald instead of black when she closed her eyes. The room was large, obscenely so. By her measure, the entire military dorm room could fit in there. Rarely would her father let her accompany him to work, and only so after she grew. Told not to speak and not to react when strangers referred to her as his slave servant. She did not, but after her power crackled just a little too much once, she was never allowed to visit again.

They soon recognised the source of the blinding light.

"No," Emmrich gasped. "What have they done?"

The spirit shape caged in a corpse nearly eroded to naked bone kneeled, chained in a circle of bodies. The sight explained the disarray of bones down in the mausoleum. Whoever they were searching for brought them here. At least one body was only weeks old, still in Venatori clothes. Unlucky bastard.

"Sacrifices, both spirit and human!" Emmrich, for once, stood still in the presence of death, shock-stricken.

As soon as Lucanis touched one of the chains holding down the helpless spirit, the Veil cracked, demons spilling out of it. Emmrich managed to raise a shield before they struck any of them, and Fenrel pulled her spell blade together with Wolf's Fang from garners on her thighs.

She and Lucanis stood back to back, picking their victims while Emmrich held the protective bubble.

"Why is it always demons?" Lucanis complained.

"Not always. Sometimes there's dark spawn." Fenrel recognised her terrible comedic timing but was glad it wasn't dark spawn this time. She did not want to burn this set of leathers after getting them soiled with blight. Antivan leathers were much more comfortable than Tevene. Lightning strands spiralled around her forearms like twisted vines, finally enveloping her blades. "Ready when you are."

"Ladies first", Lucanis winked over his shoulder, but still threw himself into the fight before she managed.

***

Emmrich freed the spirit quickly once the demons were banished. On their way to the southeast corner, he explained how, when unbinding the spirits, he could feel that their mysterious rogue necromancer was harvesting the terror from those bound spirits. They walked the corridor silently right until Lucanis suddenly spoke up. "No." He sounded aggravated. "Trust me. No."

Emmrich laughed at the unheard joke. "I pray he believes you."

"Sorry, what is happening?" Fenrel turned and looked at both men, grins upon their faces. That was quite a stark difference from the doom and gloom they carried through the house.

"Spite asked if those self-lighting candles are good to eat."

She smiled and shook her head before turning on her heel and continuing southeast. The green glow was emitting from underneath the door at the end of the corridor. It was no surprise now to see another bound spirit, the scene set precisely as the one before. Demons, too, did not take long to show up. With the freed spirit now fading from their sights, Fenrel uncorked a bottle of lyrium, taking it all in. She felt the familiar hum down her spine, a tug. The tether with spirits unbound felt more normal. She reached for Solas and could feel the press of him at the back of her head, yet it was a silent one. Whatever spell craft was at hand in this manor, it was still cutting him off.

Back at the enchanted door, the sigils were dark now.

"All the seals have been extinguished. Excellent." Emmrich said with relief. One hope was that their target was not hiding behind multiple such locks.

As the wood creaked to let them in, the flood of cyan stole their sight. It burned so bright that all she could see was white until her eyes adapted to the flickering power of the portal before them. It was a short-distance travel device, nothing compared to an Eluvian. Just a hole of fraying light and bewildered magic, a rip in reality, a wormhole to another place, at the same time.

Their target must have been wherever this thing would throw them out. Fenrel drew her blades and walked, unflinching, through the magic that threatened to lick her bones, but instead washed over her as she stepped out on the other side. She could barely remember the first time she stepped through one of these. Her father was rather fond of moving quickly through cities.

No. It couldn't be.

They stood in the Fade. Not much different looking than the part Solas was bound to.

She quickly turned. They needed to get out of there. Now.

The portal was gone. Just more faded ruins in the place where they stepped through.

"Someone's torn a path into the Fade!" Emmrich's voice carried a mixture of excitement and fear.

No. No.

Wait. If they were in a Fade, she should be able to call for him.

Solas?

Only silence answered.

Solas' POV

Fenrel. He called back to her. Again. And again.

Whatever violation was committed against the Fade in that manor interfered with his efforts to reach for her. A whole new pocket of space torn into the essence of the Fade. It felt much like his prison, a principle similar, but newer, stronger, a lock more carefully placed. Despair. Terror. Countless spirits sacrificed to keep it closed. A cage built for something, someone, special. The necromancer working with Venatori suggested who it was that gave them the idea of such a construct. Elgar’nan.

He would dwell on it later. He took notice of the particularities of the Fade in here, to mull over them later. Now, he had to focus on the problem at hand.

He could feel the tether, strong.

He could hear her mind going through it, wondering if he was gone.

If it wasn't related to the manor, and instead something had happened to him.

He did not want to hurt her. Not in the slightest. Not now. He could not promise not ever, but he hoped circumstances would allow him to avoid that. However, at this very moment, he had to do something. Something that would pain her, even if to calm her.

He reached within himself and the Fade humming around him, pulling the tether tight, holding it taut, as he sent a jolt of energy to her, hoping that the chill, even if momentary, ran through her veins to reassure her of his continued existence.

Fenrel's POV

She doubled over, knees hitting the ground hard. Hand clutching her ribs. Wrists shaking. Cold sweat trailed down her back. As suddenly as it came over, it was gone.

Solas was there, listening.

The feeling that came over her almost felt like sorrow.

Not her own.

She was not alone.

"Fen?" Lucanis knelt beside her, hand brushing hair out of her face, which was now smiling. "What happened?"

"It's fine. I am fine." She gently moved his hand away. "Whatever magic is in place, it's dangerous. It's affecting the fade… the connection… We need to close this tear. After we get out of it, preferably."

"Mierda," Lucanis said through gritted teeth, Spite's wings unfurling. "The fade is messing with Spite, too."

"It's imperative we find and stop the necromancer that ripped this path into the fade before it gets worse." Emmrich walked ahead, determination burning in his eyes, the hits of his staff against the stone tile rippling through the space.

There was only one way forward, a destitute pathway laden with ruins similar to those of Nevarran architecture. When learning of the fade connection all mages carried, she, like many others, was taught that the fade often reflected and emulated reality. The Veil came up centuries before a nation known as Nevarra was born, and yet statues of its heroes stood desecrated by decay and raw magic as if in some hidden pocket of the country. It led them into a carcass of a boundless building, the staircase to it stretching so far it seemed like an impossible climb. At the bottom of the water stood, surrounded by enormous hands, many of them, reaching for them without movement, the marble pattern of them almost looking like veins.

Fade and hands. A lot of them were around Solas' prison as well. She never gave much thought to them, compared to the statues that surrounded him. Evanuris. The Inquisitor. Felassan. Wolves. A woman who looked oddly familiar, she just couldn't place where she had seen that face before. Many of his regrets, but now she had to take a mental note to ask him why Fade liked this particular limb so much.

The water was deep enough, almost to graze her knees as they walked through it. She wasn't even sure if it could have been called water at all. It felt somehow thicker, more dense, like Fade tried to imagine what water was like. Something brushed up against her ankle once.

Then twice.

Then pulled her. Making her drop her spell blade. Drop face down, just to meet a corpse face to face. Its mouth moved, and before she could scream "Undead", the one that had her foot yanked her again, dragging her through an alien substance, her leathers drenched.

"Fenrel!" Lucanis' voice cut through the confusion as she tried to pry her foot free and stand up. Suddenly, the grasp on her loosened, but she could feel more hands emerging, reaching, touching. Only one warm. Known. Wrapped around her waist and pulling her back on her feet.

Her back against his chest, she spewed the liquid out of her mouth, using her wet arm to wipe her drenched face and clear her vision, gasping for short breaths. Spite's wings held her close as Lucanis threw a blade into an incoming corpse, but its body slumped before the dagger could reach it, returned to death's soft embrace by Emmrich. "Are you okay?" Lucanis asked, his breathing quickened.

"More are emerging, and fast," Emmrich came up to them, raising his staff, preparing to fight. "This necromancer brought once-helpless undead into the fade to use as soldiers… The lack of morality is astounding"

Fenrel was more impressed by his ability to discuss morality as if they were not being slowly, but surely, surrounded. "Emm, maybe now is not the time."

"Why, yes, of course."

"I lost my mage knife." She said to Lucanis, letting him know that their fight just got more complicated. She could fight without a conduit, just preferred to have control. The ache in her hand was back, likely from the hit to the ground. She popped the elfroot potion before letting electricity flow through it again. The current made the pain worse, but it was not the time to think about it.

The three of them separated, taking groups of undead out for a deathly dance. She could not use the same trick she did on Zara Renata here. The three of them were wet, the fade substance was weird, and the fight was taking them on all flanks.

She ran up the stairs, skipping every few steps, drawing the undead after her. Once they huddled closer, three, four, then eight, ten, the orb between her palms grew, and she let it go in between the corpses, shredding them to bone smoking bone dust.

Fenrel took steps backwards, rising above the fight when more and more undead emerged from the drowning deep. At the bottom of the stairs, Spite flashed his wings as Lucanis circled them, making quick work of them, while Emmrich blasted groups away. Some still ran to her, as if called by the beating heart, one they could extinguish. She let them group again, as her careful moves landed her at the top of the staircase. Her fingers flexed as the orb took its time to grow, weaker than the one before, but sure to get the job done. Her focus on the power was steady, despite the growing panic as some undead were now closing in. The heat was rising, and she blinked for the first time in minutes, realising it was not coming from her.

Dark.

Everything went suddenly dark.

Air was knocked out of her lungs.

Her body was in flight.

Emmrich shouted, "Rage demon!"

Somebody was calling her name.

The tether was pulling at her.

She did not feel herself hitting the ground at the bottom of the stairs, but she knew it was coming.

Solas' POV

The battle was chaotic, but her mind rose above it, clarity in between ragged inhales. Ache in her bones ignored once more. Drinking elfroot was the correct choice. He tried helping her through the connection and still, her mind resonated with the dull distraction of her wrist. Whatever the necromancer they were after had done to the fade in the area was beyond regular ability. It was brilliant. Astounding ambition and talent, Emmrich was correct, and a complete lack of anything close to morality.

No matter the ache and the mayhem, her body and mind acted like one, luring the unfortunate undead to follow her step, herding them to their salvation. So willing to offer herself up. One of many fights in the war was too large for any one person to carry. He swallowed the memories threatening to climb the walls he built. Not now. He had to watch.

He could appreciate the clever use of space. The narrow way forced her enemies to huddle together, rotten dried flesh flaking in the struggle, climbing one another, each eager to get a taste of mortal flesh. She did not dwell on it, her hold on her power immovable.

The heat licked at her back.

The smell of sulfur.

His mind heaving on the tether, his mind screaming for her to turn around.

The lump rose in her throat before she realised.

Pulse spiking.

The roar.

She blinked and turned her focus from the spell.

It was too late.

All went dark.

The inner monologue that followed his lonely existence fell quiet. She couldn't have died, he pleaded with himself, tether suddenly slack, but not broken. She couldn't be dead. Not when he still needed her. She was his only hope, she was… Breath caught in his chest. She couldn't be dead. He would have felt it.

He reached for her again.

Lucanis' POV

NO.

Spite roared, and before Lucanis could ask, the wings unfurled from under his skin. Chill running bone deep. Blinding rage. Spite was pulling him elsewhere, even as his hand was still driving the dagger hilt-deep into the undead chest.

NO.

Spite was taking over, and now panic rose in his chest. Pulse quickened. Something was wrong. It was as if invisible hands wrenched his neck sideways.

Then he saw it.

Saw her.

At the top of the stairs, she stood. Flaming locks lifted from the static wave of her power. Back straight, eyes focused. She got her mark, and she was ready to strike.

Flames grew behind her.

No, they closed in on her.

Rage.

Spite hissed.

There was no time for her to turn. To brace. Her limp body flung from the top.

"Fenrel!" Lucanis could hear both himself and Spite scream, a woosh of wings, fuelled by terror, pushing him off the ground and propelling him forward. Time slowed. They couldn't be too slow. They couldn't miss.

The force with which she hit his chest knocked the air out of his lungs, yet he clung tight. The collision ended with a crash. Sulfur and heat were closing in on them. Pain radiating, lancing up the leg that took the beat in the fall. Spite raving in his head.

Red. All red. Closing in.

Her face was drowned in cherry waves, pressed against his shoulder. His hand held her neck close, a thumb, searching.

A beat. Another.

He finally let go of a ragged breath. She was unconscious but alive. They would be fine.

He should have been up there with her.

The red swelled ever closer, rotten stench, the burning, the heat. The fucking demon.

The Rage, lost in green.

Completely washed out by a flash, a wave of energy slammed Lucanis' back against the ground. Emmrich vanquished the demon along with every single bloodthirsty corpse around them.

All was silent.

Then, Emmrich fell to his knees.

Fenrel's POV

Everything hurt. A pain that went deeper than skin, muscle and bone. As if she were beaten so thoroughly, a whole new body would be required to fix the damage. She moaned, trying to move her head, which pounded like a terrible band at a local tavern. Like the boots of a thousand men approaching the battlefield. Her limbs were cramped in a hold. It took her a stretched moment to recognise the scent of leather her face was pressed into. "Lucanis?"

Her neck was still locked. Wet. Something was dripping from it. "I'm here" His voice was unusually raspy, as if he lost it screaming. "Drink." A familiar green vial pressed against her lips, and she did not fight. She would have taken anything to ease the pain.

"Lay her on her back." Emmrich. He sounded tired. Looked so too, she noted when Lucanis' tender hands manoeuvred her, head in his lap, body on the ground. He winced as he moved, his leg unnaturally stiff. Spite's wings illuminated the fogged-up space, the light breaking through condensed air. They were at the bottom of the stairs, but the ground was damp, not submerged. The moisture in the air almost felt suffocating. It was too hot. Elfroot did nothing to calm the pain.

Emmrich's lips were stained blue. He never drank lyrium potions. Never. Never before. Her eyes registered the undead bodies littered around them. Did he take them all on?

His hands were trembling as he laid them upon her. "We have to get you standing before we can leave this place…" Emmrich spoke without his usual flair; his staff lay feet away from him, abandoned. His jacket was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair dishevelled. Nothing like the put-together professor.

"How…?" She croaked. Her throat felt wrong. Lucanis was pressing something against it.

"You'll recover…. We just need to get out." Lucanis tried reassuring her.

She tried to move, but Emmrich's firm palm splayed against her chest and pressed her back to the ground, a steady flow of his power crawling through her broken bones. He lifted another hand, gesturing for Lucanis to move away from her neck. It was cut open. That's what the warm liquid was. Another set of leathers ruined. Great. "No… How am I alive?"

"Lucanis caught you." Emmrich gave her a tight-lipped smile, continuing his work.

"We caught you," Spite growled proudly before Lucanis blinked him away, though it did not seem like Spite was willing to let go easily. "If Spite did not feel the demon… If I reacted in time…"

"It's not your fault, Lucanis." She breathed easier now. Must have had several crushed ribs that Emmrich just patched up.

"I should have been there." Lucanis pressed before Emmrich gave him a look. "I'm sorry, Emmrich, this is all going sideways."

"Oh dear, it's that death mage's fault, not ours." Emmrich waved Lucanis' sorrows away with a scowl. "They will get their dues. Perhaps not today, but nonetheless. Our primary duty now is safely getting out of here."

She lay there and let him work. But no matter how much he gave, it did not feel like enough to make her stand through another fight if it came to that. Emmrich was draining himself, and quickly. She offered her last lyrium, and he took it without a comment. "Perhaps we should try something else?" She asked. "The connection to Solas, if you could lift whatever is messing with it, he could…"

Emmrich looked up at her, eyes wide. "I…" He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Rook, but I can either get you moving just enough or fail at helping your tether… It will recover by itself once we're out. Then he can help you."

Lucanis sat silent, his hand holding hers mindlessly, but his face betrayed him. She did not push further, just waited to be healed. When Emmrich whispered his last rites, a familiar tingle rang up her spine, though there was still only one voice in her head.

***

The way out took them through a warped library. Piles of books spiralling up towards the nonexistent skies and stretching down to a bottomless fall on either side of the floor. The furniture floated upside down. The silence grew deafening. The library would've been a marvel to look at if every fibre of her being did not appear to be exhausted. The trip further into the fade was calm. No hands reached for them. No demons lingered. Lucanis supported her in their step, adjusting to her broken pace. Emmrich walked slowly ahead, his staff used for support.

Another opening. A vast, empty space, scarcely marked by ruins. They climbed to it, their pace slowing to nearly a standstill when they saw two chained spirits. Silent. Unmoving. Perhaps the necromancer managed to drain all the terror out of them. The steps echoed in the vastness of space. "Late as always, professor." Fenrel heard the woman's voice before she saw her. At first, her eyes aimed too high and had to readjust lower, to see a small of stature, older woman in a lab coat that reminded her of those of workers at the Grand Necropolis.

"It can't be…" Emmrich looked at her, mouth ajar. A woman snapped her fingers and was now in front of them, closing the distance left with a slow, steady stride. From up close, she looked not much older than Emmrich. Huge goggles obscured her eyes, and her hair was put up in a bun.

"But what else would one expect from Nevarra's most eminent meddler?" She smirked, stopping just steps away from them.

"Johanna Hezenkoss!" Emmrich said, exasperated.

"You're acquaintances?" Fenrel raised her brow, too tired to acknowledge genuine shock.

"Oh, the professor and I have known each other for ages," Johanna said with delight. "But only one of us realised that the Watchers are no place for a mage with ambition."

Fenrel sighed, dipping her head from behind Emmrich. "I guess we have found our rogue necromancer."

"Johanna always liked to make a sport out of needling people," Emmrich muttered with just a little too soft of resentment.

"Resentful prattling from the one left behind." She mocked, waving her hand towards a lantern hung nearby, her fingers swiftly drawing power from the spirit chained beside them, it transferring to the source of light. She was harvesting the spirits. She opened the Fade to have something to harvest. She…

Emmrich glanced at Fenrel, giving her a warning look. "Don't touch it. The stolen life in that lantern could make this Fade tear permanent."

"Correct!" Hezenkoss answered with glee. "Only a foolhardy would shed blood near it in this state."

She lifted her right arm and snapped her fingers once, and Fenrel could feel the tether pull at her navel as another fade tear ripped open behind Johanna. It was their way out. It had to be. She could swear she could see the inside of the Blackthorne manor behind the necromancer. "So let the Watchers mourn your pathetic death in the Fade, Emmrich Volkarin. At least, those who are left after my return!" She was jovial as she stepped back and let the Fade tear swallow her and disappear, leaving them stuck in the nightmare. Fenrel froze mid-step, as she could not reach the portal in time. They were fucked.

"What do we do now?" Lucanis said, rubbing his brow.

"We have to keep moving" Emmrich reinforced, but there was never any doubt they wouldn't try. They could not remain stuck in here when there was a war outside waiting for them. "The Fade always provides a way forward. We only need to search for it."

***

Emmrich was right. Of course, he was. She only doubted him for a few moments. They found something unusual for a place like that. Candles. For her, it was nothing special. For him, it was a way to form a conduit by sheer power of will to open their path ahead. A bridge of bone formed before their eyes, a shimmering blue on the end of it. A tear. An exit. The three of them picked up their pace, seemingly forgetting the pain that sank into their bones. Lucanis was limping, and Emmrich was breathing rapidly, but no one stopped for rest. They ran the last feet towards the portal and straight through it, no one stopping to think if it would truly carry them to freedom. Anything was better than this place.

The cold marble of the manor greeted them as they stumbled over one another inside. Fenrel could almost kiss the ground from joy if bending over did not make her just mended ribs jolt with pain.

"You insufferable nuisances, how did you get out so quickly?" Hezenkoss' voice travelled through the walls, bounced off of them, lingered, echoed.

"Where is she?" Fenrel gasped, trying to get her bearings. They were in this hallway before, or at least she thought they had.

"The Hand of Glory points to the main hall!" Emmrich said, pushing past her and Lucanis. It seemed that whatever friendship Hezenkoss and he might have had before was killed off with the spirits she sacrificed in this house of horrors.

The run to the main hall was a blur; they threw themselves at the door to get it open. They staggered into the grand room just to be greeted by her mockery. "So you crawled your way out of the Fade."

"It's not difficult for those who treat spirits better than tools to an end, Johanna," Emmrich said with resignation. He did not believe she cared for his words, but still, he spoke his truth.

"Sentimental drivel!" She waved him off, standing above them, watching over them from a mezzanine floor. "You may have interrupted my work here, but Nevarra City will know its new ruler"

"For the love of the Maker…" Fenrel sighed. "Lady, do you hear yourself? You're insane, and what you're doing is dangerous!"

„Dangerous for those who fail to realise what can be done with a tool like this lantern!" Finally, her voice cracked in anger. "Though the professor clearly avoided mentioning his old colleague in exile."

"We made every attempt to bring you to reason!" Emmrich rebutted, and Fenrel and Lucanis lost track of the conversation quickly. Their last meeting was not amicable, clearly.

"I gave you every chance to join me instead of whining endlessly about your mortality!" She grew more agitated before her voice fell back into amusement. "But I must thank you for returning something dear to me."

She raised her left arm, gone from the wrist, a space where fingers and palm should be, just a ghastly spectre of a limb. "Lovely to have my hand back."

The Hand of Glory that had led them so dutifully here dropped the space it occupied in the air before them, quickly jumping on its phalanges and setting loose, crawling, climbing up the wall, back to its master.

It ran to Johanna like a puppy to its owner, leaping onto her shoulder and settling on it like a pet crow. She touched it lovingly with her remaining arm, something resembling a true smile on her face. "Ah, you see, I'd exchanged it with Venatori after entering… this condition." She lifted her goggles slowly, a chartreuse glow leaking from where her eyes were supposed to be.

"Johanna!" Emmrich stepped closer, his body rigid. "What have you done?"

"What you never had the courage to!" She laughed, and with it, waved her hand, a farewell, one that opened another tear in reality behind her. "Better luck next time, Volkarin!" She haggled as she stepped out of the manor, leaving them there alone. Fenrel's knees shook. The last of whatever energy she had left dwindled as, in the silence of the manor, her heartbeat finally stilled to a normal rhythm. Both she and Lucanis sank to the ground, wincing through their teeth.

"Fuck," She sighed. Rubbing her neck, she felt it sticky and wet. The world spun when she moved her head too quickly. The wound had reopened in their pursuit. Blood on her fingers as she looked upon them made her stomach churn. Her sides ached. All she wanted was sleep. Emmrich's healing barely patched her up. "Don't tell me we have to fucking ride back to the Grand Necropolis."

“You’re in the front this time,” Lucanis said, leaning back, resting on his elbows, regarding his injured leg.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

The ride back was torture. With her hands busy on the reins, it was Lucanis' hand that held the cloth to her bleeding neck. He would wince on a particularly uneven patch of road when his leg got jostled. They rode in silence for quite a while, even Emmrich seemingly too exhausted to speak. But all silences are never meant to last.

The tether felt fragile, barely there, Solas' voice still gone. For a moment, she wondered if they were cut off indefinitely, but that brought her no comfort, much rather distress. They still needed him, she told herself, staring blankly into the distance.

"Fenrel?" Lucanis cleared his throat, and when she glanced over her shoulder with a raised brow, he continued. "When your connection with Solas fell silent, you seemed… rather worried."

She looked back at the road, unsure of what to say.

"Panicked, even," Lucanis added.

With his hand on her waist and another on her neck, she felt quite caged, but jumping off the horse did not seem like a feasible option when she could hardly control the beast. "Could we get around to the point any time soon?" Her words came out harsher than she intended, her brows furrowing as she damned herself for it.

"It's as if you care deeply for your connection…" Lucanis murmured, voice getting almost as low as a whisper. A pause was longer than was comfortable. "… Or him."

At first, she couldn't say a word. Fingers tightened around reins, bloodied knuckles burning from sudden tension. She knew her answer was taking too long to come out, and still, she hesitated, for the first words that almost slipped her lips would've said too much, so instead she settled on, "We need him. He's the only one who actually knows the gods."

"And that's all it is?" He asked quietly.

Emmrich looked back at them, but more so at her, worry in his eyes, or a question, she was not sure. She answered, still meeting the necromancer's gaze. She never asked Emmrich what he thought of Solas, but if their sole interaction was anything to go by, it was rather… "It's complicated."

The air Lucanis exhaled brushed past her neck. "That is something people say when they already know how they feel."

"Is conflicted a feeling?" She tried to brush his words off, but they stuck like the congealed blood on her skin. The tether was still silent, and she wondered how long it would take to recover, and if he could hear them now. "It's becoming harder not to see a god for a man that he is."

Lucanis cleared his throat once more. "Right."

The rest of the road was quiet and uneventful, except for the occasional glance Emmrich would give her. Myrna and Vorgoth greeted them at Grand Necropolis, Myrna instantly sending a wisp to call out healers, Vorgoth taking in Emmrich's account of the events that went down in Blackthorne Manor. Fenrel scarcely listened, her full attention turned inward, grasping at the tether. The pull was present like it normally was, yet the sound was muffled. Before leaving, she asked Myrna for a refill on their lyrium potion stash, and she gladly gave them. She did not wait more than a few steps before greedily sipping one down. If it was due to her depleted mana, this should boost her right up. For once, she and Emmrich did what was usually Bellara's duty. They worked the resonance of the Eluvian to match that of the Vi Revas, so they could get back straight to the Lighthouse, their mana slipping away, barely recovered.

Once the glassy surface stopped rippling, they could see the long corridor of the Eluvian room on the other side. They walked through it, worn, barely standing on their feet, fight-torn leathers half undone, their undershirts bloodied. They did not exchange many words. Emmrich inquired of the Caretaker about the time, and it informed them it was early morning hours, all companions asleep after their respective trips. Lucanis sighed at the information, nodding and wishing them to have a few good hours of rest as he made his way out of the main building. He did not glance at her. They were back to the square they started off last morning, and yet she did not dwell on it, because now, when she tugged on the tether, it tugged back. "I'm back," She sent a thought down it, feeling acknowledgement in her bones. Solas was uncharacteristically silent, and she suspected why.

It was time for her and Emmrich to turn their separate ways, he to the upper floor where his room was, she to the left of the first floor, where the corridor to Wolf's den was already open and waiting for her to come back home.

They nodded their goodbyes, her one foot on the threshold, his on the first step. Emmrich stopped. "Have you ever been frightened by the thought of dying, Rook?"

"Can't say I have." She answered, knowing it to be true. Even hours before, knowing it might have been the end, that thought did not cross her mind. Only one memory resurfaced, way earlier in this journey. It was almost ironic how, since then, through worse battles, the fear dared to fade. "Perhaps once. Back in Treviso."

"Ah, as I suspected." Emmrich's head lowered before he looked at her again. "Perhaps you ought to remember how steep the price of losing you would be for all of us."

She nodded. "Goodnight, Emmrich."

The walk into her room seemed longer than the usual four strides, heavier. She knew what she would see behind the door, and nearly stopped at her heart picking up the pace. The door opened on itself, Solas standing in the dim light, for all the torches were still out, as they always were when she was gone. They stood there, one in with the cold light of the corridor pressing on her back, and she felt as if a dam was about to break. "Solas"

It did, when in a blink, he broke the distance, heavy hands wrapping around her beaten body and pulling close. "I thought I lost you."

Sometimes the choices were clear and weighted. Sometimes, they enveloped you and asked you to give in. The heavy hands hung at her sides. He spoke, his lips pressed against her hair, "I could not warn you, I—"

And then, it broke again.

Her fingers clutched the worn-out leathers of his armour, face pressed into his shoulder, as he fell silent, his grip getting ever so tighter.

"If you press any harder, you may break those ribs anew. Watchers worked hard to piece them back together." She murmured into his shoulder.

Solas chuckled. "Is that your only worry?"

"This too," She breathed.

"And still, you won't let go. Quite interesting, it is." He said but didn't move either. Time felt stretched and compressed all at once in his hands, and the weariness that lay heavy on her bones eased. She was too tired to turn back to her conviction of how wrong this was and instead held onto him. "Seeing a god for the man that he is."

"Ever listening in, aren't you?" She chuckled, pulling back, too exhausted to choose anger.

"Sometimes I listen more closely." He said, his hand cupping her cheek.

"And what do you hear now?" She teased weakly, before letting the moment stand still with them for a while.

His eyes narrowed, and a wry smile came across his lips. "You wish for me not to leave."

She shook her head, but it came out more like a nod. "I wish for sleep." Her hands unlocked from his back, sliding down and away from the warmth. She glanced at the room cloaked in darkness and again it felt lonely, unlike the morning before. Not thinking of his lips should have been easier. But it was a distraction from the words Emmrich left her with. The ache in her bones was proof of how right he was.

"Loneliness is not the burden you're supposed to carry alone either." Solas watched her, his hand brushing up her forearm. "Needing someone is not a failing."

"Are you telling me or yourself?" She laid her free palm atop his hand, their eyes locked at a standstill. Perhaps, they have already slipped too far. What one more night could change? "And what comes of it? Sharing in that loneliness?"

"Don't force me to remind you—I can hear your thoughts." He smiled, but it looked more like a question. She didn't shake his hand off. Didn't tell him to go. It was an easier demand on the morning before Blackthorne. Now she couldn't find it in herself to push against him, when her mind oh so desperately, reached for him in moments of chaos. Instead, she let him hold onto her as she stepped into the room, the door now shutting behind her. His fingers grazed along her skin as he let go of his grip, letting her head to the bed, as he followed a close step behind.

Stripping her leftover armour felt like a chore. Heavy hands and sighs trying to unmake the remaining buckles. The stench of burned leather, the material in places stiffened like her shoulders, in others brittle like dried leaves. She did not ask for help but could feel his hand reaching out when she couldn't reach the buckle at her back. Cold fingers brushed her hair back from her neck, still painted pink from poorly washed blood and undid it wordlessly, hand lingering just inches away from the skin for a moment too long. She did not move either, a breath held. Then, she continued peeling off the layers until only blood-stained small clothes remained.

"Your shoulder," He said as she winced with the move. "It got damaged again."

She shrugged, turning around. She was well aware of the burn in her skin, the jagged pink scar tissue already settling in from healing provided by Mourn Watch mages. Cuts were deep but cauterised themselves, for the Rage demon had burning claws. Great to avoid blood loss, but terrible for aesthetics after healing. "It won't ever be the same, will it?"

His eyes traced the new array of scars marking her skin, an enduring gaze that did not bother her now, more so made her nervous in a way it wouldn't before. "No, it won't."

An answer was straight, short and earnest. Something she did not come to expect from him, and yet…

She gave him a tired smile, turning and making the last steps to the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, blankets still messed from the morning, the air a little too cold to be without them. She swung her laden legs with effort and let her back hit the spongy surface. He stood where she left him, regarding her silently. She lifted her brow with an unsaid question. If he were to linger, closer would've been preferred, if only once. He moved, sitting down at the edge, before sighing and shifting to lie down.

"Not with those boots you won't," She huffed, motioning at his armour.

"That is indeed one way to tell someone you want them to strip." Solas teased but didn't argue. His armour was made from plates, as any general's would be, and thus it took fewer pieces to undo. He did not even bother with that. In a blink, he sat in casual clothes, reminiscent of those Varric would so vividly describe.

"So that whole get-up is just for show?" She said between yawns, the comfort of the bed making her muscles heavier to move.

"We all have our masks." He said, lying down beside her. She did not turn to face him, but when her eyelids fluttered heavier, and his arm lay on her waist, she did not turn away either.

For once, his presence felt like comfort. She would have given him a clever retort if her body weren't too weary. But it was, and thus she let herself turn in his hands, into his chest, and drift away.

Instead of resting, her mind decided to wander through the Blackthorne manor again. Cut up, bleeding, abandoned. Dark insides of a home, shadows creeping, reaching, threatening. And spirits of those long forgotten were swirling around, greeting her like a new friend. As she passed the mirror, she understood why. A washed-out, spectral shape floated before the glass, vacant eyes, still grasping her torn throat. "You died here"

A disembodied voice told her.

Another, one beckoning her, replied. "Do not believe what dreams tell you."

She could swear she recognised it, but could not put a finger on it. The mirror felt immaterial when she tried to touch it, hand plunging through the reflective surface, body following suit, falling through the wall into wakefulness. Fingers grasped onto the sheets to stop her fall, but she wasn't moving, except for the chest which quickly rose and fell with a hand, not her own, laying across it, heavy breaths lingering against her collarbone.

She glanced down at him, nearly surprised by the idea that he slept. Somehow, that seemed above his so-called godhood. Cheek flush to her chest, jawbone necklace thrown over his shoulder, mouth agape, face relaxed for once. His lashes fluttered. He would wake soon, she knew. She wondered what Solas was dreaming about when his eyebrows scrunched and he burrowed closer to her. Eyes trailed around the room, noticing the new stack of missives on the table. The Caretaker has already visited. Next to it lay the letters from Solas' past she was yet to open.

He did say that his past was given to her, but not freely. Succumbing to his warmth felt like an odd price to pay.

"Good morning," Fingers twitched against her ribs as he moved, one eye half open.

Like this, he looked younger than usual. Armour stripped, puffy eyes, she would give him less than his physical form usually presented. On a normal day, anyone would say he was no younger or older than 40, but the innocence of the moment scraped off a few years. "You look… rather rested."

"Unfortunately, I could not say the same of you." Solas lifted himself on his elbow, face hovering over hers.

"That's no way to compliment a woman." She rolled her eyes but didn't wrench his hand away from herself. Lying there for five more minutes couldn't hurt.

"I thought you preferred honesty." He smirked, hand drifting to move the hair stuck to her cheek.

Perhaps it was time to get up, she thought, heat in her cheek growing, with closeness. Yet she remained down. "You're insufferable."

"And warm." He said, his hand around her waist tightening, as his body leaned into her as if anchoring her in the bed, never to leave.

Minutes in silence, and his breathing slowed again, head resting heavy against her skin, almost tempting her to join him in a dream. "What were you dreaming about?" She asked, feeling his lashes brush past as he blinked slowly.

He cleared his throat. "I might show you someday."

She answered with a sigh, her hand tracing circles across the skin of his hand, eyes lingering around his features. "You make a lot of promises you don't intend to keep, Dread Wolf."

He chuckled at this, dragging her closer. Warm from his hand leaked under her skin, down her belly. One glance at the balcony door and she could feel the imprints of his hands digging into her hips as they almost lost control. She swallowed hard, shaking the memories off. "You say 'Dread Wolf' like it doesn't stir something in you just to speak it."

At this, the warmth turned into weakness, into shame, and she pushed back from his hands, sitting up. "And here I thought sleep would soften you."

He laughed, letting his hands fall, rolling on his back, allowing her to get up. "Could say the same about you."

She glanced over her shoulder, making her way to the closet to pick fresh clothes before heading to the bath. "Unfortunately, murderous blood mages, treacherous crows and now a malignant necromancer won't wait for us to have a good rest."

"You were injured." He said, staring at the ceiling, still lying around. "Your team is capable enough to take care of matters while you recover."

She almost bit back about his care but thought better. Solas did care, and she just would've preferred he didn't. After all, it was he standing on the threshold last night, hands welcoming home a broken mess. And today she wouldn't be fighting, she hoped, so her injuries mattered little. She glanced once again at the stack of missives. Too much work ahead. "They still need someone to lead them."

"Getting yourself killed won't help them with that." He rolled to his side, head resting on his palm.

She scoffed. "That's what you actually came to tell last night."

"You're irreplaceable." He said it matter of fact.

Her hands stopped rummaging through clothing, listening between his words. "And what about them?"

He got up slowly, stretching his limbs lightly before standing up and walking to her. Solas stood near, making sure to look her in the eye as he spoke. "They are not you."

A stone sank into her stomach. "Solas—"

"Fenrel, I have told you before with all truthfulness, you so wish of me. Some sacrifices have to be made. This time, I am asking you to sacrifice some of that pride for your own sake." His voice was calm, low, eyes soft, despite the hidden demand in his words.

"That's putting too much importance on one person." She shook her head, sighing and exiting the room without waiting for his rebuttal.

***

It was late afternoon when she finally made her way through the crossroads, alone. Neve did not come back from Minrathous and instead called through the sending crystal, saying she was still attending to matters of locals, and invited Fenrel to join her in the city. Fenrel obliged, for she too had unattended matters there, and thus she opted for a hooded and masked look to go back. Davrin offered to join, but he had caught a lead on Gloom Howler and the stolen griffons through the Warden chatter and wanted to come back and investigate further. There were also whispers of a dragon sighting, one that resembled one of Ghilan'nain beasts, unclear if one who attacked Minrathous or Treviso, and therefore Taash accompanied him again to question the witnesses.

Emmrich and Bellara made it their task to visit the remaining allies and train them on warding off the elves from Ghilan'nain's influence, while Lucanis and Harding decided to visit Rivain to get more supplies. She didn't bother asking whose funds Lucanis was about to use, for she knew well one of the tasks she had to accomplish back in Minrathous was just that – meeting with Charter to get their pretty penny from Inquisition.

But there was something she needed to get out of the way first. Finally, Minrathous Eluvian has been moved to the new location, and stepping through it, she almost crashed into a young Shadow Dragon agent, his trappings still barely worn. The kid, no older than sixteen, looked up at her. "Oh," The youngster gasped, almost tripping on his feet. "You're—Tarquin, Rook is here!" He called as she walked past him, deeper inside the new belly of the beast. Odd it was to be called by name, Varric gave rather than the one she wore as a Shadow, but that was her new reality. Whatever she was before Rook was all but forgotten except for a select few.

The new space was odd. It was nothing compared to their original hideout. Less familiar faces, too.

Many new ones. Too many.

Some weren't wearing Shadow embroideries and instead donned the casual comforts of Threads, two groups seemingly blended.

"Mercar," Tarquin called from the main area she could see from the next doorway. "Took you a while to show, or rather, not show your face" He gestured at her mask. "You are safe here."

She took it off swiftly, praying no Venatori rats had managed to sneak their way amongst Shadow ranks. The least she needed was pawns of Elgar'nan sniffing after god's prey. Tarquin's face carried perhaps one less crease between the brows compared to the last time she saw him. "Looking cheery, Tarquin. I take it, business with Threads is going better than expected?"

He showed her to follow him, and they made their way through new quarters. "We work with what we have… Which is not much."

It truly wasn't. The location looked poor compared to their previous dwellings, ones she spent years in. The one in Dock Town was her favourite, even when she had a chance to visit those in the Upper City. Being closer to the regular people was better than having to sneak around magisters around every corner. This new hideout must have been in the most torn-down district of Dock Town, for it barely resembled a living space and more so a warehouse.

"I am sorry." She said, looking over the dirty flooring and makeshift bunk beds as they neared the end of the common room, stopping by the door on the side of it.

"Apologies won't help us much." Tarquin glanced at her before knocking on said door. "Your allies, on the other hand… People are not affiliated with us, and the Threads keep going missing. Neve can tell you more details about it. The thing is, we need more hands to sniff their tracks and see what shakes out."

She could hear the voice behind the door telling the unruly mabari who went into a barking frenzy to calm down. He called for them to come in. Fenrel looked at Tarquin, who motioned for her to go in alone. "I am sure we can find some volunteers to help with that."

"Just keep me updated." He said before turning his back on the door, as a guard.

"You look very Templar-like this." She joked.

Tarquin scoffed. "I'm merely a bureaucrat, and bad at it."

She entered the room, closing the door behind her softly. He sat there in the dim light of an oil lamp, limp, hat laid on the table, coat hung on the backrest of the chair. Mask forgotten. A myriad of papers lay in the piles around him. "Viper."

"Fenrel."

Blue. It was the first thing she noticed when he looked up. His eyes were still blue. Despite the darkness swallowing them, black veins taking rein over his face, the colour of his skin appearing nearly bleached by illness, his eyes were still blue. "Took you a while to visit."

"Saving Thedas takes a lot of legwork." She shrugged, dropping her hood down and sitting down. Viper looked at her, his eyes narrowed as he took in her new appearance. By this time, she was used to her hair being short and how scars framed her face in a new way. "Also, Tarquin was kind enough not to share your new location for a bit."

"Neve's description did not do this justice." He motioned at her face, leaning in, absorbing the view. "And head-butting with Tarquin is such an old tale."

"If you kept him on a shorter leash..." Words slipped through her mouth quicker than she could think of them.

"In our current situation, leashing him would do me no favours. So you two will need to learn to work together."

She huffed at his words. "No offence, but this must be the blight talking if you think me and Tarquin can ever make do."

Viper leaned back in his seat, sighing, rubbing his closely shaven head. "It's not as if you have a choice if you are to take over after my passing."

The silence fell on them like glass hitting the floor. The snarky grin on her face fell, eyes narrowing before widening. "I still have a whole world to save, two gods to kill. What makes you think I will outlive you?"

"You have an appalling tendency to claw your way through the worst of things." He sat still, one hand resting on Mabari's head. Only now did she realise it's been so long she could not remember the animal's name, it was still just a young pup when she left Minrathous for the search with Varric. She thought it started R. Maybe K. Kin-something? Kinloch? No, that couldn't be right, could it? It felt right, so it must've been. Viper's voice went low as he continued. "And I may go before your worst battles come to pass."

She shook her head. "You haven't exhausted all options. You can still try the Joining. Antoine and Evka are giving a chance to those blighted in Lavendel, I know you would—"

"Fenrel, no." He stopped her. "For all that we were and all that Shadow Dragons mean to you, please do not hold false hopes. I will not do the Warden ritual."

Her fingers clutched the armrest just as a muscle in her jaw pulled taut. He couldn't give up like this. Viper was anything but weak or fatalistic. Viper, she knew, would never. "But—"

"No. I have made my choice. I will fight this corruption for as long as I can, but when the time comes, it will get its due and I will get mine." He looked at her, resigned to his fate, and yet, full of fight. "I want to make these arrangements while I'm of my own mind."

She was staring daggers at him, even when tears flooded her eyes. "You can't do this to me. Not after—I can't lose more people. This is selfish, you know?"

"Every loss teaches us something. Mine will too, I am sure of it." He smiled. "Shadow Dragons are ready for a leader who will fight a way through to tomorrow for them."

Her foot tapped nervously against the floor as she ran through scenarios in her mind. "What about Maevaris?"

"Both Mae and Dorian have their own duties to this land. You will aid them with those, to the best of your ability." He said, as if she had already accepted.

"I haven't said I would—" He nodded, before adding. "All you will need to know will be passed to you when the time comes. Now, tell me of headways you've made since the last letter."

***

Solas kept silent through her visit to the Shadow Dragons but picked up his usual commentary as soon as she left. His voice came into her mind suddenly, oppressing her thoughts, making her flinch mid-step. Tether was truly back to normal.

“I'm sorry.” He said, his thoughts pressing on her like an embrace.

“I have not said yes yet.”

“Not about that,” Solas murmured. “About the loss. He means a lot to you. However, all that you've had will live on with you. Loss does not erase love.”

“There hasn't been love for a while now.”

“Romantic, no. But love does not end with separation.” He sighed as if explaining to a petulant child.

Quickly, she manoeuvred the conversation towards Tevinter and his colourful opinions, to say the least. “For someone who hates Tevinter so much, you sure did hang out here a lot.”

“It was of necessity, not choice. And not all is terrible. There are people like you. Dorian. Maevaris. Viper. Ones who would change all that is wrong with the Imperium if given a chance.”

“Now you're just appealing to my ego. I am nothing close to Dorian.” She scoffed, shaking her head, taking a shortcut through a tavern, for walking straight through it would save her ten minutes of navigating narrow alleys.

“He wasn't always like this either. You should have met him back in the Inquisition days.” Solas chuckled to himself as if remembering a funny joke.

She was back on the street now and could see the Chantry buildings in the distance. “Well, I heard plenty about you from those days. Stories can be very misleading.”

“Remember our first meeting? I am both the Lord of Tricksters and the unwashed hobo apostate, as Dorian loved to call me.”

“Depending on a story?” She smiled, ascending the stairs to the temple.

“Exactly that.” He answered. “Imagine the tales they'll tell of you once this is over.”

“I'd rather not.” She heard rumours enough already after her exile from Shadow Dragons. Both saviour and traitor.

