Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Time was a funny thing, Carver thought as he lay broken in the muck, body unresponsive. Each breath scraped his throat like sandpaper. His ribs shifted with a sickening creak. Pain pulsed through him in sharp, electric bursts, then dulled, as though even his nerves had given up.

He couldn’t move. He could barely blink.

He hoped—Maker, he prayed—that his mother, Garrett, and Bethany had made it out. That the distraction he and Garrett pulled had worked. That his sacrifice bought them enough time to slip past the horde.

If not... then what the hell had it all been for?

His mind drifted, against his will, to Ostagar. The scent of blood and smoke. The blight-thick air, suffocating and heavy. The retreat sounded by that bastard Loghain. He and Garrett had fought tooth and nail to get back to Lothering, to their family.

And now here he was. Flattened under the weight of a dying ogre, ribcage caved in, leg bent in a direction it shouldn't be. His sword lay somewhere out of reach, not that his arm could lift it anymore. The Deep Roads would’ve been a kinder grave.

His vision flickered, breath hitching.

Time slowed.

A smear of sky overhead blurred like wet paint. He couldn't even feel the blood leaking from his mouth anymore. Funny, how pain faded when everything else did.

Then—

A voice. Not loud. Not near. It sounded like it came from beneath the earth and above the stars at the same time.

It wasn’t male. Not really female, either. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Carver would’ve rolled his eyes if he still had control over them.

“Brilliant,” he rasped aloud. “I’m dying, and now I’m hearing shit.”

The voice answered him. Not in a language he knew, but somehow, he understood it.

Do not fear, child of the earth. I am here to help. You are not finished.

He laughed, a wet, broken sound. “That’s a new one. Most people don’t come back from getting squashed by a Darkspawn.”

There was no reply for a moment. Only a hum, like wind through pine trees.

Then: I am Sìdheach. The wolf spirit of the Chasind. You have been chosen.

“Spirits are demons with pretty names,” Carver muttered. “And I’m not interested in being possessed.”

You misunderstand. I am no demon, and I will not take you. I offer. I ask . You have a purpose yet to fulfill.

He wanted to snap something clever. He wanted to tell it to piss off, that he wasn’t some puppet. But the voice… there was something in it. A warmth. Not cruel. Not cold.

Chosen?

“Chosen for what?” he asked, bitterness chewing at the words. “To rot in the mud with the rest of the fallen?”

You will lead the Chasind. You will bring them to the place of the end.

Carver’s laugh this time was breathless. “The Chasind? Those half-naked lunatics who paint themselves and yell at clouds? That’s your grand plan?”

He remembered one, from years ago—mad-eyed, barefoot, preaching outside a Chantry in Lothering. Ranting about fire from the sky and black blood in the roots of the world.

No one listened.

They will listen to you, the voice said, not angry, not amused. Because the end stirs beneath the surface. And they know the old ways. The true ways.

He shook his head—or thought he did. It might’ve just been a twitch.

“And if I say no?”

Silence.

Then: You will die. Here. Alone. Your bones picked clean before the sun rises again. Your soul swallowed in the dark.

A cold wind blew across his skin. Not real. Not really.

He swallowed hard. The copper of blood lingered on his tongue. “And if I say yes?”

Then you live. You rise. And you begin again.

It was absurd. Ridiculous.

And yet... some distant, spiteful part of him whispered: You always wanted to be more than Garrett’s shadow, didn’t you?

Carver exhaled. “Fine,” he rasped. “Let’s say I’m listening. What do I have to do?”

Sìdheach didn’t answer right away. When she—he—it—did, the voice had softened, gentled into something like a whisper.

The Wilds will guide you. There is a place that waits—Tombigbee. You will know it when you see it. The way will not be easy. But I will be near.

“Tombig—what?” he began, but before the question could even finish forming, light swallowed him.

Not blinding. Not warm.

Just there—a weightless, colorless sensation, like floating in a dream.

And then, nothing.

He awoke to the scent of wet earth and moss.

Air rushed into his lungs with a wheezing gasp. Pain lanced through his side, but he could move. Barely.

The ogre was gone—rotted to bone and husk, though the battle hadn’t been more than a few hours ago. Around him, the trees pressed close, ancient and watching.

The Wilds. Not the battlefield. Not Ostagar.

Not Ferelden?

He pushed himself upright, groaning, and looked down.

His wounds were sealed. Not healed. Scarred, oddly, like they had been burned shut.

A sword lay beside him— with old symbols. Not his. But it pulsed faintly when he touched it.

A gift.

A beginning.

And far, far in the distance, he heard wolves howling.

Having no fucking clue where he was, Carver just walked.

The sword he gripped felt unfamiliar. Not his own, but well-forged. Heavy, but balanced. Probably a gift from that spirit—Sìdheach, or whatever the hell she called herself. Great. A creepy dream wolf had left him a weapon. That wasn’t unsettling at all.

Everything around him felt... off.