Solas answered with a laugh. “As you wish.”

The meeting with Charter was brief as per usual. In the shadows of the Chantry, they exchanged news of their respective fronts, Southern Thedas now in a deeper hole than it previously was, and thus did not have much use for money. Nothing to pay for if everything anyone ever owned was slowly swallowed by the blight. Inquisitor was trying her best to force nations to compile their forces to push the dark spawn away, but it was a never-ending uphill battle, even for sly court professionals who worked in remnants of the Inquisition. Even Commander Cullen, the husband of Inquisitor, who had put down his weapon once the world was saved the last time, picked it up again.

Charter, even in her dry words, said enough to let Fenrel know – Southern Thedas was soon to succumb. They had six months at the best-case scenario left. They went their separate ways, Fenrel's heart now weighted heavier. Neve waited for her at the docks, overlooking the darkened waters, lulling peacefully.

Fenrel stopped beside her, watching the water. Neve spoke first. "How's Viper?"

"Planning his death."

"Hm," Neve murmured. "That tracks. I take it, it's not Tarquin he wants for the boss seat?"

Fenrel scoffed. "Why'd you guess that?"

She hummed, pleased with being right. "Nobody knows Tarquin better than Viper."

Ripples tore themselves at the support beams of the pier they stood on, wind picking perfectly placed strands of hair from Neve's bun, messing them. Water in the gloom of the nightfall seemed pitch black, a void waiting to consume any unfortunate soul that might fall in. Moons hid themselves behind the clouds tonight, abandoning Tevinter Imperium to the darkness of the night upon them. Dock Town could rarely be called peaceful, even now shouts could be heard across the dock, seagulls' screech answering abhorrently. A stray meowed somewhere. People were still walking around, carrying on with their daily lives. The hum of the street almost reminded her of the sounds of the Lighthouse as she lay in Solas' hands. "Did you say yes?" Neve ruined the moment.

They shared a glance before Fenrel looked back at the water, crouching down to pick a rock from the ground and letting it bounce off the surface of the water before plunging into the depths. "It made me think of what might happen." She looked back at Neve. "If I were to, would you— "

Neve answered with a bitter chuckle, turning to her side, and looking back at the street. She was ready to leave. "It's a no, Mercar."

"I haven't even asked it of you yet," Fenrel shouted after her when Neve moved.

"Going into the battle and knowing there's no one but you is what makes you drag yourself through to the other side alive. What makes us stand beside you every time? Do not give yourself a reason to give up. Because that's what this would be." Neve answered.

"But Emmrich said to think—"

Neve shook her head. "Emmrich asked you to live, not plan your death, I am pretty sure. And there's plenty of living to do."

Fenrel looked back at the Amaranthine sea one last time before joining Neve on the stone road, back up to the slums. The way to the Shadow Dragon hideout and the Eluvian would take them through the most desperate streets of Dock Town. Neve's last words spun through her mind. "You said that as if something's on your mind already."

Neve sighed, barely audible through the drizzle that started hitting against Fenrel's hood. Even Venatori seemed not to give much thought to this part of Minrathous, but she kept the hood on for every street corner post that still carried portraits of her, promising a reward for information. Someone has updated the portraits with lovely epitaphs ranging from "Knife ear" to "Bring the light" to a simple moustache drawn on her upper lip. They all blurred in her mind.

"It's Bel." Neve finally said, turning the corner. "Yesterday, Strife informed her and Harding that some Jumpers have not returned to the camp yet. But per Veil Jumper protocol, no one's gone searching for them yet."

"How long ago did they leave?"

"Two days," Neve said.

Not too long. Their protocol said one week for teams. Though they were supposed to carry the sending crystals to check in ever since the Vallaslin disaster. "It's not unusual. With all the raw magic around the forest, they might just be in some tricky spot."

"There had been Venatori sightings…" Neve's words trailed. "But that's not the reason Bel's been worried."

They stopped on the side of the warehouse, waiting for one of the Shadows to ask for the password. "Then why is she?"

"They've gone missing around the area we found Nadas Dirthalen in."

"That can't be a coincidence." Fenrel sighed. The Shadow guard was taking his sweet time to come to the door. She banged again. "We should check it out, once Taash updates us on the dragon situation in Lavendel."

"Are you sure? Me, Bel, and Harding can take care of it. I just wanted you to know." Neve regarded her for a moment. "After Blackthorne, the three of you need a couple of days' rest, at least."

"I'm sure." She banged the door again and huffed when she finally heard heavy steps just outside of it. "Finally."

***

The common area of the library buzzed with noise as they walked back in. Everyone's been back for a few hours, it seemed. And deep into the book club discussion and a bottle. Usually, these would be held in someone's room, but for tonight, they have relocated.

"What I am saying, the countess could not have possibly known that the lord was a bloodsucker, otherwise she would have never—" Harding pointed with her glass at Emmrich, nearly spilling the dark liquor on her sleeve.

"Lace, darling, do not underestimate the depth of a woman's desire—Oh, Rook!" Emmrich sat up straighter in his armchair as if it would've helped with his crinkled shirt and wine-stained lips, the shirt scandalously opened. "Come join us"

"I see you all have properly warmed yourselves up," She nodded at the glasses.

"No shit, with the news we've got." Taash burped between words, taking another big gulp of the liquor. Fenrel was pretty sure she saw some steam leaving with the burps. "The dragon, or its lair, is in Lavendel, all right.

Fenrel dropped the bag by the sofa, sitting down next to Lucanis. "Then we're leaving tomorrow. Need to know if it's one of those who attacked Minrathous or Treviso."

"Rook, dearest, must I remind you that you still need to recover from last night's adventure?" Emmrich sighed, swirling his wine and putting the book they were discussing back down in his lap.

"We will check out the lair, not attack the thing if it's even there. Lace will help us with getting to the location, right?" Fenrel took the mug Lucanis offered her, taking a whiff. Rum. Of course, it was. What else was to be expected after his and Harding's trip to Rivain? She glanced at him, his usual Crow attire exchanged for a loose linen shirt, the tip of his nose reddened by sunburn. The same could be said about Lace's ears. "I see you two had a good time."

"Rivain's lovely this time of year, I heard." Emmrich gently wiped wine off his moustache with a smile, adding, "Perhaps one day we should all get out there, get a little sun."

"Great idea, Emmrich!" Davrin toasted to that, swaying on his feet. His copy of the book was precariously perched on the candlestick. "Assan could use a flight somewhere else than Arlathan."

"Then it is decided," Neve leaned against Emmrich's chair, taking a glass out of his hand and taking a sip. "We all could use a break."

The lights flickered low, the air was stuffy with the strong scent of alcohol and candle wax, and the warmth of bodies. She glanced down and realised Lucanis still held the book they had been discussing open, pages splayed with some filthy scene that made Fenrel blink quickly as she skimmed a few sentences and took several burning mouthfuls of rum. "So what's this you're reading? Sounds rather steamy."

At this, Bellara perked up, still tucked in the corner of the sofa, opposite the table. "Oh, this was Lucanis' recommendation. Very Antivan. A lot of blood. Also, sex. So much sex."

At the back of her mind, Solas laughed at that, a smile spreading through her cheeks too, as she took another sip of the drink and glanced at Neve, that has made Emmrich's cup her own. \

Sex. What an ordinary thing to think about with the world falling apart. She now noticed how Harding's legs rested in Taash's lap, and just how a while ago, she and Lucanis watched Harding's face blossom in the presence of the dragon hunter. She had to stop herself from nudging him, for he seemed to sit leaning away from her. Fenrel would not chase his touch, not after that ride home they had in the early morning hours.

She cleared her throat, blinking away tears burn of rum in her throat brought up. "Well, don't mind our intrusion, please continue with your discussion. That sounded positively riveting."

Lucanis was caught somewhere between a scoff and a giggle as blood rushed up his neck and he picked up his book. "So we left off on…"

***

She did not remember the steps she took to her room, but she was sure many curses left her mouth, both common and Tevene, as she hit her shoulder with a groan, stumbling in through the door. A trip to Lavendel would be a horror, she knew. Perhaps Bellara would still have some of those weeds she promised would cure hangovers of any magnitude. The door barely managed to get itself shut behind her when she was already stripping out of her clothes. It was rare not to fight many of the buckles that held her armour, but instead to undo simple clasps and buttons of a civilian cloth. Even with that, she struggled when her vision suddenly went from blurry to double.

"That was the most exciting reading I have ever witnessed," Solas said, making her snap her head up, her legs swaying a little too much for her liking.

Venhedis. She thought. It was expected to find him here after what transpired throughout the day, and yet she still managed to forget it in a bottle for a while.

Heavy steps of her boots echoed off the walls as she made it to the bed, collapsing on her back. "You should have warned me after the third glass."

"You seemed to be having fun." He shrugged, watching her struggle, with her foot in the air, trying to undo the laces of her boot. "Perhaps, a little too much of it."

She grunted in frustration, finally kicking the boot off and then repeating the process with another. She did not dare look to his side of the room, for it had been a rather long time since he had a chance to witness her like that. Though the last time was arguably worse. Or it wasn't. At least back then, she could only think of the heat of his skin hypothetically instead of feeling remembrance of it against her own. "Glad to see you amused."

She managed to sit back up, but with her head spinning, almost fell back onto the mattress again, hands grabbing onto the bedframe to steady herself, not trusting her legs—or her judgment.

His steps were quiet as he approached the bed and crouched down to her eye level. The buttons of her shirt were either too stubborn, or she was too drunk. "Do you require assistance?"

She rolled her eyes, trying not to mind his palm resting on her knee and his hand already reaching for hers, still losing the unfair fight with the clothing. Thoughts in her head turned thick with his touch. "Something gives me a feeling you might enjoy it too much."

"Already too late for that." He smirked, pushing her fingers away and undoing the first button. She grabbed his wrist clumsily, pulling it away, not forcefully, as a child playing.

He only smiled, lightly shaking his head, his other hand pressing on her leg, making her stomach flutter. "You can either stay stubborn or let me help you; I will enjoy it either way."

Only now did she notice that he was not wearing his armour. A simple shirt, loose pants. Made her blink and rethink just how drunk she was. Perhaps she was imagining all of this. His lips in golden light, his warm hands. Her wobbly grip on him loosened. "I can assure you, you are not yet asleep. Even if you were, you might still pull the act you did the first time you were this inebriated."

His fingers found their way back to the buttons, this time with no protest from her. The heat of his hand became more apparent when it travelled to undo another. It rose from her chest to her cheeks as she glanced down at him kneeling on one knee before her. "Don't remind me."

"Why not?" He chuckled as his hand slid lower, knuckles grazing the small clothes underneath the shirt. "If I remember correctly, you found me rather handsome in that state."

The heart in her chest picked up pace, meeting his eyes. Coherent thoughts became harder to come by when all her mind could muster was the memory of his lips on her throat. "Now you're fishing for compliments."

Two buttons left, she noticed. His hand lingered near her waist, not quite touching, soft eyes narrowed as he looked up. "You don't need to tell me what I already know." He murmured, letting her shirt lose with swift fingers. "You can take it off now," Solas added, with a wink.

"Anything else you would like to help me with?" She teased, leaning in closer, letting the material slide down her shoulders before pulling her hands out of the sleeves.

Her head felt heavy, just like her eyelids, and through the haze, she did not notice how her hand ended up on his jaw. Her mind was painfully aware of how she should have pulled back instead of getting closer, and still, her face hovered near his now, his breathing against her lips, a smile inviting.

Last time, she grabbed him without thinking.

Now, she lingered, trying to retrace how she got herself into this situation. The realisation was creeping in, and she rather wished it didn't.

For once, touching him did not feel like a threat or a test, and that made it all more dangerous.

He blinked slowly, searching her face, his jaw tightening, brow slightly lifted, as if in thought. His hand has found its way from her knee, up her thigh.

His mouth opened, and hers found it, pressing the words shut. He was about to stop her, she knew. It was a terrible idea, she thought, remembering the last time she pulled him this close, and still her hand travelled from his jaw to his neck, keeping his mouth close.

His grip on her thigh locked, the other hand now holding onto her waist as he leaned into the kiss, her hand on his neck as she leaned back, he followed into collapse on the bed. His knee rested between her legs as he breathed against her lips before closing the distance again.

Solas smelled like the thickest forest after rain, warming spices, ozone, and old books. All that she loved. How unbefitting, she thought, as their teeth grazed.

She thought once again of what a terrible misjudgment this was, as her hands pulled him closer.

Heat curled in her belly, her hands travelling down his shoulders, tracing taut muscles in his back, reasonable thoughts leaving her head as fingers skimmed skin at the hem of the shirt.

Last time it was his hands that got lost under her clothes, were needy, territory, and now she couldn't help herself. No one was to knock on that door tonight.

This wasn't how she wanted him, she thought, and yet she did. Gods, she did, she thought, even if she wasn't supposed to, letting nails brush past his skin, feeling the heat of it at her fingertips. He wished for it too, she knew, as his breathing changed, his body suddenly heavier against her.

He exhaled a heavy, restrained breath against her mouth, his head shaking no ever so slightly. Then, he pulled back just as her hand found naked flesh under his ribs. Solas sighed, resting his hands above her.

She looked at him with confusion, her head too heavy to lift.

"I would not have you like this, and you would be thankful for me not becoming your drunken mistake."

Her lips fell apart as she tried to find words.

Solas collapsed to the side, his breathing deep, both of them now staring at the ceiling. The world spun around. "But I will stay."

Chapter Text

She has been here before, exactly a day ago. His hand splayed over her, cheek buried where her neck met the jaw. She did not stir, staring at the soaring ceiling, head pounding from last night's misjudgment. There had been more than one of those, in increasing and more infuriating frequency. Telling yourself you're just lonely, tired and frustrated can only get you so far, when you keep pulling one you claim to hate closer and finding that hands and mouth busied by him, something you crave. A hypocrite would have been a fitting word if she only knew how to name the actual feelings gnawing at her.

Something reeked. Of alcohol, sweat, and unresolved frustration. Glad she was that he had better self-control than she, otherwise now she would have been in a rather deeper hole. She had to steady her hand from moving to ease the crease between his brows as he slept. This could not become a habit, but thinking of cutting it off felt worse. Lord of Tricksters played her well, she scoffed lightly, who would have thought? Instead of making her believe in him, he made her care for him most oddly, despite all sense.

She could hear Assan's squawking and Manfred's happy hisses through the open balcony door. Everyone was more than likely up now, waiting for her. The thought of leaving the bed today was more irritating than usual, but it wasn't as if she had any choice. She slowly dragged her body from under his cheek, sliding to the side of the bed, before sitting up with minimal movement. That only made the ache in her head worse, nausea washing over her, twisting her stomach.

A groan left her throat as she inched closer to the edge of the bed, holding her breath from cursing out loud.

"If you are worrying about waking me, it's already too late. Your absence was felt greatly and momentarily." Solas chuckled, watching her struggle to get up.

"Oh, shut it." She groaned again, hand against her temple as she finally made it to an upright position. The floor wobbled underneath her feet. There was such a thing as too much of a good time, after all. She did not remember how the book ended. Something about the countess being drained, for she could not stop herself from bedding the bloodsucker time and time again? No, that would be too on the nose, she thought.

"I cannot fathom why you would compare this predicament to Lucanis' debaucherous literature, but it's amusing nonetheless." Solas joked around while she felt as if one wrong move could make her hurl. "Please don't." He added.

She straightened out, waiting for the stomach twister to pass. Just a short-lived thing it must be, or it would have to be, because she would not give him the pleasure of seeing her paying for last night's miscalculations this immediately.

"I think I glimpsed enough of that last night," Solas answered to her thoughts again, making her glare at him over her shoulder.

"It was but a lapse in judgment."

He smirked, "A repeated one and intended, but who am I-"

A familiar sound made her head perk up, and both turned to the door. Taash was coming, judging from the sound of the throat clearing and heavy footsteps just outside the door. From the corner of her eye, Fenrel could see her messed-up sheets empty now, only imprints of two bodies left.

***

Lavendel was blighted. Truly, evocatively, blighted. Despite the hungover cure Bellara made them all drink (which in turn made them all even more sick for several minutes) she could feel the bile rising in her throat in her horror of it once again. This was too big of a reminder of how Weisshaupt looked on that night. Davrin was too soft with his words when describing the conditions locals and remaining Wardens lived in.

"This is… this is bad," Harding said, standing beside her as they overlooked the village from Warden's stronghold.

"People of Anderfels felt the brunt of this for centuries," Evka said, as if trying to reassure them that it wasn't that bad. "Life goes on, even in darkest times."

Harding's eyes stayed fixed on the blight tendrils spreading through the heart of the village and people walking around them, as if it were just some shrubbery. "Do you think this is how the South looks?"

From Inquisitor's missives and Charter's reports, Fenrel knew the South to be worse off. But Harding's mother was relocated away, and grieving something you cannot fight wouldn't have changed anything now, so she didn't say a word.

"Told you, this sucks. Wish we could just herd them through the Eluvian to Rivain." Taash grumbled by her side, hands wrapped in dar-saam crossed over the chest.

Fenrel shook her head. "They chose this. Somebody has to keep the blight at bay while we figure out where the gods are."

Taash let her hands drop with a sigh. "I know… this just.. Sucks, you know?"

Fenrel looked up at Taash. "We should better get moving for that dragon, take one worry off their heads."

Lavendel was a small village set up in the swampy area of the Anderfels. With all the blight crawling through the net of water pathways all around the place, Fenrel wondered if more should be done to ensure that the water supply does not get contaminated. Perhaps the Wardens should check all the wells. She would get in touch about it with Evka later.

"Please remind me to do so." She told Solas, feeling him lurk at the back of her mind. He truly did not like staying in his prison much lately.

"You require many things from me as of late. It's almost as if you are starting to relish in this arrangement," He poked again. In an annoyingly good mood, he was.

She rolled her eyes. "A simple 'I will' would have sufficed."

"I will." He answered, not teasing again.

Taash gestured at the boarded-up cave opening just ahead of them. Harding stayed behind at the entrance of the cave system, taking down the stray ghouls that roamed about, giving them peace and relative quiet to check the suspected lair of the blighted dragon. "Can you burn down these?" Fenrel motioned at the flimsy barricade.

"Easy." Taash shrugged, stretching the neck before opening fire upon worn wood. It never ceased to amaze Fenrel to see how easy fire-breathing came to Taash, even if she knew the tales of burned taste buds, requiring the addition of extra spices to every meal, destroyed spoons, forks, and even bedding as a child. Now it came to Taash as naturally as normal breathing.

They made their way past scorched remains of the wood, smoke making Fenrel's eyes tear up from irritation. The inside of the cave was quiet, if not for the sounds of water dripping off its walls. If there was a dragon inside, they would have heard her breathing.

Upon the sight of the empty cave, a frustrated growl left Taash's mouth. "She's not in the lair! I was ready, I could have fought her!"

Fenrel followed right after. "I thought we agreed that we only came here to confirm the sightings. We wouldn't have fought her without—"

"Doesn't matter. I can still look for clues. See if she'll turn into a monster like Ghilan'nain's archdemon did." Taash's breathing was frantic, head snapping from one side to another. "I have to figure this out. I'm a dragon slayer."

Fenrel knew what this was all about. She could not stop thinking of the monstrosity Davrin had slain during the harrowing ordeal. It was not a dragon, anything but. It was unlike any horror they had witnessed, and it made her fear confronting Elgar'nan's archdemon even more. "Taash, I know what happened at Weisshaupt shook you."

"Stop!" Taash shouted, turning to look at her. "Just stop. I need to kill the dragon."

For someone so reverent about the great beasts, Taash was unravelling quickly. As if a slain dragon could be a solution, a distraction. "Why? What do you need to prove?"

Taash walked further into the cave, eyes locked on something, finger pointing at the thing they both recognised. "Ropes", Fenrel said, looking at them, then glancing at Taash. Those were the same ropes Taash would carefully bind around her arms every morning, many of their training sessions starting with it. Taash said her mother taught her to do so, to maintain the connection to Qun.

"Qunari ropes. Antaam." Taash said with disappointment, laced with disgust, a familiar gravel in her voice. "They're the ones who've been blighting the dragons for the gods."

"Isn't it too early to—"

"Those fucking ropes. They tie her down with these ropes so they can blight her." Taash's voice broke at the end, rage turning into heartache. "They turn her into something blighted and ugly and wrong. Something she was never supposed to be!" Voice now turning to one strangled by tears, Taash added. "Shokra toh ebra."

They stood there in silence, staring at the ropes. The moment felt too still, Taash too fragile, even while continuing. "I've gotta be ready to fight her. I'm a dragon slayer."

It sounded more like repetition, a mantra, something Taash needed to convince herself with. "Taash…" Fenrel closed the distance, but before she could lay a hand on her, Taash spoke again.

"I'm a crappy Qunari. I'm not really Rivaini. I'm no good as a daughter." Taash turned away, struggling with words. "I'm not even… I can't even be a woman right. I have to be a dragon slayer."

"Taash, listen to me." It was time to put her foot down. Fenrel could not afford another team member falling apart right now. "You are not blighted, or ugly, or wrong. So why do you think you are?"

Taash hesitated to answer, eyes lingering on the ropes lying beside them. "My mother… put these ropes on me. She tied me up… Why did she do that? Is it because I didn't… fit? As a woman? Is it why I don't fit as a woman?"

"Taash…"

"The Shadow Dragons say there are people who use they instead of he or she. They're not men or women." Taash straightened up. "And I like how it feels when I imagine myself that way. But… I'm not supposed to breathe fire. Am I not supposed to feel like this? What does she want me to be?"

"And what do you want to be?" Fenrel asked carefully. "Your mother brought you to Rivain for a better life."

Taash sighed. "I know."

"So live it. Be who you are. Don't tie yourself down for someone else's fear." Taash did not avert her eyes this time, so Fenrel pushed gently. "Tell me, Taash, who do you want to be?"

"I want to be…" Taash stared into the distance, bracing themselves. "No, I am Rivaini. And I am not the daughter my mother wanted. That Taash… she was never really me."

"Who is the real Taash, then?"

"She is… they are…not a woman. Or a man." Taash smiled to themselves. "Your people had some fancy terms. But using "them" and knowing it? It feels… good."

Fenrel nodded. "Sounds like a good start."

Taash tapped her shoulder. "Thanks, and c'mon, time to get out of here."

Fenrel followed Taash back to the cave's mouth. "Missing Harding already?"

Taash glared at her with a smirk. "How did you—?"

***

Solas kept his word, and as soon as they approached the Warden fort while coming back from the caves, he reminded her to speak with Evka. With Evka's reassurances that drinking water sources were carefully guarded from blight's intrusion, she could leave with her heart a bit lighter, even though the dread of what they witnessed at Lavendel kept creeping on her. Harding and Taash discussed the effectiveness of some explosive arrows the Crows had recommended, as they passed the Arlathan forest Eluvian back in The Crossroads. How odd it was not to run into any Venatori, Fenrel thought. Perhaps she should ask the Caretaker to do another sweep of all the islands and update her on their movements. 

"The people are adaptable and resilient." Solas offered his musings.

"But they shouldn't be." She had to keep herself from sighing outwardly, for Harding was walking right by her side. Revealing that Solas was not as contained as some of their team still believed loomed over her like an ever-persistent cloud of doom, waiting to break apart. For what happened to Varric, Harding would not be forgiving. She feared that Solas wouldn't be the one to take the brunt of her rage.

"You worry about many things instead of letting them pass," Solas answered, though he sounded restricted, unsure.

She glanced at Harding. They never spoke of what happened at the ritual site, let alone speak a lot. It wasn't as if they were particularly close while working with Varric, often separated by distance and different duties. "You truly think it's in the best interest of either of us to let her know?"

"Oh, no. Most surely not." He let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Neither of us will be safe, but the secret will continue weighing you down when you should be standing up straight, no matter what comes with it."

She thought for a moment of the stories Varric told her. "Speaking from your experience in the Inquisition?"

Time stretched in his silence. She made her way carefully up the stairs into the Veil Jumper camp. Strife and Irelin were not around. Good. What they came here to do did not have their approval. They said to sit and wait for the missing explorers. But another nightfall was approaching, and Neve with Bellara were waiting for them near the ruins where they found Nadas Dirthalen.

"There were many times I wished to unburden myself." He admitted.

"And what stopped you?" She inquired.

"What is stopping you from telling the truth?" Solas went back to his puzzling ways, knowing how to poke just the right way.

She cracked her knuckles, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her mageknife as soon as they stepped out of the Veil Jumper camp. "Guilt? Shame? Wrongness of letting this get so far?"

Neither would name what this was.

"Knowing you could've stopped but did not wish to, for some things are greater than reason?" Solas murmured.

"Are we still talking of you or me?" With months of mutual captivity between them, the lingering hands, lips and stares, nothing dulled the excitement of annoying him, and at that, she could smile. If he planned to soften her, he would still have a long road to walk. Hopefully, one that would only end once the gods were dead.

"Hey, how did you convince Bellara not to listen to Strife?" Harding spoke to her. "She's not much of a rule breaker. Whimsical and imaginative, sure, but not much of a rebel."

"We all have Neve to thank for that. She knows how to get the ball rolling." Fenrel said, watching her step across the roots veining the road under their feet. It was a short trek to the ruins, but a trek nevertheless, and getting her knees busted before reaching the site was not a way she wanted this to go.

"You and Neve. Both from Minrathous." Hardin said as if thinking about something. "After all of this is over, do you think you'll stick together?"

That made Fenrel turn her head to look at Harding, immediately tripping and having to catch herself in an awkward stumble to stop from falling. "I—I haven't really thought of after."

"But there will be one, won't there?" Harding smiled. "Better to know what's next. I, for example, hope that once we visit Kal-Sharok and I have answers, this whole stone-magic thing… I don't know. There are dwarves back in Ferelden, who would like to know of this, too. I still haven't told my momma."

Kal-Sharok. Venhedis. With all on her shoulders, she forgot she promised to accompany Harding down there. Truth be told, the prospect of going underground, closer to where the dark spawn were coming from, was a harrowing one. That, and being around Harding for prolonged periods. Somehow, whatever guilt she felt gnawed at her harder when it was just the two of them. But with Taash and Harding now being involved with each other, perhaps it could be easier.

"Over here!" Neve shouted from the entrance to the ruined building, one where they fought the ogre to reclaim Nadas Dirthalen those months ago.

A lucky escape from a conversation it was for Fenrel, and she gladly took it, running up the stairs to meet Neve. Neve, as always, wore her unblemished white leathers, and Fenrel once again wondered if she had many of the same set or if she somehow enchanted them. Neve nudged her head back, "Bel's deeper in the ruins. We found their camp."

"But not them," Fenrel murmured, walking past Neve, into the guts of the building, following the footprints in the dust, until they led her to the opening from which she could see Bellara standing next to an abandoned fire site and sleeping bags.

Bellara did not turn to look; Fenrel's step sounded different from Neve's and her prosthetic leg, and that was enough. "They were here. But it's been a while… Fire's cold. Tracks are mostly gone."

Fenrel walked up, looking at discarded bags on the ground. Bellara shifted her weight from one leg to another as she would when she was anxious. "So, where did they go?" Bellara asked softly.

"We won't know if we stand around here," Fenrel said, knowing what was left here were supplies they would have needed. They couldn't go far, or they did not go willingly. "Let's look around."

"Right." Bellara perked up a little, giving a weak smile and a nod to Taash and Harding entering the yard. "Probably in the ruins. Their supplies are still here. Still… I don't know. Something feels… "

Bellara's eyebrows scrunched in more worry than Fenrel was used to seeing. "Rook? Let's be careful. Very, very careful."

The five of them made their way through the building, going deeper and deeper in. The light shattered against mosaic windows portraying the Evanuris, the warm shades flooding the ghostly walls. Taash showed particular interest in what happened in Arlathan, for it to look this way – a city abandoned, ruined, but still a mirror of former glory. Both Bellara and Neve had their commentary from opposing sides of the Blood Wars, and suddenly Fenrel felt like a ten-year-old, sitting on the carpet of her father's studio, listening to the atrocities Tevenes have committed against her kind. Any sane person would have grown to hate Tevinter. But in many years there, a twisted affection for it only grew, not overlooking, but despite its flaws.

While Taash tried to understand how the Tevinter Imperium could destroy an opulent city like Arlathan. "They were already eating each other, Tevenes only came in and finished the job. It is thought preferred to believe that it was purely down to Tevinter cruelty, but history is not that simple." Fenrel responded, turning the corner.

There was a bridge leading out of the building, and there was… "Is that a portal?" She asked.

"I'm not going through that." Taash crossed their hands against their chest immediately.

"I think that's the only way across the bridge, Taash." Harding nudged them.

Fenrel could've stayed and listened to their squabble, but she was more interested in saving those Veil Jumpers. She walked through the shimmering, blinding light of the portal, feeling like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on her as she stepped out on the other side, in the continuation of the ruins. "Just get over here!" Fenrel shouted, encouraging the rest of them. Neve and Bellara went through right after.

"No need to shout, we were on our way." Neve shrugged, her staff in both hands, like a scholar would hold a ruler. "Those two, on the other hand…"

Neve's words were cut off with Taash's grunt as they stumbled in, carrying Harding on their back. Fenrel glanced at them but decided against commenting. They looked happy together, which was a rarity for their little group.

This area, unlike the previous one, still had the guardian sentinels active, guarding the space. No wonder Arlathan was wrapped in rumours of hauntings when, at any given chance, a sentient set of armour could attack you. They did not stand a chance against Neve's freezing and Taash's axes, while Bellara pulled Fenrel away by her elbow, saying that she should let them take care of this. "I can fight," She scoffed, shaking Bellara's hand off and reaching for her blades.

"But you don't have to, Rook. There's enough of us here to take care of it." Bellara stood in front and refused to move. With a heavy sigh, Fenrel sheathed Wolf's Fang. Once the fight was over, she passed Neve one of the lyrium flasks without a word.

"Veil Jumpers have definitely been here. Yenarel, Hamuel, Mihlora. Pretty recently, too." Bellara said, overlooking another abandoned camp they came across.

"Means we're moving in the right direction," Neve said, cleaning off her staff with a handkerchief.

"But there's something else. A little older, and… weirdly familiar." Bellara stood, her hands mincing each other awkwardly. "Where do I know that from…?"

Fenrel looked at her, feeling her brows crease. "That doesn't sound good."

"Let's just… go." Bellara fidgeted with her hands nervously, showing at the nearest entrance. Fenrel could see what was beyond it. Another bridge leading to yet another building, crumbled past any safety, collapsed in the middle, and just a narrow tree was placed between two sides as a way to cross.

"Great." She muttered, following Bellara.

"It's okay, just you know… Don't look down." Bellara's words were an unneeded reminder when the whole ruin system they were navigating was so far up, no one could survive the fall.

Just after the uncomfortable walk on a wobbly log, yet another obstacle waited for them. They looked at where the road used to be, but now it was a collapsed slope, shining with moisture, a lengthy way down for the looks of it. "Great, another set of leathers to be ruined." Fenrel groaned, looking down. Sliding was the only way.

"Why don't you just ask Caretaker to enchant them to repel filth?" Neve asked.

"You what?" Now it was clear how Neve's garments always looked meticulously. "I didn't know you could do that."

"You can ask the Caretaker of anything and it will attempt to do it. A weird helper that Solas built. But, convenient." Neve caught her expression. "Yes, it did mention that it was created by Solas. Never would have taken him for a creator."

"I have lived for many years and have tried my hand at many things. Some turned out better than others." Solas murmured.

"He must have been rather bored and wanted someone to listen to his posturing." Fenrel joked, drawing a sly smirk from Neve.

"Is that so?" Neve laughed once.

"Come on, guys, let's go," Bellara beckoned them, and Fenrel sighed before touching her foot on the slope. Sufficiently slippery. The road down was short and muddy.

Demons. Of course. All of them pulled their weapons, but Fenrel's hand hesitated when she recognised the red shape trashing around the courtyard they had entered. Smell of sizzling flesh and sulfur, incredible speed, that made them turn from one side to another as the demon circled them. A rage demon. Harding glanced at her while lining up her arrow. "Are you alright?" Everybody knew what happened at Blackthorne.

She swallowed hard, trying to track the creature's movements. "Yes, sure, I am."

"You look a little pale," Harding shouted over the noise, standing in front of her, letting the arrow go. Fenrel tried to pay no attention to the sickness rising, but the smell and the heat of the demon were all too much. It was Minrathous, Weisshaupt, and Blackthorne. Every failure, every wound, every close escape. She could feel the tight grip of her hand on the hilt of the dagger, but it was as if the hand was not her own. The electric charge in her other hand flickered, summoned too early, too strong. She had to let the charge die before it went off, but her nerves locked onto it.

"Breathe." Solas, ever-so-helpful, interrupted her spiralling.

"I am doing just enough of it." She grumbled, but annoyance overrode the fear when her fingers unclenched and the sparkles dispersed. When she reoriented herself, Neve was already on the move in tandem with Taash, freezing the shape in its place, and Taash letting the axes do the work. With it occupied, Fenrel could turn her attentions to shielding Harding and Bellara as they took their targets out from a distance.

With the last manevolent spirit down, they stood gasping in the middle of the circular yard, sweat glistening on their brows, except for Taash, who looked like they only got a gentle warm-up. Bellara was the first to interrupt the cacophony of their heavy panting. "That rage demon… It smelled like tin… Like an aftermath of powerful magic."

"And that means…?" Fenrel asked from a position of bracing her knees, still catching her breath. Sustaining shields for prolonged periods of time was more exhausting than lightning chains, and she pulled to open the side pouch and fished for lyrium inside it.

Bellara's next words weren't much of a surprise. "We must hurry."

The trek through the ruins was becoming rather frustrating, right until they would find another glimpse of items lost by Veil Jumpers, proving they were on the right track. Mihlora's bag, found with the demon that attempted to attack them, was a grim sign, one that made this feel less like of rescue and more of a recovery mission.

"Do these ruins ever end?" Taash complained as they entered yet another building.

"Yes. Well, not for miles. But yes," Bellara said. "I think we're getting close."

"How sure are you?" Fenrel asked, receiving a glare from Neve as if she were an impatient child. She shrugged. Walking all this road with the weight of armour and weaponry was becoming tiresome.

They made their way through the ruins slowly, evening sun burning red through the glass windows, more portraits of Evanuris upon them. The deeper they went, the more odd the feeling of magic became, even for Arlathan's standards. Usually, it was wild, unruly, but it felt like it had its own logic, one that you could get attuned to, but this felt older, more vicious, pulling at the threads of reality.

"Be careful", Solas warned, as they walked through the corridor, seeing the light blue light pouring from the entryway at the end of it.

The rhythm of their steps slowed as they closed the distance and made out the shape that emitted the glow. Two crystalline shapes, floating off the ground, suspended in them, two dark figures, wrapped in Veil Jumper trapping, seemingly unconscious, trapped, their heads hung low.

"Yenarel!" Bellara picked up her pace, leaving them behind, rushing to the crystals. "Hamuel!"

As she stretched out to reach for them, Fenrel ran to her, already too late, as the crystals protected themselves, leaking lightning, making Bellara jump back with a squeal.

Fenrel's fingers wrapped around her forearm, pulling her back from the weird trap. "Bellara, are you okay?"

Bellara could not move her eyes from the trapped people, her bottom lip shaking as she spoke barely above a whisper. "We have to stop it. Get them down."

The heavy and light footsteps came behind them, a sound of metal against stone following soon after. The five of them stared at the crystals, unsure if people inside were still alive, when another set of footsteps was followed by a voice. "Vora'shivan?"

Both Fenrel and Bellara turned, recognising the name. Early in their friendship, Bellara had told her of a man who called her that name. The man, who was supposed to be dead. Her brother.

Bellara gasped at the sight of a young elf before them.

He walked ever closer, dark hair, the same shade as Bellara's. Behind the bronze mask on his face, Vallaslin of the familiar pattern was hidden. "I can't believe it!" He said with joyful relief. "It's really you. I'd hoped you might come. But I didn't let myself believe it."

As he stepped closer, Bellara's hand came up across Fenrel's chest, as if forbidding her to move. "Cyrian."

Her brother looked well for a dead man.

Bellara stood there, her mouth agape, staring at the ghost, a memory.

He tried to come ever closer, "Bellara? Are you alright?"

"You're dead," Bellara said.

"No. No, nothing could be further from the truth." With him standing this close, Fenrel could see that the red of his trappings matched the unnatural glow of his eyes. Whatever he was, he was wrong. "He delivered me. As he will deliver us all."

Bellara could only look at the shape of her brother, breathing, and speaking. The rest of them glanced at each other in panicked confusion. Her brother had died time ago, in an accident with an artefact. Or so everyone thought.

" 'He'? Who's 'he'? Who are you talking about, Cyrian? Who saved you?" Bellara unknowingly took one step towards him, making Fenrel instinctively pull her back by the sleeve.

It was just in time, as darkness poured just behind him, darkest velvety smoke filling the space surrounding him, like a shroud manifesting itself, absorbing the light and letting a cloaked figure leave it. The dressings of it were worn, frayed by time, the black leather scaling greyed and scratched, a bronze mask, one that covered most of its face, dulled, barely retaining any of the original colour. It, or rather he, wore a hood, horns reminiscent of a halla breaking through it, the glint of red shine of his eyes alluring, dangerous.

When he spoke, she knew who he was. She and Solas thought the same, which was in between the lines of Shit and Fuck. Anaris loomed in the space, his words heavy. "I did."

"And who are you?" Neve asked as the rest of them stood in their confusion.

"One who sought this form to speak to you all." He spoke of them all, but his glowing eyes were fixed only on Fenrel and Bellara. "One, who cannot yet manifest. Not the only one here." With his last words, he turned to Fenrel, the eyes narrowing, as if he could see through her, inside her. "Soon enough though… With Cyrian's aid."

"You're Anaris." Fenrel interrupted him before he could monologue further. She had enough of elven god blabber to last her a lifetime.

"Yes." His gaze did not stray. "The old fool found his aid, too, I see. Ever poor in his choices."

Her eyebrow twitched in frustration. Solas was rather lucky to end up with her rather than being stuck alone in the nothingness of his jail.

"You did just think of Anaris of alluring, which makes my fortune rather questionable." Solas gave her a bitter chuckle, annoyance with Anaris' presence evident. "Don't provoke him. He is blinded by his own ambition and will not tolerate anyone barring his path. It would be better if you let me guide your words."

As if. Hands crossed over her chest, denial setting in her body before she thought of it. "I thought you just said not to provoke him."

"A Forgotten One," Bellara spoke, but neither was there fear in her voice or her attention paid to Anaris. She only ever looked at Cyrian, her eyes filled with sorrow.

"Yes." Anaris looked at Bellara, shifting his head to the side, curious. "Well done. Forgotten. But not gone. The sixth and seventh roam free, while one who freed them through his foolish pride draws ever closer. Yet, the way stands clear. And I will guide your-our people to ascension. As the others have found. As these two will soon find."

He spoke with a dangerous kind of arrogance, one she remembered from a memory within a dream Solas had shown her. He did not think himself wrong, and thus he could not be wrong. Only two of the Veil Jumpers hung suspended behind them. But more went missing. He spelt it out rather clearly. Whatever his ascension meant, there was no trace of other missing people around the room.

Bellara's fingers twitched at her side, the set in her face familiar to anyone who knew her for any length of time. She was figuring something out. "The demons. They were the missing Veil Jumpers."

Four heads turned to stare at her in a blink of a second. Demons were odd, sure. More aggressive, more unrelenting. At this point, they came to expect weirdness, so they did not think of it after the fight. Not even when one of them met on the way, carrying Mihlora's bag. Fenrel, Neve and Harding had seen a darkspawn stealing a dagger; why would they question a demon with a bag? They should have.

"Shit." Fenrel breathed through clenched teeth.

"Why Cyrian?" Bellara's voice shook, half a question, half a plea for him to deny the truth. "Why do that to our people? We wanted to save them. Not destroy them."

His pleasant smile fell apart, the red in his eyes flickering. "I didn't—I mean, they wouldn't…"

"Alas," Anaris, even without seeing his face, seemed quite amused by the troubles of mortals. "A regrettable possibility, if the ritual's done wrong."

Cyrian finally broke his attention from Bellara, turning to face his god, voice rising. "You told me it would give them strength! Purity! You never said it could kill them!"

Anaris' head turned slowly, looking down on Cyrian. "I had assumed you could handle such a trifling task, Cyrian. Perhaps I chose my herald poorly. If you lack the conviction to see your people ascend…"

Bellara talked over him. "Why, Cyrian? Why do this? Why him?"

"Because only he offers the truth," Cyrian spoke calmly again, unnatural sereness washing over him. "And is willing to help our people. That's all I ever wanted. All we've ever wanted." He reached for Bellara's hand.

She stepped back, eyes flooded with tears, her armoured pieces making soft sounds as her arms shook, getting away from his grasp. "No. Not like this. Never like this."

Bellara's breathing and words trembled. "Why couldn't you stay a memory?"

The siblings stood staring at each other, while Anaris released what seemed like a sigh of a bored man. "Come now, Cyrian. We will leave your sister to her contemplation." The shadows between the Forgotten One and his puppet grew once more, engulfing them. "As well as other things."

Fenrel felt the familiar chill of a demon manifesting, and before she could think, her hand was already pulling her blade. They would need to save the trapped Veil Jumpers and kill some demons while at it. Contemplation on Anaris could wait.

Fighting demons was exponentially harder, knowing where, or rather, who they came from. She could not stop her wrist from shaking while waiting for the orb to form as Despair hovered closer. What did Cyrian and Anaris do to those people to turn them into this? How far would they go? How far could they go?

Bellara was working on figuring out how to destroy the crystal trappings set on the two Veil Jumpers while the four of them, Fenrel, Neve, Taash and Harding, took on the fight positions. Neve and Fenrel controlled the field with ice and lightning while Taash and Harding took the constrained demons via brute force of axes and arrows. The fight was swifter than their previous demon encounter, but none of them felt any better once it was over. Bellara had dismantled both devices powering the crystals, and they suddenly fell apart, leaving the victims of Anaris lying lifelessly on the ground.

At first, none of them dared to move, thinking they were too late, that the Jumpers were dead. The shallow rise and fall of their chests made their fears dissolve, and all of them approached the exhausted bodies carefully. Bellara offered to send out the Veil Jumper smoke signal above the building, letting Strife and Irelin know that something was up.

They did not have to wait long, and as soon as nightfall came, the first Veil Jumper group arrived. Yenarel and Hamuel were conscious now and could receive help, get readied to be taken back to the camp. While Taash and Harding helped Veil Jumpers get them on the stretchers and navigate out of the ruins, sharing the burden of carrying two injured, Neve, Bellara and Fenrel stepped into the darkness outside the building to speak with Irelin and Strife.

Hearing the story, their reaction was what was to be expected: shock, fear, disappointment. It seemed none could believe Cyrian would do this to their own willingly. From what Bellara has told her of Cyrian, it seemed unlikely, too. He was brave, smart and curious. Always by Bellara's side. Always trying to bring something new back to their people. A kind of person who would not care for ascension or power, for it is not how societies like theirs benefited.

Although Irelin and Strife thanked them for saving Yenarel and Hamuel, it felt like a hollow victory. That day, they set out to look for more than two. Fenrel could not help but wonder if they had set out earlier, if they could've saved them all. She lost count of how many demons they fought, but that count was the same as the number of people lost. If only she prioritised them over the suspected dragon, if only…

"Sometimes the best you can do is all you can do. And you did it," Solas tried to lessen the burden. "The dragon was the correct choice. What if it was there? Have you thought of it? How many Wardens or villagers could've died?"

"Replacing the actual number of dead with a probable one should help me how, exactly?" She could barely concentrate on the real conversation unfurling before her. It was not right. If people were less easily corrupted, things like this would happen.

"It is not entirely Cyrian's fault. Anaris had his hold on him, one that might prove difficult to break."

Fenrel's attention turned back to Bellara and Irelin as they discussed the mask Cyrian was wearing.

"That mask started glowing. When Anaris was speaking, I mean." Bellara looked for the answers to her brother's behaviour, and that much was clear.