No torches, no stars, no flickering light of a distant camp. Just endless trees pressing in on all sides, thick and ancient, branches like bony fingers clawing at the sky. Even the birds were silent. Every step he took landed with a wet squelch on mossy ground. No paths. No signs. Just damp and dark and an overwhelming sense that something out there was watching.

His wounds still throbbed under the surface, tight and tender like fresh bruises. He ran a hand along his ribs—healed, but wrong. Scarred in spirals, like inked markings etched into flesh.

"Wonderful," he muttered. "Now I look like one of those mad Wilders with their blood rituals and owl skulls."

He kept walking, boots dragging through muck, trying to find something—anything—familiar.

Eventually, his own thoughts caught up with him, and that was worse.

If his family could see him now…

Maker. Garrett would laugh until he couldn’t breathe.

“You wandered off and got adopted by a forest ghost? Really, Carver?” he imagined his brother saying, arms crossed, that smug asshole.

Their mother would probably faint on the spot, clutch her chest, and bemoan the poor decisions of her youngest son.

Bethany though…

Beth would just smile. That small, soft smile of hers like she already knew something he didn’t. She always looked at him like he mattered, even when he didn’t.

And then the weight hit him, like a blade to the chest.

They could be alive. Somewhere.

The thought dug deep and refused to let go. He’d never seen their bodies, had he? Maybe they made it out. Maybe they’d pushed through the hoard, fled south or east, and were even now trying to reach Kirkwall.

Kirkwall.

"Uncle Gamlen," he said aloud, half-laughing. "That drunk bastard better not be dead yet. I’m coming to raid his pantry."

His best bet would be Amaranthine. From there, maybe he could find a ship, bribe his way into Hightown. 

You could find them, a voice in his head whispered. Beth. Mum. Even Garrett.

He slowed.

But then again…

He made a promise.

His father had always said that your word was worth more than your sword. Promises weren’t just breath and noise—they meant something. And Carver had said yes to the spirit. Said he’d follow. That he’d lead the Chasind. That he’d—

"That I’d what exactly?" he asked the trees, swinging his arm out. "Stumble around in the dark until I find some tattooed lunatics with bear pelts and bones in their hair?"

The trees, naturally, didn’t answer.

Carver sighed, dragged a hand through his hair, and started walking again. No map, no clue, just forward. Because somehow, even if it was insane, it felt like forward was the right way. The ground sloped gently downward, and the trees began to thin.

It was better than standing still.

And hey, he thought, what I wouldn’t give to see the look on Garrett’s smug face when I show up leading an army of Wilders. Let him try and act like the golden son then.

The idea made his lips twitch.

No longer Garrett’s shadow.

Not the tagalong brother.

Not the afterthought.

Just Carver. Carver Hawke. The man a spirit chose to lead people out of the dark.

He grinned.

Yeah. That’d be something.

But when had anything ever been easy for Carver?

Never. Not once. Not even for a minute.

So of course, because the world had a sick sense of humor, he didn’t just trip on a root or slip on some mud—no, Carver Hawke fell into a ditch.

A huge one.

He hit the bottom with a muddy splat that knocked the air out of his lungs and rattled something in his shoulder that definitely wasn't supposed to rattle.

“Yay me,” he groaned, rolling onto his side with a grunt.

Pain flared again, a sharp jab in his hip. He tried to get up, using his sword as a crutch—but the blade sank into the wet ground, and Carver faceplanted for the second time.

Flat on his stomach in a pool of damp leaves and wounded pride, he finally snapped.

He tilted his head back toward the canopy and screamed:
“FUCK EVERYTHING!”

His voice echoed off the trees, raw and hoarse.

“Fuck the Darkspawn! Fuck Loghain! That spineless bastard left us to die! And fuck Orlais too, with their smug cheese-eating—ugh!”
He threw a clump of mud as if it might hit someone. Anyone.

“And King Cailan? Fuck him and his shiny armor. Look how well that worked out! And you know what?” he snarled, fists curling, “FUCK THE MAKER! If you’re up there, you useless pile of immortal shit, you could’ve stopped any of this!”

The Wilds answered with silence.

Then—
A growl.

Low. Guttural. Ancient. It vibrated through the earth beneath him.

Carver froze.

“…Oh no,” he muttered, slowly rolling onto his side.

Behind him, halfway cloaked in the mist rising from the ditch’s edge, stood a wolf.

No.

The wolf.

It was massive—easily as tall as Carver at the shoulder, its fur blacker than the Void and eyes glowing red like coals pulled from a dying fire. Its teeth were long and white and gleamed under the moonlight. This wasn’t just an animal. This was something old, something from stories his father used to whisper after too much ale.

Carver’s breath hitched.

And what did he do?

He did the only thing he could do.

He grabbed the magical sword he’d found and pointed it at the thing like a lunatic. The blade trembled in his grip.

“Alright,” he said, voice cracking, “if you’re here to finish the job, let’s get it over with. I’m already bruised, cold, and covered in twelve kinds of filth. Go on, take a bite.”