"Bronze?" Irelin's voice shook. "Kind of ugly?"

"Yes," both Neve and Bellara answered.

"An Evanuris' bond mask. Damn." Irelin shook her head, glancing at Strife.

Strife stood there, his head hung, hands on his hips, in a thought. "We found a few of them around Arlathan. But they were broken. Or at least dormant." He shook his head, slowly. "But will all the raw magic gods brought back into the world… guessing that's changed things."

They stood around listening to how masks would bind wearers to the gods, making them feel the same emotions, same yearnings, but not exactly controlling them. Just passing the feeling. For some, that was as good as mind control. A faint hope it had given Bellara, that once the mask would be removed, he would be the same as he was. A weak, flickering hope. Because if it was not mind control, it must have been his choice, however affected. Removing the mask would not guarantee that he would come back to his senses.

"Evanuris particularly loved those masks for how elegant their cruelty was. It was never as if their servants did not want to perform their tasks. Godly satisfaction is nothing like what you feel, and any crumb of it passed through the mask was a powerful motivation. Exponentially more sufficient than any torture." Solas clicked his tongue. "Of course, it did not steer Evanuris from indulging in that as well."

They left Arlathan without resolution, as Bellara stumbled over the question of what it would take to stop Cyrian. Fenrel knew that she would take him out if it came to that, if only to spare Bellara additional grief. The chatter was sparse as they walked back through the Eluvian, as they made the last stretch through the Crossroads. No one went for dinner, exhausted from the day. Neve and Bellara disappeared in Neve's studio, not before exchanging one more solemn glance with Fenrel. Harding and Taash went to look around for the Lucanis, Davrin and Emmrich to update them. Fenrel turned back inside and stood staring at the library. "Caretaker?"

The spirit was swift. "Yes, dweller?"

"Bring a meal to my chamber in an hour." She said.

***

She greeted him with a sigh. It had a note of relief. Solas did not needle her, standing around bookshelves, pretending to inspect the spines, as if he did not already know what was in his own room. Almost charming it was, how his brows set in a fake expression of interest, his neck slightly leaned in as if to read the titles more clearly. "Charming? Compared to the allure of Anaris, it's a pretty dull compliment."

"That's your takeaway from the day?" She could have been sterner, but her body had been through enough for if not today, then for months. The chair felt a little too stiff when she collapsed into it. "Jealousy is an unbefitting look on you, Solas."

"Thought you could use a distraction." He lifted his head and glanced at her, a smirk that would usually indicate teasing turned into a gentler one. No address was given to her other remark, except for a slight flush of his ears. Without his armour, all edges seemed soft, making his gaze harder to bear. He was not the only one blushing in the room now. She looked away, down to the stack of papers, not truly comprehending anything scribbled on parchment.

His pity felt worse than his remarks. Remarks and arguments were easy to deal with. The softness that came after and decided to remain still stirred something wrong, something warm, in her. She hoped her hair covered enough of her cheeks. Sadly, it could not help with her tongue. "You are already here, aren't you?"

"If I am to be a distraction, use me wisely." He sauntered across the room while she trained her eyes on the table. One pile of missives and letters held her coming days, while the other held his days past. She moved her left hand towards the latter, hearing his steps stop by the edge of the table. "Curious, how you still haven't opened them. Considering you were so keen on drawing the answers from me." His voice was a bit colder now, yet brittle.

"I said… I thought I wanted the truth." She said, not moving, hand lying against the grain of time-worn paper, feeling the ridges of words written with such emotion that it created an emboss on the other side. "Now I am not entirely sure if I am ready even for a glimpse of it."

His hip leaned against the wood as he partly sat on the table, head lowered, trying to catch her eye. They both knew how aware he was of her inner turmoil by this point. "What is it you fear?"

Every contradiction of who he was.

That was the fear.

She did not know if she would find Solas or Dread Wolf in those letters, recognising the jagged line of separation in her mind.

She did not answer, but slid the thin parchment from the top, exhaling deeply upon unfolding it. Brows furrowed, eyes tracing the intelligible words, or what seemed like words, she slapped it back on the table, wood creaking. "What is this?"

"Ah," Solas chuckled, glancing at the script. "Elven, of course. Not the one you can understand, though."

"So much for sharing your past." She leaned back in the armchair with a scoff, crossing her legs. "Next, I'll find the last of your blue little wolves, and you'll tell me they were needed to unlock the next sixteen."

His brows rose in surprise and light amusement. "Now you are hyperbolising. Perhaps you could use some rest."

That irritated her further. "What? Searching for another cuddle?" Daggers would have hurt less than her stare.

He sighed, rubbing his temple, head hung. "I meant you could rest for a moment and let me read them aloud. But you can remain difficult, if you wish."

The anger that bubbled was drowned out quickly by confusion. The offer was clear and seemed genuine, even though she would have no chance to know if he was actually reading what was written. Of course, Bellara could read them, but unsure of the contents, she was not keen on asking for Bellara's help.

"The trust in me was always in your hands." He said, leaning to look at the paper. "To Elgar'nan, Sun-Tamer, General of the Enlightened Army, first among the Evanuris, ruler of Arlathan…"

Her body moved closer, listening to the calm tenor of his voice. "This is going to take a while, won't it?"

Solas smiled. "You should get comfortable."

Chapter Text

Solas’ POV

He was a fool. Irredeemable one. He knew well of it when his fingers itched to move the hair from her face as she sat, reading, focused on yet another request for help. She had just come back from Grand Necropolis after helping Emmrich fight off a malignant spirit that thought it fitting to wreak havoc in Arlathan, and updating Myrna and Vorgoth on the progress made. But with the Veil weakened as such, one defeated demon meant little, for sightings of others came in just as quickly as they were done with this one.

"Must you watch me this closely?" She asked, glancing at him, perched against her table.

The notes from Felassan he had read for her weeks ago were still laid out, forcing him to look away. He wondered why she hadn't hidden them away again. They lay there, as if there to pull at his conscience. It was one thing to tell her of his futile efforts to talk with Elgar'nan in ways of diplomacy, and a whole different beast to acknowledge the words he tried to outrun.

Nights ago, when his hand shook lifting the last one, she tried telling him he did not have to, but they were too far in for it to stop. For a moment in the dark, he could feel that his ache was not his alone to bear, as she sat next to him, taking the letter his friend left for a ghost, out of his hand and putting it away.

The curious eyes on him made him snap back to the moment they were in now, when the reading should have been just a memory.

She sat there cross-legged, paper in her hand, pointing at him with the question he hadn't answered yet. She tried to feign annoyance, and he tried to force nonchalance, even if his heart stuttered at the sight of the soft smile that she would try to shift quickly to a neutral façade. "I could leave." He smirked.

Her gaze shot up again, now sticking to him. "No—I mean, only if you'd rather be alone."

He had many flirtatious comebacks at the tip of his tongue, but they were losing their elusiveness with each time she got too close. Instead, they became as real as the memory of her mouth against his, the softness of her skin, the weight of her breath as she slept, his body already familiar with the shape of her nightmares, his hands ready to hold her close so she wouldn't toss and turn. Ever since the drunken night, he resolved to put some boundaries, only to induce misery upon himself. Especially when he realised something shifted in her, too, ever since the Rage demon attack.

Her gaze grew softer, words more understanding, as if finally they stood on the same side of the line. Tether grew loud with their whispers to one another every day she was away from home, the Lighthouse. Solas would get caught in the ache of waiting for her return, voices of all he had ruined echoing larger in the vastness of his prison, asking him why he would condemn her too, and still, he could not stay away. The wrongness of it could not outweigh the relief washing over him upon sight of her. All part of the plan, all part of the plan, became his mantra, held by his thinning forbearance.

"You could join me for a chat with Varric," She said, standing up, her hip resting close to his hand against the table. "Don't you think it's time you two talked?"

He wanted to tell her. She, with her loose shirt and hair trying to escape the updo she attempted to do, bruises faded, and scars now looked like a piece of the past rather than a fresh wound. She had to know deep down.

Varric was dead.

He felt it in her words, wavering each time the rogue dwarf was brought up. How rarely she had visited the infirmary now, as if finally letting go. "Fenrel…"

Words had left him.

He couldn't do it.

Not yet.

Not now.

"I get it. You two are stubborn bastards." She rolled her eyes, as she often would. "I'll make sure to tell him about you."

He watched her take leisurely steps towards the door, wishing he could stop this. Wishing he had never let that lie begin. Instead, he tried to smile, answering, "You always do. Do not tire a resting man too much."

***

Lucanis, as always, stood uncomfortably close to her. Blackthorne shifted many things around, but not the way he still looked at her, as if trying to read her mind, see just how far in it Solas was, how much hope was there for anything else. Solas found himself irritated by this closeness, by the way his fingers lingered against her waist, how he could walk alongside her out there, in the world. How deeply she cared for him, and thus, questioned herself, trying to find feelings similar to those she felt in Solas' hands, and failing. The thought of it would make him smile, but he would never address it. Neither of them would, because what good would it do?

When she would say a word too endeared, and touch too long, when her hand would instinctively rise to shield Lucanis, Solas would cling to the memory of her hips pressing against him, her eyes asking something he would have given her, if it were any other circumstance. She was drunk, and he was desperately burning for her, and that was what haunted him.

The almost.

Not kissing her for weeks after became torturous, and Lucanis' presence made it abundantly clear. He released a sharp exhale when Lucanis kneeled to tighten her shin guard, just as they finished fighting against Antaam in the Crossroads.

She told her companions of the reports from The Caretaker regarding increased Antaam and Venatori activity and how they needed to investigate, conveniently leaving out the part of her own interest in searching the Crossroads better. Ever since he offered to read the letters, her mind became singular, one goal in mind – to uncover everything he has hidden so well. As if it would absolve her of the sin of reaching for him, make it alright.

Even he was not sure where the remaining statuettes had gone, suspecting that they had been misplaced by intruding forces. Elgar'nan's pets were stirring a particular discomfort in him, though he was sure to make Lighthouse itself impenetrable. They could not reach it, and therefore, Fenrel, from the Crossroads.

Just like her, he listened to Lucanis and Taash discussing the crows with casual cheer, as if the organisation wasn't everything that was wrong with Antiva. He had no love for a country shackled by a mercenary force controlling everything through the threat of assassinations. Fenrel was not blind to his disdain leaking through their connection. "You are brooding. Again." She thought, jerking him out of his musings.

"Not particularly fond of murderers." He murmured, trying to quell his annoyance.

"Technically, we are both one of those." He could almost hear her laugh, one that in the beginning was sharp, jarring, now a sound of comfort.

He was a murderer, that much was correct. The worst kind. One that would kill the ones he loved. Perhaps what Lucanis did was more dignified, but he decided not to say anything more; his guilt felt leaden, pressing on his ribs.

The distant sound of disruption was what drew their attention from the conversation. The ground underneath her feet shook, and she stared at the overgrown gate before her, rushing to put the red, repulsive essence in, to get it unlocked. She did her due diligence, getting every key to every lock of the gates around the crossroads, taking care of every beastly Champion Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain had left to roam free in the world. Those were mere distractions for mortals, but damaging ones.

She did not linger on the threshold, Solas' dagger gripped tightly in her palm, the frantic rhythm rising in her veins as soon as the path forward opened. The remnants of annoyance from the Antivan Crows discussion quickly grew to anger in him upon sight of the island ravaged by explosives, Antaam making the haven he once crafted into a wasteland. Even more so, he saw it for what it was.

"They were trying to lure you, someone, in." He warned her.

"What you are saying is... It's a trap."

Her casual reaction to his words made him even more worried. "What I am saying is, be careful. No secrets are worth the risk being posed."

"Yours might be."

The tether in his hand felt razor sharp as his fingers instinctively flexed on it. He shifted back to the view of his prison, pushing the air out of his lungs in a frustrated huff. "Fenrel."

"What? Are you going to scold me?" The noise on the island was deafening. A tree fell after yet another explosion. Fenrel was threading in slowly, looking around.

"It would be of no use." Solas gave in, resigning himself to watch this play out, anxiety sending the ants down under his skin; he feigned humour through clenched teeth. "It seems you rather enjoy it."

The view of reality blurred a little when she shook her head. She watched the bridges connecting the islands, a plan already forming in her mind. "We need to lure them all to one place. Preferably one with the most explosives." She said to Taash and Lucanis, making both turn sharply to her.

She pointed with her chin at the nearest bridge. "Every structure is chock-full of gaatlok. We get them all on one of the islands. Taash activates the bombs; no need to fight."

"I don't think making a complicated thing sound easy helps us at all." Lucanis scoffed. "Just. Like. Rivain. Trap. Boom. Fun." Spite interrupted him.

"And how do we get off the island?" Taash stood, not particularly dissuaded by the idea.

"Preferably… be midway on the bridge before setting off explosives and then running fast?" Fenrel said half seriously, though she completely meant it. "Also, worst-case scenario, Spite has wings."

Lucanis looked Taash up and down. "I doubt we could lift Taash. Though Taash could probably throw me far enough."

Fenrel laughed softly. "Me even further. Okay, if it's not exploding them, then what, us three versus twenty…" She quickly counted figures in the distance. "… Thirty of them?"

"Explosion sounds just fine, now, when I think of it." Lucanis nodded, stretching his neck, rolling his shoulders, and reaching for daggers. "How do we lure them?"

"Leave that to me," Taash said, unhooking their axes from the holders.

***

The plan was brilliant, if not terribly executed. Only half of Antaam were interested enough in their ruse, and only seemingly because of recognising Taash. "Adaari", they repeated, charging at the three of them, seemingly trying not to hit Taash particularly cruelly, as if they wanted to keep Taash relatively unharmed. Fenrel noticed that too, even when they were too busy running for their survival as Taash spat flame at the bundle of gaatlok barrels, while the lightning charge Fenrel set on the Antaam fighters was still restricting them from pursuing the trio.

Solas winced as the bridge collapsed, cutting off the island permanently, knowing that the mechanism of keeping them suspended would be irreparable. Just like that, something else dawned on him. Somewhere, deep down, he ached to return to the place he had abandoned, one he had not cared for in so long. He was unsure if seeing it all —the marvel of what he had created and feeling the never-ceasing amazement through her eyes — ignited the need to rebuild it all to its former glory. If only she could see the world as he once did.

With enemies halved, they moved to the main area, the remains of one of many observatories of his days. He could see the blue shine of the statuette by the ruins, placed inconspicuously in the middle of a barren area. "Another trap," Solas warned, hoping for better results.

Taash's outstretched hand stopped Fenrel and Lucanis, and they watched curiously as Taash inhaled deeply, nose scrunching with disgust. "Poison. Bastards."

"There's gas around it?" Fenrel squinted, trying to see any tell-tale signs of a poisoned area. The light broke around the statuette, giving off a slight green tinge.

"Elgar'nan is teaching his pets new tricks," She addressed Solas silently, before speaking out loud. "Any ideas on how we get through it?"

"Is that one of those Solas' memories things?" Taash squinted at the crystalline wolf.

"Yes," Fenrel sighed, shifting her weight to another hip. "Unfortunately, we need all of them to get anything out of them."

"That's stupid. Tell Solas that his game is stupid." Taash huffed, pacing. "We can't get to it through this shit."

Lucanis took a few steps further on the bridge, almost touching the island statuette that was left on. His chest expanded with an inhale, his voice hoarse when he spoke up, quickly stepping backwards. "Asphyxiant," he managed to say before being wrecked by a cough, one of the kind that shook his entire body. Fenrel did not think before offering him her satchel of water, him taking it down in gulps. "If I remember correctly, it should be flammable. Once it burns out, the statue will be free—"

He wheezed sharply again.

"—for the taking."

"It seems rather potent. Here," Fenrel gave Lucanis a healing potion, her eyes fixed on the other side of the bridge, the light green shimmer against sunlight, a mirage of a killer.

"There's gaatlok," Taash said, looking around. "And I can throw."

"It could damage the statuette." Fenrel shook her head.

"You can't reach it through the poison, anyway." Taash shrugged. "And feel that? No wind. The cloud won't disappear on its own."

Fenrel huffed in frustration, taking a few steps back. The remaining Antaam have withdrawn somewhere deeper inside the ruins, leaving the relic unguarded, except for the gas. Perhaps it was not a real one, just meant to lure them in. Elgar'nan must have been betting on her following this trail. "It might not even be a real one." She told herself, pacing.

A gentle fire could solve their current predicament rather easily. The problem was that no ordinary mage could move their flame to reach that far, and coming closer would mean Fenrel putting herself directly in harm's way. He was almost surprised and pleased that this plan hadn't already occurred to her. For once, she was not diving headfirst into danger. The offering nearly slipped his tongue, one she would eagerly agree to, but he would prefer she did not. Extending his power through her was no gentle process, and the idea of the suffering it caused pained him.

It would undoubtedly work, but at a price that would be too high.

He chased the thought away quickly, trying to think of another way, while she was still eyeing the gaatlok nearby.

He thought of things he knew she was capable of. Lightning and chill bent to her willingly. He has seen her freeze enemies in moments' notice, painting the surrounding area white with cold. Temperature change could, plausibly, weigh down the gas enough to give them an opening to pass it more freely. But the islands felt rather warm, sweat beading her forehead with no wind to dry it. The time window might have been too short, and then she would be stuck and unable to breathe.

Neither of them could see any of the trap mechanisms. Even if they could, Emmrich was out in Antiva, and entirely too far to help with using some clever necromancy to turn off the source.

Her options were running low.

"Would an explosion ruin the real one?" She asked Solas, still thinking of the original plan.

"Most likely."

"Fuck." She grumbled, hands on her hips, stopping and turning to look at the statuette. Solas could feel the thought taking shape in her before she allowed herself to think of it as feasible.

She talked through the idea as it came, "I can ward off myself and Lucanis, and he can fly us over and grab the damned thing. That's when Taash and gaatlok come in."

"The warding magic you use is primarily meant to withstand force, not… air."

"If anyone were to help me reinforce it—"

"Fenrel, no." His jaw twitched, guilt pulling at him from the memory of the last time he intruded on her, helping her ward Bellara and Davrin, or back in Blackthorne, trying to reassure her of his presence. How her sinews seized, veins froze, seeping all of her mana away. Solas was uncertain what flaw in their connection was volatile and feared that if he solved it, acting through her would become too tempting to forego. "It only ever hurts you."

"I am sure you can find it in yourself to be gentle."

Solas thought of the moments he healed her sleeping body, warmed her when coolness threatened to rattle her bones. His power was not hurting her when it came out willingly, without thinking of the consequences, without doubt. Perhaps, tether was aware of them in ways he could not yet grasp, separating the desperation from quiet aegis.

Even with that, he still denied her, thinking of that singular breath Lucanis took before a cough raked his body. One miscalculation would be all it took. "Find a better way."

"There is no better way, Solas. So either you help or you don't, and I am still doing it." She fixed her spell blades back in their holsters, shifting weight from one leg to another, readying herself, shins trembling just a bit. She knew full well how ludicrous her plan was and how it hinged on Lucanis' swiftness. He would need to get them out before the move of Spite's wings disrupted the poison too much. All in fragments of seconds, just for an item she did not know the true value of yet. None of it mattered when her trust in the assassin was unbreakable. "Lucanis, when you are ready."

Lucanis rolled his shoulders, feet firmly planted on the ground as the spectral wings unfurled from his shoulder blades. "Any preference for position?" He said with a smirk, before hearing himself, his cheeks quickly turned deep maroon. "I meant—I—how should I hold you?"

"Hands free? I'll need them to cast." She shrugged, walking up to him.

Lucanis smiled with a nod before sweeping her off her feet, one hand on her back, another under her knees. For a moment, Solas could not breathe. Not from poison, but from the sheer, stupid, and would-be brilliant audacity of what they were doing.

The Antivan Crow smelled of coffee, expensive perfume, cotton and leather, a scent she was familiar with, comforted by. Her spine straightened instinctively as his hand wrapped around her waist tightly. Solas felt the power curling at her fingertips, the buzzing growing at her navel, spreading through her and outwards, as her protection enveloped their bodies.

As Spite's wings propelled them from the ground, with a surprised gasp, she flexed her hands, quickly weaving the ward stronger, eyes darting between Lucanis and the statuette.

Lucanis looked at her with his night sky eyes, the dark abysses rimmed by the light purple now, something she came to notice when Lucanis and Spite would work in tandem. "When I dive, you have to grab."

"I will. You get us out, quickly." She answered, her fingers still grasping at the light shimmer surrounding them. "The ward will loosen once I break to grab it."

Lucanis nodded once, Spite's wings whooshing the air as they lifted off higher, his fingers pressing into her flesh, holding on tighter. She held the ward with all she had, the gas sizzling against it as they dove above the statuette, her hand shooting out towards it. The ward flickered. Her hand tightened on the cool crystal, pulling it off the ground by its head. Spite's wings were straining in a sudden stop. "Fly." She gasped when ward flared once more, the air in her lungs suddenly growing heavier.

The Crow didn't disappoint. He surged up, a streak of purple and black against the sun, wings slicing through the air. The poison stirred—but they were already above it. Fenrel's ward sparked once, violently, as the air thinned—then collapsed the moment they landed hard near the edge of the ruins. Lucanis stumbled, but did not let go of her in their crash landing.

Solas' relief was brief.

What followed was a bright flash of aquamarine turning orange, the discharge shaking the ground beneath them. Taash was standing above them, hand still outstretched in the throwing motion. Fenrel and Lucanis watched as the poison curled with the flames until every bit of green was gone, only stale smoke left in its wake.

Taash turned to look at them with a grin. "Up for killing some Antaam?"

Fenrel tapped Lucanis' shoulder lightly. He glanced at her. "Everything okay?"

"Can you put me down?" She laughed, noticing his reddening cheeks as he realised.

"Yes, of course." His hands unwrapped from her slowly, helping her steady on her feet, while her hand still clutched the little blue wolf.

Solas would have rather ignored the feeling that came over him once she was finally away from Lucanis' hands. Eyes locked on the horizon, she looked at the ruins on the island where the trap was set, thinking of all the Antaam forces inside them. Their first trick only managed to eviscerate half of them. At least fifteen berserkers were hiding out there, waiting, armed to their teeth. Fifteen versus three. Solas did not need to tell her the odds.

It was a trailing thought, one he did not believe for her to stick with, but one that slipped her tongue with ease, "We could just collapse the entrance."

Solas felt his lips fall apart with surprise. That was one callous shortcut to take in a fight, but impressive. Once again, he was reminded why it was she who captured him, despite him trapping her with his blood magic. Whatever it takes, she promised once, and now she was living up to it.

***

"So, we get the last of these, and then what?" Taash was walking leisurely, one axe still swaying in their hand, the other holstered. They did not stay to hear if anyone was struggling inside after the last boulders fell; the wide opening in the building was now stuffed shut with rubble.

"We place them in front of those ruined frescoes at The Lighthouse, and they… should reveal something. Of Solas' past, I mean." Fenrel said less than she knew, but just enough to keep them interested in the search. 'Not quite sure how, though."

"If it's anything like his other memories, we're in for a terrible time," Lucanis murmured, certainly still shaken by the experience of Ghilan'nain's laboratory. Solas could not find it in himself to mock it, for he still felt the shadows of terror that came over him the first time he witnessed those horrors. The revulsion had receded but not faded entirely, always at the back of his mind, a grim reminder of the righteousness of his sacrifice.

"I think he would have warned me if it was to be expected," Fenrel answered, her voice trailing off as she caught herself smiling at the thought of him in their presence.

"So, you two are what, buddies now?" Taash bumped her shoulder, smirking.

Fenrel did not pay attention to the Lucanis tracking her every expression, even if she could sense the burn of his attention on her skin. "Something like that, yeah." Her cheeks burned with non-confession.

Taash clicked their tongue, hooking their axe back in its place, kicking up the dirt path they walked on. "Didn't take you for a forgiving type."

"He is not forgiven." Fenrel scoffed. "Just…"

She stopped herself before saying "it's complicated" again. "Caretaker said Venatori were amassing on the outskirts of Converged City, blocking off some entrances with their crystals. We should check it out."

Futile attempt to change the direction of conversation was not fooling anyone, but also no one pushed at her discomfort. Taash gave her the same respect Fenrel extended to them, a silent pact between friends.

"Sure," Taash nodded. "We'll be back before dinner, right?"

The three of them walked up the dock, waiting for the boat to float them across the never-ending canyon that separated areas of the Crossroads, its insides lined with buildings from various places around Thedas. Nearest to them, there were some skeletal statues of Nevarra. "You're worried about missing food or missing Harding? I heard she's cooking tonight."

Lucanis groaned at that. "I am sure there's some leftover fish."

"Wouldn't bet on it with how much food Davrin needs to sustain those muscles." Fenrel reminded him much to his disappointment. She would have been lying if she said the prospect of Harding's cooking was exciting, unless you were particularly into getting your stomach upset. Solas was now glad that the Inquisition had their field cooks, even if those were also serving only Ferelden meals. Harding's take on Ferelden cuisine sounded to him like a perversion of it, but he kept his thoughts to himself, to save himself a lecture about his eating habits. Only recently did she find out the sad reality of his body being stuck in prison and thus not needing to fulfil those needs.

"No food?"

He shook his head in agreement.

"It must be agonising to be stuck in a trap so well crafted." She clicked her tongue, teasing.

"There are bright sides to it." He mused, watching her fingers stained blue grasp at the fruit, lost in thought of what came next. Short moments of solace became his new prison, one he could have remained in if not for his duty.

***

The Converged City was now a place bustling with noise, many spirits roaming the central square, various agents of Fenrel's allies mingling among them. The trade boomed, spirits giving away items of curious nature to travellers now using the Eluvians to get to their tasks quicker. They, in turn, gave away their trinkets, ones that did not carry much meaning, but were attracting certain emotions.

Most people were agents of Shadow Dragons, using the system to track Venatori movements through Northern Thedas, but some were Crows who had now offered a helping hand, as a thanks for the saviour of their city, Rook. Fenrel was finding out firsthand what it meant to become a symbol. Begrudgingly and slowly, she carried the mantle Varric laid upon her, waving at once familiar faces, now calling her a different name.

The gate to the sealed-off area, just like the one before, opened once the essence of the champion was offered to it. The champion hid in the mining area of Minrathous, the poorest, most destitute place in that cursed hole of a city. The day Fenrel, Neve and Bellara discovered it was meant to be a simple favour for the locals, cleaning out some dark spawn that made it home down in the flooded tunnels. That night, she came back drenched, annoyed and rambling. Solas sat through her tirade of words, finding himself slightly intimidated to interrupt. Fascinating mortals were, in the way they could spite something so much despite the deep affections they simultaneously held for that same thing. She would tap the quill against the desk as she rambled, or walk slow circles, closing in on themselves, just to restart the spiral again. He followed her restlessness with a keen eye, just until her voice snapped him out of it. "You're not saying anything."

"It's just quite fascinating." He said with an easy smile.

She cocked her head to the side, curiously. "What is?"

"How much care there is in your loathing."

Stopped in her tracks, she caught his gaze. "Well, what about you? Isn't there anything in this world you so despise that you have a soft spot for? A place? Food? Okay, maybe not good food, considering your odd affections for smelly cheese."

"Venatori are up to something." Her voice now brought him back to reality, one he could see through her eyes. "Look at all the wards. Venhedis. Neve could have really helped us here."

"Hope she's fine out there," Lucanis said, already making the head count of the Venatori spread through the area.

"I'm sure Teia and Viago are taking good care of her," Fenrel reassured him, her voice vacant as her mind was already preoccupied with the situation at hand. Neve had been gone in Antiva for the past few days, tracking some of the art smugglers on request from Viago. He had information that whatever was going on was somehow related to Antaam, and thus to the escaped Evanuris, and there was no better detective across Northern Thedas than Neve Gallus to take a crack at the case. Low stakes, possibly a high payoff. Fenrel was happy with the arrangement, and the daily updates about Antiva Neve would send them lifting Lucanis' mood. He was not dealing well with being exiled.

Some of the vestibular devices were overtaken by the Venatori, bringing a sour taste to Solas' mouth. If they figured out how to make them work, the whole Converged city could be destabilised, with its numerous visitors and residents still on it. The buildings surrounding the area were crawling with Venatori mages, while the lower, open courtyard was left to be guarded by their lowliest of fighters, cheap coin mercenaries, who did not even notice an assassin, a mage and a dragon hunter waltzing into the area they thought to be secured.

"Hey, is that Rook?" One managed to shout just as a lightning bolt shattered the red crystal, part of some warding structure, floating above him. Glimmering shards raining down on him, before one struck his neck, befalling him, blood pooling around his twitching body in quick spurts.

"Don't hurt the redhead," The voice from above commanded to the mercenaries that stood fear-stricken, watching as Taash closed the distance with their axes raised, and Spite's wings unfolded, the demon and the assassin readying for a fight. Fenrel spun the dagger around in her hand, welcoming the first who dared to attack her, a swift charge going to his temple from her fingertips, the mageblade sinking into his guts as his body spasmed.

Some tried to scramble, clutching their weapons close, their feet fumbling, as they ran towards the gate, only to run into Lucanis and his short swords, the last one to be finished off with a loud crack of the vertebrae as his neck broke in Antivan Crow's hands. Solas could not deny the strides her team have made, their fighting styles adapting to one another, leading where another is blocking, herding the enemies into desperate, bleeding piles.

While Taash and Lucanis stormed the building, their footsteps echoing through the terraces above, Fenrel stayed behind—methodically dismantling the lattice of crystals locking the vestibular device. Though this construct was much larger and far more primitive, she recognised its purpose. His perfected design hung in the Lighthouse, keeping the buildings of the sanctuary anchored to that particular area of the Fade. Nothing was a constant here, and yet everything existed at once and also never. In a way, Fade was like the memories of an immortal. All happening at once, reality and past forever intertwined, never to be separated. Unless, of course, you were clever enough to work around it. Solas found Fade easier to deal with than his own mind.

"Guys?" Fenrel shouted over the wiring sound emitting from the crystals above her and the grunts from the fight over on the terrace. "This isn't working!"

A body robed in black and red slumped over with Taash's axe stuck in its shoulder blade, before Taash swiftly pulled on it, the blade followed by a spray of blood. "What?" They growled back.

"Something more is powering the wards!" Fenrel screamed back, the constant buzzing in her ear from the ward teasing her irritation.

Lucanis turned, blood flicking away from his leathers with movement. "Let us finish killing them at least!"

She tapped her foot, wondering if she should jump into the fight to help them or stay standing there with wards that did not want to collapse. The blades were cool when her fingers brushed past them, withholding from pulling them out. Taash and Lucanis could take care of themselves just fine, judging from the mounting corpses in their wake.

The pull, the inkling, whatever she wanted to call it, was not felt. She could not see the statuette around, though the Caretaker assured her they would be in places of congregations of Evanuris' followers. And unless a creature literally called "the Caretaker" did not know what was happening in areas they took care of, they might have been screwed. Fenrel was prone to spiralling, Solas noticed, more so after Ashur's request. The plea to live for her was more confusing than a vague promise of possible death she dealt with nearly daily.

"It is not mistaken," Solas reassured her.

"Well, I can't see it. It doesn't feel like it's here." She stomped around the unbreakable ward, cursing.

Solas kept his voice steady so as not to provoke further irritation. "Focus on the task at hand. Follow where power is coming from."

Before she could do so, footsteps made her turn, seeing Lucanis and Taash returning from the slaughter, Taash with a wide grin. "Venatori are so killable. I don't know why Lucanis is so famous for killing them."

Lucanis responded with a gentle scoff. "As I told you before, it's all about the flair and theatrics. You'll learn."

"Can we keep the crows studies for a later date?" Fenrel greeted them with a hand on her hip. "These stupid crystals are still powered by something, so now we must check every crevice for power sources."

"Ugh," Taash grunted, but nodded, hooking back their axes. "Let's go."

***

They quickly found that Venatori stowed away additional power crystals on the ledges of the rocks that surrounded the hidden buildings, encasing them in that enclosed space, separating the area from the Converged city. With a combination of many swear words of different tongues, ingenuity and Spite's flight, they managed to get to all of them, destroying their obstacles with frustrated ease.

A few more Venatori dared to show up from the hidden entrances of their besieged fortress, only to fall dead soon after. As the last crystals were destroyed, Fenrel made her way back to the device, untangling the remnants of now weakened ward, the vestibular device now free from Elgar'nan's creeping control. She would make sure allies would send in any fighters they could spare to protect the surroundings of Converged city so such an incursion would not repeat. As the wards fell apart, a sound of screeching metal made them all sharply turn in the direction of dissonance.

The heavy iron gate that shielded one of the entrances of the main building was now open, and a small square room was revealed to them. Solas did not mutter a word when Fenrel recognised the statue in the shape of a woman. A woman he knew and mourned. "Mythal." She said, her voice flat, eyes shifting to the little blue wolf at the foot of the statue. "Oh, here he is." Her excitement was laced with nerves, and still she took quick strides to grab it, not paying any mind to the stone goddess looking down on her.

Solas wondered if it was Elgar'nan who instructed Venatori to place his memory at Mythal's feet. A bitter, low mockery it was. But nothing was too lowly for Sun Tamer. Only when Fenrel clutched that last piece of him did he realise how shallow his trust was for her to understand him. He offered her all of his secrets in hopes of acceptance, forgetting how vile those parts of him were, even if born from good intentions.

Now it was too late to stop what was put in motion.

***

The steam curled up and crept from her cup as she held onto it tightly, the futile effort to keep her hair somewhat contained now completely abandoned. Rigid leathers exchanged for thin cottons, she stood, the scarred, still, angrily pink shoulder bare as too large a shift dress would slide off her skin with ease.

"Coffee?" he asked, his voice softer than usual—careful. He didn't look at the statuettes lined up for silent judgment on the table between them. He looked at her instead.

Her eyes did not stray, staring absentmindedly ahead at the table. "Tea." The word was small, but firm, quietly final. She was ready to cut through his small talk.

"Did not expect you to be one of the tea enjoyers." He tried to be humorous and lighthearted, but he knew where her mind was at.

Ceramics against wood clinked pleasantly as she set down the cup, straightening up. "You are not the only one with a penchant for secrets." Her eyes found his over the low blue glow of their mute witnesses. "Yours… are just older."

She did not move from her side of the table. Neither did he. It was as if a new chasm had opened between them, but unlike the first, this one was keeping them apart in a completely different way. He looked at the statuettes now like something more than his past unburied. These things were also many of the hopes he dared to put in her, the false security of a foolish belief and a desire to be understood. The times he had told himself she would. "You haven't used them yet." That was all he could mutter, his face slack, brows curled in worry.

Tired flesh against the grain of wood, her fingers dragged along the edge of the table in thought. "Do you ever feel like getting what you want might not be in your favour?"

He would've laughed at how closely her fears followed his, if not for the genuine concern painted across her face. "Do you fret knowing the truth or feeling it?"

The only thing that left her mouth was a shallow exhale, hands dropping to her sides before crossing against her chest as her eyes moved from him back to his past laid before them. He stood there, feeling only half there, the silence of the moment stealing the ever-running thoughts from his mind, leaving him hollowed with anxious feeling growing underneath the sternum, leaking to his lungs, spreading. His skin itched, his hands eager to reach, to throw the memories he handed her away and pull her close, but that would have been a betrayal. One he would not commit. He had promised her the truth, whatever part of it he could give.

He stood there, stagnant and vacant of hope he held so dearly, when it was she who stepped around the table, hands not reaching, but loosened, not tightly wrapped to hold herself. "You promised me the truth, and I shall have it. Whatever comes next."

Her eyes were soft in their conviction, the weariness evident in the set of her eyebrows, and that very hope flickered in him again. Doubts were poisonous, he told himself more than once. Perhaps he shouldn't have doubted her either, the naiveté of brittle expectations clinging to him again, as his hand finally cupped her jaw, his eyes running along her features, searching for words.

"The things that I have done…" He said, voice quiet. "Were mine to bear."

"And you chose to share them with someone who could understand." She continued.

"No, not someone." His head shook as his fingers slid from her jaw to her neck, disappearing between red strands. " I chose you."

Unintentionally, unknowingly, he did.

One mistake he could cherish, just for the moment he had it.

The wrinkle marking her forehead smoothed, eyes widening with untold realisation. Neither could muster what they knew to be true and hoped to be mistaken. He had to believe they shared the same thought, without peeking into her mind.

He had to believe she would choose him, too, even after seeing him for what he was, for what he was made to be.

Even if he knew it would eventually destroy them.

Just not yet.

Not for the next fleeting months.

She closed the distance, bare feet on tiptoes, lips soft against his mouth, tasting of tea. He hated the tea—but not in this instance. Like this, he could drink it forever. And forever for immortal, was, truly forever. Even if now he felt stuck on the line between acceptance and a farewell.

Chapter Text

"So, how do they work?" Harding lingered right beside her elbow, staring at the blue crystalline object pressed between her palms.

Fenrel looked up from the curious item to the wall before her, fragmented and faded paint, the rough destruction of a depiction of… something. She could not see exactly what it was, could barely discern the colour placement, and yet, with her whole being, she was afraid. Afraid of knowing. Afraid of what they would see and what it would uncover. How much would it change?

"This is taking forever," Taash whined, hands crossed against their chest as they leaned against the wall nearby. Every single companion put away their tasks for a day to finally witness what she was risking their, and mostly her own, lives for.

"We haven't even started, Taash." Fenrel glared at them before softening her expression, knowing she was not angry with Taash. They had nothing to do with it. It was all her doing. All her and him. "Caretaker said to place them before these murals."

"And then?" Bellara asked, her eyes already inspecting the little shelf attached below the mural, as if trying to discern some hidden trap in it.

"And then?" Fenrel repeated, unsurprised, when all eyes turned to her.

"What do you mean by 'and then'?" Neve asked.

"It means she doesn't know," Lucanis answered for her.

Davrin perked up from his seat, wood carving still in hand. "You mean to tell me you have no idea what these things do?"

Fenrel turned to him. "I know what they do! I just—Don't know how." She glanced back at the statuette in her hand, the others waiting lined up on the table in the central area of the library. Companions picked their places around it, all mismatched chairs filled, except for Harding's spot on the worn-down sofa and Taash's armchair, for they decided to linger around to see the activation up close.

She did not know if statuettes had a set order or if it mattered. "Let's just get this over with."

She said, yet stood still for a moment. Listening. She could not feel him at the back of her head; the air felt stale without the scent of rain and moss that followed him. He did not utter a word since saying goodnight last night. He let her go into this, all by herself. The yearning for his company in the moment must have been felt by him, and still, he stayed away. And it made everything worse, without even seeing what everything was.

"Like, right now?" Harding nudged her away from her thoughts.

"Yes. Right." Ribs expanding, lungs filling, she savoured that last inhale before the plunge into his truth. "Let's do it."

She took that minuscule step separating her from the mural, acknowledging its obliterated beauty for the last time before putting the statuette down.

Fenrel and Harding stood, breaths held, suspended in silence. For a fleeting moment, nothing happened. Then the blue wolf started emitting a glow that made everyone uncomfortably glance at each other. Was this it?

But the shimmer expanded rapidly, drowning them in pale light, quickly blinding them and disappearing as suddenly as it exploded. The mural, before it was transformed, was back to its original form. Two figures, standing on a hill, and one, below it, pointing an accusatory finger at them. She could've recognised that nose anywhere, she now realised, looking at his portrayal of himself. Solas, with his long hair, just robes instead of armour, condemning the divinity of those who looked like Mythal and Elgar'nan, looking down on him. Rich golds and lush greens, so deep that people kneeling at Solas' feet almost disappeared into the background. The only one standing in the crowd of submission.

"Is this it?" Lucanis said, unimpressed, but as his mouth opened again, something else happened.

A voice.

Solas.

He spoke and she flinched, because it wasn't in her head, nor her bedroom. Her eyes darted in panic, wondering why he would show up now, with them all here. But as she looked, he wasn't there.

The voice was coming from somewhere, not him.

"You cannot do this, Elgar'nan! You swore that we would give up our commands when this horrific war was over."

The second voice that came felt like a sharp sting through her heart. She knew of the man. She knew he was after her. But right until now, Elgar'nan, in all his blighted glory, was a mere myth and faraway problem she was yet to face.

"Our people need our leadership. If you're unwilling, leave."

And then the third voice, a woman, the only one who could stand beside Elgar'nan, for all eternity.

"Our people must rebuild… And we must help unite them."

"So," Fenrel could hear the bitterness in Solas' conviction. "We did not fight for freedom, but to conquer this land and our own."

"We fought to win," Elgar'nan answered as if speaking to a half-witted child, "and now, Evanuris are as gods. I do not answer to Mythal's annoying lapdog."

"The people are afraid." Mythal tried being a voice of reason once more. "They must believe in something."

Just for her words to be undercut by Elgar'nan's arrogance. "They need strength."

"And wisdom." She tried to soften his blows.

"They need gods who can protect them." Elgar'nan's booming voice softened just a smidge.

"We are not gods." Fenrel could hear the quiet anguish in Solas' voice. Anguish, that grew to smouldering resentment. "You will learn that."

But Elgar'nan had one last bite. "Every lapdog hides a wolf inside."

Their voices faded, and the noises of the Lighthouse welcomed them back. The expressions the companions wore told her that they heard the same things. None spoke, occasionally Neve opening her mouth before closing it again, or Emmrich, so deep in thought, Fenrel was almost sure he was trying to understand how exactly the statuettes worked. Did they hold the recording of a particular moment set in time, or was it the scene as Solas remembered it, the way he saw it, the way he wanted it to be recalled?

"That was strange." Harding broke their contemplation. "They were speaking elven, but I understood it."

Emmrich's face shifted from concentration to soft awe as he spoke. "I believe we have experienced a memory in each of our native languages."

Fenrel frowned at how enthralled she must have been with words being said that she did not hear them being spoken in Tevene. Then her frown deepened even more, reminding her that once, Elven was her native tongue too. Which language the voices argued in did not matter, and still, it frustrated her. The whole chase for the statues now felt wasted. She knew of rebellion; everyone in the room knew. Varric had already told her the part Solas so kindly shared with Inquisitor years ago: Evanuris seized power and was not willing to share. This memory told her nothing new, and still was only a mere piece of what she knew. What if none of them would tell a new story?

"Not just a memory. One of Dread Wolf's." Neve said with a hint of something awfully close to a slight in her voice.

"As I said, they all are his. Is that surprising?" Fenrel poked her with words.

"No. But he is not famous for being truthful." Neve muttered, raising the mug in her hand to take a sip of coffee. Fenrel lost count of how many of those would be consumed in The Lighthouse daily.

"That depends on your expectation. And I suppose, circumstance." Fenrel said more than she wanted.

"Fenrel knows Solas best, doesn't she?" Lucanis commented, equally bitterly.

Bellara did not care much for whatever tension brewed in the room. "Mages who declared themselves gods. Our gods. Well, mine, Davrin's and Rook's."

Fenrel shook her head. "Not mine. Not for a long while. Not after Weisshaupt, or D'Meta's Crossing, or whatever else they have ruined, especially."

Davrin was still whittling at his new piece, but she caught the little twitch of his lip corner.

"Still… It was just so mundane." Bellara said with disappointment. "Nothing grand or cosmic. No setting fire to the sun. Just talking. Politics."

Bellara sighed. "I wish they were monsters. Something grand and terrible. Seeing them like that, they are no better than Tevinter nobles."

"But no worse, either—" Neve interrupted her. "They were people—and people can let you down."

"Solas was a person, too," Fenrel said. "And he dared to stand against them. When Elgar'nan was hungry for power and would have done anything to hold on to it, Solas dared to oppose him."

"Then Solas started his rebellion," Emmrich stated what they all knew. Such a waste of a memory. All of Solas' grand words of the truth now felt hollow. Worse even, when he couldn't seemingly stand to be present to see to it.

"But there's another moving part in this. Mythal." Neve had her keen eye on the mural. "She was keeping the peace."

"Mythal and Solas were close." Harding straightened in her seat next to Neve, still holding on to her teacup tightly. "The Inquisition found the temple to Mythal, and there were wolf statues everywhere."

"But he—" Fenrel stopped herself before words could come out. He never once mentioned Mythal, even after reading the letters. During dreamy walks in Arlathan. Never had her name left his mouth. Now she wondered if he would not dare or could not make himself speak it.

Lucanis swooshed the remaining coffee in his mug, leaning against Emmrich's chair. "Then she sides with Elgar'nan over him. A betrayal."

Mythal's lapdog. Of course. Just how deep did his hurt run for him to keep her to himself millennia later? She often wondered about the quiet ache behind his eyes, one more prominent in their silent moments. How she forced his hand to admit what the statuettes were. What sounded like an insignificant mockery by Elgar'nan to her must've been a blade between his ribs, a wound now rusted by the bitterness of ages.

"He was loyal to her." She told more to herself. "Mythal's lapdog… And then she chooses power alongside Elgar'nan, betraying the promise to their people of giving it up. I would be pissed too."

"Angry enough to start a rebellion?" Neve looked at her curiously.

"That's not how he'd see it." Davrin leaned back in his chair, finally stopping at his witling. Yet another nug figurine was almost done. "He didn't destroy the world. Elgar'nan did. Solas did what he considered necessary to stop him."

"Seeing what Elgar'nan is capable of…" Fenrel sighed, "I don't think there is anything we wouldn't do to stop him, too."

"Rook," Harding opened her mouth, forehead creased, which was a rarity.

Fenrel could feel the looks, the concern. Without his voice in her head, she suddenly felt all alone in a room full of people. "We should activate the next one."

The air chilled around her for a blink, and still she flinched when Caretaker spoke. "In front of the Eluvian room, you will find the other."

She nodded at the spirit, letting it go back to its duties. In months spent in the Lighthouse, the spirit became a strange comfort, permanence in a world of instability. Always there when a question arises. Companions got on their feet, ready to follow her and the statuette she grabbed to the next stop.

They stood, huddled in the junction of stairs, just before the entrance to the Eluvian room, a tight space for eight of them. This time, Fenrel did not dally, placing the blue wolf firmly in its designated place, the bright glow dazzling them again.

The mural was separated into two parts, as if fractured. On one side, Solas and Mythal stood, Mythal with her back turned to him, as he tried to reach her. On the other half of it, he knelt, head in his palms, tears streaming down his face. All behind was red.

"I was not certain you would come." He spoke with sorrow so deep, she hardly recognised him.

"You are the one who walked away." Mythal was void of emotion, unmovable and solid, compared to his trembling, breathy words. Steel and distance were all she brought him. "I never turn my back when my friend needs me."

But that was a lie. She chose to stand by Elgar'nan. She stood by the tyrant as he mocked her friend.

"The Evanuris seek the magic of the blight." He said, a hint of quiet desperation.

"Impossible." Mythal brushed him away, word sharp, unyielding. "The blight is safely sealed away forever."

"Though I wish I could believe you, I have sensed the breaking of the wards."

Fenrel furrowed her brows at his words. Were the wards so powerful, or was he the one who made them, to feel them crumbling?

"I will investigate your claims." Mythal could not spare him less sensitivities. Was she hurt by him leaving her, alone, with Evanuris to wage his rebellion against them? Or was she just bitter? "If they forget the danger of the blight, I will endeavour to remind them."

Solas took a pause, as if gathering himself. It hung heavy, and Fenrel almost expected the memory to be over on this add note, but then he spoke. "What if, instead, you left the Evanuris and remained with me?"

Fenrel felt her stomach sink before he finished his words. Heart skipping a beat, she held her breath, waiting for his plight to continue.

"Do you not wish for freedom from this struggle?"

She knew this Solas. The Solas that would wait for her at night. One that would ask her to take care of herself. She knew that voice like she knew her skin. So much wariness in so few words spoken, such depth of affections she found now impossible to brush off.

"Be at peace, love. I will stop them."

Silence rang loud in her ears, deafening with echoes of Mythal's voice. Almost as if Mythal's words cut through her.

But truly, only one of them did.

Love.

A single word said mournfully a millennium ago shouldn't have resounded through her veins with such animosity, and still... Fenrel stood, her fingers trembling and clenched, thoughts spinning. It should not matter.

And yet, it did.

"As you must." Solas did not want to let Mythal go, but he would, because she wanted to leave. "The blight is our mistake."

All that she felt abruptly went absent, void, null. She stood there even as the statuette stopped glowing and companions spoke. As they made their way back to the table.

The blight was their mistake.

Solas and Mythal.

She stared at his hand, stuck in time, forever reaching for the goddess that would not look back.

It took Lucanis clearing out his throat to snap her out of it and follow the companions back to their place. They sat down, and all she could do was look at the remaining statuettes, now knowing the price of truth, even if the feelings inside her did not know where to go. Was it fear, disappointment, or disillusionment? He called blight his mistake, and yet all she could hear was Mythal's voice, echoing.

"Did Mythal call Solas 'love' in that memory?" Neve asked, seemingly amused. Fenrel could feel her face going numb, her blinking slowing. She could not mutter a word.

"That's what it sounded like." Lucanis shrugged.

Taash was now more invested than before. "So they were doing it?"

"It does not matter," Fenrel said, quickly, sharply, cheeks splashed with red, her voice stern, to a point that Taash gave her a look.

"Well, Elven gods were free with their emotions," Bellara spoke of her knowledge, and even if Fenrel should have found it soothing, it did not quell her stirred feelings. "They felt things deeply. The way they express things… Well, it feels romantic to us, but that wasn't really how it was. Back then, I mean."

Bellara's knowledge came from artefacts recovered from ruins and old tales of Dalish. Those same tales that revered the Evanuris. Just how much could they have been trusted? If they were to be believed, well, perhaps she saw what she thought she saw in Solas' eyes when they softened, watching her every move, was not what she thought it was. She tried to push the growing embarrassment away, standing up, pacing, sitting back down, yet the heat in her chest blossomed.

Taash shrugged, watching her perform the weird little dance of anxious energy. Why wouldn't Solas speak now? "Nah, they were doing it," Taash said proudly, matter-of-fact.

"Whether they were 'doing it' or not, doesn't matter." She said, voice flat, to her surprise.

Neve raised her brow, but was kind enough to change topics. "So Dread Wolf goes to Mythal. They might have been fighting, but they have history."

"And he warns her about the other gods using the blight," Davrin added. "That's more important than his rebellion. It's like kingdoms coming together when the Archdemon rises."

"Mythal didn't think it was possible." Beralla was already in thought. "When she said the blight was sealed away… Davrin, Rook, there's an old legend about it. The one with Andruil's armour?"

Fenrel sighed, knowing full well she did not remember much of the tales. "Remind us."

"Andruil put on armour. Magic armour." Bellara made a point to repeat the words. "Made of something called the Void. It drove her mad."

Davrin nodded along. "I remember this one. The other gods were afraid Andruil would turn on them. She was doing all kinds of horrible things. Causing plagues. It does sound like the blight."

"Well, it all ends with Mythal fighting Andruil. After Mythal turned into a dragon."

These Bellara's words made Taash jump up in their seat. "She what? Why didn't you start with that?"

"Anyway." Bellara did not play into Taash's comment. Fenrel managed a visage of a smile at Taash's excitement. "She took Andruil's armour away. Then Andruil's madness left, and peace returned."

"Intriguing!" Emmrich was rather thrilled by the revelations. "So it's possible Andruil stumbled onto the magic of the blight."

"And when Andruil went mad, Mythal took it from her and locked it away." Neve wrapped up their talk. Nearly. But one thing gnawed at Fenrel.

"He said it was their mistake." Her fingers tapped against the armrest. "Solas is not in this story. How could it be his mistake then? What's his place in all this?"

"I think… I might know." Harding murmured. "When the Inquisitor was saving the world from the Breach, she met Mythal."

Bellara looked at her, bewildered. "What? Like in a dream?"

"It was complicated. She helped the Inquisition. There was a magic pond. And a dragon."

Fenrel knew where the story was going. Varric would talk of the folly he witnessed while travelling with the Inquisitor quite a lot.

"The point is…" Harding was picking her next words. "She also said that the other elven gods betrayed her. Killed her."

Too bad, even murdered gods could not stay down, as Varric had told her back then. Her spirit fragmented, living on in mortals.

"Solas tried to do the right thing by warning Mythal." Fenrel now thought of how many times he did so for her. But he also gave Mythal another option—freedom. She chose wrong. "And that got her killed."

"It's not just that she died," Taash added.

Harding glanced at them, eyebrows scrunched. "What do you mean, Taash?"

"It's… ugh. There was stuff he wanted to tell her. But he waited too long." Taash's eyes were glued to the ground as they tried to knit a sentence together. "And then she was dead. He never got to make it right. That twists you up."

"That only tells us what happened after. Doesn't explain how blight is their mistake." Fenrel nudged them back to the original question, trying not to circle the thought of loss so profound and unfixable that all you have left from it are regrets. Empires rose and fell, and Solas never forgot Mythal, carving her likeness into the very walls of his sanctuary. She glanced at the music room door, thinking of the duet notes still lying on the piano. Had Mythal ever visited before all was said and done? Was The Lighthouse a monument for all Solas and Mythal were? But there were pieces of Felassan everywhere, too. A home built on the memory of loved and lost ones. On the bones of an ache.

"I think that's a question better asked of the next statuette." Emmrich fed into her desire to know answers, and so she grabbed it off the table without second thought.

"You are right." She stood. "We need to know."

The third mural was closer, just on the wall to the side of the library. Companions stayed seated as she activated it, the deep blues and acidic greens coming alive. It was a scene she could recognise from the history she knew already, without even hearing it.

"You dare try to cage us," Ghilan'nain spoke. "Jealous of our growing power!"

"You will pay the final price for this betrayal!" Elgar'nan seethed with fury.

Solas sounded desolate, a man looking at the finality of his path. "We warned you not to use the blight. For this, and for Mythal, I sentence you to sleep in exile ever after. Your own lives will form the Veil that keeps the horrors you unleashed at bay."

What followed were pained shrieks, inhuman cries of those so-called gods, and a sob that pierced her gut, a guttural, desperate wail in pain. Solas.

It reverberated in her bones, a sharp scream that pained her soul, and she felt herself tugging at the tether, hoping for his voice to soothe it, only to be met with silence. When did this abstinence from him become a penance? She tried to reach out, helplessly, a void in her mind growing larger. Venhedis, how pathetic is that? She thought. There were days she wanted him gone from her being, and now she could not see the day they were undone, and she wondered if it was a fatal blindness, leading her to her own destruction. Do not trust the god of lies, she told herself back then, and instead, she became reliant on his presence to feel a semblance of peace.

She turned back to the companions seated around the table, but did not go to join them; she remained alone, in the shadow of Solas' mural, his failure, his regret.

He did what he had to do. And that changed everything.

"He created the Veil between this world and the Fade," Bellara said.

"But we already knew that. He admitted doing so to the Inquisitor." Fenrel did not notice when her hands crossed her chest, as if holding herself in or shielding.

Bellara swayed on her feet, as she would usually do when in thought or nervous, or most likely both. "I mean, Evanuris were terrible. No question. But what he did? It didn't just stop them. It destroyed our culture. Our world."

Davrin looked less sentimental about the world lost. "It wasn't just to stop them. It was to stop the blight. We've seen how bad Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain are. Imagine all seven corrupted gods running wild."

"So he created the Veil just to keep elven gods locked in their prison?" Harding pressed on the point again.

"Yes… To keep them from accessing the Fade, it would seem, but… was the creation of the Veil around the world an accident?" Emmrich suggested.

"You heard him yelling. That's not the sound of the ritual going right." Neve was right. His pained scream sounded like a man being torn apart. Was that why he spent all those years dreaming? Creating the Veil around the world would have killed many of the lesser mages, but for him, it cost centuries lost, wandering the Fade, nearly powerless, watching the world pass him by.

"What do you think, Fenrel?" Lucanis' words drew her back to the conversation. He looked at her, and the way he did felt like another question wrapped in behind his words. Was he trying to see a change in her? Did she change by learning more about Solas? She did not know.

There was no answer to please all of them. She could see hurt in Bellara's eyes, bewilderment in Emmrich's, knowing that it changes a lot of Watchers' understanding of the Fade and the Veil. Neve seemed to be on a fence. Fighting tyrants with painful sacrifice was something anyone from Minrathous could understand. "Solas did his best. Who can tell if the decisions we will make in this fight will not be discussed in this manner ages down the line?"

"Are you planning on destroying the world? Would be nice to get a heads-up." Neve smirked, no malice in her teasing. All of Thedas knew that wars were dirty, horrific, and sacrificial, even if the sacrificed were the unwilling. All they could hope for was finding a brighter conclusion.

"We see every day what the blight does. How it destroys and corrupts and taints everything in its path. How gods use power in the same way as blight, weaponising those who hunger for it to bring misery upon everyone." Fenrel said, walking from the mural, back into the light. Her eyes still trailed over her shoulder to look at it once more, his fractured shape in the shadow of the ones he took the divinity away from. "I understand why Solas would do anything to stop it. I would do the same."

"I know, Rook." Bellara waivered. "I'm not denying that. I just… I wish there'd been a better way. That's all."

"So does he." She sighed. "These memories are not something he is proud of. They are his regrets."

Harding looked between Bellara and Fenrel before speaking up, carefully. "I have another question and… I'm sorry, maybe this doesn't matter, but… Solas trapped the blighted gods in an ancient elven building, right?"

Fenrel looked back at the mural, feeling the knot in her stomach where the tether should have pulled. Just how deep in his prison did he hide away?

"That's what it looks like," Bellara answered Harding. "Maybe a palace? Fancier than what I've seen in Arlathan, at least."

"And then the magisters were lured into the Fade. They broke in, which let the blight escape, and turned Golden City black…"

"Lured by dragon gods that we now know are the achdemons," Fenrel murmured, eyes fixed on the painted scene.

"Right. And the Black City hangs in the Fade. A little reminder of their mistakes. What's wrong, Lace?" Neve asked.

"It's just… The Chant of Light says that the Maker "built for them the Golden City, the centre of all creation."Harding talked quickly. "But if the Golden City was an ancient elven palace, then the Maker didn't build it. The elves did. The Chant of Light is Andraste's visions from the Maker, but it sounds like it's… wrong."

"You're asking if we just disproved the entire Andrastian faith." Lucanis, and all of them around the table, knew what it meant. She did ponder it lightly when Solas revealed that Tevinter gods were just the dragons bound to the Evanuris. She never thought what it would mean for those who believed in gods, whatever those gods were.

"Did we?" Harding asked, shakily.

"I don't think that's our problem to solve." Fenrel shrugged, closing the distance to pick up the next statuette.

"But what they taught us was just wrong. What if the Maker just doesn't exist?" Harding sat, with her head hung, eyes locked to the soaked herbs at the bottom of her teacup, as if trying to divine the truth from them.

"The Chant of Light might be wrong. It's been made and remade by people for centuries. Does not mean you have to stop believing." Fenrel glanced at her, forcing a smile. The statuette in her hand felt warm, not quite sure if the magic of memories trapped or her own heartbeat echoing through it made it so.

"The Dalish clans are struggling with the same thing. What do we keep? What do we lose?" Bellara said, eyes downturned. The Maker might have been false, but their gods were real, and out there, destroying the world as they spoke.

"Question of faith aside, we have some very real gods that still need killing." Lucanis shrugged before taking a sip of his coffee.

Fenrel knew him to be Adrastian, so could not help when her eyebrows rose at his words. She let them finish their discussion, making her way to another defaced mural. "Last one before lunch?" It was a weird question to ask, considering what they were doing, but still, she did. She could see their emptied mugs and almost hear the faint rumbling of Taash's stomach.

This mural was partially destroyed, but she could still make out the faint, soft shades of it, a stark contrast to those they uncovered before. Somehow, that did not ease the weight on her chest. She was not naïve to hope for a gentle memory. For a man with such soft eyes, Solas carried more hurt than many could imagine, and she knew she was about to witness more of it. If he were there, she did not know what she would say. That she could understand why he wanted the Veil gone? But understanding won't make her hand stay if he escapes and tries to tear it down. He lost his way of life to his creation, but taking it away would threaten hers. How could a thing she recognised as righting a wrong also be one act she could not let come to pass?

He said he saw the value in this world, in those late nights, watching her standing on the balcony, sitting at the edge of her bed. When his hand lingered next to hers, and when his eyes could not leave her lips. She wondered if she was the vessel of that value. And for all that she was, she would not be enough, no matter how much she wanted to.

The image came to life slowly, as if being dragged heavily through the Fade back into being. The image was split like the second one, one side— a vision of Mythal and a spirit, the other—Solas kneeling, his head in his palm, agonised.

Mythal spoke to the spirit, "You have so long observed the world. Why not consider joining it?" Her voice was soft, unlike the memories they heard before.

"But I have no desire to live as humans." His voice. Solas' voice.

Fenrel stepped back, having to will herself not to grab the statuette with her, her eyes transfixed on the white, fluid figure of the spirit, flower-like, ghostly and elegant. It glowed compared to Mythal's dark robes and furs, floating above ground.

His voice was unlike his own, no gnawing guilt, not centuries or remorse or loss behind it, words tenderly spoken, almost with child-like softness. It was him, but not truly. It was the raw version of him, one that did not know the pain ahead. It was Solas before he carried the multitude of names and stories.

"I have the Fade." Words said lovingly, loyally. "Besides, this talk of taking a solid form…I think you underestimate the danger. When you took the glowing stone to build your body, did the earth not shake?"

But Mythal would not listen; instead, she talked. "The lyrium gives us the strength we had when we were of the Fade. We are the best of physical and spirit."

She could hear Harding gasp, a cup clatter in the background, the shift of bodies in their seats and also nothing at all, as if the emptiness of their tether resonated in her.

"I need your wisdom, Solas, to withstand the louder voices who would go too far, like Elgar'nan." Mythal pleaded, but also demanded, once more.

Wisdom. The spirit. Spirits were embodiments of emotions, concepts, and things you could not name but acknowledged as true and real. And Solas was one of them. He was Wisdom.

"I need you," Mythal said again.

He stayed silent for a moment before his voice shook with the next words. "This is madness. You must know that."

He sighed, one trembling breath.

"I will always follow where you go."

He swore. Except he didn't, as they just saw. He followed her until he couldn't, and even then, he begged for her to follow him for once. For her, for the loss of her, he reshaped the world.

She looked at his kneeling form as words buzzed behind her, companions falling into frenzy. Ancient elves were spirits. Who built their bodies from lyrium. They started the Titan War by stealing their blood and building their flesh and their empire from it. But all she could think of was how deep his loyalty ran to choose Mythal over his home. Over the nature of his very being. She wondered if leaving his spirit self for a solid body must have felt like corruption. Spirits of wisdom corrupted turned into pride demons. Is that why elves adapted his name, Solas, as a name of pride? Every possibility oozed with pain, and she could've knelt before this mural, closed her eyes and entered his prison, but she had no words, not yet, and had plenty of eyes on her.

"This is astounding!" Emmrich marvelled at the revelation. "The ancient elves were spirits who voluntarily manifested a physical form!"

"I'd rather go back to talking about the blight." Davrin did not care much for it.

Taash, true to their being, went to jokes. "Hey, Lucanis, could Spite turn into an elf?"

"No." Lucanis was not amused.

"Sorry, but," Bellara looked confused. "—What?"

Everyone looked at her, as if she had answers. Should it matter? Does it matter that the first elves were spirits? It did not change anything for them. But it did change a lot for her. She looked at Solas the spirit and Solas the broken man, then back to the other murals nearby. All this for love.

"We're not what they were. We are not spirits. You are focusing on the wrong part." She said, turning back at the table. "The earth shook when they took lyrium to build their bodies."

"But the knowledge that entire people were formed as mass manifestations could change our entire understanding of magic." Emmrich disregarded her worry.

"If we let it out," Davrin said. "Is that the right call? Do you want bigoted humans yelling about how elves are demons?"

"Davrin's not wrong." Neve agreed. "World's not short on small-minded humans."

Fenrel did not need to be reminded. Only the privilege of growing up in a high-ranking human's home shielded her from the worst of it. The elves were used, abused and discarded as useless flesh, as it was, always lesser than humans, always unworthy of sharing the spoils of the land, unworthy of having and holding their culture proudly. They would not hand them more weapons to be used against them.

"This stays between us." She said. "The comeback of our gods is bad enough. We can't make things worse."

"We have to tell someone, though," Bellara argued nervously. "Strife and Irelin, at least."

"If I told Teia and Viago, they'd think I was sampling Viago's poison collection." Lucanis scoffed. "No one will believe us."

Fenrel sighed, walking back to her seat, and collapsing into it. "Okay. Fine. Just keep it between people we can trust. Can we go back to the memory, the angered earth, or rather, Titans?"

Harding seemed to drift away from the noise as she spoke. "Solas did not want to become a person with a physical body."

"Right. He only agreed after Mythal begged him." Neve said.

"Solas was scared. They built their bodies out of lyrium, which, as Rook said, angered the Titans, made the ground shake." Harding and Fenrel shared a glance.

"They started the war. They took their blood, and Titans had to defend themselves. And we know they won it, as Elgar'nan refused to concede power after it." Fenrel said. "But how?"

"I think lunch can wait," Harding said, and no one fought it. She nodded at Fenrel to take the next statuette, and she did. Davrin stretched in his seat, and Taash stood and walked in circles, boxing the air. They have been there a while. But there were only two memories left. How much worse could it get? One of them hopefully held the answer to their question on how elves defeat the titans. But the other? What was the other?

She walked upstairs, near the entrance to the meditation room, one she scarcely visited these days. The infirmary was quiet, too. Varric said he was busy with correspondence, unable to come down and listen to the memories with them. He talked about leaving the Lighthouse, much to her concern. How could he, in this state? The wound on Harding's forehead, one she sustained during the ritual, has now turned into a thin scar, while Varric did not change much. The bruises have faded, but his wound would not heal fully, neither would his leg mend properly, and his stubbornness would not allow him to see someone more prolific at healing to have it reset.

The injury shifted something in him, too. She would sometimes catch him standing by the fire in the kitchen, as Lucanis prepared food, not muttering a word and leaving shortly after. Varric, she knew, was not one to skip small talk, or any talk. Perhaps leaving would have been best for him, but she did not want to see him go.

Now she hoped he was not slumbering, so the voices of the memory wouldn't startle him awake as she activated it, standing back to take in the full view, her back turned to her companions, sitting in the open area below.

Crimson and teal were the colours that stretched through it. Once again, it was them. Mythal and Solas, standing together. And between them, something of hers. The dagger she wielded, one, even now, hooked to her belt. One she waved at Ghilan'nain's face, one she used to lure her dragon into the trap back at Weisshaupt. One that soon would kill two gods, if she just won't fail. The Wolf's Fang.

"Have you created what we need?" Mythal said, half question, half demand.

Voice of Solas sounded distant, disconnected, void of emotion. As if he did what was asked, but it took everything from him. "With this, the proper ritual will sunder every Titan from its spirit. But you must know, those severed dreams will certainly be driven mad, a disembodied blight of pain and anger."

He paused, just for a moment. "It… is awful, what we're doing."

"And the only way to end this war." Half promise, half conviction from Mythal.

She stood there, unable to speak.

All of it, all of it.

All of it was their fault.

They made their bodies from the blood of Titans. Waged war. And then turned their enemies into a nightmare. They were the ones who created the blight.

Her stomach sank, the voices in the room fading, colours of the mural burning her irises. It was him. It was the weapon she held so dearly, and the man she held the same, that led to all this. He cut their dreams, rendering them tranquil. No, not tranquil. He corrupted them, ruined them, and then called them the disease, the taint. But it was them all along. They stole their place under the sun and then obliterated anyone who stood in their way.

"He passed me in the halls of Skyhold for a year." She could hear Harding, and only her. "He made polite conversation, and he knew. He knew what he did."

He called Varric his friend. He mourned his injury. But he was the one who drove the same dagger he used to render Titans mindless through his chest, leaving Varric broken, odd, and unlike himself.

All he could muster for it was an apology. When he knew exactly what he did.

Titans, she could reason with. Desperation at the time of war. But Varric? How could he use the same weapon on him so carelessly?

She could see the flashes of that night in the back of her head. The blue glow leaked with blood from Varric's body. How pale and broken he looked. There was something more. Another feeling inside her, one she knew well. Grief. She did not know if she grieved the Varric she knew, or Solas she could see before this, or the one she would now won't forget. A man blinded by loyalty so thoroughly, the world still ached from it. Every single dwarf that grew up and passed, knowing the magic was out of their reach. Generations were stolen, and lied to by history, telling them that it was just the way things were. But the magic was stolen from them, the Fade severed from their beings by those who believed they knew better. By those who put their people first.

The blight was supposed to be pure evil, something they purge with no mercy. But instead, it was hurt and fury of lives destroyed to make way for others. She did not need to listen to her companions to know they thought so too. She could not listen to them.

Solas, Solas, Solas.

She knew they repeated his name in differing measures of anger, disappointment and disgust, and she was yet to find hers.

All she could see was him, delivering the weapon he created with a warning. Another warning Mythal did not heed. He foresaw the blight, and still let it happen. Was it blind love for her or their people?

Did it matter? Should it matter? He still did it, and she still couldn't find it in herself to hate him for it.

She did not notice how she got downstairs. Her body remembered itself only when she pushed on the library door and stepped out into the courtyard. Hinges squeaked sharply as the door slammed shut, finally leaving the voices behind.

Inhale, exhale, she had to remind herself.

And again.

She did not reach for the tether. Not now. Not when her heart hammered at her ribs, fighting her will to calm herself. Pretending everything could be the same after this memory was a foolish lie to oneself.

Now, she knew why he stayed silent. Why did the tether feel distant? He was scared, and she was too. "Too entangled," He said more than once, even before he found a way to become her comfort. Before weeks of quiet conversations and peace of knowing that she was not to be alone upon coming back from a fight.

And now, this.

What was she supposed to do with this?

She promised to take his truth, all of it, as it was. There was one statuette left, and it made her sick to the stomach. Her body curled into itself as she tried and failed to stop the tremble in her shins, get herself together, and force herself back into the building.

"You promised me the truth, and I shall have it. Whatever comes next." She promised him, naively, a mere mortal not realising the depth of god's secrets and burdens. The truth was hers, almost all of it, and it now weighed her down too. A shared charge was supposed to be easier to carry, and she was left alone to receive it. He chose her for this? To be alone with his sins in a room full of people she loved, judging his every misstep, finding new ways to despise him, when she couldn't find it in herself anymore.

He took her hatred and turned it against her in new robes, ones she wished didn't fit, ones she wished she could shed. But they were now stuck to her, an odd second skin, whispering, asking if she chose him too. Even if her mind knew it as betrayal of all those who depended on her, and of herself. Choosing meant giving something up, and then she would be picking him twice.

Straightening out, she promised herself she could make it through the last memory, whatever it was. And then, she would find him. Unsure of the words she would choose, one thing was certain – she would find him.

Inhale. Exhale. She shook her hands, rolling her shoulders. Straighten up. They should be done by now. She braced herself for the words that would greet her upon return, the looks, and the questions.

Instead, silence was what she found. Everyone was gone in their thoughts, conversation dead.

Emmrich glanced at her with pity, eyes knowing more than any in the room. She was sure he noted the absence of Solas, the tether almost dormant. He withdrew so far that she could barely sense him. Harding, on the other hand, sat seething in fury. She wanted Solas to answer her for what he did to her kind, and Fenrel could not blame her, but also could not see a path forward where she would reveal the truth of their connection and not risk the implosion of the group. Emmrich, with being keeper of her secrets, Lucanis with his probing, Neve, who knew just enough but not nearly as much, and… the rest. Fenrel was unsure if Solas and Harding's confrontation was the best course of action any time soon. She promised her to travel to Kal Sharok in the upcoming days, and now dreaded it even more.

"We should just finish this." Fenrel gestured at the last memory, and no one argued, still enthralled by the confusion of the last revelation.

The last mural was upstairs, too. Once she made her way to it, she put the statuette down unceremoniously, not giving herself a moment to hesitate.

It was once again Solas, but this time, with another woman. Unlike Mythal, who had raven black hair, this woman, older than her, had snow white hair, but her clothes were the same. Same silver crown upon her brow, same dark leathers. Solas also wore the clothes she could recognise. The shirt and pants, he said, Dorian mocked him for back at Skyhold, but he found them quite pleasant, and he did not care much for trends of Tevinter or noble houses. Clothes he would now wear when visiting her, faintly smelling of washing soaps and fresh air, as if just taken off a clothesline.

He held the woman in his arms, as if she was something fragile, her body leaned back, as if falling asleep or... dying. She remembered his hands after Weisshaupt, and wondered if her broken being looked alike in his ungodly arms. The voice, when memory spoke, was Mythal's.

Tired, weary, resigned. "I knew that you would find me soon enough. You need the power of a god, the strength that I alone still carry."

"The blighted Evanuris will soon break free from their prison. I must make a stronger one that can contain them." He said, the voice he would use when there was no argument to be had, one in which he saw himself in the right.

"While the prison is important, it is not the only goal you seek." Mythal saw straight through him. Or rather, Mythal in the body of a mortal. This must have been Flemmeth, the woman who carried a fragment of Mythal as she helped in the Inquisition. One thing that made Fenrel's eyebrows furrow was the fact that she was portrayed with pointy ears. But for all she knew, the mother of Morrigan, Flemmeth, was just a human.

This must have been just after he abandoned the Inquisition. Varric told her of the day they met him again, the same day the fate of the Inquisition had to be decided. Said, Solas was different from the one he knew during their travels. Stronger. He could turn a person into stone with a mere look. The Solas she knew now.

"Why should I not tear down the Veil and bring immortality to all the elven people?" Solas, she knew. Set on fixing the world. Damned the sacrifices it would take. Damned be the demons that would flood the world and kill many more than immortality could save. "They deserve it!"

"The elven people of today do not deserve to see the world they love be torn apart to salve your conscience," Mythal spoke truth, the same Inquisitor, Varric, and even her tried to repeat. So many words fall on his deaf ears.

"I must fix what I have broken." He sounded hurt by her words, delivered harshly. "I am sorry."

"As am I, old friend," Mythal said the last words, before memory fell silent.

They did not need to hear more. Without glancing back, she felt that everyone knew what had happened. Solas, the humble apostate of the Inquisition, took the power away from his oldest friend. Evanuris may have killed her first, but he came back to finish the job. He loved her and blamed her, all in equal measure. He started his life from blind loyalty to her, and now he was still blind. Tied to a cause, to a memory, to a woman who betrayed him and a woman he betrayed. She let her companions discuss the final regret by themselves, her eyes fixed on the last memory of Mythal as Solas knew her.

***

She could almost see irony in her stepping back into the meditation room. One, she used to reach for him in the early days. A room that was never hers, a ghost of who she was back then still haunting its empty walls. The aquarium still painted the walls in shades of green, and candles still flickered at the abandoned altar. She knelt before them, hand cradling her navel, a soft touch to ground herself, to reach for the tether as her eyes closed. She waited for the cold to creep on her, but it came and went, as if pushing away. In her mind, she tried to visualise the threads of fate, or rather, blood magic that held them together. The same thin strings Emmrich could see wrapping, entangling them, pulling closer.

The heat of candles still licked at her skin as she forced her eyes shut, trying to drown out the world, leaving nothing but the call for him. When the familiar icy touch welcomed her, she opened them with shaky breath, the rough stones digging into her knees through thin pants, one palm already imprinted with the shape of rubble beneath it.

She forgot how desolate the place was, reminded once again why he preferred spending every moment in Wolf's den together. Being locked away with all that you've done wrong seemed like a terrible punishment for someone so painfully aware of his misgivings. The woman she could not recognise until now was everywhere. Mythal. Mythal. Mythal. She haunted his every step, every moment, every decision from the beginning, seemingly to whatever end may come.

"Solas?" She called for him, to be greeted with silence.

So she stood. And she walked. Raw magic clinging to her, bouncing after her step, trying to twirl between her legs, her fingertips, as if searching for something to latch on. It travelled with her, for what seemed like forever. The air itself felt taut, as if hung in anticipation, but the longer she walked, something else could be sensed. The rain. The soft smell of soil after the storm, moss making the plush bed of the woods, spices, old books, and incense. She continued following it until she saw him, standing alone, under the statue that had no face and no discernible shape. It was shorter and narrower than he was, with an expressionless face turned up. His hand lingered on its cheek as he spoke.

"Da'mi." He did not turn to look at her. "You should have stayed with them."

In his stance, she could see the mirage of Mythal, standing with her back turned. He hoped she would abandon him, did he not? Was that why he offered her the truth so eagerly? Wasn't her coming to him what he wanted?

"It wasn't at first. Then, it was." He sighed, his hand not moving from the statue, shoulders slumped. "I am sorry."

"I don't…" Fenrel walked closer to him, reaching for him, as ground rumbled beneath her feet, and he turned, just in time for it to separate between them, the prison itself pushing her back, her weight being pulled back, as if her struggle to remain next to him did not matter. "Understand."

The chasm between them widened with every failed word she tried to say, her eyes widened in confusion at what was happening. They stood right where they began, he distant, and she lost. "Solas?"

He now faced her, from the distance he put between them, unable to look her in the eye as he spoke. "I wanted you to get close. I needed you to trust me, believing in me, so I could escape this prison. It is not fair for me to do so. It is not fair to you."

She knew. She always knew. And still, she came here, after all he'd done. She chose to risk that blade in her back, and he stayed his hand, even if temporarily. Her hands trembled, unsure if from an intrinsic need to slap him or pull him closer, and she could not do either.

"So all of those 'we're too entangled', 'I choose you'… The way you.. Was it to get me pliant? Make it easier for you?" She asked, driving her own blade through the feelings she did not know she held inside. Perhaps, she always knew, and did not want to look at them and see them for what they were. He was luring her, and she took the bait. "But now you regret it, and so you run. Why do you regret it, Solas? I know my reasons, you must too."

He did not answer.

"Solas—" She tried to will the fissure to close, to no avail. Once, she could make his prison bend to her wishes, but his conviction was stronger.

"Doubt is a formidable emotion. One, you make me feel. One of many, that much is true, no matter my plans, carefully laid." He said, his eyes turned away, and still the tether pulled between them. How could he look away? He listened, of course, he did, when his eyes shifted to her, and she recognised the look. One he carried often, one that told her too much. Whatever was between them, he regretted it. "But doubt is one I cannot fall for. I gave you everything you need to win this fight. You do not need me anymore."

"And you? You would rather wallow here instead of trying to fix all you've failed?" She asked, fists clenched, trying to chase away tears that threatened to betray her. "You would turn away from me when you could choose to stand with me, now, after all—"

When she pulled at the fissure again, it felt like it was giving in, letting her get to him. It moved, just before he looked at her one last time, his voice too soft for words he said. “Goodbye, Rook.”

Chapter Text

She did not sleep that night. How could she? He slammed the invisible door between them just when she was willing to stumble through his threshold, said goodbye only with a veiled promise of betrayal, as if months spent in each other's solitude were nothing but manipulation.

But it was.

Naiveté was a terrible look for her, and she could not believe how easily she slipped into it. Somewhere between anger and curiosity, frustration and hatred, she lost the way. Or sanity.

Somewhere between his arms and his careful encouragement, she found a peace she didn't want—and worse, it was torn away. Pacing circles, she did not know where to put herself, and that feeling was clawing at her chest. Some people might have called it heartache, but she would not give that word to him. He did not deserve it.

She should have been enraged. She wanted to be furious, to throw something, but instead, emptiness crept over her. Its icy fingers slid under her skin as she sat, her back to the stairs, the shimmer of the Eluvian playing shadow games against the white of her shirt. Crossroads. Why did she come out here? Where would she go to get away from him, if he was always there, just at the back of her head? Even if she could not feel him there, she knew that he might have gone, but not the thread of twisted fate keeping them together. She did not touch the tether, pushed her mind away from it, forcing her need to recoil. There would be no use. Solas was a man who thought his word to be final.

"Goodbye, Rook."

Goodbye, Rook? Rook? Her mind reeled, but her hands trembled with a ghost of his voice still ringing in her ears.

She was never a Rook to him.

"Fenrel," A voice made her jolt, even more so when she realised it was not coming from inside her. Steps hurried behind her, right until they stopped, and she could see the black leather boots, which she knew well. "What are you doing out here at this hour? What—Are you okay?"

Lucanis' hand weighed her shoulder when she glanced at him, before quickly turning her bloodshot eyes away. "What happened? What did he do?"

She almost scoffed at how quickly he knew where the issue lay, but still asked just in case, "Who?"

"You went to talk with him, after the murals, didn't you?" He sat inches away, his clothes brushing past her. The fabric brushing her knee was heavier than his usual leather, making her turn to properly look at him.

"A hood? Are you sneaking off to Treviso?"

He clicked his tongue. "Don't evade the question."

She looked back down, to the Crossroads, to the many docks that would let her get away just for a while. She could be in Dock Town by sunrise. Not entirely sure of where she would go from there, because it might have been her home, but she did not have a place there. Her father was dead. Everything she knew —changed. Much due to her own fault. The hideout she knew—destroyed and bloodstained. Shadow Dragons were new and conjoined with Threads, and someday would be hers. But not now. It was not her place, not yet, not clear if it ever would be. "He left."

Lucanis sat up straighter, "The connection—"

"Still there, but not... It's different." She shook her head, killing his sprawling hope before it could touch her. "He just… he… He said I had everything it would take to take down gods and didn't need him anymore."

His head inclined as he watched her, a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and worry. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." She nodded, only now feeling the pull of dried tears at her skin. Her mouth was parched, and her hands still shook, even as she tried to conceal them in her lap, away from his watchful eye.

"Hmm," Lucanis hummed, his attention never straying. "But I thought you were close?"

Incredulously, a sharp laugh that sounded more like a strangled gasp escaped her mouth. "I thought so too. But he had earned his reputation."

She chuckled to herself, once more, "Just another hapless hero caught under Dread Wolf's paw."

"Definitely a hero, not sure about hapless," Lucanis nudged her shoulder. "Perhaps it is for the better."

"If that's your way of trying to console me—"

Lucanis' hand now circled her shoulder, putting some of the restlessness at ease. "If I were, I would offer you to go back to the Lighthouse and grab a cup of coffee. Maybe crash on the balcony. Perhaps go kick a dummy or two."

Kicking a dummy was always a good idea, but the night of confusion had drained her. A cup of coffee would fare better. "Well, will you?"

A distraction was what she needed. She hoped he could see it. Lucanis always knew such things, but this time, it was more of a desperate need. Anything to take her mind off Solas, and it was too early to drink.

"I have this new blend from Anderfels, which sounds peculiar, well, given Lace recommended it… But it might just have that early morning rush we might need to make it through the day," He nudged her ribs, beckoning her to stand. She lost track of how long she had been there, and her legs were leaden, but she rose on her feet, pins and needles running through stagnant muscles, turning now to face him fully, offering an extended hand that finally stilled.

"Well, come on, then," She turned to the Eluvian, weight on her chest a bit lighter. How long could she keep it off? Until she went back to Wolf's Den and found it empty? Would the room still smell like him? His letter was still tucked deep in the drawer, and the armour he gifted her on the way to Weisshaupt was still in the closet. And nothing was the same. "Coffee is better than self-pity."

***

Condensation climbed out of their mugs as they sat in the darkest corner of the common room, just off the side of the kitchen. The coffee was hot, and still, nothing inside her changed when it trickled down to her stomach. No warmth spread; the void tether left chilling her. Someone forgot to blow out the candle in the evening, and now the wick struggled to keep the flame. The coffee was weirdly earthy, the smell moss-damp. She did not have a chance to say a thing before Spite commented just that. Lucanis was quiet, observant, his eyes flicking between the cup in his palms and her. It was easier before he almost kissed her. If the almost was not an almost, perhaps she wouldn't be sitting here, her mind still clinging to Solas. No, that was a lie. A kiss between them couldn't have changed anything. She could not retrace the moment she was truly lost to the Dread Wolf, but it was before that. Lucanis couldn't have saved her.

She couldn't stop herself.

She wondered if, in between his plans, Solas lost himself to her, too. Lucanis still looked at her the same, and she wished she did better. Wished she had picked better. But was there ever a choice, or was she doomed to be caught in the web Wolf and his Pawn spun for themselves?

The coffee soured; the silence, too.

"Why were you going to Treviso?"

Lucanis sighed, placing the cup back on the table. "I can't just sit still while Teia and Viago dig around. I know Neve helped them, but that does not change the fact that it's my home, Fenrel. Illario can't keep me away."

She leaned back in the chair, annoyed. It was a welcome distraction. She would take anything that wasn't about Solas. "And what if something happened out there? What if Spite took over and no one was with you?"

"Everyone was unsettled after murals. The blight, titans, Fenrel.. He did all that." Lucanis shook his head. "And you went to him. I needed to get out, too."

"How often?" The question rolled off her tongue, soft, without accusation.

"First time. I was to meet a contact who would help with tracking Illario." He said, swirling coffee in his mug. "She's a Crow, but not really. One of De Rivas, currently off duty."

His wording made her frown. "Crows are never off duty."

"Yeah, well, that's what Viago decided." He shrugged. "Decision scandalous enough for Illario to believe her being cross with the talons, and in consequence, more trustworthy."

"Well, is she?" Fenrel narrowed her eyes. The least they needed was someone else willing to betray Lucanis.

"Not for him, but for us?" He clicked his tongue with a smile. "I need to try something, Fenrel. I can't just sit and wait."

She knew what he meant. The end of the world sometimes was minuscule compared to personal pain. Each of them carried a share of it, and her attempts to patch the holes left behind did not work out perfectly every time. Sometimes, they took time. At times, she felt like they did not have enough of it. Like the end was just around the corner, all they could do was chase after it, time and time again, hoping to fix it all while they still could. And now, an overwhelming feeling of failure came over her. She wallowed for Solas when there were people here, depended on her. He shouldn't have been a priority.

"I am sorry." She whispered. "I could've waited before leaving to speak with him. I should have stayed with you. You shouldn't go out alone like this, just because—"

"You did what you thought best." He said quietly, taking hold of the mug once again.

Cheerless chuckle was all she could muster. "That's what everybody says. Especially when that best ends catastrophically."

"Did it?" He asked. "Do you think it's a calamity to lose him at this point?"

"It's not about timing."

"Then what is it about?"

She could not say. It wasn't a loss of a friend. Could they have been called friends? Whatever was between them went beyond it. Blood magic couldn't have been blamed, either. Admitting it was all them was worse. Because it would have meant that he did care. Just not enough to stop. Or was this—him stopping? He did admit he would have used her to escape his imprisonment. But instead, he shut the gate and threw away the key. The tether felt wrong. Cold. Moribund. Pulling on it felt like there was no one on the other end. And still, she pulled. Was it hope or insanity? She should have let him loose.

"Don't mention it to others." She told Lucanis, ignoring his question, "His absence changes nothing."

His eyes narrowed. "Emmrich would know anyway. Spite noticed before I could see you on those stairs. Said Rook is missing something. And Neve would suspect."

"Oh, that's just great." She mocked, more bitterly than she wanted or intended. "Can it still stay between us?"

He nodded, "Of course. If the Treviso trips don't leave this room either."

"Only if you take me next time."

"Promise."

***

The Rivaini sun was absent that day. Weeks passed since she last saw him, but in her dreams, she searched. It was a futile effort, one that made little sense. As little as his leaving. Nothing made sense, and all did at once. Perhaps it was guilt that drove him away. Perhaps only one of them could handle the truth about him. The chasm was felt even while awake. And she was awake most of the time. Back in the aquarium room, she would turn and toss until early hours of the morning, only slipping away into dreaming to call for him.

Most nights, it felt like something right before her, just out of reach. She had to stop herself from wishing for his return. It was useless, as the world was falling apart, still. She could not change Dread Wolf's heart and doubted that even he was capable of it.

"Fenrel," Taash called.

"Coming!" She grunted, turning her attention back to climbing the cliff face. It was clear why Taash dragged her out. Fresh air and sun were sure to cure any malady, except that even the sun decided to turn away today. She was disjointed in her movements, clumsy, and it took her longer than usual to make her way up. Not much was done in the weeks following mural reveals. Harding was in a sour mood, and their trip was postponed because they could not find Eluvian in the Crossroads that would get them closer to Kal-Sharok. Once they did, it needed to be fixed. Most days were spent doing odd jobs all over Northern Thedas, from tracking down a crow who dared to fall in love with a Venatori, to a demon that taunted them from place to place, and even while destroyed, managed to send them an unsavoury note.

These days, Emmrich and Harding were out in Fereldan. Lace, of course, said it was to show Emmrich what was still left of the South, but everyone knew that, truly, she wanted to see what was happening there with her own eyes. She would be back tomorrow, she promised. They would leave for Deep Roads in the morning.

"You're distracted. Again." Taash waited feet ahead, by the entrance to their mother's house. It was on the outskirts of the city, hidden away except for bright flowers that bloomed all around it. And just right of Taash, a paved road, leading around the cliffs.

Fenrel leaned into her knees, struggling to catch her breath. "You made me climb... all that… When there was a path? An actual path?"

Taash shrugged. "You were skimming on training lately."

Before she could start pouring out her vexations, the door swung open.

"Evataash. You are late." Shathann stood in the doorway, imposing as ever. Fenrel was mostly glad to be excused from meeting the scholar when Lace could just accompany Taash. Except for today. The woman looked her down. "Rook."

It was going to be a long afternoon.

***

"Your mother still uses 'she'… You haven't told her." Fenrel said as they made their way from Shathann's home, head filled with stories of Qunari and Adaari and the mysterious tablet that was retrieved from the dragon's lair. A tablet with a hidden message. She would've cared more if not for the aggravating fact of Shathann just never being happy with anything that Taash did.

It was the third time that Shathann referred to Taash as she when Fenrel almost snapped. Sleep deprivation had shortened her already short fuse.

"I was going to." Taash did not look her in the eye, a usual sign of their discomfort. "But then we got here and she was… like that."

Fenrel did not know who she was more frustrated for, herself or Taash. She knew of overbearing parents. She had one. He had his reasons, as she was sure Shathann did. It did not make it easier to witness.

"You shouldn't need to hide who you are around her."

Taash only returned a scoff. A justified one. In the presence of Shathann, even Fenrel lacked fiery words, despite having plenty of fuel for them.

"Hey, no pressure." She shrugged. "Just… You deserve to be who you are, always."

"I know, I know. I'll tell her." Taash said, with less resistance in their voice. "Let's just get to Isabella's and drink and forget about this."

"Sure, I could use a drink." Fenrel picked up the pace as the entrance to the village came into view.

"Yeah, that much is obvious." Taash laughed, sharply.

"What does that mean?"

Taash shrugged, passing through the arch carved into the cliff face that led them through the cave straight to the bustling yard of merchants from all around the high seas. The hidden Eluvian connecting it to the Hall of Valor, the Lords of Fortune's home, was not too far.

"After murals, you seem... Sad." Taash stated the most obvious of facts. "Did Solas do something?"

Neither flinched when the sensation of cold water came over them when passing through Eluvian. They did it so often, it was a welcome wake-up call. A reset of the system upon leaving one adventure and entering the next.

"Why must it always be about him?" Fenrel asked as they walked out of the cavern that hid the Lords of Fortune Eluvian and reached the marketplace. The tavern was just past it.

"Ah." Taash laughed. "So it is."

"Ugh." Fenrel rolled her eyes, closing the last steps, her shoulder pushing against the door to the tavern. "You're buying if you insist on being nosy."

***

In the months around Taash, Fenrel should have learned some life lessons. Well, she thought she did, but not those that were about drinking. Especially, the most crucial one — you cannot outdrink Qunari. Damned she would have been if she hadn't tried. Liquors in the heat and moisture took faster to you, eyelids growing heavy and tongues loose. First cup, it was the talk of Cutter and his insistence on seeing a dragon out in Arlathan.

"The audacity of a guy," Fenrel smirked, glancing at a full glass. "To dare say he knows dragons better than you."

"No one does. But let the guy trip on his ego." Taash picked up the bottle, their cup already empty. "Come on, you are falling behind."

Fenrel took a sip of her drink, the burn going deep down, making her throat contract for a blink. "This is strong."

"And you're not?" Taash teased, as they would.

"Oh, shut up." Fenrel downed the remaining drink, managing to do so without her eyes watering. Take small victories, or whatever Varric said.

The second drink was comparing battle scars. Fenrel gained many of hers in their journey together. The ripped shoulder, still-healing neck, the gashes on her side. Few she gained with Dragons were well hidden, and none of her companions have seen them. It wasn't a fun story. Nearly being mangled by a blood mage rarely was.

So she sat and listened to fables of pirates and high seas, the puzzles that Taash could not be bothered to solve, instead cheating their way through by sheer force. They would barely get nicks in a fight.

"You don't know how not to fight with your heart," Taash stated, slamming the cup down to punctuate the point. The bar top was uneven, with dips worn into it from elbows rubbing against wood over the decades.

Fenrel side-eyed them, letting the final drops settle on her tongue. The bottle popped open once more, the smell now softer compared to the first glass. The rum glugged into glasses, filling to the brim anew.

"Is that a compliment?"

Taash clicked their tongue. "Would be if it did not make you dumb."

"I would not say so."

"Of course you wouldn't. It's not you who needs to put up with your schemes." Taash grunted, trying to lift the overflowing cup without spillage, unsuccessfully.

Fenrel rolled her eyes. "You love them."

"Sure, I do. Doesn't make them less dumb." Taash shrugged. "Sure, Solas wasn't happy with them either. You being his only connection to the world, and all that."

"That's one to pivot the conversation." Brows furrowed, Fenrel muttered. "Steer it back or pour me another one." She said just before chugging the glass in front of her, sliding it across the horribly bumpy surface until it tipped over before reaching Taash.

"Better talk to me than Neve." Taash offered the shoulder and the glass.

Fenrel scoffed at the notion. "Better I lose what little sanity he left me in a glass."

"You think he feels drunk when you drink?" Taash asked.

"Where did that—why—well, I don't know? Maybe?" Fenrel chuckled, taking her drink. "Feel sorry for the bastard if he does."

"So you are angry with him," Taash said as if they had won a prize.

Fenrel side-eyed, thinking if there was a point in fighting this. Her head light, stomach buzzing, the warmth of rum spread evenly through the limbs, and it seemed less of an atrocious idea. Indeed, it was better than Neve. At least Taash would keep it real. "He left, okay? No, connection is still there, don't ask. He's not. Hiding somewhere in there."

It sounded stupid, painfully so. Unwanted tears wanted to climb her lash line. Why were there tears? She should have been angry. No, she was. She was furious. He dumped the fight he called theirs, leaving her behind. And for what? To wallow in his misery? To remain truly, irrevocably alone?

"People get scared when shit becomes real"

"He is not just a person."

He was a spirit, a leader of rebellion that was named a god, a destroyer, and... a man who held her when things fell apart.

"According to you, he is." Taash reminded. "Or for you, he is."

"What does that even mean?"

"You have your own head." Taash grinned. "Use it. I can't be the one to tell you these things."

She knew well what Taash meant and did not want to listen. Listening meant understanding, and understanding often led to realising. That was the least she needed. A clean sever would've caused a pain less acute. She relied on him too much; that was all there was. They needed to move. They could not sit here, drinking, speaking of him, trying to drown her petty sorrows.

"So, Fangscorcher, in Arlathan? Should we really leave it for another day? "

"Don't be a moron. You will zap yourself quicker with those magic hands than fight anything tonight." Taash did not entertain the thought. "Here, take another. We can speak of something other than my mother or your elven god."

"He's not a god," She hiccupped. "Well, there's Harding…"

The next morning, Fenrel wouldn't remember much of the night except for the bet she lost and did not know what she owed Taash for. Overindulgence of Rivaini Rum tends to make such things happen, but she was bad at learning her lessons.

***

"I can't believe you two!" Fenrel knew this voice, and the first thought that went through her head was "shit." Then the angry pounding of short steps came closer in. "Maker's breath, this place stinks! Get up!"

"Five more minutes", Taash groaned somewhere nearby.

A strangled, dried-throat cough came first, and only then did words come out. Opening the eyes was not an option. Not yet. The world spun without seeing it. "Where are we?"

"Urgh.." Taash half moaned, half growled, and something that sounded like accidental fire spitting of a sound followed. "Isabela's, I think."

Every sound was too much, making the pounding in Fenrel's head worse. Movement would make it all worse, she knew that much. She could not roll over if she wanted to keep her stomach acids inside it. She could risk opening one eye. Slowly. It took less than a second to close it back down. Morning light was blinding. Perhaps it was afternoon already. She did not want to know. Blurry surroundings told her nothing. "Isabela's? How?"

"Vashedan, you're a lightweight," Taash grunted, and Fenrel felt movement beside her. Did they share a bed? No, it felt too hard to be one. Were they on the floor? She had to move, even a little. Trying to roll on her elbows, she learned that they most definitely slept on the ground. With her back to the window, she finally braved opening her eyes. At least there was a rug. Exquisite looking one, too. Isabela liked her shiny things, as was fitting for a pirate queen.

"We drank the same." She managed to swallow the sour taste climbing up her throat and sit up on her knees, only to be met with a judgmental stare from Harding. "Lace…"

"Drank the same, but I carried you here. Lightweight."

"Andraste's tits, what is wrong with you two? We were supposed to leave hours ago." Lace stood, her hands on her hips, one leg popped to the side. "However, will you explain yourselves?'

"Um.." Fenrel tapped herself over. Everything was in place. What an abysmal failure it would have been if she lost any of her spell blades somewhere in Rivaini sands, "Rum got the better of us?"

"I thought you were visiting Shathann." Harding glanced between Fenrel and Taash. Taash, for all their jokes, did not look fresh either. Where Isabela's home was located, she had little clue, but something told her it would be a trek from there to Eluvian. A long walk under the hot sun. Just what they needed.

"We did. Thus, drinking." Fenrel hoped Taash would not say a word about other drinking topics. Harding was furious with Solas as it was, and bringing him up before setting out on their trip would disrupt things further. "We need to wash up before leaving. Can't present ourselves like this. And armour. By the Black City, we stink. "

"Just say you're with me. Every merchant in Hall of Valor owes me something — coin, favors... Take your pick." The famed rogue stood in the archway to another room, one that seemed like a bedroom. Fenrel and Taash barely made it into her home before crashing down on the ground. Lovely impression to make from their limited interactions. Varric did not spare details on how, once the now pirate queen Isabela abandoned him and Hawke in the deepest of messes back in Kirkwall.

Though they made up.

Fenrel wasn't sure if it said more of Varric's character or of Isabela's charm.

"And bath?" Taash asked.

Isabela laughed, unbothered, easy. "You reek, darlings, but saltwater does wonders. Rialto Bay's free, warm, and if the waves don't wake you, Harding might take it upon herself to hold you under. She does look cross enough."

"Rook can't even swim; it wouldn't be too hard," Lace said, only half-jokingly.

***

Mines were worse than catacombs, in a way. Coming into a catacomb, all that you could fear were already dead. Lyrium mines, however, were haunted by undead, unmade and blighted. It smelled like raw magic and felt like it, except for something more. The anger so ancient it clung to you, hoping to drag you deeper in and keep you there. A song cut short, lives disconnected from their purpose and hidden away. Going deeper felt like witnessing something she was not privy to. The crime scene of an atrocity long past. But it did not feel like it when one of its victims stood with her, looking down the mouth of the shaft.

"We should get moving if we want to reach Lighthouse by nightfall." She took an uneasy step closer to the scaffolding that held the stone walls together. "If this thing doesn't collapse on us."

"I hope Kal-Sharok dwarves have answers." Harding follows closely, voice just a tad less irritated than the whole trip from Isabela's to Hall of Valor and from there to Crossroads and then to the Eluvian that would take them deep past Anderfels, to the Hunterhorn mountains, straight to the opening of the Deep Roads.

The path only led further down. The worn planks of it creaked, but none of the three dared to step off it, watching the walls surrounding them tremble, pebbles rolling off them with increasing intensity. As if the cave itself was excited for their arrival, aware of it. The further they went, the worse it got. Eventually, the planks ended in what seemed a collapsed part of the tunnel, and the only way forward through the dank, musty system was one seemingly abandoned years ago. Stepping closer, a chill ran down Fenrel's back, despite her palm holding the flame high to light the way for them. Taash would sniff ahead ever so often so as not to walk near any gas that could combust from contact. So far, they were lucky.

Harding thought them too cautious and nagged to move faster, but even Taash's nerve ran dry the further away from the surface they got.

None dared to joke about the collapse.

Before them, the only faint light shone, seemingly from the way forward, another shaft reinforced with wood. Feet away from them was a ledge, and a long fall down. The flame in Fenrel's hand burned bright, a halo of light emitting from it.

"Don't stray to the right," Fenrel reminded Harding to keep close. Even with stone magic, Fenrel doubted Harding could save herself from a nasty fall.

Taash walked ahead, checking for smell of gas again, leaving their circle of light.

"Something's here," Harding said, suddenly stilling beside her. "I can feel them through stone."

"Harding?" Fenrel said without looking back at her, her eyes already trained on the darkness to their side.

The sound finally reached them: click-click-click, claws testing stone. Then the smell, the terrible odour of wet skin and something rotten, like old eggs splitting.

"Three… No, five." Harding said, unhooking her bow from her shoulder. "Side tunnel, left."

Fenrel turned to see, but it was too late. The light in her hand snuffed out with surprise as she jumped from the movement somewhere in nearby shadows.

Whatever it was, it was alive and screeching.

"Deepstalkers!" She could hear Taash in the dark and the hitched breathing of Harding by her side. "Vashedan, these are ugly."

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see that these deepstalkers were unlike the ones she met on Rivaini beaches. These were where they were supposed to be, deep underground, void of daylight and thus, they were like they were meant to be. Big. Obnoxiously so. And in every sense, they were harder to kill when they were made to devour you in the dark.

They could not get separated.

And they could not move forward when three stood before them.

"Harding, cover my back", Fenrel commanded.

"On it."

Another body click-click-clicked across the ceiling, then dropped with a smack as Harding's arrow pierced its writhing body. "More are coming", Harding warned.

Being swarmed by weird lizards was not something she wished to experience. Well, at least, not after a night of heavy drinking and no herbs to fix the consequences.

The wet sound of iron going against flesh. Taash was cutting through them. Laughter followed. At least one of them was having fun.

Then the hit came. Straight against Fenrel's chest, pushing both her and Harding closer to the edge to their right. These Deep Roads were not different from the rest. Stray from the path and you may fall into the centre of the world or even lower than that.

"Taash?" Fenrel called when she could not see or hear the warrior anymore.

With eyes now well adjusted to the pitch dark, she could see the creature gearing up for the second hit. She opted for spellblade. With Harding at her back, trying to aim blindly at creatures that moved too quickly, it was better to keep energy concentrated.

"How many?" She asked Harding.

Just when she raised her hand to strike, Lace talked, and another hit threw Fenrel off her feet. One deepstalker took a particular liking to her.

"What did you say?" Fenrel grunted, trying to get back up before the beast came at her again. She was not with Harding anymore. Where was she? Without her fire, it was too dark to understand and nothing to touch to orient herself. She flicked her fingers for the flame.

"I said eight. I can sense where each is." Harding said louder. "I think… I think I can take them down."

Eight, counting the ones mentioned before? Eight new? Panic rose rapidly as she still could not see or hear Taash.

If Harding were to do it, she should have moved quickly.

"Just do it!"

Fenrel stood face to face with the deepstalker that took a beating on her ribs and looked at its circular mouth, almost forgetting that she should strike. Almost. The ground beneath her feet trembled softly. She could hear the rubble shift. But something in her said that it was okay. It must have been. It was Lace, answering the call. The earth thrummed in a steady heartbeat-like rhythm.

Fenrel snapped out of the moment's distraction, the silverite blade landing in the side of the creature's neck. The creature thrashed against her grip until it didn't. It didn't because a rock flew to its head, making her let go, leaving a collapsed body a bloodied mess, with teeth still raining for a blink after it hit the ground. Then, from the sound, another fell. And then, another.

Taash yelled. Fenrel couldn't discern where the sound came from. Definitely not closer to the opening deepstalkers came from. Nor from the side of the entrance to the way forward.

Two more bodies collapsed.

The silence followed them.

When the quiet rang, Fenrel's fists ignited, both she and Harding calling for Taash. The flames in her hands could not reach further into the darkness. Taash shouted back, from somewhere further down the cave, and so Fenrel and Harding followed the voice.

"Hey, there's an elevator—" Taash pointed with their bloodied arm, blood too light to come from deepstalker.

"Taash, you're hurt—" Harding seized Taash's hand before they could wipe the blood away as they always did.

Taash did not try to pull the arm away. "It's nothing, I'm fine, let's move."

"Sit," Harding demanded. "Rook, shine on their cuts. Need to patch them before we can move."

The gashes weren't deep. Taash had lived with worse. But it wasn't about it at all, so Fenrel knelt beside them, leaving just enough fire in her palms to illuminate the wounds and watched as Harding worked on cleaning them and scolding Taash for separating from them.

***

The elevator creaked, but the smell of fresh oil lingered on its mechanisms. Harding mentioned that Kal-Sharok dwarves would now make their way to the surface. Not to the extent that Orzammar dwarves did, of course, and rarely disclosing the thaig they came from.

"I'm supposed to meet someone named Stalgard." Harding swayed from one hip to another as they moved downwards, seeing flashes of entrance into the thaig between cracks in the rock elevator that was built into. "He was the one who answered. Told me to come here. He seemed nice in his message."

The Dwarven architecture was distinct. Fenrel had never seen it with her own eyes, but she could recognise the geometric shapes and stern lines of it from books in her father's library. Verdigris has painted all of the copper in that particular shade of green; no other things had. The pale stone the doorways were framed with, carved with deliberate care, shapes precise, the two dwarven warriors sculpted from it standing guard on both sides.

After ceaseless darkness, the light in which they found entrance to the thaig was dazzling and almost promising. Perhaps the trip wouldn't be as dreadful as anticipated. And then the screeching came again.

Before she could make a head count of the deepstalkers climbing the rocks to get to them, Harding stepped before her and Taash, no weapons in sight. But the soft rumble of the earth beneath their feet was a sign. A pebble rolled next to Fenrel's foot. Then another. And then, a boulder broke off, crushing the creatures with a sickening crunch.

Fenrel's fingers still rested on the hilt of the dagger, without even getting a chance to get it out before the fight was over. "You're getting good at this." She told Harding.

She nodded, determination written all over her face. As if waiting for a signal, the giant gate they stood adjacent to opened. Slowly, heavily. There was only a man, clad in heavy armour, standing in the middle of the entrance. What an unusual armour it was. Same shade of patina as the one on the door, metal bent into shapes of a body, muscles and all. Fenrel watched the man step out of the shadows with a soft smile on his face.

Lace went to greet him, her voice rising several pitches up. "Stalgard?"

"Yes."

Of course he was.

Fenrel had to hold back laughter as she and Taash glanced at each other from the sheer stoicism of his answer.

Lace and Stalgard stared at each other, then Lace looked at Fenrel, then at Taash. No one said a word.

Harding started. "I—"

"Lace Harding. Of the Inquisition." Stalgard's voice was flat to a point that made Fenrel quirk her brow. She had never seen a man letting this little emotion out. The first time she met Solas, she found him arrogant and detached. But there was still something, a smirk, a furrow in his brow. Stalgard stood still like the statues looming over them.

Lace glared at him, confused. "Wait, how do you know about—"

Stalgard then looked at Fenrel, ignoring Lace's question. "And this is the one they call Rook." Then, he turned to Taash. "A dragon hunter."

"Great, so you've heard of us." Fenrel laughed, uncomfortably, trying to dissipate the odd tension brought on by his lack of emotion.

He did not care about it much. "You have brought a strange assortment to our gates, Lace Harding."

"Thank you for meeting with us," Fenrel said more as a formality. She would much rather have missed a trip to the Deep Roads, if that were up to her. Solas claimed ignorance of what the dagger did to Lace, and with Orzammar being sketchy at best, threatening at worst, it was perhaps the only shot Lace had to understand the stone ability. So Fenrel would grit her teeth and follow her. "Hope you can help Harding."

"You're gracious in your address. It is not necessary. Tell me what you wish."

Kal-Sharok dwarves may have surfaced a few decades back, but their common tongue still sounded off. She could not recall how long it took her elven tongue to get used to Tevene words.

Harding had difficulty choosing words. "I… I am looking for someone touched by the ancients. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Yes. She had been waiting for you."

By this time through the mission, at least a note would come up. A word. Anything. Solas would advise being careful. To not trust easily. All she had instead was silence. The fog brought by hangover was clearing from her mind, and with that, emptiness returned.

"Follow," Stalgard said. "And keep your weapons ready. The roads are dark. The creatures there, even more so."

***

The insides of the thaig seemed to be in permanent reconstruction efforts. It couldn't have been easy to live under constant threat of the blight and darkspawn and whatever other creatures lived down there. After today, Fenrel would swear off any places preferred by deepstalkers. People went about their daily lives, a few turning their heads to look at the weird trio that dared to intrude on them. It couldn't have been a common occurrence for a dwarf, a qunari and an elf to enter their thaig, but none could care less. Perhaps it was for the better. Curious looks weren't what she wished for, especially with the armour she managed to get in Rivaini market. It could barely be called an armour, and the open chest had already come to her detriment, the blooming bruise between her breasts best proof of it. The merchant called it the Invitation. Fitting name, for it required little to be put down wearing this.

People outside Kal-Sharok loved to whisper about things these dwarves had to do to survive being cut off from the rest of the world, entrapped with blight. How they were tainted and wrong and must carry some mortal sin within them. Fenrel did not care much for it. They were here for answers, and such things had little to do with their mission. And still, she noticed how either one of them would linger just a touch too long while passing by cobblers, smiths, tanners.

The whispers might have been malicious rumours, but they were nothing if not enticing.

Fenrel and Taash listened to Harding and Stalgard as they followed close behind them. Of how Kal-Sharok was abandoned, their people were doomed. They had to choose between dying and becoming like darkspawn. He did not say outright how that was achieved. But they knew of the rumours, and that was enough confirmation.

She thought of Solas' murals. Of the Titans, and their dreams sundered. How those who created the dwarves have been made the source of their suffering. And Solas aided it. He took away their connection to the Fade, blighted their dreams, and turned love into fury. One that still burned. And somehow, the dwarves were still the ones who paid for it most.

Was that the man she was so desperate to reach in her dreams? How could it have been that even knowing all this, she still turned to look for him?

They passed the edge of the community. The tunnels made of carved stone continued, magnificent buildings left empty stretched along the way, and no one was there. Soon it became clear why. The blackened filaments stretched through the streets, their corners marked by pulsating boils, waiting to be triggered by the presence of living flesh. Waiting to unleash ghouls upon them.

They made their way forward carefully, Stalgard always a few steps ahead, all weapons raised. Taash took the front flank, quick to sink their axes into any stray ghoul that dared to test them. Fenrel focused her mind on keeping the ward up, a shiny bubble, encapsulating the four of them as they moved. Harding's bow was always loaded. Stalgard prohibited her from using her stone abilities in more fragile stretches, for fear of unintentionally collapsing narrow passages that they still hoped to someday use, once they would push back blight.

Instead, it seemed like it was closing in on them.

"Blight. It grows too quickly these days. And it feels…" For once, something passed through Stalgard's face. Worry? "Different."

"This blight is different. Long story. I am sure Harding mentioned it in her letters." Fenrel said.

Harding paid attention to the other part of his words. "You can feel the blight?"

"Many from Kal-Sharok can, somewhat. Long story." It was a rather nonchalant answer for him, but no one pushed. Kal-Sharok did what they had to do to survive. "We have arrived."

Another large, decorated gate. Dwarves loved their gates, it seemed. As Stalgard moved to open it, Harding looked around nervously. "Do you feel it?"

"Feel what?" Taash asked.

"It's like… someone's watching us." She looked over her shoulder once more as Stalgard stood on the threshold, waiting. "Maybe I'm just paranoid."

"Or you're nervous about meeting… whoever awaits us." Fenrel tried to reassure her, but yet another step deeper down did not sound appealing at all.

They followed after him, down the hall. Walls of it reflected the blue glow, and she felt the power in her hands spasm, crackle, as if being pulled to be used. Turning around the corner, she understood why. Lyrium. So much lyrium. All around them. The Fade within her hummed at it, their notes falling in sync. It was as if her magic grew tenfold, but also dizzied her, blue flashing as she blinked.

"Mind yourself and show respect when you enter the sanctum," Stalgard said, almost as a warning.

Fenrel could not hear what Harding said, if she said anything. The buzz of lyrium was more than her body was used to. They needed to get through this fast. She did not wish to feel the sickness that took over her in Weisshaupt again.

"I will let her speak for herself," Stalgard answered the question Fenrel's ears missed. "But we of Kal-Sharok revere her deeply for being one with the Stone. They say she was once from Orzammar, but she speaks very little of her past."

There was no blight in the corridor they followed. Just the blue, untainted glow of lyrium. Stretching both sides of their path, bringing light to the otherwise unlit path. This part of the thaig was different from those they passed. It was clean. Unblemished by the rot of the blight, no smell of decay.

"The person I'm going to see… I think she's keeping the blight away, somehow." Fenrel did not ask how Harding knew that, but it must have been true. They needed to move, and so she did.

Stairs. And then, even more stairs. It was odd to ascend after descending for so long.

"The song… do you hear it?" Harding asked, but of course, they couldn't. All Fenrel could hear was a strange hum, like magic strung too tightly, her connection to the Fade responding to it, pulling in all directions. "Coming from all around us."

Another set of stairs awaited. Before they set foot on them, Stalgard proclaimed, "We have arrived."

The three of them looked at the top of the stairs, trying to see someone, anyone, but all they could see was a statue of a dwarven woman, waiting.

"But I don't see anyone?" Harding looked at Stalgard, befuddled.

"She is waiting." He said firmly.

They did not question further. Instead, they climbed. They did not get that far, not to see it through. As they reached the landing, Fenrel noticed the lyrium glow in the statue's eyes. She stood proud, a dwarven woman, shortsword raised with the blade pointing downwards. The voice echoed off the walls, encased in lyrium.

"Thank you for leading her here, Stalgard." The disembodied voice drawled, "They call me the Oracle."

The four of them stood, heads craned up, staring at the statue and its eerie radiance.

"This is…" Fenrel did not know how to say "weird" without offending anyone.

Harding finished her sentence. "Incredible."

Stalgard kneeled before the statue, eyes full of reverence, his empty demeanour broken by worship. "Yes. She is."

"All this… Is this what I am? Am I like you?" Harding asked the Oracle.

"I cannot tell you what you are. Look within, and remember." The Oracle made a pause, letting the words settle. "Remember when the earth was alive, and the Titans walked the land. In one voice, they sang. A chorus of creation, and of connection."

"Isatunoll." The song that rang through Harding once she touched the Wolf's Fang, way back then. "The song."

"When the Titans fell, we awoke, but the melody was already lost. We were always just shattered fragments of a greater whole."

Harding gasped. "The Stone sense… My magic. It's Titan magic."

The ground shook with her words, but it did not seem like Harding's doing. When Harding worked the stone, it was a soft rumble, a warning. This, this was fury. A threat. Harding was too focused on the Oracle to notice, but Fenrel and Taash exchanged glances.

"But why? Why did this happen? Why do I remember Isatunoll?" Harding pushed again.

Ground shook off rhythm again.

"There is something else here. It's found you." The Oracle's eyes flickered as the stone moved.

Whatever was causing this, whatever Harding felt watching them out there, felt malicious. Angry. Fenrel did not need to feel the stone to know that something, someone, was coming for them.

"It can wait. Harding's here for answers." She said, stepping forward. "We're not leaving until she gets them."

"Can't you feel it?" Oracle said. "Fury. Such fury. And with you as its mark."

The statue did not need to move for everyone to know what Oracle meant. Something was after Harding.

"Me? But why?" Harding asked.

"We will take them down, let them come," Taash muttered.

"There are horrors in the depths. They have awakened to you now." Oracle warned. "Look within for your answers…. And beware."

With those words, the lyrium glow from the statue's eyes dimmed. Something was missing, a feeling, a presence. The Oracle was not with them anymore.

"No! Wait! I have more questions!" Harding called for her.

Stalgard stood from his worship, a light grin on his face. "She does that. Riddles, riddles, riddles, oh, I am a rock."

The dwarf picked a terrible time for jokes. Harding turned to them, hands fisted, shaking. "But those weren't answers! She gave me nothing!" Harding's voice, laced with anger, rose.

She turned back to the statue, not pleading anymore. Earth shook, and Fenrel had no doubts what brought it on as Harding's eyes started glowing. She hadn't seen that since the day Harding's power was awakened, or rather, brought on by the lyrium dagger. "Come back!" Harding shouted, before turning to Stalgard, her foot stomping and making the ground sway under their feet. No soft rumble now, but fury. "Make her come back!"

When her voice hitched, the light within her eyes did so too. Harding was patient. Harding was helpful. Harding did not raise her voice. But this Harding was done. Still, something stopped her. She started walking in circles, breathing heavily. "It's all right. I'm all right. Sorry." She said apologetically. A sigh followed it. "We're done. Let's just get out of here."

Harding was back to her usual self, but the stone still felt wrong. The tremors persisted as they made their way out of Oracle's sanctum, following them all the way back to the surface. Harding did not say a word, but they all knew something, someone, was after her.

Chapter Text

She would often forget just how beautiful the night sky was. At The Lighthouse, day never began and never truly finished, their little piece of the Fade stuck in the unfelt timeloop of morning bleeding into another morning. Darkness was familiar. Comforting. Even if it was not the dank shroud of mist and fog that settled over Dock Town harbours, with rare bright spots of heated oranges emitted by street lanterns or enchanted signs that would glow in eerie blues. The night in Arlathan forest was pitch black, save for the stars that blinked back at her. Even with her eyes closed, she could still see them, a few more as a moment passed into another.

Chest still rising and falling sharply, she exhaled through her nose, palms lying flat against the dewy grass. The condensation curled around her fingers, still feeling the burn after the fight. Everything smelled of scorched leather and ozone.

"So…" She finally said. "Dragon King."

"Yeah." From somewhere beside her, ground level, Taash's voice came. "What a dickhead."

"That is one way to articulate it, Taash," Emmrich grumbled from somewhere further away, just outside the minuscule field of vision she had in thick darkness, but Fenrel was pretty sure he was lying down too.

"Something's following Harding, Illario is playing his petty schemes in Treviso, Hezenkoss and her arm… and now that Dragon King stages… Well, whatever this was to lure you in." Fenrel said, too tired to steel her voice. Fighting a dragon sadly had that effect on people. "I don't like it. It's as if Evanuris is pulling many shadowy strings at once, targeted at every one of us."

The clanking of armour was followed by a grunt. Fenrel did not want to get up. Not yet. As long as they lay in the only green patch of the scorched glade, the rest of their troubles did not exist. Or at the very least, they did not exist until someone opened their mouth.

"Fangscorcher nearly decimated that village." Of course, Emmrich had something to say. Fenrel sat up, the comfort of plush grass becoming an annoyance, the feeling of being in with nature quickly stripped away by the reality of their situation.

"Because that was one stately way to get our, or more so, Taash's attention." She shifted, palms brushing against her leathers, palms raw from lightning tearing through them over and over again. No elfroot in sight. Emmrich would have to patch them up before they set out for the Lighthouse. "Cunning plan if not for the miscalculation of how many Antaam three of us can take down."

"They wanted to seize one of our own, of course—"

"Thanks, Emmrich," Taash said, standing up, in the next move already reaching to pull their axes stuck handle-up into the ground.

Emmrich's moves were more calculated, as he gracefully leaned on his staff to lift himself. "Anytime."

"Well, that might come sooner rather than later." Finally back on her feet, Fenrel looked around for her spellblade. Must have lost it when she was knocked out around the second time. With vision swimming, she murmured Tevene profanities, with her eyes narrowed, turning around herself, looking for the familiar glimmer of silverite. "The Dragon King clearly wants an Adaari, which is you, Taash."

"Yeah, well." Taash rolled their shoulders stiffly. "He will need to try harder."

Mouth opened and shut, as Fenrel thought of what to say and decided upon nothing. For tonight, they could pick up pieces of themselves and carry back what's left home. Taash would be keen to raid Fangscorcher's lair too, before leaving. The thought of carrying over stuffed bags did not thrill Fenrel, and she dropped a quick remark about how they should notify Strife and Irelin through the sending stone about the lair. The village and Dalish will need to rebuild, and gold was always a hot commodity in such circumstances. Emmrich added that, besides, most of the loot would be from around Arlathan, and messing with Elvhen devices without Bellara present was a ghastly notion.

Taash did not argue much, which was a first bad sign. If Taash did not run their tongue, that meant their mood was sour. They tried to play as if Dragon King did not worry them, but tension in their jaw told a different tale. They strode forward, away from the glade, and Fenrel, much to her annoyance, glanced over her shoulder, trying to see her blade once again. Nothing. She shook her head in disappointment before picking up her pace to keep up with Taash.

"Hey, Emmrich, can you soothe my palms a little?"

"Oh, Rook." His exhalation carried a note of chagrin. "I was under the impression that you vowed to be gloved."

Now Fenrel returned him with a huff of frustration. "Burned straight through them."

Emmrich slowed his step, glancing at her hands. "Well, that is a cause of great concern."

"How so?" Taash looked at them over their shoulder, walking ahead of them, keeping the lookout.

Eyes now adjusted to the dark, Fenrel looked down at the raw skin of her palms. "Mage is supposed to control what they are. What they feel."

"Is this Solas' doing?" Taash asked.

"Whatever Solas has done has dimmed their connection, so I wouldn't suppose it's related to Rook's loss of control."

"That's not what I meant."

Fenrel sighed. "Taash—"

"He hurt you and disappeared, and now your feelings are all… messed up." Taash would not have it, and Fenrel couldn't argue it. But she did, anyway.

"There's plenty of other things hanging over my head besides him."

"He's still among them."

"He always will be," Fenrel said, frustration lacing the words, tone more cutting than intended.

Taash finally stopped. "You said you would help her—" Accusatory finger pointed at Emmrich.

"Taash, the connection cannot be broken." Emmrich stood still, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "I'm afraid… No one can. Except perhaps for Solas himself. It has dulled upon his wish; it might disappear entirely."

From the sorrowful look in his eyes, Fenrel knew he himself did not believe his words, but it was something others needed to hear. Last night, after the two of them left Nevarra, neither spoke. There wasn't much to be said when the truth was rather simple, according to the brightest mind of Grand Necropolis. The blood bond could only be broken by death, as Solas was now tethered to her very being. He could pull away, both of them could. But it could never sever the cord.

***

"How are you feeling?" A question came out of nowhere, making her head jerk up with narrowed eyes. Lucanis was calmly cutting, the edge of the knife slipping through a poor carrot quickly, steadily, leaving a neat row of even circles in its wake. His gaze did not shift as he took another and repeated the process, waiting for her answer.

"I'm—"

"Fine?" Lucanis teased, shaking his head. "Don't start. I think I deserve a bit more than a typical answer."

Her back was almost numb from lying on the chaise of the common area in the dining room, opposite the corner of the kitchen. Yet another book on sanguine arts lay in her lap, with few answers given to her. Blood bond was not to be broken. Written in a hundred different ways, always bringing the same conclusion.

She knew of it before opening the book, and still she read. A weird new obsession to quell the absence of him gnawing at her bones. She did not want to lie to Lucanis, and yet, she smiled, just enough to seem genuine. "Truly. I sleep better these days." That was a lie.  "I don't think he is returning, and that's for the better."

Companions did not need to know that the loss of him was akin to the loss of a limb, a phantom pain following her every waking moment. Last night, she could have sworn she felt the scent of him on her pillow after being jerked from a dream she could not remember. "Have you reestablished contact with Maria? Is she still willing to help?"

Lucanis made a double-take look at her, but did not fight one of her many deflections. That's what Rook was doing these days. Deflect, insist she was fine, and worked. From early morning hours to late night, over and over again. Not a single moment alone with her thoughts, which were so terribly empty and filled by a ghost of a man.

"Yes, she is." He moved, adding ingredients to the pot, and a slow stir in between. A slow gurgle made her cheeks redden as the hunger decided to remind her about itself. "But first, I need to speak with Emmrich."

"Speak of… What, exactly?"

"Zara." Voice steeled, he didn't move for a moment, as if he needed a moment to take a breath. "Teia and Viago managed to get hold of her body."

Naked feet landed on the stone floor, sending jolts of icicles up her veins, making her wrap her arms around her naked flesh. She should have grabbed a jacket. So often away from Lighthouse, she would forget how cold a home built from stone could get. The purpose of bringing a corpse to the Lighthouse was rather clear to her; what wasn't clear was why Lucanis did not tell her that up-front. Then, shame coiled in her chest, the hypocrisy climbing her throat. They did not own her every truth, when she herself held secrets that would shatter their alliance. Varric loved to say that important people were complicated and brought complicated issues to the equation. And the eight of them, residing here in the Lighthouse, might have been the eight most important people in Thedas right now.

"Corpse whispering?" Fenrel sighed, half hoping it wasn't an invitation to participate in the session.

"She was Tevene, I thought—" Of course, it was one.

"Just tell me when."

***

Rain dusted their skin, rivulets of water drip drip dripping their leathers, as two shadowed figures made their way through Treviso docks, their silhouettes hooded and evidently armed. Many of the Crows they passed made a double take, but those who tried to stop them would cease in their step upon seeing a flash of red hair and scarred face. Every Crow, whether they bent their knee to Illario or secretly had their ear out for Viago's command, stepped away for Rook. Rook was the saviour of Treviso, and if she wanted to bring abomination, that was Lucanis Dellamorte; they would not stop her.

Fenrel held her tongue, not telling Lucanis how stupid his initial plan of coming alone was and how lucky he was to get distracted by her. One thing she was sure of was that her name only protected him when combined with her presence. Many Crows would have held to Illario's law and kicked him out of the city upon seeing him.

Except for the one they were on the way to meet.

Zara's lifeless body, even when pupeteered briefly alive by Emmrich, did not tell them anything new, only confirmed what Fenrel knew since their battle in her blood bath. Zara called Illario Amatus, and Fenrel's hearing did not play tricks on her. Illario was indeed lovers with the blood mage. Or, at least, had known each other in a rather intimate manner.

Amatus was reserved for lovers. She could not remember if she had ever used the word, even if she thought she was in love. Memories of those days faded under the pressing reality of now.

Finally, they reached the edge of the dock, right around where Lucanis was told to wait for the De Riva Crow as soon as the clock struck two in the morning. Good thing neither of them would have been caught asleep in these hours, so they stood there, annoyingly awake and bored, for the contact was late.

A thud made them both turn, Lucanis with blades already drawn, but stuck in place, as cold metal grazed both of their chins. A woman, with dark curls cascading down her shoulders, with bangs framing smart brown eyes just enough, lines under them creasing as she withdrew her weapons slowly. "Oh, just had to make sure," She said, with a heavy Antivan accent, slipping her daggers back into the holders fastened across her chest. "Could not allow Viago's tail to follow me here. Or greet me here." She bent down, theatrically. "Maria De Riva, in your service."

She cocked her head to the side, and before Lucanis or Fenrel managed to make introductions, beamed. "Oh, you must be Rook. Saviour of Treviso. So that's who Varric hired, in the end."

Fenrel's brows furrowed, and she looked the girl over curiously. "You know Varric?"

"Francamente, querida, he's the one who got me in the whole Antaam mess in the first place." She clicked her tongue, one hand on her hip, gesturing with another. "Judging from your face, he forgot to mention his misadventures in Treviso. Worry not, I love telling tales too, and there are plenty of secret meetings to be had, if I am not mistaken." She winked at Lucanis, the look lingering just longer than it should have.

Lucanis turned to Fenrel. "Viago's former protégé."

"Huh," Fenrel huffed, her eyes fixed on the girl. Young, no older than twenty-five, definitely closer to twenty. Knowing Viago's serious demeanour, she was just a tad too Antivan, too vivid, too sprightly to be his protégé. But what did she know? Fenrel extended her palm for a formal greeting. "Great to finally meet you, Maria."

Gloved hand slipped into hers effortlessly, holding on softly, unlike many, not trying to assert dominance. "Call me Ria." She glanced at Lucanis, "Same goes for you, Luc."

"I take it you had known each other before all this." Fenrel's gaze shifted between the two. Neither commented on it, slipping into talon business talk rather urgently.

Fenrel did not shift her attentions from the curious Crow, which would glance at her ever so often. Maria De Riva seemed like an interesting addition to their ally count. "So that's who Varric hired, in the end." Lingered around Fenrel's mind, while Maria relied on intel of Illario aiming for the seat of the first Talon with Lucanis in absentia, and how she, the exiled Crow, had climbed Illario's list of interests. The oldest trick in the book was to seduce the truth out of the man, and Fenrel needed to know how and why Illario had wrapped up with Venatori.

"We just need to know how close to Elgar'nan he is sucked in." Fenrel finally slipped into the conversation.

"Still holding hope to save both of Dellamortes by the time this is over?" Maria teased, "Don't look so sour, Luc. I'm jesting only, you sure know that." Her fingers brushed Lucanis' shoulder, and now Fenrel had even more reasons to keep her close.

The agreement was made right there and then for Maria to fully infiltrate Illario's inner circle. The girl did not seem to mind much the possibility of certain death if found out, or the fact that Viago might not allow her back in the house De Riva for going behind his back. Her exile, as she called it, was more conditional and rather heavily enforced by Viago. After the incident with Antaam, for which Ria spared few details, promising to tell the whole tale later, with a cup of coffee, many of Talons were after her head. And that, she would use as her way into Illario's good grace. A desperate young Crow missing her place under Treviso's sun, ready to follow him eagerly. If Viago found this mess of a plan, Fenrel feared their alliance with Crows just might fall apart. Perhaps she should pull the Teia card if that came to be. Teia seemed to like her just a tad too much, and entirely enough to appease Viago if worse came to happen.

The girl knew how to play the Antivan game, it seemed, and while Fenrel did not have much qualms with her choice, Lucanis seemed rather troubled when they parted ways. They followed the route away from the docks Ria had recommended, not meeting a single Crow or Antaam. De Riva knew her way around the city, and hopefully, evil men, well.

"You know her from before," Fenrel opened without subtleties as they sneaked their way around the Cantori Diamond rooftop, looking for a comfortable drop right in front of Eluvian, left on one of the upper balconies. Teia and Viago were not informed of their arrival and would not know of their departure.

"All flegdlings knew of me if they were worth their skin."

"And if they weren't?"

"They died," He shrugged, pointing a finger at a suitable spot for landing.

"So… she's a good one."

"The good ones always overestimate their ability." He murmured. "Let's hope she's one of the great ones."

***

The Wall of Light. It had been over a year since she had last visited, and the last place she expected Neve to suggest as a meeting spot. All morning, Fenrel, Harding and Bellara went around Dock Town performing odd tasks for Thread and Shadow Dragons, light in their spirits. With Bellara and Harding completely in the dark on the Solas situation, it was a peculiar comfort to carry on conversations just about anything but him. They knew as much as they needed to know that after the memory reveals, Solas had ceased their conversations immediately and left their little group to figure out the Gods' situation on their own. Davrin did not care much for it, with his mind preoccupied with the fate of Griffons, once he realised how close to finding them he became. Harding was oddly rejoiced with the notion of Solas being gone. Bellara, worried, as always.

Taash knew just enough but not all, just enough to still be in her court with support that did not waver, without giving her curious looks.

Emmrich and Lucanis were at their worst in their own ways. Emmrich resorted to the academic interest of how the tether changed under Solas' wish to withdraw, and Lucanis was satisfied just enough to be noticeable. And Neve?

Well, Neve did not say a thing.

Which was, in many ways, worse.

Fenrel was aware how divided truth could've drowned her leadership, bringing every decision she had made under scrutiny if the muddied lie ever came out. Even then, it wouldn't be the whole truth. The fact that she could see and touch Solas would not be her damnation. The fact that she chose to do so, more and more, right until he ran, would be.

A tug at her sleeve withdrew her from her thoughts, her eyes instinctively darting down at an elder woman looking at her. "Yes?" She said in Tevene, sure that she had met this face before. Somewhere in Dock Town, or market, it did not matter. Or maybe it was just one of those faces that were unmistakably local.

"You are a friend of Neve Gallus," a Woman's voice trembled, not from emotion, but age, making it brittle.

"We all are," Fenrel gestured with her free hand at Harding and Bellara, neither understanding a word in Tevene, watching the scene in confusion.

"Would…" It seemed like an elder struggled to pick her words. "Would you be dear, and light one for me? You're… You are a mage, yes? I can pay you, not much—"

"Oh, no, no," Fenrel flustered at the offer. She did not need a poor woman's coin, not for this. No one came to the Wall of Light with an easy heart, and she suspected many of the fade-touched took advantage of people like that. A place of remembrance turned for profit by those more fortunate in their warped society. "Just tell me, who is it I am doing it for?"

"My son," the Woman lowered her head, looking at her empty palms.

Fenrel waited a moment for the woman to say anything else. But she didn't. Grief made tongues leaden, she could understand. Hers was like that many times. "I'm sorry."

"You know of loss if you are here, child."

Fenrel looked up at the skies, full of floating orbs, some brighter, some dimmer, varying in size and colours. She looked for her own power woven into one, eyes tracing over transparent shapes. Where was it? Has it already gone out? It's been only a year. "My father."

"Oh, it is only right for parents to leave first," the woman kneaded her palms, cheeks glistening already. "Callis was so young, not much older than you are now. Loved sunsets over harbour…"

Fenrel listened as the woman told the story of a son unfairly taken by Templars, for a crime he did not commit, blamed for being part of Threads, for smuggling, for theft. Perhaps Templars were right, and the poor lady just did not know. It did not matter now, for it would only worsen her pain. Fenrel thought of the many suns she saw drown in the waves, letting the energy tingle between her palms, shifting them into a singular, warmed tone shape. The little sphere grew between her hands, reminiscent of the sun, and when she let go of it, commanding her power to drift up and up, the woman's eyes followed it. The little sun soon joined the real one, and next to it, a smaller orb dared to drift, compelled by power shared. There he is, Fenrel thought, finally finding the memory of her father she set free all those months ago.

"Thank you," the woman grabbed Fenrel's hand, shaking it with admiration, just until Neve's voice disrupted the scene, and the woman made her way to the closest bench, eyes never straying from the sky.

"I see you already started," Neve spoke, staring Fenrel from the moment, her eyes still drifting up, to the little pale orb. It was bright purple when she let it go a year ago; she had to rework it. Dominus Mercar would have scolded her for a sloppy job of a spell so easy, lasting just this short of time. Or he wouldn't have cared for such sentimentality at all. She would have loved to pretend she knew her father better than she did.

"You know how it is," Fenrel answered, not catching herself still in Tevene tongue, until she saw the glance exchanged between Bellara and Harding. She adjusted, quickly, back into common, "What brings us here, Neve?"

"What most are here for." Neve nudged her head to the side, indicating to follow. Fenrel took a moment to remember the exact patch of sky where her father's light resided before following her.

At the far off side of the courtyard, an emptied orb, completely without light and soon to disintegrate, lay on the floor next to a wall. "This was Brom's." Neve sighed, bending down to lift the fragile construct. It must have been much longer than a year since Neve visited. Most orbs, if woven properly, would last at least that long.

"Rana's old partner?" Fenrel wasn't that good at recalling names, but she tried her best when it came to people of importance. And Brom was important to Neve. And to Dock Town, in extent, though Dock Town did not know it. A brave soul that dared to go against Aelia alone and died for it. And Aelia was still out there, taunting Neve, threatening their home. Fenrel did not want to think of his death as meaningless. But seeing as blood mage was still out there, it angered her that he had no justice. Nor Rana. Nor Neve.

Minrathous wasn't right on a good day. On a day like this, it hurt just a little more than usual.

"His light was already out when I got here." Neve talked more quietly than usual. "I should've been back sooner."

Fenrel should've been too. Life moved in circles and in flashes, all at once. Perhaps neither she nor Neve realised just how quickly it went until the ache dulled just enough to forget the light. All she could think about was the Shadow Dragon promises said to one another. "The light drawn echoes back. In aeternum."

"Formalities." Neve cut sharply, before softening, when her eyes settled on the remnants of the orb again. "He wasn't big on those… but he'd appreciate it."

Neve let herself be soft just for a glimpse, until her face and voice steeled again. "I'm stopping Aelia."

"Looks like we had the same idea." Fenrel knew of the voice without turning, so she didn't. Her and Rana Savas' roads crossed just enough, and with increased frequency ever since she started working with Neve. The two were old acquaintances, and Fenrel could not exactly put a finger on what was happening between the two, but she was sure that something was.

"Savas." Fenrel nodded as Rana stood by their side.

"Rook," She nodded.

Next to the Wall of Light, Fenrel did not bother hiding behind the hood or mask. Venatori with Elgar'nan's backing were still after her, but even they would not dare destroy the sanctity of this place. They would wait until she turned the corner right out of the gate. So far, for a moment, she breathed calmly, as three of them stood, looking down on Brom's orb.

Bellara and Harding were somewhere nearby, admiring the lights.

"He read serials between assignments… Romance," Rana said, and Fenrel could not help but smile. Every soul in Dock Town loved a good bodice ripper. "The last one ended on a cliffhanger. He was sure he knew the ending… I never checked if he was right."

"There are ways to track the final chapters," Fenrel said with wishful hoping that Neve could. Of course, Neve could. She was the best detective in town.

"I know," Rana smiled. "I'm not sure I want to."

"Pretending it ends well?" Neve sighed, "We can give him that."

"You're not the only one chasing Aelia." Now all of Rana's attention was turned to Neve. "I've tracked some of her followers. They aren't quick to talk—most said I'd be "saved" soon." She paused, gauging Neve's reaction. "But I did get the name of a place. Sanctum Lusacan."

"Lusacan? Sounds familiar." Fenrel glanced at Neve, wondering if she was thinking of Elgar'nan's archdemon too.

"It's an old temple. A lost one. If there's a record of its location, I can't find it."

Neve was not bothered by Rana's disappointment in the knowledge lost. "It's more than we had. I can track this down."

"And you'll tell me?" Rana sounded just a little frustrated. Fenrel knew full well the why — Neve would cut out anyone not necessary to the plan, just to avoid the fate that befell Brom's. "Look, I know who else you work with, what they might suggest, but… What are you going to do?"

"The best I can," Neve said, just with enough irritation to make Fenrel wish she wasn't in the middle of this.

"Right," Rana said. "Dock Town will see—"

"What, Rana?" Neve's frustration grew. "Magisters who look the other way? Bribed Templars? Venatori who walk?"

"They see you." Rana pushed back.

"Is that all?" Neve released an exasperated sigh. "What will that mean?"

Neve did not wait for Rana to speak of the hope she could give Dock Town. The justice. What little did justice mean in a town where good men died? Fenrel heard too many stories, Brom's one of them. She glanced back at the golden orb floating in the distance, a dim one orbiting it slowly. Perhaps there were many more to hear. But hers were not the ears they should have reached.

Neve reignited Brom's orb wordlessly, swiftly.

"Thanks," Rana murmured before leaving them.

"I do what I can," Neve called after her, making Rana glance back with an unreadable look on her face. Another huff left Neve's mouth. "So, Rook. I think there's a light still waiting its turn." Neve nodded in the direction Fenrel was just looking.

Fenrel did not ask her how she knew, just left her, and Bellara with Harding, the two who were still confused by being cut out of the conversation by Tevene tongues, and walked to her father. Or rather, a memory she left of him there.

A sunny day in Rivain. She rebuilt it in her mind, one grain of sand at a time, casting the sun in the right angle of her mind, and waited, with her still sore palm outstretched. The dim light touched her with the breeze of Rialto Bay, skimming over her fingers. "It's been too long." She said to no one in particular.

All who lit the lights knew their loved ones were not there. This was just a silly tradition, worn and passed down, a comfort of old ways. Her father did not know why he would do this either. He would come and watch the glowing orbs with a certain reverence only a man who knew a lot of loss could hold. At least in something, she could understand him.

The orb in her hands flickered, and she had to remind herself that it was not her fault. Her being with him wouldn't have changed anything. It was not her fault that she listened and stayed away. That she left, went with Varric. Nothing would have changed in the end. Half of letting go was convincing oneself that they could. The other was letting oneself forget. Just a bit, every day.

Even with the world ending, she could still hear him whisper in her ear, and oblivion of all lost remained close. No one soul was just a drop in the ocean if you loved it just enough. "I'm sorry." She told the light flickering in her palm, exhaling slowly. "I'll be back soon. Don't blink while I'm gone."

She promised she would not let it fade again.

***

"Something wrong?" It was rare for Davrin to call her to speak alone in the Lighthouse premises. Regularly, he would offer a walk in the Arlathan forest, a training day for Assan. They would visit his so-called uncle Eldrin, one who taught him the Way of Three Trees. They would look for Halla, sick and injured, with their habitat being ruined by wild magic and blight. Assan proved to be more of a nurturing beast than expected, bringing the sick animals food, herding them gently. Davrin struggled with the idea of the griffons being more than battle companions for Grey Wardens. What griffons truly were mattered little if Assan was the only one out there, his brothers and sisters taken months ago now.

Davrin never gave up. It took months traversing the swamps since Weisshaupt, following the clues that the monster that took them was somewhere out in Anderfels. Not too far from Lavendel.

He sighed, looking at the fire. Usually, she would find him in his armchair, a new wooden figurine being carved into perfection in his hands, but now he was there, upright, hands empty, brows set tightly. "I got a message." He said shortly. "A place called the Cauldron was attacked."

Hours, achingly long hours of fighting their way through the blight and waddling through shallow, tainted water, they made it there, just as the sun gave way to the moons in the sky. A full moon. A rare sight, one they stopped to appreciate. Lucanis and Davrin spent most of their way there discussing the most practical ways to kill monsters, the assassin eagerly taking tips from the monster hunter, until the conversation switched to blood mages and nugs, for some reason she did not know. For this one moment under the night sky, they managed to get quiet.

They were too far edges of Lavendel now, close to an abandoned Warden dock, a ridiculously large fort taking up most of the coastline. "This is the place where the Wardens were attacked?"

The only solid lead they had. Wardens got just a little too close to the creature, and a creature, fitting Davrin's description, had unleashed an onslaught on them. The few Wardens who found their way back to Evka and Antoine reported the sighting with fractured details, but it was enough.

"Yeah." Davrin exhaled, looking over the mess of the courtyard, blight all around.

"I hope this place does not collapse on top of us," Lucanis murmured, looking at the state of the building they were about to enter. It must have been abandoned for a long time, long before the blight came. Perhaps even before the fifth blight. Fenrel pondered if the sixth, the one that was unleashed with Elgar'nan's and Ghilan'nain's escape, would be the last.

"If they named it the Cauldron, it probably wasn't great on its best day." She tried to joke, but no one was in a humorous mood.

"We're not there yet," Davrin explained. "This is just the outer courtyard. The Cauldron itself will be underground."

"Oh, great." She answered. "How bad can the underground level be in a building run down by the Blight?"

Lucanis exhaled with annoyance. "Please, don't."

As expected, the road inside was an overly complicated web of destroying blight boils which connected in intricate ways, barring one door after another, making some entrances useless. A few times, behind the blight, hurlocks waited, mostly to their annoyance, for all the time wasted just to get through them and find the entrance ahead collapsed. Finally, they managed to climb their way to the main entrance, which hung open like a wound torn. The noise coming from inside promised them more darkspawn.

Killing unthinking creatures was becoming mechanical, a dance choreographed many times over, to a point where they could carry on with their conversation as if they were in training practice rather than a life and death situation. She had to remind herself that many Wardens were dying in the clutches of Blight, holding the Anderfels.

"So what exactly is this place?" Fenrel looked around once they had a moment to breathe lighter and found themselves in the middle of a corridor divided into small, barred and warded cells that held various items. A prison for items? That did not make much sense.

"A dumping ground. Looks like every dangerous artefact or weapon the Wardens ever came across." As a true fighter, he did not put down his weapon quite as quickly, still listening in for some stray ghoul. "If it's all so dangerous, Wardens locked it away, we're not touching anything."

Making their way through several floors of the building and various halls and corridors filled with cursed items meant fighting horde after horde of darkspawn, too. The only light in the dark building in the evening hours was the pulsating blight boils overgrown on every inch of walls, ceilings and cells, and they cut through them just enough to move further in. By the time they found the stairs leading to lower floors, the undershirt was soaked and sticking to Fenrel's back under the armour, which in turn was slick from Blight and ghould rot. She unbuckled the neck belts, opening the collar just enough, to make the quick gulps of air easier to catch. It was becoming unbearingly hot, and their steps slowed, sweat glistening on Davrin's forehead.

Reaching the ground floor, they saw cells lining the sides of the corridors. Those were rooms with armoured doors, numbers in tarnished metal hung above them. "The doors are marked with dates?" Lucanis asked Davrin, "3:25?"

"5:24 here", Davrin responded, looking at the door just a few steps ahead.

At the end of the corridor, just before the turn, Lucanis read the newest date. "9:31 here."

The last date she knew well. The year Hero of Ferelden beat the Archdemon Urthemiel. It was too late for Fenrel's clan, but southern Thedas was saved, buying it the twenty years they had until this, newest blight.

"It's Blights. The years they ended." Davrin did not seem bothered by the corridor of locked doors. None offered to try to get them open. They looked for an obvious way forward. Which was found just around the corner. A statue of a sleeping griffon greeted them at the anteroom of the greater hall. Besides the rubble and the blight they saw all around the place, there was something new. Bones.

Not ones she could recognise.

More animal than man.

Then they saw a full skeleton. And then another. A shape oddly familiar. They were still in the anteroom, but the view ahead did not inspire confidence.

"This can't be…" Davrin's footfalls stop echoing behind them as Fenrel and Lucanis go in deeper. They turned to look at what he was doing, just to find him staring at the bones. "It's a griffon."

Looking at Assan hiding behind Davrin, and at the bones on the floor, the understanding came dreadfully quickly. Lucanis did not let the silence linger too long. "Davrin… How exactly did griffons go extinct?"

"They died out fighting the Fourth Blight."

A sound, high-pitched and ringing, made them flinch, weapons drawn, before they turned and looked at the great hall before them. A wailing, awful sound. One she had heard before. The night she met Davrin, the night griffons were taken. "Gloom Howler." Fenrel and Davrin spoke in unison.

"We're close," Lucanis said, turning his head, as if following the shrieking which was coming from everywhere. Above, below, left and right, it bounced off the walls.

"It's everywhere," She said with a wince, covering her ears, cold silverite of the hilts of her daggers stinging, as she pressed them to the skin.

"No, no, listen," Lucanis shushed them. "Behind the wall,, He said, walking slowly alongside it. The wall was not smooth, nor was it built of brick. Many squares, reminiscent of those in columbarium walls, perhaps, because they were. Some, with inscribed words in Ander, which she could not read, but her educated guess led to names. Many of them. Each box was marked with the sign of Grey Wardens, an emblem of a Griffon. There was a crack in the wall, filled with boils, the thrumming of taint within them like a heartbeat. A heartbeat reverberated with the distorted vails just beyond them.

"Gloom Howler must be behind these boils," Fenrel agreed with Lucanis.

"Good," Davrin exhaled, unsheathing his sword, the clasps holding his shield steady on his back coming undone, "We need to save those griffons she stole. You boy—" He glanced at Assan, circling their backs, "Stay here, hide."

One current was all it took to collapse the boils separating them from Gloom Howler's hideout. Fenrel did not bother with gloves anymore, for they had little use. Her magic flared more restlessly with every sleepless night, every hushed whisper in which she found Solas' voice. Something within her broke, and she did not have time to mend it. Her blades have worn calluses into her palms, friction tiring.

Beyond the boils, a vast open space awaited them, and on the platform at the back of it lay something akin to a statue. It should've been one, but they knew better. The giant cage of bones, laid out to rest for eternity. Ribs that once protected the beating heart of a dragon, its head big enough to work as a good shelter.

"Unbelievable," Davrin breathed as they still stood between remnants of the blight she had just burst. None of the three dared to take a step, all marvelling at the view, the sanctity of a beast that mighty. "An archdemon."

Vines of blight spread from the higher ground they were soon to stand on, right to the beast ahead, like sinews ripped from it and spread around. All stories of Blights ended the same way: the Archdemon was defeated. No one ever told what happened to their bodies. Now, they knew what happened to at least one. "So that's what Cauldron is," Fenrel sighed, "A giant tomb."

"So… all those rooms with the dates of the Blights?" Lucanis asked.

She did not think of the rooms, their doors so high they reached several floors. Of course.

"More archdemons," Davrin said what went through her mind. "This one would be Zazikel."

The Second Blight. Centuries ago. How long have the Wardens kept their blighted secrets hidden away at the Cauldron?

"This place feels wrong," Lucanis said as soon as they made their way forward, closer to the remains of the archdemon. They could not hear Gloom Howler in this instant. Were they mistaken? "Like someone doing blood magic."

For a place locked away for centuries, the blight within it was the new kind, the pulsing, writhing mess, the sickly scent of rot permeating the entirety of the space they walked through. Nothing but the resonance of their steps and breathing was heard in the echoing silence of the grave. "Perhaps—" Fenrel's words were cut off shortly, just before she could deny Gloom Howler's presence, by a screech, blood-curdling, ear-bending, horrible noise they already came to know.

It was here.

The creature said only one word, "Rise."

And the ground around them broke, blight spewing out its offspring at them.

The grunts and roars of the hurlocks, the squelchy steps and teeth clacking of the darkspawn filled the space. Too many, too quick. Only one voice rose above them, belonging to Gloom Howler. "Secrets long buried will have their day."

There was no doubt whether it was a promise or a threat.

"Don't die," Fenrel shouted at her companions, her blades buzzing with energy before she finished pulling them out of the holders.

The blight on the ground had awakened, boils birthing one ghoul after another. No matter how many of the corpses they laid to rest, it wouldn't matter as long as the boils were standing. So the arduous struggle through beasts began. Alternating between charges of lightning, bursts of force, warding and blades, Fenrel razed her way through the blighted creatures. Motion was easy. With no time to think, and only one goal in mind, her body worked on its own, despite the burns her own power induced upon her skin, and the ache in her lungs. Boils went one after another, the clash of Davrin's steel against Hurlock's hardened shell of a skin often reverberating behind her, in front of her, close and away. The three of them moved in tandem, the familiar purple of Spite's wings circling them as Lucanis went for higher ground attacks.

With the last blight boil down, they could see their way to the Archdemon's bones. But the horde kept coming.

"The Wardens must surrender their secrets," Was one of many things Gloom Howler spoke of over the noise of the battle, but without a moment to catch her breath, Fenrel elected not to care about it for now.

The mass of distorted bodies, their outstretched fingers and torn flesh, the nauseating stench of decay, pushed them up the stairs, merely steps away from the bones of the Archdemon. Fenrel swore under her nose, a tirade of Tevene profanities pouring freely, as her eyes darted around, looking for the remaining boils. There had to be more. Darkspawn kept rising to fight them. Her shoulder rubbed against something, heart hammering in her ears, before she realised that the overwhelming force pushed her and Davrin together, Lucanis quickly landing beside.

Three of them were surrounded.

"This is going great," She voiced her grievances. She would rather have been stuck in Shathann's kitchen listening to another lecture on Qunari customs or her terrible pronunciation of Qunlat than be knee-deep in Darkspawn guts.

Lucanis laugh bitterly beside her, "Mierda."

Outstretched blades and a ward could only help them so long. Her fingers trembled as the ward keeping them contained in a protective bubble creaked under pressure of ghouls pressing against it, one agonising step backwards after another.

Red.

It was only a glimpse that she caught, but it was clear.

"The boil is between the ribs," She pointed her chin at the skeleton of Archdemon.

"Mierda," Lucanis grunted. "We'll be trapped."

"I don't know if you noticed, but we already are." The light she tried to make of their situation was dim. If they were trapped inside the skeletal remains, the darkspawn would be stuck outside. With the last boil destroyed, she had just enough mana to take a dozen bodies out. Old-fashioned blade work would do the rest. The ward surrounding them warbled. "Run!" She shouted as their protection collapsed and they scrambled, pushing each other in between the ribs of the beast. She did not look back to see if ghouls followed; one charge was all it took to demolish the source of them.

She kept her eyes and mouth shut tight as the putrid mist of blackened blood rained over her from the explosion. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she turned to see the remaining ghouls pressing against her ribcage. Her, Davrin and Lucanis were now stuck inside.

Unthinking creatures, piling up, making each other stuck within the gaps between the bones. One by one, they could have easily made it through, but the sheer mass was barring them from moving forward. And barred her and her companions from leaving. "Well, this is going great," She sighed, with a shaky chuckle. "Surrounded by friends…"

"Surrounded by sharp claws," Davrin's voice was low and gruff, still catching air in big gulps after their narrow escape straight into captivity. "This is that creature's doing." He muttered before letting his voice rise above the noise. "Whoever you are, face me!"

The shrieking wail echoed again, as if Gloom Howler was biding their time, right until they got themselves trapped. The darkspawn responded to the nightmarish sound, stilling, stepping away from the remains of the archdemon.

It showed itself above the horrors it had summoned, floating above ground, its shape eerily humanoid, but also decomposed. Made of jagged pieces of bark like bone growths, the body gaunt and elongated, sinews made of what seemed like stone barely holding it together. The head, more like a helm, broken in shape, sharp, irregular edges, splintered, ruined, the burning yellow of the irises breaking up the greyish tint every other part of it had.

"Who are you?" Davrin did not marvel but instead demanded answers.

"A ward against the darkness." Despite its otherworldly appearance, the creature talked in a voice akin to an old, weary woman, one that had been around for too long.

"You are the darkness," Davrin said, voice full of conviction. "You're a monster!"

The body of Gloom Howler moved unnaturally, limbs seemingly too long to function, arms misshapen, one more reminiscent of a claw. "To those who made me."

Nothing of its appearance gave a hint of what the creature would wish from griffons. Why would it steal them? "Where are the other griffons?" Fenrel shouted, tired of semantics.

"I liberated them," Howler spoke proudly, as if its purpose was complete.

"Liberated them? You stole them!" Power cracked between her fingers, and Fenrel felt the spasm going up her arm. It was the wrong time to lose control, and yet her emotions called for it, heat rising through her chest.

"The Grey Wardens failed them!" Howler responded with anger. "They created the horrors—the bones of griffons abandoned in this 'Cauldron." If it could've spat to punctuate its words, Fenrel was sure it would've. "Proud warriors forgotten." The last words came, voice softening, as if in remembrance. Fenrel could see the confusion on her own face reflected in Davrin's expression.

"Who are you?" He asked again.

"Their salvation," Howler said, and Fenrel knew of these words. Words that Venatori loved to spew. Words that she was sure Evanuris had said in their time. Words they would say when things would come to a head. Gloom Howler was up to something horrific as it pulled the blade, a long sword of Grey Wardens.

The bone crackled around them as the steel pierced the hollow horn of Archdemon. It was hollow, but not empty. Blood like tar slipped from it, coating the blade in Howler's hand. "The blood offers protection." The creature said, voice wrapped in delusion.

"Archdemon blood?" Terror seeped into Davrin's words, coming out of his mouth with shouted rage. "You're blighting them?"

"Protecting them." The creature paid no mind to his rage, its voice seemingly chirpy now that the blade in its hand was smeared with archdemon blood. Its yellow eyes turned languid, already dreaming of the twisted rescue it would perform. They snapped open suddenly, heat returning to Howler's words. "The same blood runs through your veins, Warden. Join us, and honour their future."

"I'd die first!"

Davrins spoke boldly for someone trapped in the cage of bones, completely surrounded on the outside. They could die before the next sentence was finished, when Gloom Howler was the only one who held reins on the frenzied attack, still waiting for them.

"Then this is your tomb."

Well, shit. Fenrel mouthed, her and Lucanis' eyes meeting as they often would when things went wrong. A silent check that the other knew. That both were ready.

One shriek, and darkspawn that were standing still for the entirety of the conversation moved, turning at the three of them, and Fenrel stepped forward, charge already flaring. "Get back," She commanded her friends.

They were too smart to argue with the only mage on the field. One person to level the fighting field, take out the first row of bodies. She felt the power crackle, the shiver follow it from her chest to her arms, and faint buzzing. A familiar sound mixed with it, a woosh of the wings, and "Assan," was the name they all called, their eyes darting up.

Assan was going for Gloom Howler.

Assan, who could not understand that creature, held a weapon that could blight him.

Fenrel did not wait any longer, charge exploding outwards from her, blasting away both bones that caged them and the first row of darkspawn in wait. Her mana was faint now, when her fingers grasped for a lyrium flask, and the free hand unsheathed Wolf's Fang. Neither she nor Lucanis wasted time, throwing themselves into the fight. But Davrin was distracted, his eyes on the tiny griffon attacking the captor of his siblings.

"Davrin!" Fenrel shouted, trying to capture his attention, but just as quickly, she herself turned to look at the fight above, her hand driving a blade between the ribs of a ghoul absent-mindedly.

Assan struck it just once, and it disappeared, together with the blighted blade. The remaining darkspawn were uncontrolled, frenzied without orders. Proving easier to kill. By the time it was over, they were drenched in blighted liquids, breathless and shouting.

"Damn it, it's gone! Gloom Howler's gone," Fenrel collapsed against the closest wall, aftershocks of consumed lyrium driving through her veins, cold sweat clinging to her back, wrist shaking where it still gripped the blade. At least this time around, she did not lose any weapons. But the lyrium she took would guarantee a terrible night to come. Ever since Weisshaupt, she could not use it thoughtlessly anymore. A drop too much gave her nightmares, her body stuck in a perpetual circle of running through the collapsing fortress, sweat-covered sheets and murmurs in her mouth. Mornings came with a crash, bones aching, brain splitting.

It wasn't like that at first. It was supposed to be like that, all along, she now knew. It was Solas who withheld the flood of trauma, the terrors, the shakes. She did not know he held her together. Gave her normalcy.

And then he left her alone to collapse in abandonment. And even that, she could not allow herself.

Davrin was surprisingly calm for what happened. Lucanis was too exhausted to speak or complain. Three of them sat against the wall, away from massacred ghouls, sending a waterskin between their hands.

"Now what?" She exhaled, the back of her head pressing against cool stone, one sensation she picked to ground herself. She tried to name what she saw, what she smelled, what she felt, but tremors stayed. The heart still pounded. "Gloom Howler still has the griffons and now wants to blight them, and we are nowhere closer to getting them back"

"Not entirely true," Davrin said calmly, lifting a bloodied rag. "We have this."

"What is that supposed to be?" Lucanis said with a yawn, exhaustion making him drowsy already. If they remained seated, they might fall asleep right there and then. It must have been early morning hours. In a windowless pit of a tomb, she could not tell. Lucanis leaned against her shoulder, his head nearly sliding across the rock, to the nook of her neck, before he snapped his eyes awake, trying to focus them back on Davrin.

"Assan grabbed it off the Howler."

"Emmrich could—Emmrich could get something out of it," Fenrel knew a win when she could see it, and those were rare and fleeting these days. An actual bed would have been one right around now, but the three of them sitting there together, their leathers sticking to each other from grime, and knowing they lived, had to be enough for now.

***

Even days later, she could still feel imprints of that stone wall they rested against back at the Cauldron. The elfroot consumed did not mask the bone-deep weariness, did not quell the restlessness in her flesh, when she found herself wide awake at night.

Once Solas left, it crept on her slowly. As long as she was lost in the in-between, trekking through his prison, calling his name, the nightmares kept their distance. But once she gave up, they came on like an avalanche. Treviso, flashes of Minrathous right after dragon attack, the blight lining Viper's skin, Weisshaupt, Blackthorne, every loss haunting her.

Every scar burned like proof that she lost. That she would lose.

Fragments of the ritual would intercept, just for brief moments. Solas, with his back turned. Varric, bleeding out in her arms. Solas, looking at her, without knowing, just how much decision he would make next would change.

In the dream, she didn't try to reach him. It wasn't Solas she knew. It wasn't her Solas.

Smell of ozone permeated the air, crisp, sending the familiar shiver down her spine. The wall beside her bed wore a sheen from a thin layer of ice, her right arm still locked in shielding motion above her face as she pried her eyes open. It was never dark in the Crossroads. And so she met the never-ending light with tears prickling her cheeks, a sob held tight in her throat, burning. She did not question when her body made its way to the armchair, collapsing. If she was not to sleep, she could answer letters. Do just about anything to drag her mind back to the present instead of wallowing in the past. Something, anything.

Instead, she opened the drawer, one she had made a point of not looking into for weeks. If he were gone, it would be gone too, for sure.

However, she was mistaken.

Beneath the pile of ink-splattered parchments, she saw the only one neatly folded, hidden. She could still close the drawer and make her way to the bath. Stop poisoning herself with the compulsion.

"Even then, you saw through me."

Words on paper brought the comfort of his voice and tears back.

"You hated me above all, and yet, you stayed."

And how much she hated herself for it now. She should never have let Dread Wolf capture her in his trap. Made her care. Made her see. "Venedhis," She swore with a bitter chuckle, wiping her face with the back of her hand, before dropping the letter back into the drawer and slamming it shut with a thud.

He made her choosing to believe in him, care for him, seem like a sane thing. The first words he had ever said to her were "You have no idea what you've had done."

But did he?

She closed her eyes, just for a minute, and that minute slipped her fingers, sleep claiming her once more, her body still curled into itself, compressed uncomfortably in the armchair, knees to her chest. The music room welcomed her, her fingers stuck to the keys, notes not touched just yet, but a familiar song echoing off the walls. Somewhere, far off, a wolf howled, a sound that did not reach her.

Chapter Text

Bellara shifted in her seat, some intricate picks still in her hand, a sigh escaping her lips, followed by a smile. "All I'm saying, you know, is that we know something? Right? If the Gloom Howler is both elven and Warden, that must—"

She sounded so hopeful. Just knowing what Gloom Howler used to be did not answer the question of who it used to be and when. And those two details were their only fraction of hope to find griffons in time. Fenrel had another long night, one of many more to come. The thought that she would never have a peaceful rest again haunted her. If she did not think, it would not ache. One of many lies she ceased to count now. "Any news of Cyrian?"

"No," Bellara answered quickly, punctuating it with another sigh, now somber. "No sightings, not as if I expected him to just… He wouldn't just bring Anaris around, you know? It's so, so unlike him, well, but so wasn't he going… Perhaps I.. I don't know my brother that well anymore. Oh, Rook…" She softly placed the tools back on the table, closing her notes, her hand hesitant. "Strife sent a message. A group of scouts went missing. You don't think—"

She did. The last time that happened, they found Anaris puppeteering Cyrian, using Veil Jumpers for some twisted purpose, turning them into demons. Why now would be any different? "We can always go check it out."

"Oh, we could? You—Of course you would, you're Rook." Bellara laughed as if in conversation with herself, one Fenrel was not privy to.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She straightened out in her spot on Bellara's bed, elvhen dictionary abandoned hours ago in her lap. Picking the language back up proved easier than she expected, and one person who could've been impressed by her effort was not there to hear it, so her progress stalled.

Most nights, she and Bellara agreed to spend on studies were wasted in idle chatter now. The little rituals with companions stacked up easily, even if it were a lunch in Dock Town with Neve, a walk through Arlathan with Assan and Davrin, her keeping company to Lucanis as he tried new recipes at late hours of the night, or afternoons spent in Hall of Valor, where Harding could hone her powers while Fenrel and Taash unleashed all they could not put in words through their blades.

"Nothing—nothing! Ugh, okay—so there are these new serials in Dock Town's stands—"

Fenrel stood up quicker than she could muster. "No."

"Yes—The red-haired elvhen warrior, hands blazing with lightning—"

"No."

"But they're so fun—I mean, they are totally inaccurate, but fun" Bellara jumped on her feet too, following after Fenrel, who was already making her way out of the workshop.

"Are they bodice rippers?" Fenrel rolled her eyes, knowing what literature people of her town loved. Bellara choked up on her giggle, blush painting her cheeks. "Well?"

"Aren't we late for dinner?" It was Bellara who was rushing to leave now.

They were, in fact, late, but when Caretaker appeared as soon as she crossed the threshold of Bellara's workshop, she waved Bellara off, promising to join soon.

"Missives, dweller." Spectral shape hung, rolled pieces of parchment floating beside it.

"Urgent, I take it?" Caretaker would never bother her with missives, just take them from messengers on Crossroads docks and leave them on her table. A break in the routine never brought anything good.

"Evka of Grey Wardens requires your immediate attention."

She snatched the letters out of their suspended state, nodding at Caretaker her thanks before turning back into Bellara's workshop to sit down and read them.

"Rook," The letter started, and Fenrel found herself in the familiar position, shoulders hunched, finger tapping against the table in the speed at which her eyes trailed the words, meaning of them sinking in her stomach, twisting her gut. Calling it fear would've been bold and untrue.

The tingling of her nerves, the surge of anxious sparks she had to breathe away, were more akin to excitement. The blighted dragon was sighted again, now, not by villagers, but by Evka's agents. She had sent out scouts to the area, and Harding, who was visiting their blacksmiths, decided to join. All Evka was asking of her was to stay put and wait for news. She did not need to respond to the message. The anticipation of something great or something terrible stirred within her, similar to the feeling of something long lost. Before the fall, moments before, he would stand before her. It was unnoticeable back then, but the memory of it had grown, making the sensation boundless in its absence. Anything that dared to stir at her gut, the Fade sticking to skin just a little too well, all brought her back to the memories she wanted drowned.

She would have it drowned. The instances of loneliness were unwelcome beguilement; one she could resist.

Dinner was waiting, and so she folded the parchment, tucking it into the pocket of her skirt, fixing her rolled-up sleeves that had unfurled. Straightening herself out, she was reminded of Bellara's words. "Bodice rippers?" She scoffed to herself, a smile tugging at her lips, a light shake of her head following.

The door to the dining room was open, and so she made her way across the courtyard. Evenings when most of them would sit down around the dinner table became a frequent occurrence. The noise inside the dining room reached her ears way before she crossed the threshold, Assan making a quick way to greet her. Even if Davrin was taking him out for frequent flights, the stubborn griffon was growing rapidly, somehow gaining more and more energy and with it, appetite to match. Manfred was looking over Lucanis' shoulder, the teeth clicking as the skeleton assistant was trying to communicate something with Spite, who would answer in between Lucanis' mumbling about needing to focus. A high-pitched squeak came from the corner table's side, where Davrin, Bellara and Emmrich huddled over, cards in their hands.

Taash and Neve lost track of time back in Dock Town, again. Upon Fenrel's entrance, Davrin waved her over to their side.

"I thought I was being late when in fact dinner is not even—"

"Yes, yes, tell that to Manfred and Spite. They won't calm down," Lucanis muttered.

"Oh, dear," Emmrich answered with an exasperated sigh. "You may offer Manfred a butter knife for your peace of mind."

"A butter knife?" Lucanis cocked a brow.

"I wouldn't advise anything sharper, but that's for your discretion."

Lucanis did not question further, even though it was agreed not to allow Manfred to peruse any utensils once his fascination with blades and a stash of them was uncovered. In these easier days, seemingly even Emmrich let some of his rules go.

The kitchen had been drenched in aroma that first came off as sweet, almost sticky, the glistening crust of a pie. Still, with something beneath it — sharp, vinegary, something only one nation would make, and Fenrel was almost sure Harding asked for such dinner, and she wasn't even there to enjoy it, and just confirm her nose, Fenrel asked, "So, what's for dinner?"

"Sweet and sour cabbage soup, and apple dumplings," Lucanis smiled over his shoulder.

"Sad Harding isn't here." Fenrel stood around, one hand lost between Assan's feathers, unsure if she should join the cards or already take her seat at the dinner table.

"It was not Harding who had asked for these meals," Emmrich interrupted, voice laced with a note of amusement, "Though she had introduced me to them during our outing."

***

The dinner went as per usual, Assan trying to steal bites off the plates, Manfred messing with things in the kitchen, quiet conversations dancing carefully around the table, words changing partners as new topics came to light. Everyone had their struggles, and everyone had frustrations to vent. Bellara heard rumours of some Dalish seeking out the escaped gods, hoping to join them. There were new whispers of poison stashed on the streets of Treviso when Lucanis and Fenrel believed the issue to be long forgotten, only to crane its ugly neck back up, as if the Illario situation was not bad enough. Newest reports from Viper said more people had gone missing from Dock Town, slowly but steadily. None of the disappearances could be tracked exactly, but whispers underground beaten out of the Venatori by steady hands of Threads said that it all went back to Aelia. None would betray her hideout.

Many things weighed heavily on them; many more were solely on Fenrel's shoulders. She should have taken a nap that day, the exhaustion from last night getting a hold of her just as dinner settled fully in her stomach, making her body heavy and mind cloudy.

In such a liquid state, she was only a blanket away from drifting off, and so her tongue got loosened, words tinged with frustration coming out with a huff, Sanctum Lusacan feeling like the filthiest curse on her tongue, when weeks later, they still had no answers. With each day, another townie went missing.

When the conversation stilled and everyone was either too full or too tired to speak, Emmrich filled the silence.

"It's the risk of the path we've chosen." He said with a certain solemn note, "Sorrow and anger, waiting in abundance. Familiarity rarely dulls their teeth."

Davrin raised his eyes from the glass, hand still absent-mindedly scratching Assan behind the ear as the griffon finally calmed and settled next to him. "Right. Spend enough time as a Warden, and you'll see plenty of death. Thought I'd gotten used to it. But Weisshaupt…"

Fenrel knew what he meant. Even if they witnessed the horrors of Minrathous being taken over by Venatori and her old acquaintances being hanged in the streets, it could not compare to the macabre suffering that they went through in Weisshaupt. She wondered if any of them could ever be the same after this story came to an end. If all of them were forever eaten by the idea of failure, haunted by the faces of those they could not save.

"You blame yourself," Lucanis said, what all of them were thinking. Bellara's eyes were trained on the table, the last half-eaten dumpling still sitting in her plate. "If you'd been faster or fought harder…If you hadn't missed your shot at the architect of all that misery."

"You did your best," Bellara said quietly, "Both of you."

"We all did," Davrin agreed, "Just means our best must be better."

"It will be," Lucanis said without inkling of doubt. "Next time, we'll be ready."

"What happened at the Cauldron put a lot of things into perspective." Davrin took a greedy sip of his drink, clearing his throat, "Like Emmrich said — we need to deal with our personal problems, so we're ready when we need to be. No more distractions."

"Facing the gods while distracted will end us all." Lucanis reinforced Davrin's words, giving a pointed look to Fenrel. The sleepless nights, the midday naps, the missed training days. She did not need to be told; one look was enough. Everyone else seemed to be dealing with what fate dealt them better than she was, but they did not know half of it. The burden of responsibility was heavy, but the hurt of abandonment stung deeper. Mouth hung open, lacking words to answer, and momentarily, she was distracted by footsteps coming from outside. Light ones. Must have been Lace. She straightened in her chair, anxiety coiling beneath her ribs. Scout was back early. It was a terrible sign either way. Companions around the table did not pay attention to the sudden shift.

Emmrich sat listening, a satisfied smile on his lips, "I'm pleased my words provided clarity on how we all felt. Now, if I may suggest—"

"Rook," Harding interrupted him, breathing short and shallow, "I've been looking for you."

Harding did not need to say anything; her stance told Fenrel enough. Hands hanging by her sides instead of resting at her hips, the rare furrow in her brow. "You found it."

"Right. Not far from Lavendel." Harding's face relaxed as if she was glad not to deliver the terrible news.

"Do we know which of the blighted dragons it is?" Fenrel asked her, already standing up from her seat. The hearty dinner they had now sunk in her stomach like stone in a river, nauseating and heavy all at once. She could almost smell the putrid burning flesh and taste ash on the tip of her tongue, but she did not linger on those feelings. They did not have time. She did not have time.

"Not yet. But it's huddled up inside an abandoned tower. Wardens are awaiting us. Evka is moving Eluvian to its location, so we do not lose time catching up." Harding hesitated before the next words came, observing Fenrel's reaction. "It's the one who attacked Treviso."

It couldn't be helped that her jaw flexed at the memory of the forsaken monstrosity and the night Solas made the extent of their connection known. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Lucanis opening his mouth to say something, and so she nodded sharply, getting her word in first. "Right. Armour up, everyone. I'll call Taash and Neve back."

"Time to prove we got better," Lucanis added, but Fenrel did not stay around, already making her way through the door, hand digging at her pocket, searching for a sending stone to contact Neve.

***

Fingers roughly tugged her undershirt behind the waistband of her pants, boots following next. A snug fit over her woollen socks, ready for the colder night up in Hossberg, one of the few areas of Southern Thedas where temperatures would drop drastically during the night. Gloves. Leather tunic, with extended sleeves with buckles to fasten around the wrists. High neck, hiding the scars from the night back in Blackthorne. Another tunic, made of finest Antivan chainmail, followed it.

She went through each motion methodically, keeping her thoughts in there and now. Panic was a temptress, one that would suck you in if you as much as glanced at it.

With the last of the belts tightened and daggers strapped in, only one thing remained. Wolf's Fang awaited her on the table, left there in the morning haze. In the days since Solas left, she reached for it less, each touch burning with a reminder of the loss. The blighted dragon gave her obscene hope that perhaps Ghilan'nain would show. Maybe then they could finally put one of the gods to rest. Whatever it takes.

Her approach was careful, as if the inanimate object could feel her, and she could've sworn she felt its icy touch before her hand sank to touch it. But when she did, there was nothing. The thick glove separated her from the cold.

Somehow, it sickened her more.

A twist in the pit of her stomach, a tug.

She had to go. They did not have much time. She rushed out of the room, passing the mirror, and not seeing the flicker of blue glow in her own eyes. Or choosing not to. Tired mind liked to play tricks on you, and she was running out of will to entertain them now.

***

Exiting Eluvian came with a surprise. They could see the Warden encampment deep into the swampy, overflooded area away from Lavendel, one they had observed plenty of times while making their way through blighted upper grounds. The state of the area was abysmal on a good day, even while looking from afar. This close, it was beyond nightmarish.

"I will assume Eluvian was moved to… here.." Words came out with a disgusted grunt, air misting as she exhaled. The cold was biting at her cheeks. "… on Evka's orders." Fenrel glanced over her shoulder at her companions lining up behind her as they stepped out.

"You would be right." Antoine greeted them with a casual smile, as if they weren't walking into yet another catastrophe. Everyone had their odd ways of dealing with horrors they encountered, and Fenrel did not waste seconds pondering it. For a dragon being supposedly around, it was remarkably quiet.

"Rook, you made it." Evka strode up on them, her trusty hammer resting against her shoulder, face worn down by weariness. "Good."

"Wouldn't miss it," Fenrel greeted her, coming out closer, following where Evka's eyes strayed — over blighted marsh, buildings of Warden forward camp just off to the distance, beyond a series of beaten down wooden paths connecting dry patches of land. It was a dreadful area for an open fight. The tower squatted due north across a rotten causeway. Ballistas lined the south wall, and the Eluvian sulked in reeds behind them—too far, with only a rotten plank pathway back to it.

Lamentably, the only way to fight a dragon and live was to do so in an open area. Perhaps fortune would smile on them, and the bastard would pick the dry patch. Fenrel guessed that it was precisely why their Eluvian was placed so deep behind the fortifications. "We have unfinished business with that dragon. What's the situation out here?"

Evka turned her back on Fenrel, looking at the road ahead of them, voice steady, "Could be better. The darkspawn attack, then immediately withdraw. But they never hit the same place twice. They are testing our defences for weaknesses."

Of course, Ghilan'nain would want to destroy the only remaining army (if it could still be called that) capable of standing against the darkspawn.

"Darkspawn aren't supposed to be that smart." Evka continued, "But it's not really them thinking, is it…"

"Ghilan'nain," Fenrel agreed, "Wardens pose danger to the expansion of the blight."

Evka huffed, "Weisshaupt left people terrified. No one signed up to fight gods."

Common sentiment was what Fenrel wanted to say, but she kept her tongue leashed.

"The First Warden called it the Blight to end all Blights. He might've been right." Evka pondered.

"Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan are the last two gods, so unless they made more—" She cleared her throat, catching the annoyance growing in her words. "It will be the last blight."

"Hard to imagine now…"

There were too many questions and too many fights to go against before they could dream of such an outcome. World without gods and blight, a tomorrow just a little bit brighter. Well, no gods, except one.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, then. Where's the dragon?"

***

The dragon hid itself in a ruined tower nearby. Evka hoped that it was still licking its wounds after the fight back in Treviso, but it had been months since then, and Fenrel sorely doubted Ghilan'nain would allow her pet to go unhealed for so long. Ballistas were aimed at the tower, fighters ready, surrounding it. But the dragon wouldn't get out in the open in the hours since Wardens detected it. Eleven Wardens had died trying to lure the beast out. Taash huffed a frustrated sigh behind Fenrel, calling them stupid in Qunlat. It was safe to assume Evka was unfamiliar with that tongue since she did not miss a beat retelling the terrors of hours past.

Many times had Taash warned them not to dare challenge a dragon in a tight space, unless you wanted to be shredded to pieces. Of course, it was Taash who asked for the way straight into the tower. If anyone could get the dragon out into the open, it would be the dragon hunter.

Just before they left, Evka told them that she had contacted Viago and Strife. While Viago have not yet answered, Strife sent news of Venatori causing trouble in Arlathan and the possibility of their delay or, more likely, them not joining the fight.

Once more, it was down to eight skilled messes of people and a dwindling batch of Wardens to win the day. Fenrel did not want to see parallels with Weisshaupt, but memories knew their way around the trickiest of guards.

And here they were, making their way through the last stretch of Warden stronghold, only Taash, Fenrel and Lucanis making their way forward now, as the rest of the team stayed with Wardens, in case they needed support once the dragon was out in the open. Jaynie and Rhodri waited by the gates, the last layer of separation between the majority of Warden forces and the dragon in its hideout. They exchanged quick pleasantries, as if it was another day passing each other in corridors of Warden fortress or meeting at the blacksmith stand when she would stop by to ask Mila how she's doing. The only positive thing remaining from the night in Weisshaupt was a girl who showed them the way. For a child, she seemed to be better adjusted than most adults. This time around, the blacksmith and his daughter were not around, perhaps for the better.

They were out on the remains of the battlements of this forgotten fortress. At the end of it, they could see the tower. Lucanis must have said "Mierda" at least twenty times by the time they stood at the foot of it.

"She's still a dragon under all that blight," Taash said, almost wishfully. "A wounded and angry dragon."

They walked by the warden lying on the ground, whimpering in pain, as another rushed to his side, already gently cradling his head. There was no sound of battle yet, but the ground was already stained in crimson. Other Wardens readied their ballistas, facing them towards the open wound in brick and mortar ripped into the side of the tower. Compared to Weisshaupt, there were so few bodies in this fight.

"Meaning we're double fucked?"

"That lair is a death trap." Taash tapped the axes hanging by their sides. "She'll rip us apart."

"But you can lure her out?"

"I can challenge her. Draw her out."

"Sounds great," Fenrel said, not questioning how, her teeth clenched without her knowing. Her hand was already gripping the dagger. With the other hand, she double checked for Wolf's fang at her side, knowing that if Ghilan'nain showed, she had it and Lucanis by her side. Even through the glove, she could feel the buzz of the dagger now, as if it was anticipating the fight too. Perhaps it was reacting to the blight surrounding them. Either was fine with her. Demon of Vyrantium could become a god killer tonight, if she dared to dream of such an outcome.

"Just make sure everyone is ready." Taash reminded her, the only entrance to the tower staring back at them now.

They took a moment to stop before it, and with words finally null, Fenrel could hear the crackling and popping, the hefty, steady breathing of a dragon somewhere deep down in the structure. Lucanis' expression contorted into disgust as the thick sensation of taint blanketed them. If the dragon was blighted before, it was worse off now. Non-Wardens could not feel the taint. But the uneasy, the terrible sense of something warped beyond natural, besmirched with the power of a maddeningly ambitious god was evident. The skin on Fenrel's back crawled, as if it wanted to turn itself inside out, just to escape the feeling of dread. Her insides weren't much better, something turning and twisted, an undeniable pull towards something, anything away from there.

She ignored it.

"Are you ready?" She asked Taash.

"I've got this." Taash ended their conversation, exiting with their head high up, straight into the tower.

For a while, they did not hear a thing.

The silence hummed, as if the world held its breath for the dragon hunter.

Fenrel nervously tapped against the hilt of Wolf's fang, waiting.

A moment.

Another one.

It was too quiet for too long. Her ears buzzed in anticipation, needles prickling her skin, despite the heat under many layers of undershirts and armour.

"Everyone, get ready." She said aloud, addressing the Wardens in wait.

Warden Tomasz, one she had only met in passing, commanded his fighters. "Wardens! Ready ballistas!"

Another breath of stillness. Lucanis caught her eye. They looked at each other just as red heat lit up the sky. Followed in a blink by a blue blaze.

They did not hear the tower exploding outwards, for the wave of force had already thrown them away. The terrible ringing drowned out all sound, and someone clasped her head, checking for blood. Were the hands her own? No, it was Lucanis, already pulling her to her feet. She could barely make out words on his lips when another hit slammed into them. This time, her mind caught up with the fact that the blue blur that hit them was Taash's body, pushing them away. "Run!" The ringing ceased, followed by a sharp, high-pitched shrill.

They made their way as far as they could from the tower, behind the line of Wardens.

"Hit the wings! Force her to land!" Taash screamed at the closest Warden, who seemed like they knew what was supposed to come next. Vision doubled, returned to normal, doubled again. She must've hit her head hard, but there was no time, only confusion. The dragon was out. What now?

Force her to land.

For once, the power within her that grew unruly worked in her favour. She did not need to call for it, static raising her hair as she stepped forward, ushering Taash and Lucanis. "Let's go!"

They did not reach the wings. Did not even land a first strike. A dragon did. And they were in flight once more, armour scraping against hard ground and rock as they skidded to a sudden stop at the bottom of the battlements. Instead of an exhale, all she could do was a strangled cough from lungs beaten against her ribs. No coppery taste in her mouth just yet. When she raised her arms, they moved, and when she tried to stand, her body, somewhere away from her mind, held. Miraculously, nothing broken. Dust in her nostrils and mouth, a scrape burning on her cheek. Hot blood clashing against the cold night. Alive.

So was Lucanis and Taash.

The dragon landed them away from the fight. Too down below to reach it quickly, no visible way up. "Venhedis." Fenrel spat out dust mixed with saliva, wiping her mouth with a gloved hand. The leather on it was already scuffed, digging against the injured and tender skin of her cheek. "Fuck."

The air whooshed upwards, and not one of them needed to raise their heads to know what was happening. The dragon was in flight. She was coming after them. Fenrel was acutely aware that the gods would still try to regain Wolf's fang even while making their own. The dragon dived straight for her, and somewhere beyond the ringing, the wind in her hair, she heard Davrin's voice calling after them.

No. They cannot come close. Neve, Harding, Emmrich, Bellara and Davrin had to keep the Wardens safe, whatever remained of them.

Fenrel wanted to yell at him to stay back, but the lone dry patch of land under their feet shook, and the three had to grab onto each other for balance as the dragon landed before them.

"She's real mad!" Taash stated loudly over the roars of the dragon, "Gonna be coming in hard. You ready?"

"Is never a good answer?" Fenrel forced a chuckle, grasping for her spell blade. Some elfroot would've helped now, but there was no time as the dragon was gearing to dive headfirst straight into them.

"Por el amor de Andraste," Lucanis muttered just before the three of them fanned out into different directions.

The beast was deformed, so ill-adjusted in its shape, head too big for the body to hold properly, like a babe, that it used it as a sledgehammer. Fenrel did not go anywhere near its legs this time, at least one mistake she would not repeat. The head flung around from one direction to another as the three of them held their zones, trying to circle in closer.

They dodged and rolled as the beast would keep them at bay, hits at the wings to keep it grounded, barely landing. Soon, it chased them away to a wet patch, and Fenrel had to seize the charge in her hands, just in time before Taash and Lucanis walked into the water.

The dragon spewed one wave of cold after another. Its breath was powdered snow, hoarfrost sticking to its scales. If one fought fire with water, the ice could only be fought with flame. Dragon of ice kind, even if blighted, must have been susceptible to burning.

She would have exchanged every potion on her belt for something flammable. "Taash!"

"What!" Taash groaned from the side, rolling from yet attempt to kick by a dragon.

"It's an ice dragon!"

Taash was still on the ground, getting up. The distance between them is too big. "What?"

"It's an ice—"

Taash shook their head in laughter. "Shit—Right!" They did not say more, just let their jaw drop open as the dragon dove at them again. Fire licked the creature's snout, and it jumped away with a sound almost akin to a whine. But could a beast as blighted as this feel any pain?

There was no time to think. The little flame that licked it tamed it for a blink of a moment, a moment long enough for the three to dash, closing the distance.

When she was coming up, many had expected her to take over the ruling flame quite easily. But then the storms crackled in her hands, and somehow everyone said it made more sense. She did not question it much; whatever way her power came to be with her, she took it. Only today, she was to bend it to her will and shape it anew, pulling a string strung tightly somewhere within. The lash of pure lightning in her veins, bound tightly to her being, but instead of setting it free, she prayed it turned to more volatile, burned hotter, brought inferno. One wing was all it took to prevent the dragon from escaping. One wing.

The sweat beaded her temple, air in her lungs heating, suffocating, just enough to the edge of burning out, as she gathered enough of it. When the fire came, it came quickly and wild. She dared not think of how much mana it torched through, already feeling weary.

The roar erupting all around told her it struck true before she dared to look at the blaze.

But it didn't. Not enough. Only the edge of the wing and now the dragon's body, scorched, was up in the air. On the battlements, a ferocious howl ripped through the night sky, almost as a wolf calling for the pack.

And the sky answered.

A shadow dropping towards them.

A second dragon.

A crimson flare burned against the indigo blue of the firmament above them. Firestorm raining down on the Wardens, the same ones that stood beside them, guarding the tower. Chorus of screams rose above their own terror, and the wind picked up the scent of burning flesh, spreading it quickly. Only one voice she knew still said things with meaning. Warden Tomasz was commanding those who still stood. "Press the attack! Bring that first one down!"

The injured dragon lay before the Wardens, and they braved to go against it even as the second one looped around for another attack. No more commands came. The war cries quickly changed into shrieking, the jarring sound of metal scraping against stone when warriors fell belly first, a force Fenrel could not yet recognise, dragging them back.

The bodies flew as the shape rose from the pool of blighted blood that leaked from the ice dragon's side. Growths that could not be called limbs, yet acted like ones. The body that was built from scraps of multiple. The abhorrent shape of a brilliant mind turned mad. Ghilan'nain.

Even as Wardens died being flung around, Fenrel could not help but feel the disgustingly saccharine taste of excitement. Ghilan'nain was there, and she was mortal. They could kill her if they got through her dragons first.

Ghilan'nain, as always, did not bother with pleasantries. "You defied me at Weisshaupt. Stole my Archdemon. I will have blood for that."

"We are fucked." Taash stated, observing the happenings on the battlements.

"Not the first time," Fenrel said, waiting for Ghilan'nain to finish her speech, as she plucked a vial of elfroot from her belt, using the moment to patch herself up. The sting in her cheek went quickly. "Need some?" She offered Taash and Lucanis, who stood there, their necks craned up, eyes narrowed, trying to see what Ghilan'nain was up to.

"I'm good, thank you," Lucanis said, holding his concentration on the god.

"Be healed, my pet. The blight grants you new life. Bring me their bodies once you are finished."

Fenrel glanced over her shoulder. Perhaps they should have used that moment to call companions. Perhaps they were on their way already. But the dragons were landing back in the field before Fenrel, Lucanis and Taash, as their creator stood, waiting to observe their moment of death.

It was her first time seeing the second dragon. But she could smell it from the distance between them, the scorching heat of its breath lingering just above ground as the beast watched them, already lowering its neck to dive. The rot, the burning flesh. Smell of Minrathous after the attack. The scent of bodies left behind in the destroyed Shadow Dragon hideout. With flames licking its snout, heat rolling off it like kitchen fire, sour stench, a pressure that thumped in the ribs. Fenrel did not need to perform guesswork to determine what kind of dragon it was.

"Take the injured one," Fenrel commanded Taash and Lucanis.

"You can't take on a fire dragon alone," Taash argued.

"I think I am the only one able to summon ice over here," Fenrel was putting down her foot, and Lucanis swiftly turned to look behind them.

"Not for long." He said, and the footfall of a group against the wetlands coming in closer told her companions chose to abandon Wardens. Or Evka sent them out to help defeat the dragons, trying to preserve what little forces they had left. Eight highly skilled professionals who took down an archdemon surely could kill two dragons and prevent more bloodshed. Surely.

The dragons, as if sensing the confrontation growing, stilled, waiting, staring ahead at the mortals.

Just as Neve finally stood beside her, Fenrel raised the Wolf's fang and, for the first time, shouted a war cry.

For Minrathous.

We can't lose. We won't lose. She told herself, as she reached back deep inside, calling for herself, the familiar spark, rich petrichor filling her lungs as storm rumbled in her bones. She only needed enough lyrium to see this through. Damned be the consequences.

As the fire dragon dove straight at them, the charge hit it back with a force that made the earth roar under their feet. Brief flashes of Harding's explosive arrows fired to the side, to the ice dragon, its injured wing finally fully taken down.

Neve stood her ground, not letting the dragon Fenrel pushed back get up. The gloss of ice stuck to its scales. As the dragons struggled to fight back against their team, Ghilan'nain continued her monologue above the dust and clash of metal against rough bestial skin.

"The blight can be tamed. Turned to a greater purpose."

Was Ghilan'nain bargaining? Great. Fenrel absorbed the thought with satisfaction, as the last drops of lyrium from the first vial hit her tongue. No more than three. Weisshaupt taught her lessons, and she kept to them.

"None of you will understand what the world could be! What it should be!"

Well, perhaps Ghilan'nain was threatening after all. Between the fury of hits and sights changing too quickly for her brain to catch up, before she dodged another spit of fire coming at her, another pained cry came from the ice dragon. It was soon to go, she was sure. But not a moment after, Lucanis, shouting, "What are you doing here?" made her turn, with a stern flick of her wrist, surrounding herself in the shimmering ward as she looked for what he was screaming at.

Her eyes must have been mistaken. She hit her head severely after all.

With barely contained hope, she whispered to herself, "Viago?"

Evka told them he did not answer. They were to believe they were alone, but the dark blue leathers of the Crows almost blended in with the dark horizon of the night, and the Fifth Talon had a swagger in his step that could not be mistaken. He stood on the battlements closest to them, right in front of the pit they were stuck down in.

"We thought you could use a hand!" He answered, with a wave of his hand, directing the Crow warriors behind him to move forward, push the ballista they brought ahead. Fenrel wondered if no one had told him that ballistas had helped little so far. "Fire!"

The hit was true, striking the fire dragon, who was yet to be injured grievously, straight into the neck, cutting off its scream, the green sickly sheen veiling its skin where the blighted blood should have splattered. A jade rot slicked it, the Crow poison seeping into blighted flesh. Viago De Riva was famous for one thing more than others.

"We brought gifts," Viago stated, straining his vocal chords above the noise of battle. "Poisoned ballista bolts. Guaranteed to solve your blighted dragon problem. Let's bring them down, Rook. For Treviso, for Minrathous."

With Viago commanding the ballista now loaded with poison, it seemed like Ghilan'nain's struggle was futile. Her dragons did not dare rise from the ground, cornered and weakened. And still, she postured.

"There is no creation without pain. Destruction. Sacrifice."

Neve kept their fire dragon contained in her icy shackles as yet another poisoned bolt hit its side. Emmrich amplified the damage, letting the necrosis set into the blighted tissue. If the beast wouldn't buckle on its own, Fenrel prepared a charge to the dragon's hind leg.

But the beast bolted. It shot to the skies, the force of its lift off forcing Fenrel, Emmrich, and Neve to the ground as it made its way up, scrambling to reach its creator. The blight and poison rained down on them as the beast stumbled through the skies and crashed down without ever reaching Ghilan'nain. A lifeless body. No flames dancing on its scales.

When Fenrel looked around, the ice dragon was succumbing to the injuries Lucanis, Harding, Bellara and Taash inflicted on it.

It was no revenge for Weisshaupt, far from it. The small victory should've made her glad. Joyous, even, to live to see another day. But all Fenrel could see was Ghilan'nain.

And she wanted the god dead.

The Wardens cheered, and memories flooded back in again. They cheered back then, too. The moment before Ghilan'nain slew a thousand of them.

It was too early to celebrate.

The ice dragon's head hit the ground.

Still too early. Another cheer. The clanging of armour as some raised their hands. Tapped each other's shoulder. When she blinked, for a brief instant, she saw hundreds of Wardens back at Weisshaupt, as the archdemon first fell. Before Ghilan'nain slaughtered the First Warden. False victory followed by hurrahs.

While her companions regrouped, Fenrel stood alone, her sights set on Ghilan'nain, as the false goddess looked down on them from her place near the ruined tower, Warden bodies littering the ground surrounding her. Eleven were dead before they arrived. How many funeral pyres would Wardens light come morning? The stone was painted red, crimson dripping from the side of the wall, leaking through the mortar.

"Confidence. Eagerness. All for nought."

Fenrel was right. They had been there before.

But now, she could see a single way out.

To their right.

One path up.

To a parapet. An armed one.

"You think blight is death."

She had no time to panic. She could see the ballista and the straight line between herself and it. The straight line of shot she would have at Ghilan'nain. Goddess of creation who could bleed. Who Fenrel would make bleed. Boots slipping across mud mixed with blight and poison, she bolted, ignoring the voices of her friends calling her back. The steps that started following too late.

"It is raw potential. A perfect tool of creation."

Ghilan'nain's many arms now commanded the blight hidden in the waters of the swamp surrounding the Warden stronghold.

The tendrils wrapping around the slack body of the fire dragon, writhing and pulsing as their grip tightened.

Fenrel did not stop. Even when the climb was steep. When broken bricks of the wall, nearly demolished, cut against her now naked palms. Another pair of gloves burned through in a fight. The fear was dizzying, climbing with bile, soaking her in sweat. She did not stop, even as armour tore, caught by ruins.

The ice dragon was now being puppeteered by blight, too. Not yet fighting, their bodies rose. No poisoned bolts would save them now. But she could. One breath. Two breaths. One final stretch. She ran.

"Fenrel!" Lucanis called her to stop. She ignored it.

Another voice came, more intimate, more her own and not, somewhere from within. She stumbled, curses slipping from her lips, but did not stop. The ballista was in her reach. She looked for the trigger pin and pulled it before she could doubt it.

Silence was brief but not quiet. "Fenrel." Voice called again.

Snapping thunder of string breaking, the metallic twang of the mechanism screeching. A powerful woosh that turned into a whistle as the distance grew.

Would it hit? She did not even bother to aim. One chance at killing Ghilan'nain might have been lost.

The sickening, victorious rasp followed by a shriek as the bolt sank with a wet sound into Ghilan'nain's abdomen and her beloved dragons collapsed.

A singular instant of the world too scared to move. Fenrel did not know if it was she who was breathing slowly or the firmament above them halting to a screeching stop.

It was her. The Wardens ran past her, weapons raised, aiming for the maimed god. Neve pulled her by the hand to join them. Ghilan'nain was soon to be dead and gone. Rook. Rook. Rook. Everyone called when Fenrel tightened her grip on Wolf's fang and followed the Wardens.

One final march to kill Ghilan'nain.

"Press the attack!" Evka shouted as many bodies pushed forward, closer to the obscene shape, pinned to the ground, the bolt keeping her down. Ghilan'nain was no god. She was a mage who chose tyranny. And for that, she would die.

Goddess of Creation was pinned down, vulnerable, defenceless. All Fenrel had to do was get to her before she could try to escape, sink the lyrium dagger into her chest. For Minrathous. For Weisshaupt. For every Warden who died tonight. Wardens let her through, as she pushed in between them, forming their position, making her way to the front. She could have passed the dagger to Lucanis. But none knew what exactly would happen once the dagger was used to slay a god. They bled enough to reach this moment. She would take the risk.

Her companions kept close, eight of them pushing forward, as Wardens held their flank.

Mere steps between her and the first solid victory, and something shifted.

The Fade compressed down on them, and time stopped to a still, her own breathing becoming a noise, slow, dragged out, muted. When she tried to lift her foot to close the distance, muscles contracted too slowly, as if the ambience of the world around them pushed against her, turning her body to stone. Hair stood on end, but it was no fault of hers, her power curling in on itself within her, as if recoiling from something much worse.

Coppery taste filled her mouth before the sky above her crackled, leaving her skin buzzing, as if her limbs had just fallen asleep and were trying to wake up. The earth surrounding them was glowing in a way she could make it glow. The sheen of the place right before the lightning strike. But it wasn't hers. It wasn't. Power much grander than she had ever witnessed.

The Fade was warped. Around her, inside her. Nothing felt right. Corrupted, twisted, forcing her body slowly bent over, her knees buckle. The handle of Wolf's fang now dug deep inside her bloody palm, opening wounds wider, blood not reaching the ground, beads of crimson suspended in the moment.

Had she blinked? It seemed like forever had passed, and no one moved, except for reality around them shifting. It must have been Ghilan'nain. Or something, no, someone, worse.

She had to move. To stop this. She felt the whisper at the back of her head, a languid caress of worry, pressing her name, telling her something. Warning. Solas' voice. It did not soothe her. With skin on fire, the anger within her became an inferno. Ghilan'nain had mocked her once, calling her The Dread Wolf's pawn. The truth in those words inflamed the fires and brought memories.

She could deny the oppressive spell put on them. She did it once. It was not the power of her own; yet she could break Ghilan'nain. Kill her.

So she reached. Pulled on something hidden so deep inside it felt almost gone. It responded, trying to lose her grip, but she did not let go. Of course, he would not share his power with her. He would tell her it was to protect her. Just as leaving her was, or whatever justification he chose and dared not share with her.

Her foot finally touched the ground, blood from her palm splashing against the leather of her boot.

No one else moved. Her companions were still suspended in their places, feet away from her. Harding's bow still raised, frost wrapping Neve's fingers.

It did not matter. Wolf's fang was in her hand. Only she needed to reach Ghilan'nain.

She wrenched the tether again, and again, until the fade within her felt like the fade pressing against her. Ice was poured into her veins, sparks clashing against cold lyrium in her hand. Another step.

The ground shifted beside Ghilan'nain. Slowly, the world moved, and a shape appeared, reaching for the fallen god. No.

"One still resists."

It couldn't be.

She had never heard it, but it was as if something primal within her responded to the voice. Cowered before.

She could not yet see him clearly, but the oppressive, overwhelming power that crushed against her spine, commanding her to yield, told her enough. Elgar'nan was there. Fenrel could not yield. Elgar'nan would lose his only kin tonight. Whatever it takes.

Tether within her pulsed, unlike ever before, like a powder fuse set alight and almost at its end. When she tried to move, it pulled back, forcing her to be still. The presence she had grown accustomed to being without now held onto her. The shadow of a man she lost held onto her, telling her to stop. But she was bowstring drawn now, too close to victory to halt. She pulled the tether, just a fraction more, as she turned the dagger in her hand, raising it for the final approach. The lightning in her hand ignited once more. Wrong. A flash of blue so bright like skies over Rivain, just before it bled back into the usual shade of purple. Then, it stuttered. Once, twice.

The world fell apart and froze all over again.

Steady fingers around her wrist.

A figure towering over her head. His chest quickly rose and fell. He said something, but the buzzing was overbearing, drowning everything out. Tether was blazing while her blood ran cold. The world stopped for them once more, and she could not hear a thing he said.

"Fenrel," He repeated again, snapping her out of the gaze, just as the moment broke and the world erupted into noise.

"Solas?"

The violet of his eyes, wide open, was clouded by tears, his mouth agape, one hand still gripping her wrist. Solas did not mutter a word, looking at her as if it was the first time seeing her, as if nothing else existed in this or any other moment. The world did not allow them the luxury of feeling the magnitude of what had just happened. Nothing would ever be the same, she knew. Tether between them burned, more alive than ever, because there wasn't an inescapable fissure between them. No prison held him close. She just knew. He was truly there. Free, at last.

He turned sharply, raising his free hand, a ward exploding around her and her companions, who had come alive at her side, no longer affected by Elgar'nan's power.

"Solas—" Harding gasped, bow still raised in her hand, its angle changing. Facing him.

"Ah, so the Dread Wolf comes for his pawn." Elgar'nan mocked, his hand still stuck in the attack she did not see coming, the one Solas' ward repelled. "Is the price of saving worth it, Wolf? The prison won't forget you breaking its rules."

Solas did not say a word, her hand hidden behind his back as he held the ward. He, they, watched as Elgar'nan lay his hand on Ghilan'nain's shoulder, responding to words Fenrel did not hear, "Sister, do not be blinded by righteous anger."

"They stole Razikale from me, Elgar'nan. My greatest creation!"

"A thrall is easily replaced. You are not." He caressed Ghilan'nain's chin, if one could be called that. "Without you, the blight is a brute weapon. Only your hands mold it into life."

Fenrel's fingers flexed around the hilt of Wolf's fang.

"Do not dare think of it," Solas answered, his eyes still glued to Elgar'nan. "Unless you wish to lose this fight."

"The mortals deserve worse," Ghilan'nain whined, as Elgar'nan dissolved the ballista bolt in her gut, unpinning Fenrel's prey. "But we have crucial work in Arlathan."

Elgar'nan glanced at the forces he had frozen in place and time, only those in Solas' ward reacting to his words. "You'd do well to reconsider your alliances, Rook."

The world shifted again, just a fraction, enough to make the ward falter, the Fade warp. In the warp, a portal opened, swallowing the two Evanuris whole.

Nobody dared to move for another minute.

When voices erupted, Solas turned to face them. In the turmoil, they were the only two silent, his hand still holding on to her. Blood trickled from his nose, matching the heat on her face. She brushed her cut-up fingers against her cheek. Fresh blood. Now she tasted it on her lips. The world spun. "I am sorry." He said, before collapsing, and taking her down with him.

***

"Rook," Bellara's voice sank into her before she dared stir. It wasn't the muddy grounds of Hossberg, she was sure of it. The soft glow beyond her eyelids felt like home. She rolled to her side, the weight of armour already removed from her.

The tether inside her buzzed. Tether. Alive, reacting to her thought. Solas. She sat up, dark stars flashing in her eyes from the sudden rush of blood. "Bel, where is he?"

She was already halfway out of bed, swaying on her feet, as Bellara grasped her shoulders, sitting her back down. "Rook, he is fine. You are not, sit down. Give yourself a moment, calm down."

"Bel, I am sorry—" She pushed past her friend, the sting of cold from the floor biting at her feet, striding towards the door of Wolf's den. Normally, she would have been worried if the Wardens were alright. If everyone made it out unscathed, but the pull within her was unbearable, beckoning her out of the room. Only when she reached the door did her own weakness become apparent. All mana drained, of course. Bellara had already broken through her wards to get inside the room in the first place, so she would have no trouble letting her out. "Open it." She barked at Bellara.

"Are you sure? I mean, it must be shocking he escaped—maybe you should sit for a moment—Rook!"

"Open the door, Bellara." Fenrel snapped. An exhale later, she found it in herself to calm her tone. "I need to speak to him."

"I don't think there is much speaking to be had, everyone is, well, you know," Bellara nervously fixed the gauntlet on her arm, approaching the door and Fenrel. "Shouting. Oh, you should put on boots; catching a cold after such a concussion is not ideal."

"Not my first concussion, I'll live," Fenrel waved her off.

Bellara gave her a look, "Rook."

"Okay, fine, just open the door."

***

Bellara did not lie. She heard the shouting long before she made her way down the corridor from Wolf's den to the common room of the main building. Once the door separating the entrance to her quarters from the rest of the building finally opened, the noise did not cease.

"You are correct. I am no longer in the prison built for gods. It does not mean I am bound to it no more. The escape had its consequences." Solas told Neve, as Davrin was already talking over him.

"Consequences? Knowing legends of you that must mean consequences for us,"

Harding scoffed, "Being stuck with him must be it."

Solas side-glanced at Harding, "As I said, it would be best if I did not leave the Lighthouse for the foreseeable future."

"Why? Because you're a coward and afraid of the gods you set free?" Harding spat back, but Solas was already looking away, his eyes already locked to the singular spot in the room.

She saw his expression shift from afar, the tether coiling inside just from the sight of him. Fists by her sides trembled, unsure of what she wanted to do. Slapping him was the right instinct, but the ghost of his touch still lingered on her wrist, the way he said his name over the noise of the battlefield ringing in her head. He was there. Between her friends. There.

All that she hid out in the open. Her heart was being quartered by everyone she cared about.

"Emmrich showed remarkable instinct in getting me through Eluvian as quickly as he did; it takes someone of vast knowledge or intuition to notice the prison taking hold of me anew," Solas explained calmly. "Emmrich wagered with his insight, and it paid, for it seems that the end of the tether holding me tied to that place has limited power here, seeing the Lighthouse as a middle ground that it is."

"Emmrich should have let me put you—"

The image of Harding with her bow raised and pointed at Solas flashed in Fenrel's mind. Harding had more reasons than anyone to despise Solas, but that went beyond rage. Hurt, unfathomable one.

"Harding, please, we must all calm down." Emmrich intercepted from his seat at the center of the room. "Contention will not serve us."

"Not with Ghilan'nain pissed off, it won't." Fenrel finally spoke up from her spot in the doorway. Bellara still huddled behind her. Wide steps ahead, and she found herself standing between Taash and Emmrich, not filling her own seat. Solas stood steps away, his eye never straying. "You should have let me kill her; instead, you—"

"Saved you all. Once you calm your mind, you will see how foolish—" He spoke calmly, infuriatingly so.

"So no one will address the elephant in the room?" Neve asked, brow raised.

"I have a name. Many, actually. You may address me as such." Solas muttered.

"How long?" Harding said, her voice breaking, eyes pleading for something out of Fenrel.

"How long what?" How long did she lie about her connection with Solas?

"Rook did not know their connection was possible of such—" Emmrich thought for a moment, "Consequence. I had my theories, but—"

"You had your theories?" Harding's voice pitched up, "You knew?"

Lucanis cleared his throat, shifting in his seat.

"You too?" Harding choked on the crack in her voice, "So much for the trust in the team, Rook." She gave her a pointed look.

"I told you I was speaking with him; what difference does it make where I could do it?" Fenrel said, irritation leaking into her words. She had no good excuse for lying, none that would be reasonable or excusable. Still, she did not find it in herself to be apologetic. Not now. Now, all she felt was rage. Rage for losing the opportunity to kill Ghilan'nain, rage for… He was looking at her, his eyes so remarkably soft, her innards twisted. "I'm sorry, okay—"

"No, the fuck it's not okay, Rook." Harding stood up, hitting her cup on the table, ceramics surprisingly holding up after impact. "You let him watch our lives for months—I saw him! On the balcony, you told me—"

"What would you have me do? Cut off one person who knows anything about Eva—"

"Yes, protect us! That's what you signed up for, becoming our leader—"

"It was never my choice—"

"See? I told you months ago, you sound just like someone I know," Harding gave a pointed look at Solas.

"Please, can we—" Emmrich started, but voices quickly overlapped. In the storm of the argument, Fenrel and Solas stood alone, accusations chasing their ears, digging deep. They were not wrong. She should have shut him out long ago. She should have been relieved when he abandoned her. But she did none of that. Now, she could not even defend herself. She did all that and more. Worse even, the only relief she felt in weeks was in this moment, seeing him living the moment with her, even if her palms still itched to grab him by his collar and ask again and again, why.

The words her companions have said muddled together, a cacophony of anger, only Emmrich trying to keep his tone level. But it did not last long.

"Enough!" Emmrich snapped, the jarring sound of the chair scraping against the floor while being pushed backwards, Emmrich's height towering over everyone. "Retreat into your rooms for a night. Soothe your minds. This conversation has no use. If you wish to voice your grievances to anyone, find a reasonable voice to do it in. However, not tonight. There was enough suffering to last us a lifetime tonight. Go rest."

The looks were exchanged, but no one dared to talk back. Emmrich was not one to lose his cool or raise his voice. Somehow, this reaction brought the most shock, enough to shut everyone up.

"Solas, if you will, please join me in my studio." Emmrich nodded at the god between them, ushering him to come with. Seeing the look in Fenrel's eye, he only softly shook his head, as if telling her to bide her time, too.

But the itch wouldn't dissipate. Only with the room emptying, she registered the clothing rubbing against dried blood, it flaking from the fingers as she tensed her hands. She did not know how long Solas would be with Emmrich and how much patience she had in her. Bath would not soothe the wildfire within her, but it would scrub off blood and blight. It would pass the time. She watched as Solas and Emmrich ascended the stairs, one more look passing between them.

And a thought, not of her own.

"I am not going anywhere, not this time."

"I expected him to be taller," Taash's voice broke the moment, the levity of it unfitting the circumstance.

"That's your only concern?" Fenrel answered with a smile that barely tugged at her lips, exhaustion of argument weighing down.

"Just figure yourselves out. I'll keep Harding—busy. Away. Something." Taash shrugged.

"And when that doesn't work?"

Taash shrugged again, rolling their shoulders, followed by a click of their tongue. "One wrong step and I'll break his jaw."

***

Pacing did not ease the nerves. Lyrium coursing through her helped little, except that it gave her enough mana to be able to enter her room without Bellara's help. She reapplied the wards upon returning from the bath, where Caretaker was kind enough to leave her with a flask of shimmering blue lyrium. Whatever she had consumed back in Hossberg must have worn off hours ago, just like her certainty in right about anything.

One decision was all it took to collapse the carefully built trust and safety of their group. She would've blamed herself if there wasn't anyone more at fault. Solas should have stayed away. Once again, he came in and wrenched the choice from her hands.

The thin linen of her shirt stuck to her back, where water dripped from her hair; she did not bother wasting the little power she had on drying. The courtyard below was empty; all companions retreated into their respective rooms. Neve was huddled at Bellara's, judging from the wisps gathered around the walls of the studio, away from their usual grounds around Neve's office. Always following the detective.

It could have been mistaken for a regular evening, every piece in its place. Except that the board was thrown over and pieces were clumsily shoved into their places after the game had been renamed.

The feeling reached her first, way before the sound of the door opening did. Of course, he would surpass her feeble wards. The tether pulled, insistently, a force impossible to ignore. She stilled, keeping her sights locked on the yard below. Counted steps, as they closed in on her. His gaze on her was acute to the point of flushing her skin where it touched. Was this how their tether was always supposed to feel?

His voice was barely above a whisper. "Fenrel…"

"Not 'Rook'?" She scoffed, still not daring to move, to face him.

"I am not proud of those words, nor do I hold them true." His shoulder brushed past hers as he leaned over the same railing, violet of his eyes coming into view.

"Except the part where you wanted to use me to escape your prison," Green met lilac when she turned to face him, "Has biding your time become boring? Was I not playing your game to satisfaction?"

"Fenrel—"

"I gave you everything you need to win this fight. You do not need me anymore." Her voice fell low, a tone distinct to him only, as she repeated his words. "I did not need you. I almost had her."

His jaw tensed at her mocking tone, at the way she unknowingly stepped closer, erasing the little distance they had. Somehow, they always ended up exactly there, as if there was never any choice. Was their connection an accident or a curse? Did it matter anymore?

"You almost had yourself killed. Elgar'nan would have eradicated you in an instant if you posed a real threat to Ghilan'nain. I had warned you once, if you cared to listen." He inclined his head, holding her stare, muscle in his jaw ticking again. "He was just entertaining himself watching you try and fail before he got his fill."

"And so it came down to you to save me? Anything other than admitting you saw your chance at escape?"

He leaned closer, brows furrowed, voice uncharacteristically husky, "I would not be here if it were not for you, Fenrel. You pulled me here as much as I pulled myself to—" He did not offer the end of the sentence. Falling mute was unusual for a god who loved the sound of his own voice.

Heat rose in her chest before she could quell it, his breath brushing against stray hair stuck on her cheek, gaze burrowing under her skin, with questions and answers she did not want to hear. So many of them stirred within them, and yet, her palms still itched, as if begging to be used. Slap him, pull him close. Anything. Just movement. Instead, she stood still, voice cracking as the heat of his closeness became unbearable, the tether sparking with it. "You left." Such a childish statement to say, but words poured quicker than her constitution could hold, a dam broken. "You left. I looked for you, I—"

He shifted, palm sliding across the worn railing closer to her own, but not touching. "I know," Eyes anguished, trailing her features, as if trying to etch them into his mind after weeks apart. "I am sorry."

Out of his armour, he was. She wondered what had happened to them when they collapsed, but the argument in the common room stole the opportunity to learn all that. He stood in what seemed to be one of Emmrich's shirts, stretched taut over his shoulders. Similar height, wider built. In her dreams, in her thoughts, he was always in armour. A layer of protection, a barrier between the two.

The few times he dared to shed it before her, he was just as he was now—a man, seemingly looking for penance. The few times she nearly allowed herself to believe there was something, anything other than his machinations between them. Her fingers grasped the edge of his collar, a scene on the balcony repeating itself; they had been there before, as she asked once more, "Why?"

Trying to steady her breathing, to keep the tether from tugging at the edge of her ribs, proved futile— it throbbed in time with her heartbeat. And a second pulsebeat. As if his heart was fighting her own, frantic mess of sound and vibration while they stood, unmoving.

"Because I—"

"You said you chose me. You wanted someone to see you." Spit stuck to her mouth, words fumbling over one another, the shift of his expression, the furrow turning into hurt, or something deeper, something she could not place, reflecting her own confusion, "I did. I learned the truth, and I came for you. You ran, like a bastard you are, Solas, you—" Voice rising against her splintering fortitude.

He raised his hand, slowly, a motion barely detectable, brushing the hair off her face. Splinters turned into cracks. Moment stilled, words getting stuck in her throat, as he looked up to the skies above them, in search of his own answers. Perhaps words had failed the Dread Wolf, too. Cracks threatened to rupture.

The tether did not calm, buzzing between them. "Why are you back, Solas?"

His gaze returned to her, sharper now, the tense line in his jaw easing, as he inhaled. Upon exhale, almost a chuckle followed, muffled one, as if he tried to bite it back, with a light shake of his head. Eyes unbearably soft, flicking from her mouth, and then sinking back into her gaze. He swallowed, as if the words needed to be coaxed out of him, and the feeling sank beneath her gut, a recognition of expression he wore. "Because, Fenrel, I—"

"Don't." She cut before he managed to finish, releasing his shirt, turning in sharp step. She had to get away. Anything he said could not be believed. Especially not something so ludicrous. He couldn't. No.

She made a mistake. Took a step. She shouldn't have asked him. Words unsaid like a dagger, a thorn, a sharp pinch in her side. She had to leave, like he did more than once. Only distance could save them. Perhaps he was right. The tether wrapped itself around her ribs, dragging at her feeble resolve like a hook.

A firm hand caught her side just above the hip, a pull, a plight for her to return to him. She did, now her hands fisting the edges of his collar as she pulled him into her lips, tether snapping back into place, as if the malediction had been waiting for this moment.

He would not disappear this time. No matter how much she begged for it. He did not pull back either, his mouth crashing into hers, desperate, clumsy, as if weeks and distance between them broke the familiarity of her mouth, and only as her breath hitched against his, his hand weaved between the hair that was yet to dry, pulling her closer. Fingers digging into her, a touch burning, the tether still for a moment like an anchor, keeping them locked to each other. Hair rising on end, as her finger dragged from his collar to the back of his neck, bending him closer, and closer yet.

She should have left, walked away. "Tell me to stop," She whispered against his mouth, "Tell me this is a mistake"

"It is," He chuckled, his hand drifting from her hip to her waist, pushing their bodies flush, "and I can't."

All of this could've been avoided if he had only remained away. If he did not—she could not think of it, not when his teeth grazed her lip, a moan escaping her throat, ardour rising in her chest, sprawling her neck. Her hand on his jaw, keeping his mouth on hers, as they breathed into each other, a ragged sound, just before the kiss deepened.

Heat, too much, as their chests pressed together, the thin fabric between them doing nothing to absolve it. His lips lost hers just for a moment, foreheads pressed together, the faint purple and blue sparks where her fingertips pressed against his jaw, reflected in his eyes. His breath shook, and she did not know if the thrumming in her limbs was just her own or shared. Hands unravelling from her, as he stepped back, extending the palm which she took without hesitation. The look in his eyes lost between fear for what was to come and the fact that he, they, chose it. An invitation, where many times they would stop, turn their backs and pretend it did not happen. And then they circle each other until next break. The cycle was being sundered, she knew as she stepped after him.

Entering the Wolf's den, the balcony door slamming behind them just before his hands found her hips again and pressed them into the closest bookshelf. His mouth at her throat, fingers sliding underneath the shirt, soft, exploratory, as if a man who had forgotten the touch of another. Perhaps, she had too, her body leaning into where he touched, pulse quickening as his mouth trailed her neck, almost at her ear now.

"Tell me to stop," He asked now, a useless plea, when all she wanted was to continue, tugging at his shirt, trembling fingers barely finding their way around buttons.

"I can't," She muttered, half an answer to his words, half a complaint about clothing between them. With clothes on, she could still deny it was happening. She was tired of running from it. At least once, she wanted to give in, before anger burned through her.

He kissed her again, more heat this time, a starving man cornering his prey, with no space left between them. The pressure of his body against hers made her knees weaken, a tingling spreading through her gut, downwards, blood set ablaze where his hands touched. Hers found their way under his shirt, nails against muscles taut. She could not remember if he was always like this. So unbearably warm, firm. Real. He inhaled, shivering sound, sharp, as her nails met the line of his spine.

He let go of her only long enough to pull the shirt over his head, fabric rustling as it landed on the floor beside them, her hand already on his ribs, hauling him back into her embrace, hands sliding across his skin, catching ridges of scars she did not know he had. Before his mouth could capture hers, she found the elegant line where his shoulder met his neck, a hiss escaping his throat as her teeth grazed the skin, freckled, just as much as his face.

His hands grew hungrier too, tearing at the delicate buttons holding her shirt together, one soft pop following another as he ruined it, palm brushing past her ribs, the scars, cupping her breast, keeping her body constrained between him and cool wood.

The air buzzed around them, and through her half-lidded eyes, she could see the lights inside Wolf's den flicker at once, as his chest fit with hers, kisses planted against his neck, now reaching the jawline, red marks following where her teeth nibbled. She could've sworn she heard her name, moaned by him, sound muffled by lips on her collarbone.

"Repeat yourself," She managed a strangled sound, as his hand now fondled her nipple, hitching breath in her lungs.

"I never wanted to leave," He said, mouth pulling away from her flushed flesh briefly, their gaze meeting, "I was afraid I would—"

Hand on his jaw, she could feel the flex in it, the one he would always do as he swallowed his words. "End up here?"

A nod, short, soft, "Tell me you don't want this," He murmured, forehead pressed against hers once more, his fingers digging into her side as if he could never let go, no matter what was said next. "And I will stop."

Now it was she who barely shook her head. "I can't" Her hands against his chest, pushing him backwards, away from the bookshelf, towards the bed.

The bed where he had left her to wake up alone too many times. Where she dreamed of his prison for weeks, not finding him there. Where she cried and where she stared at the ceiling hopelessly. If she did not dare to call that heartbreak, what was she supposed to call this?

The back of his knees bumped the edge of the mattress, and he let himself fall backwards, pulling her down with him. She straddled his thighs before he could even shift, her fingers still trembling from where they'd dragged against his scars. There was a moment of stillness, so fragile, just the two of them, chests heaving, mouths swollen. His half-naked body under her, her shirt barely hanging off her shoulder.

The smell of petrichor and woods filled the room where their magic sparked, the desperate beat of her heart clawing against her ribs, and where she tried to think, all thoughts failed her. All that mattered was in her hands. She should have been angry. Angrier. But when he shifted his hips and the strain of his want pressed against her, her mind grew dazed. Desire fluttering below her navel, his voice hoarse as he spoke, "Last chance." His gaze shrouded, hypnotic, as if he was falling into this just as deeply as she was. Perhaps, they were both beyond screwed. "Tell me to stop."

Fenrel did not waste words; instead, rolling her hips, a grunt escaped his chest. That was it. He did not need to be told twice. He sat up fast, one hand wrapping around her waist, the other yanking her shirt off completely, tossing it away with a sly smile on his face, one that crashed against her once again. Breathless gasps quickly exchanged for teeth, clashing, brushing, nipping at their reddened lips, his hand fisting her hair, as he sharply turned, landing her underneath him, pressing into the mattress with his weight.

Every fibre of them set alight, buzzing of static growing at her palms as his hand slid from her neck, between her breasts, slowly, down. His palm rested between her legs, the material of her trousers not staying off the burning, when his mouth found the peak of her nipple, her back instinctively arching into him, feeling the moist softness of his mouth as he nibbled on it, as his hand undid the useless string holding her pants tight around her hips. When his mouth trailed its way back to her throat, her jaw, and hand sliding underneath layers of clothing, right against her heat, his breath stuttered, satisfied smile spreading, one she could feel pressed into her skin with a kiss. A finger sliding between her folds, as her hips bucked closer to his hand, chasing the friction.

His mouth on hers, catching every desperate moan he dragged out of her, as he found a way inside her, teasing a whimper after another, as if wanting to leave her wordless. Slowly, he moved, keeping her in place, pinned underneath him, as one finger was exchanged for two, tension and slickness growing excruciating, pulling every nerve in her body, the need coiling and pressed right where he drew languid circles, testing her limit. Scent of fields after the storm was overwhelming, the heat breathlessly traded for the cold, just before he caught her wrist, as her nails dragged against his back once more. He pushed the hand away just in time, as a small bolt hit against the rock opposite side of the room, the sound of low thunder following shortly after.

Their heads snapped in the direction of it, his motion stilled, hand withdrawing from inside her, both with their mouths agape. He hovered above her and, with an infuriating chuckle, purred, "First time?"

She choked on words as they came out, her voice off after he pulled sounds out of her throat with such precision, "Yes, usually I don't want to kill my darlings."

He inclined his head, ready to tease, "Darling—" but her hand was already at his neck, pulling him back down into the kiss, the taste of his bloodied lip unlike her own. More like that of a lyrium potion. It did make sense, she supposed. Before he could find more words to say, she reached down, tugging at the waist of his pants. "Off," She moaned at his mouth, rolling her hips against him. "Now."

Solas didn't speak, didn't even breathe for a heartbeat. As if he, too, stopped to wonder at what horrific idea this was. Just looked at her—jaw tight, eyes wide, lips swollen, as if something between them shifted irreparably and he meant to hold onto the moment. Then his hands were at her waist again, fumbling with the laces of his trousers, his palms skimming over hers as if to steady her shaking fingers. Together, they made quick work of it.

He stood quickly, briefly, letting the material pool at his shins, before kicking it off, his hands back at her waistband, pulling everything down, away from her body. Not a moment to take, the sight of him was spared when he shifted her legs apart, climbing between them, his lips meeting her neck with feverish hunger, arms wrapping around her, keeping her close.

She could feel the length of him pressing against her, just at the entrance, her chest tightening.

"Breathe," he whispered, lips brushing the hollow of her throat.

Did she stop breathing? Her chest rose quickly, shallow breaths, and the slow press of his hips against hers, as he shifted his weight, her thighs spreading wider to accommodate his body, arm at her back moving downwards, adjusting the angle just a bit.

And then—he moved. Entered her achingly slow, with care she did not expect, the stretch so infinite, gasp lingering in her throat, his eyes on her as he thrust once, his movement sensual, tender. Another roll of his hips, hers missing a beat just by a fraction, the press of him on top of her, inside her, overwhelming, sending her heart racing beyond what she thought possible. It took her a moment to adjust, and as he withdrew and pushed again, her hips met his, sparks flying in her vision, feeling whole with him, her walls throbbing around him. The heat was building slowly, steadily, as they fell into a rhythm, curling around her spine, the charge travelling her nerves, her skin, reflected in his eyes.

Solas steadied his hand against the bed frame, another at her hip, keeping her grounded, the rhythm infuriatingly slow, just as the trail of her nails against his skin, digging against scars, ribs, the line of his spine. As she moaned, his rhythm changed, not faster, but deeper, dragging against her core in agonising strength.

The tether, for once, hummed quietly, as a beast tamed. Lights flickered again as Solas shifted her thigh up, sinking to kiss her, as another thrust stole her breath away, the pressure of him growing beyond anything she had felt before.

She arched into him again, and this time he stilled, buried to the hilt inside her, a groan caught in his throat, like it pained him, as he murmured "Fenrel,"

He moved, sharper now, pace quickening, his hands now pressing against her thighs, anchoring himself, just as she wrapped them around him. Her hand came up to cup his chin, holding him in the moment, as his rhythm stuttered, the buzz of the tether growing louder with each thrust.

"You…" He moaned, forehead against hers, "Will be my undoing"

She could feel him stiffen, just briefly, before his teeth sank into her neck, as if trying to distract himself, in any way he could, as pleasure mounted. Her fingers grazed against the naked flesh of his head, guiding his mouth lower, until his lips wrapped around her sensitive nipple once more, tongue circling, teeth nibbling, hips bucking, with her back arched into him, her hips rolling when he stilled, as his shaking hands tried to maintain composure, exploring every wound healed on her body.

When tether flared, she was no longer sure where one ended and the other began, and how they ended up here in the first place. Whatever emotion had dragged them down this path had been burned away, and only need remained. More. She wanted more, for him not to stop. The need coiled inside her, pressed against her lungs. Just a bit more, even if she could barely inhale, as his hand pressed on her behind, pulling her down on him.

There was no control in either left, when she shoved his shoulders, disjointing them from one another for a moment, just long enough for him to fall on his back and allow her to straddle his hips. She sank onto him with excruciating slowness, hand braced against his chest, another resting at his side, fingers trembling. Solas' breath was uneven, gasping, as the heat of her took him in, tight, slick, pulsing around him. Her thighs flexed on either side of him as she settled, burying him deep inside her, his hands at her hips, nails digging into her skin, holding on.

Venhedis. It had been a while, but she doubted it had ever felt like this. Was it the connection between them, was it the hatred, the frustration, all said and unsaid that fueled the burning, she did not know. Little mattered now, when she was riding Dread Wolf's cock.

What was the old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf take you? It never warned about the other way around.

She rolled her hips, the stretch of him testing her limits, indulgence of feeling almost aching. She did not rush, hips circling, dragging him through the wet heat of her until his lips fell apart in a moan, but his eyes never strayed from her. Reverent. Starved. Ache in them matching her own.

Her hands slid to his ribs, palms splayed over scars and muscle, feeling every twitch of restraint beneath her fingertips. He let her lead, but he was unravelling, she was sure of it, more than ever, when soft blue flashed through the sharp violet of his eyes. Next, she lifted her hips and sank back on him in a sharp move that darkened her vision, her skin tingling where it pressed against him. His head fell back to the mattress, throat bared, Elvhen curses she could not care to hear pouring from his mouth, followed by her name. His voice, ragged and low, was more like a growl just as pressure in her belly coiled tight, sparks at her fingertips again.

He caught her wrists just in time, pressing them down to the bed, leaving scorch marks where she touched.

"Careful," Word slipped his lips, even if his were dazed, flashes of blue interrupting the violet.

She lifted her hips and dropped again, deeper. She wanted him deeper. No end, no beginning. Thighs were burning, the wet slap of skin against skin only overwhelmed by their gasps. Solas reached for her jaw then, letting her hand go. Pulling her close, eye to eye, "Look at me," He husked, and with it, her body shuddered, the wave pulling her under, tether snapping against her spine, muscles clenching tightly around him.

When lights flickered and her vision darkened, a flash went through the tether, volatile, pulling. In brevity of it, a new sensation flooded her, his surging ecstasy, her body engulfing him, the spark of blue in her eyes. A fleeting image before she was back to herself, the awareness of each other's need reflected in his eyes.

As she stilled, his lashes fluttered as if he felt it too, as if his own image through her eyes flared in his mind for a skipped heartbeat. He blinked it away, bucking his hips against her roughly, pushing her over the edge. When she collapsed on top of him, lips against his temple, his hands wrapped around her sweat-slick back, thrusting upward, dragging out her climax, not letting it settle, right until his body shuddered. Long, hard thrusts growing desperate, messy, before he briefly stopped. Ribs expanding with a deep suspended inhale, keeping himself still inside her, quelling the storm inside, calm with exhale through his teeth just as hers crashed over her.

She barely had time to catch her breath before his body trembled beneath hers again. The tautness of his muscles, the low growl in his throat—Solas was straining for control as she still pulsed around him, the after waves of her climax rolling through. His hands now gripped her hips, hard enough to bruise, as if he was holding on for dear life. She rolled her hips again, chasing the feeling, keeping a rhythm.

"Can't get enough?" Words he said barely made sense in the haze of pleasure, the grind of their bodies staying, just a bit more.

He couldn't manage to moan anymore, half words leaving his mouth, her name mixed between gasps.

"Say it again," She cooed against his ear, another roll of her hips.

He barely managed it, "Fenrel," he moaned, as his hips jerked against her, erratic, heat blooming between them, him spilling inside her. The low lights of Wolf's den flared for the last time before falling dark. Fenrel's head dropped forward, burying her face into the crook of his neck, as her body gave in, his cheek pressed to her head, as he tried to catch his breath.

Neither dared to move for what seemed like an eternity. His hands wound tightly around her, him still inside, as if parting now was heresy. If she did not shift her face, she would not need to meet his eye. Clarity came quickly, painfully sharp.

They could not stay like this.

There was no escaping from what was done, with his chest heaving beneath her, his fingers in her hair, raking through strands slowly. Silence begged to be filled, but no words felt right. Would anything ever feel right? Why did what happened happen, she thought, just briefly, before Harding's voice echoed at the back of her mind.

"You should've never come back." She whispered into his skin.

He exhaled, slowly, his chest trembling. "I don't regret it." Words came out in the tone she knew well, something hidden beneath them, always something more.

She hadn't let him finish before, because every word since the battlefield had already been a confession. One curled at her tongue, too, but she kept it buried. Everything was beyond ruined as it was.

The fade flared again, a fuzzy feeling that startled her now, eyes jumping up, meeting Solas' grin.

"Do not fret. Caretaker… anticipates needs."

As if this could not get weirder, the spirit awaited with a fresh towel, floating beside the bed. All she could do was groan and bury her head in the pillow. Pillow obscured her smile, mixed with confusion. Morning was soon to come. Solas was there to stay.

Chapter Text

Solas' POV

A few hours have been spared between their mutual destruction and the moment he had to leave as if nothing had happened. Sneak away from her room before anyone would dare come check on her. Just then, he had thanked his past self for building an intricate network of portals all over the Lighthouse, one, only accessible to him. He did not have to leave through her door and risk running into anyone; instead, he used the mirror built into his wardrobe, which was, of course, not a regular mirror but an Eluvian to walk through its twin left in the music room.

It was not the most pleasant experience to walk straight through musty material covering the mirror on the other side of the Lighthouse, but anything was better than being found out like a youngster, on a shameful walk through the dark tower.

A feeble distance put between them, he could finally breathe, even if his arms already ached for the warmth of her skin. Come morning, she could not bear looking at him, and he could not bear looking away. He knew that was the price of what they had done, one he would have to come to terms with. He knew her too well to expect a soft landing. He did not expect landing in her bed even more, and now everything was beyond ruined as she stated. There was no fight in him against those words.

For the first time in months since the ritual, they both were physically on the same plane and only now did he understand the true detriment of his choice on the ritual site. No vows he could tell himself, no promises made to ghosts of his past could deny the severity of his connection to her, the violence of his affections. He had ruined her, and in turn ruined himself and nearly wished his plans would collapse under their own weight, if it meant he wouldn't have to let her go.

That is, for a few hours, he had forgotten his worst crime against her. Just as he was about to make his shameful retreat, the word infirmary slipped her lips, and the shame churned in his insides. It had been a while since she had spoken to the ghostly image of Varric, one he did not dare dispel before it went too far and long. Would she speak to the feeble fragment of her imagination and tell him of what happened? Would she ask Varric, Varric who was not there, Varric who had died, Varric he had killed, for advice?

He should have thought of the bloodied dagger in the dwarf's chest. The moment he decided to lie. The moment he could not manage to take away that lie from her. He had told himself it was for her well-being. So she would not fall apart.

He could not say the same excuses about the night that passed. With everything in him, he wished for her to push him away, even if blood within him screamed to be pulled closer. And she did, and he did not leave. Where did that lead them? Where were they standing now?

He, alone in the low-lit shadows of the music room, in the early morning hours, eyes stinging from hours unslept, when he spent his night with his gaze locked on her resting shape, her weight on his body, the petrichor in the air, everything smelling of her. It was as if the scent was now saturating his marrow, flowing with his blood. Every mark she had left brushed against his clothing, memories he did not want to fade, not yet. Hidden just beneath thin cloth, the night was written all over his skin, the manuscript he dared to carry with him.

Leaving the main building, he could not help but gaze at the balcony, nearly hoping for the silhouette of her, but instead felt flashes of her lips pressing against his, desire taking any logical thought away and replacing it with need.

Such a mortal emotion, so powerful, so consuming.

The sharp sound of the pot against the table, a soft gasp following it, snapped him back to the present. Twelve eyes on him, table nearly full.

"I am sorry—"He cleared his throat. The breakfast was clearly in full swing, and the door behind him clicked shut, trapping him inside with six people who wanted nothing less than to see him in such a setting. Maybe except Emmrich, though he still had his doubts. "Did not mean to interrupt."

Harding would not spare him a look, while Bellara stared at him wide-eyed, the pot over the flame she was a keeper of, threatening to overflow, wooden spoon still in her hand. Neve glanced over her shoulder before turning back to the table, while Lucanis, who sat with his back to the fire, straight ahead from Solas, looked him down. Solas was sure the shirt he had found abandoned on Fenrel's floor, while wrinkled, still hid marks from last night, portraying him as an utter mess. Davrin sat at the side of the table, Harding nestled between him and Lucanis. One of the more relaxed looks, even if still measuring him. Emmrich sat on the opposite end, an uncomfortable smile spread beneath his dainty moustache. "I may—" Solas turned to leave, rather than stay in the tension his presence created.

Of course, a shaky yet chirpy voice chased him. "Oh no, you must be starving. I mean, after prison—well, it's been a while? Hasn't it? I don't suppose you need food to survive there, but now that you are here—"

"I am not staying anyway," Chair scraped against the floor with a jarring sound, followed by a shuffle of clothes, as Harding stated,

"I'd rather check on wardens than be around him."

"I'll join you, Evka must need help cleaning up after yesterday's mess," Davrin stood up as well, just as Solas turned. Something akin to pity was reflected in the dark brown of Davrin's eyes as he followed Harding to the door, passing Solas.

Emmrich occupied his place around the table, and Solas filled the place Davrin left. Last time Solas had been physically present in this kitchen, it was empty and dark, just a bowl of porridge he had abandoned mid-meal and nerves racking his body before leaving for the ritual. He had no idea he wouldn't be back home by the evening. He never imagined everything turning out this way, him, an intruder in his own home.

"Well," Bellara was still standing around awkwardly, blinking at the silence that befell the room, "Hope you like porridge."

Solas could've laughed. The pot hissed again, and now the young mage stumbled to stir it, cheeks reddening swiftly, "You do eat, right? Now that you are out—" She glanced at Emmrich as if he had better answers.

"Yes, I do, Miss Lutare." Solas cleared his throat, trying to pay attention only to her, and only her. "Though admittedly not since… The prison doesn't require satisfaction of such needs; otherwise, it would not perform its purpose. And yes, porridge is just fine."

Emmrich cleared his throat, eyes flicking over Solas' stature, taking inventory, "There's also an unfortunate case of clothing."

"It seems most of my garments had vanished between then and now, yes." Solas would not say that his garments were safely tucked away in his closet when Fenrel, who had just freshly stumbled into the Lighthouse, took custody of them; now many of his shirts were mixed between Antivan artistry Teia would send her. Fenrel or anyone did not need this information.

Neve snorted shortly, "Varric had told me I was to hunt an ancient elven god. He did not warn me he would be so common. Porridge and shirts."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, detective," Solas said, earnest sarcasm nearly slipping his tired lips. Only now did he wonder if they still looked bitten. "I am but a man."

Lucanis scoffed at those words. "Spirit that made itself into a body, immortal, with power to destroy the Veil, just a man? Please."

"Not currently," Solas inclined his head.

"So your powers are still chained to the prison?" Neve inquired, eyes narrowing with curiosity, as Bellara slid bowls of porridge across the table one by one. She did so with his bowl from afar, as if not daring to step closer. The food sloshed in the bowl, but did not spill as it came to a stop.

Fenrel and Taash still weren't there.

"The prison needs someone to feed off," Solas gave a short nod, picking up the spoon and stirring the thick mass around, puffs of hot air hitting his face. "Even if I am not present. It is, however, still pulling at me."

Emmrich dabbed his mouth with a napkin before speaking. "We do not know how far or at all you can stray from the Lighthouse without the connection throwing a tantrum or worse, yanking you back into the prison." He illustrated his words with a swift pull of his hand, as if an invisible rope were being tugged.

"That's worse, how exactly?" Lucanis bit.

"We do not know what effect it would have on Rook," Emmrich said, what was on Solas' mind since he came back, his gut tightening at the sound of her title and acute absence from her in the building.

"I propose," Emmrich went on, not letting more interjections happen, "a series of structured experiments. At your earliest convenience. Of you, and Rook, of course." He added at the last possible moment.

Last night, all that Emmrich did was check over Solas' physical well-being before letting him go. Professor Volkarin was acutely aware that Solas was fully capable of doing so himself, but still took it on to check if the ancient guest wasn't too overwhelmed to do so. Crossing planes had terrible effects on mortal bodies, less so on Solas'. But he allowed the professor to perform his check-up, not trying to make more enemies than friends inside the Lighthouse. Nothing to hide there, the gesture was supposed to mean. Do not look at the tether, was what Solas really wanted to say.

"Of course," Solas simply murmured, "Though it would seem Fenrel is taking her time to rest today. Understandable, for it was a rather fraught fight last night. Perhaps experiments can wait a day or two."

He could not say that he hoped for the tether to calm down and adjust to their new conditions and all that had happened since his escape. For now, it buzzed nervously, but Solas was not quite sure of what would happen in her presence.

"I-I can help," Bellara finally found her seat next to Neve, "Just, you know, circumstances like this are rare, that's all."

"As is your brother's," Solas said, quietly, almost hoping she would not hear.

"You-you know about Cyrian?" The spoon she barely lifted now landed with a wet sound against the table, porridge smearing the wood.

Could he say he knew everything about everyone in this room? "Fenrel had told me stories of your adventures. And I know of Anaris and his wicked ways."

"Oh."

"Perhaps there is a way to free your brother, yet." Evanuris' bonding masks were not hard to break with the right enchantments or devices. Trading his knowledge to get in their good graces was a lowly bargain, but one he was willing to make.

"And why would you offer help so freely? What's in it for you, Dread Wolf?" Lucanis wasn't eating, just biding his time to speak, and now he did.

"Isn't it obvious? Making friends, or at least skipping a few lashes from us." Neve cocked her brow, words interrupted by a sip of coffee, mug clicking against the tabletop as she set it down to punctuate.

"I will not pretend otherwise." Solas rested his elbows against the table. "I am trapped here whether any of us like it or not. You might as well use it to your advantage."

"You being here was bad enough, and now we're supposed to trust a word coming from your mouth?" Lucanis shook his head, standing from his seat, and as quickly as he moved, he froze in the moment. "Rook is here."

Spite the demon—or rather, Spite, the misnamed spirit—said what Solas already knew. All heads turned towards the door as it opened slowly, Fenrel stepping through, followed shortly by Taash. Silence in the room was becoming too blatant; nobody was muttering their hellos.

Her face did not betray a single emotion, dressed in high collared dress of Tevinter style, a red so deep it was almost black in dimly lit room, the image of serenity, except for wet hair still sticking to her features and the flex of her fingers when her gaze brushed past him, hesitant to linger on anyone, just making head count, while tether between them buzzed. In his peripheral vision, Solas could not miss Emmrich's curiosity.

"Harding and Davrin left for Lavendel, I take it." She said, circling the table to take a seat next to Lucanis. An empty seat between her and Solas at the end of the table. Taash took that seat promptly, and their stare told Solas too much.

Few secrets were held well between the three.

He returned the look to Taash, letting them know that he knew what they knew. It was to be expected that Taash would figure it out, since neither Solas nor Fenrel thought of Taash's sense of smell while ripping each other's clothes off.

Emmrich cleared his throat, "How do you feel this morning, Rook?"

"Fine." She said too quickly, a word always formed in her mouth before the question was finished.

"Well, aren't you always?" Lucanis muttered under his breath.

Solas could feel the anger bubbling through the tether, hotter than he had expected or felt before. Would he ever be used to the intensity of emotions she tried to swallow?

"A few dozen Wardens were killed, and we missed our second chance at killing Ghilan'nain. Saying shit does not cover it, so what else can I say? It's fine." She spat out words too quickly, and yet detached, as if all her energy was set on ignoring the distraction to the left. Solas stayed with his elbows anchored to the table, observing quietly. "We have work to do. And we live another day. It's fine."

Lucanis conceded, slipping lower in his seat. "If you say so, Rook."

Assassin might not have shown it, but Solas knew that from a few people who elected to call her by her name, Lucanis was among them. Except for this moment. A paranoid fibre thrumming against tether asked if Spite could sense what passed last night, too. Solas chased the thought away quickly, but his eyes were already lingering on Fenrel, whose eyes softened for a moment before looking away.

"Neve, I was thinking of visiting Shadows," She pivoted the conversation quickly, back to the many matters at overflowing hands. "Viper should know the dragon was slain."

"It won't bring back anyone lost in the attack, but sure. A little glimmer of hope." Neve shrugged. "And I see you are already dressed for the city, wouldn't want to waste it."

Solas had thoughts about travelling to a Venatori-infested city in a dress, but he swallowed his comments, knowing it was neither time nor place. Still, he thought, be careful, knowing she would hear it.

Always am.

Her voice was back in his head, after so long, and he could not believe he managed to go so long without it. A smile was a betrayal of their silent acknowledgement, and yet he failed to hide it. He covered it with thanks to Bellara, before excusing himself, almost hoping Fenrel would follow and knowing she wouldn't.

***

The aquarium room, as Fenrel called it, could've been a respectable option. Except that it would've meant being coddled between professors' and dragon hunter's rooms. Both were early risers, and one had a habit of starting the day with rather clamorous training sessions. Manfred's bones clattering just behind the stone wall were no better. Solas did not need to spend the night there; he knew all that from days Fenrel still resided in the room. It was small, dark, colourless, much like his prison. If the noise was not a fair excuse, the stifling atmosphere was.

He returned to the music room, not bothering to summon the Caretaker, knowing it would already be awaiting him. Sometimes, he wondered if any of the new guests in his home knew that Caretaker would appear whenever anyone needed help within Crossroads, even if there were multiple needs at once. Caretaker could've been bringing Bellara her lost notebook and patiently awaiting him all at once. Perhaps nobody bothered to ponder how their needs were met in a timely manner each time.

Crossing the threshold, he took the moment to sweep the room with a wide look, noting all things that were still in their places and those which weren't. All cheese wheels were gone, courtesy of Fenrel's orders, who could not stand the smell. Inquisition memorabilia was still there, but now shoved to one corner, replacing his cheese stock. The orb, or rather what was left of it, still lay on the crate he had left it on after the last time he took notes about it.

A mug was abandoned atop a piano, tea weeds long dried and stuck to ceramics at the bottom of it, the archaically made, uneven edge of it smeared with deep crimson. A shade so particular, one could mistake it for blood from afar. But he knew the waxy substance, how it slid across her lips every morning. Without a fault, she would darken her eyes, paint her lashes, redden her lips. She did not think of it, just a ritual she followed. Much like the mug abandoned here. Just something she did.

Only after Weisshaupt had she seemingly forgotten it for days, but the truth was, she could not force herself to look at her own reflection, hair and hood hiding the consequences. He, much like her image in the mirror, had deserted her then.

He ran, like the bastard he was.

He ran after murals, too.

He ran from her and ended up going in circles, right until the collision course was clear.

"Wolf?" Caretaker finally said, as if tired of waiting. He had not heard this call in a while, too long a time.

"Friend," Solas smiled, drawn back into the sunlit room by the presence. He looked around once more, trying to discern a place suitable for bed, his eyes willingly or not drifting past the piano and staying again and again. Only the third time he noticed papers strewn on it. The haze of a sleepless night must have been catching up with him to be this oblivious. Even from steps away, he could recognise the script on them as not his own, melody scrawled onto them without a care, no notes in margins, except for doodles he could barely make out from the distance.

"Do not clean the mess," Solas asked the Caretaker, before settling down on one of the many chairs pushed to the corner. "The rest you can arrange as you see fit."

"Contradicting command it is, Wolf," Spirit hovered, unsure where to start.

Solas could've laughed at his own creations and at his own stupidity. How could someone who spent centuries in slumber be stilted by one restless night? "Do not touch the piano, old friend. Do the rest as you see fit."

"As you wish." Caretaker obliged and moved to work.

Solas gathered the papers strewn on the lacquered surface of the instrument, settling down on the nearest chair beside it. He did not pay mind to the noise or the movement of the room being remade, his gaze solely locked on the notes scribbled by a hand whose touch he already came to miss. With his thoughts so surely circling her, he shouldn't have been surprised when the tether flared, and he heard echoes of her voice, suspended in the noise of Minrathous. Yet, he was caught off guard, for it would never happen that easily. He would have to reach, intentionally, grasping on their connection, holding on to it to keep close.

That's why leaving was easier than staying. He could let go, retreat, or isolate. He could tell himself it was better that way when the lack of her words became hauntingly apparent in just a few hours of doing so. He had become accustomed to tapping into their connection, to keeping her close, to engaging in idle conversations and, far more often than not, moronic arguments. But he had to will them into being back then. Either or both had to reach for one another. And so now, her voice coming loud and clear, just by his thoughts drifting to her, was staggering.

"It's not as if I didn't tell you that this would happen." Neve's voice echoed closely, and he could nearly feel the bone-chilling rain of Minrathous, the murmur of it shrouding words spoken. He did not touch the tether to see their surroundings. He listened, instead of ignoring, but he did not intrude further.

"No one could have guessed that he would just escape. Emmrich said the prison had to have safeguards that would prevent—"

"I'm not talking about his escape, Rook. I'm speaking of lies leading up to it. You should have confessed after the balcony. Perhaps Harding would've had a chance to face the possibility of this… outcome."

Fenrel stumbled to explain, "Our communication before this has nothing—"

"So he just bent the rules of his own making to save you just because?"

And again, now making Solas wonder if Fenrel was excusing herself to Neve or to herself. "The only weapon capable of killing gods was in my possession. I was acting stupid and reckless—"

"Is that so? So am I to believe he only cares for his best interest when he's now stuck with us?"

"That's not—" Another stutter, one she damned herself silently for.

"Whatever led up to this might decide how all of this ends, Rook. Should we trust him, or not?"

"He wants the same we want—the gods dead."

"And after?" Neve cut straight through the point, as she would often do. 

"He can help us reach that after, if we give him a chance. Then, we'll see—"

"You believe you can make him change his mind, much like Varric did." Neve paused for a breath. "He would've liked the idea. But you must think of the risk."

"Isn't thinking of risk all we do?"

"Right." Neve sighed. "You did not need to visit Viper to tell him of a dragon."

"I thought—"

"It's what you do, Rook. Running to the next target so you don't have to deal with the consequences of the last fight. Things do not dissolve into one another. They accumulate until they drown you. And we're drowning, Rook."

Fenrel let out a prolonged sigh. "I know."

The conversation went quiet for a while, and his mind started drifting, back to the notes, back to the painful tug just beneath his ribs. The prison wouldn't let him forget about it.

"He did offer to help save Cyrian. I can't say no to that, for Bellara's sake."

"Knew you would understand." Fenrel sounded almost hopeful, and just enough like this was her plan when leaving with Neve for Minrathous all along.

"To a point. I cannot lie and say I will be forgiving him any time soon or at all, but Varric would want me to give him a chance, so I will." Neve said with resignation, the compromise she barely wanted to reach.

They must have entered an enclosed space, the rain exchanged for a hum of too many people cramped in one place; he could almost feel the stifling, stale air pressing against him. The conversations of importance turned to idle chatter, the quick updates about life in the city, what locals were up to, what new, horrid things happened under Venatori rule. They were back in the Shadow Dragon hideout, which must have meant they would be en route back to the Lighthouse soon. Solas breathed easier, even if pain was still lingering, long claws of the prison brushing against his insides. He wondered if that was to be his new reality.

The constant ache of knowing he did something stupid, reckless and monumental, and being reminded of it with every breath he took.

He reclined in the chair, letting the papers she had scribbled on rest in his lap. The letters were swimming in his eyes; he could not glue them back to words, make them make sense. With his eyes shut, the heaviness found his limbs quickly, just as his mind found itself in her bed again, the memory of her breath in the crook of his neck, the salt of her sweat as his lips traversed her skin. The memory took him in like a dream, a weird comfort, which seared against his flesh, and yet he drifted with it, the pressure of her hips, the slow drag of pleasure. Moments cut up, mixed, out of order, between her tears on the balcony, between the endless night, she would explore his prison after he left. She called for him over and over, as he stood just out of sight, close enough to feel her, but not enough to let her take him back.

The moment Elgar'nan laid eyes on her on the battlefield, when Solas begged her to stop. The way she wouldn't. The agony of ripping oneself apart to escape the shackles of self-made prison. Her lips on his throat again. He could not tell where one memory ended and the other began, only that they were interrupted with the flashes of green, the exact shade of her eyes. Confession, he had kept to himself, undoing them both, quietly.

"Wolf," The voice startled him awake, notes on the ground after they slipped from his lap. Caretaker hovered in front, waiting for a response from a mouth too parched to speak. After months in prison, he had nearly forgotten how inconvenient bodily functions were, how odd it was to care for a vessel which he had inhabited. Caretaker outstretched its gloved hand, a glass nearly full appearing in it.

"Thank you," Solas took the water offered, slowly blinking. How long had he been asleep? Eyes sore, the lids heavier, and the image could already imagine he would see in a mirror — a puffy face, the press of the cloth where his head slumped to his shoulder in a dream. A yawn interrupted his thought, and he took another moment to gather himself before turning to see what had happened to the room.

Furniture rearranged, a bed just below the mural of the Dread Wolf looking over Golden City, and a respectable bedside table. The Inquisition chair moved to the window together with a desk, not his own, of course. It was still in Wolf's den, and it seemed Caretaker had taken quite a liking to its new boss, Fenrel, that it would not touch items now deemed hers. Solas could deal with a strange assembly of leftover furniture just fine. Anything was better than the endless nothingness of his prison, truly.

"How long have I been asleep?" He asked.

"It is now late afternoon, Minrathous time."

Solas sighed, rubbing his forehead. A headache was one of many things he did not miss outside the prison. Especially if he had tasks to approach, and a visit to Bellara's studio was now a priority, if he were to prove his worth. He forced a smile for the spirit, as if it would care for pleasantries. "That is all, thank you."

***

"I hope I am not bothering you, Miss Lutare," Solas said, even after he knocked on the door, waited patiently a second while the noise of things hitting the ground and Dalish swears reached his ears, only then to be followed by "Come on in." The room was as expected, a creative mess, one he had been known to leave in his wake. Though he was certain Bellara was not working on anything mechanical, as ink stains on her right sleeve suggested.

She quickly shoved away the notebook he had noticed by her elbow, away from sight, nearly knocking down the ink bottle beside it. "No, it's fine, I was just—You're here because of Anaris?"

"I suppose Anaris is part of it, though I would prefer to think I am here because of your brother." He glanced at Nadas Dirthalen sitting in the centre of the room and elected not to close the distance, standing a few comfortable feet away from both it and Bellara.

"Is there anything you need from me? Anything I can help with?" Bellara kneaded her hands in her lap, a nervous tic, many of which Fenrel had already observed, and he witnessed through the connection. "The archive would probably answer better to you—"

"I am sure it wouldn't. Anaris and I go back a long time."

Bellara perked up, "Right, you were there! You saw how archives functioned and and—"

"I have helped create quite a few myself", Solas looked at the device once more. It could've proven useful if it were not for its creator. "Devices such as this are inevitably affected by their creator, taking on their personality or beliefs, and as it is, our friend here would prove to be most cruel and ignorant."

"Oh, that's—along lines of what it said about—"

"Me?" Solas chuckled, "Some of it might be deserved."

Bellara laughed uncomfortably, and now Solas wondered if he had made a mistake coming here so soon. Perhaps he was to observe them some more before diving headfirst into conversation, or give them some space. However, he had already made the mistake of coming here. "I would much rather talk of your brother than the archive, if that is agreeable with you."

"Well…" She leaned in her seat, hands now tightly tucked between her thighs, watching him curiously, even if the little sway in her body betrayed the nerves. "What do you need to know?"

Solas did not want to go anywhere near the device, nor hear its annoying voice as it undoubtedly awakened when in proximity to familiar magic. Instead of crossing the room to sit on her cot, or rather the cot he had spent many late nights crashing on after trying to work out what exactly had happened with the anchor, he opted to rest his shoulder against the nearest wall. His body was still heavy from the few hours of sleep he managed to find back in the music room.

"As Evanuris bonding masks have the power to influence a person, the way in which each individual might be affected depends… On the individual." Solas stated some of the simpler facts.

"So you just want to know about…" She paused longer than needed, longer than what was normal for her. Her words would often jump over each other, a never-ending run of thoughts with many contenders. "Cyrian? We are the same. Or used to be."

Solas watched as her expression lost its joy, the eyebrows sinking lower than usual, a crinkle forming between them. "Inquisitive and hard working?"

She laughed, an awkward, short laugh, one she seemed not to have expected herself, quickly covering her mouth. "Rook must have told you a lot."

"She does care for you all,"

"I am sure," Bellara said, and it seemed as if she did not want to say and did not want to keep what came next, "It's just, you are you. The Dread Wolf. And she apparently lied about seeing you only in your prison for months, and now you are here, and maybe if we knew we could have—"

"It couldn't have been prevented, unless she never went after Ghilan'nain last night or if Elgar'nan did not show. You were all in grave danger." He offered the piece of truth he could.

Bellara nodded, with a faintest smile. "It might not be enough for others."

"I do believe for some, nothing will be, but I am allowed to try."

Both let those words hang for a moment, and Solas nearly let himself believe that there were ways he could yet make this new odd arrangement work. "So, Cyrian?"

***

The talk with Bellara went on longer than he had anticipated, and he found himself rather relieved when they emerged from her studio to see that the dinner table was already empty, save for the pot left on low flame for those late to supper.

The meal they shared was pleasant enough, and there was no doubt it was Lucanis who cooked it. Lucanis, who now sat in the pantry just beside the kitchen, undoubtedly listened to their idle conversation. Bellara had many questions, but threaded them carefully, as if afraid to dip deeper than rather shallow confirmations of which legends and tales of the Dalish were right or wrong. Shoulders lax, he found himself in the weird comfort of her company, much like Fenrel would. Bellara had an air about her that required no expectations of you, just the presence, and even if he had to get used to his physical being yet, he could offer it.

"So, did you find a bedroom yet? I could help you look, or, well, I guess you lived here for centuries, no, millennia, so my help might not be the…" Bellara stumbled over her words again when they turned to leave the common room. It was still light outside, and now Solas worried that the residents of the Lighthouse might not have discovered all its facets yet. It was to be an evening already, and yet pinks stained the sky just as they did hours ago.

"That is rather gracious of you, but I assure you, I am settled just fine." He offered her a gentle smile. The way her eyebrows shot up, he already knew that another question, a rather predictable one, would follow. "The music room."

"Oh."

"Do not worry, I am not to sleep on a pile of cheese, Caretaker has done its duty." He reassured.

"It had been a great help for us all. Have you created it?" A final question, then, before they parted ways. He noted how in their conversation, Bellara avoided naming him, as if she was not sure whether to pick the mockery of the title or something too intimate, as the name was, for their circumstance. They stood in the courtyard, his body already turned towards the library tower, or as everyone here called it, the main building.

He nodded once.

"So do all creations reflect their creators?"

"I fear it's unavoidable, Miss Lutare."

***

For a few hours, he paid no mind to the numb ache coursing through him, the call of the place he tied himself to, one he had built and now wished he could tear apart. The music room was now lonelier than when he left it, the chatter of conversation he had immersed himself in now gone, and thoughts flooding back in gracelessly, breaking down the frail dams he had tried to build between waking here and returning.

She was not yet back, and he tried steering himself away from thoughts of her before Minrathous air found his airways again. He was to learn how to separate himself from her, construct barriers within his mind from leaking into hers.

Could she visit his mind as well?

She could pull him into her dreams, who was to say she—

The crisp cold, a draft, the mixing of temperatures before settling on a familiar one, goosebumps prickling his skin momentarily. She was passing the Vi Revas. He stood, nearly expecting her to come through the door.

What a senseless hope.

The soft bedsheets took his fall back into them, absorbing the heaviness of his limbs with ease. He could have drifted away just now, let dreams take him away from memories that would intrude every waking moment of this day. He could allow himself hope that tomorrow would be better. It was strangely facile to let himself slip away now, after so many months away from such comforts as having a bedchamber. He kicked off the boots he was not used to nor amicable with wearing, before rolling to his side, keeping his eyes tightly shut so as not to let in the golden sun. He should have asked the Caretaker for curtains.

"Yes, Wolf?" The disembodied voice greeted him again, and this time Solas did not bother getting up. It had been a long day, too long. Caretaker did not wait for his answer, yet the world dimmed beyond Solas' closed eyes.

"Thank you," He murmured into the bedding, in a moment's notice, feeling the fade shift as his helper left once more.

In the dark, he moved lazily, unbuttoning the shirt that dug into his shoulders. New clothing would be tomorrow's problem, just as many other things, he told himself. Right now, all he wanted was sleep. Just nothingness, complete darkness. A reprieve from his own beguiling and torturous thoughts. Complete silence.

Ruined, before he could disappear in it.

"No locks on the door? Ballsy." Taash's voice startled more than he expected it would, and he sat up quicker than blood in his veins managed to adjust, head spinning for a moment. Just long enough to forget he was now shirtless and alone on a bed, in a place he could no longer call home. Taash flashed their eyes at him, quickly taking count of the damage he had forgotten to be in open view now. "She got you good."

He shifted, straightening his back. Covering himself would have no use now, and he accepted that truth. "Have you come here to confirm your knowledge?"

"I am here to tell you that I'll break your jaw if you hurt her or Harding again."

Hiding his surprise was out of the question, the way his face contorted at the threat, and yet he resigned to holding a semblance of control in a single word he muttered. "Good."

"Good. We understand each other." Taash turned to leave, the conversation opened and finished on their terms, before adding, "She is back."

He sighed, "I'm aware."

"Then talk to her," Taash stated more as an order rather than a suggestion. He chose not to answer, for words were to fail him, and Taash did not care for excuses; he knew. They looked at him for a moment longer before muttering, "You are both idiots," and leaving.

***

For the home of insomniacs, Lighthouse was tranquil earlier than expected. No usual noises he would come to expect. Perchance, it was he who was so adjusted to the loneliness that he omitted details of what it actually meant to share space from his mind. The low hum of the Fade woven through the walls, through the very matter of the Lighthouse, was little comfort to him as he now tossed and turned, lavish bed as comfortable as a pit of rocks in his state. Fatigue and unrest were terrible companions, and now they fed into each other, non-corporeal fingers intertwined.

He lay on his back, counting breaths, aware they could not slow any more, his discontentment clinging to the image of the Dread Wolf above his bed. Only he himself could be damned for painting it. Sleep that was a promise and a threat before Taash's visit became a negotiation he was capitulating in. Whenever he edged just close enough to oblivion, memory would drag him back by the ankle and hold him down, with her weight on his chest, the breathy sounds she made in his ear.

He turned on his side and tried again, just to hear the mocking voice of Slow Arrow, asking if he had destroyed just enough to feel satisfied. Bloodied palm that let Varric fall back, dagger in his chest. As he blinked, blood was nowhere to be seen, but the pulse of the prison was still as real at the back of his neck. While not trapped between imagery of his regrets and tales of them repeating over and over again, their ghostly images did not dissolve; instead, they sharpened, with the pain and the irony tang on his tongue.

It lingered, ever persistent, and his new reality grew grimmer by every passing moment. Another sensation prowled over it, movements quick and precise, heartbeat in his throat answering to her steps. His legs swung over the edge of the bed with recognition of the familiar, the pull he could not resist nor wanted to. The dizzying rush came over him with vexing lament, emotions swaying from hatred to confusion to nervous excitement, heartbeat hammering furiously. Not all of it was his own; most wasn't, and it grew stronger as the distance shortened. Three strides he would not remember taking, and he was standing before the door, hand reaching to open it. Simultaneously impossibly slow and quick as a flash of lightning, his movements absent from his thoughts, his body reaching for her in what seemed to be an instinct.

A quick flick of his wrist and the stone door between them would be gone. Stone was too cool for his liking as his skin burned from hours of turning and tossing under sheets. He counted the paces she took, two to the right, a silent turn, two to the left, and again, a turn. Over and over, while power hummed and buzzed, waiting to be set free, just a suggestion of it, only a simple order. Open. He did not open the door, and she stopped in her stride, and for a moment he could swear he felt her hand reach on the other side, tether calming in her vicinity.

All the doubt and self-loathing doubled, with the interference of something much deeper, something she would not acknowledge and he did not dare name in his mind, fearing she would hear.

He wanted to call her just as much as he wanted her to walk away. Between the unrelenting need for her voice beyond his idle observation, there was an understanding of the need to let go, to learn where the lines should be redrawn, and give her the pen to do so. He let his hand fall to his side, just as the pressure he was pressed into imploded, with the first echo of a footstep as she retreated.

After many thresholds ran through blind, they staggered on this one. He should have accepted it; he should have let it be. His wrist flicked once, and the glimpse of bright red captivated him as she slowed in her step, just as the door to the Wolf's den opened. She did not turn all the way, stilling for a slow exhale, offering a single glance over her shoulder. "Goodnight, Solas."

There was no argument to be had, no words to be thrown around. Perhaps he would have preferred it. Anger would have been easier to handle than her doubt. Her telling him it was a mistake never to be repeated, a command to stay away, anything other than the confusion he had found himself in would have been better. He could still tell himself that what transpired between them was a moment of weakness rather than a plunge to a deep end. That it did not have to end this way.

It was always going to end this way; he should have known from the day he dared to see a woman beyond a pawn. He had written his own fall with a hand far too willing and now scrambled to change the end, when pieces were already out of his hands. She lingered, as if waiting for the answer, for his words to confirm the stalemate of their entanglement. "Goodnight, Fenrel." He finally managed.