The wolf growled again, and Carver flinched.

It crouched, muscles bunching.

Carver braced for the impact, imagining those massive jaws closing around his throat.

Instead, the beast lunged—
And licked him.

Carver’s shout turned into a startled yelp as he toppled onto his back, the sword flying from his hand. The huge wolf pounced, tail wagging like a dog twice its size had no business doing.

It licked his face once.

Then twice.

Then thoroughly.

Carver flailed, laughing despite himself, shoving at the thick fur and slobber-covered snout.

“Mutt—get off! You’re disgusting!”

The wolf let out a pleased huff and stepped back, watching him with those unsettling crimson eyes.

Carver sat up, spitting leaves. “What the hell was that?” He wiped his face on his sleeve. “That was not the terrifying beast I thought you were five seconds ago.”

The wolf tilted its head.

Still breathing hard, Carver slowly got to his knees. His body protested the movement, sore and scraped, but no longer threatening to shut down.

He reached out a cautious hand.

The wolf didn’t move. Just sniffed his palm once, then pressed its forehead into his touch.

“Yeah,” Carver mumbled, running fingers through the thick fur. “You’re not so scary up close, huh? Just a big, drooling, red-eyed nightmare puppy.”

The wolf yapped once—sharp and offended.

Carver smirked. “Don’t give me that. You jumped me like a mabari in heat.”

The wolf’s tongue lolled out, and Carver swore it was smiling.

For a moment, he let himself breathe. The warmth of the wolf against him chased back some of the cold that had settled in his bones. It wasn’t much, but it was company. And better than being alone in the dark.

He leaned against it and sighed. “You sent this thing, didn’t you?” he muttered upward, toward the sky. “Sìdheach.”

No voice answered.

But the wolf leaned into him a little harder.

“Guess you’re my guide, then?” he asked the beast.

The wolf snorted and padded a few steps toward the ridge of the ditch, then looked back, ears flicking.

Carver stared at it.

“…You want me to follow you.”

The wolf barked once.

Carver groaned and reached for his sword. “Fine. Why not? Can’t be worse than wandering around on my own. Lead the way, mutt.”

The wolf turned and began moving through the trees with surprising silence, and Carver scrambled after it, slipping a bit as he climbed out of the ditch. His boots squelched, his hair was soaked, and something squished unpleasantly in his left boot.

But for the first time since the ogre, since the fall, since the fucking Blight ruined everything—

He felt like something was guiding him.

He didn’t know where they were going.

Didn’t know what waited at Tombigbee.

Didn’t know why a spirit chose him, of all people, to do anything more than die screaming in a mud pit.

But he walked forward anyway.

Because the wolf waited for him.

And Carver Hawke—youngest son of Malcolm and Leandra Hawke, occasional idiot and reluctant sword-swinger—wasn’t ready to fall back into the dirt just yet.

Not when someone—or something—still expected him to rise.

Carver had never been great with silence.

So, naturally, after about fifteen minutes of walking through damp brush and tangled undergrowth with nothing but the sound of pawsteps and his own boots sloshing, he started talking.

“To be clear,” he said to the wolf trotting a few paces ahead, “I’m not the kind of lunatic who talks to animals. You just… happen to be the only one who hasn’t tried to kill me yet, so that earns you some conversation.”

The wolf didn’t even glance back.

Carver squinted. “Right. How do you not have a name? You’re huge. You look like you ate every name in the forest and then licked the bowl.”

Still nothing.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Guess it’s up to me.”

He thought for a moment, chewing on a stalk of grass he’d picked up without thinking. “What about… Barkspawn?”

The wolf halted.

Carver barely had time to yelp before a sharp nip landed square on his backside.

“OW! You toothy little—!”

The wolf gave him a single, flat look, then resumed walking as if nothing happened.

“Okay, okay,” Carver muttered, rubbing his rear. “Not Barkspawn. Bit touchy about darkspawn jokes, huh? Fair.”

He walked a bit farther, then tried again. “Dane? That’s a noble-sounding name. Strong. Like a guard dog.”

The wolf let out a heavy, dramatic sigh.

“…Alright, not Dane either. You’re picky.”

He paused, tapping his chin. “Wayne?”

The wolf actually snorted.

“Seriously?” Carver groaned. “That one was solid. Fine. I give up.”

But as he stared at the creature pacing ahead of him, something nagged at the back of his mind. It had been there the whole time, but he’d ignored it—focused on surviving, walking, talking.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Hold on,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “You’re a girl, aren’t you?”

The wolf slowly turned her head and shot him the most withering, exasperated side-eye he had ever seen.

Carver blinked. “Right. Yes. Okay. I’m a dumbass.”

She didn’t disagree.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Should’ve figured. I mean, just because you’re massive and bite like a drunk mercenary doesn’t mean you’re a male.” He glanced at her again. “You’re really judging me right now, aren’t you?”

She huffed and pushed ahead, clearly done with his nonsense.

Carver trailed behind, still mulling it over. “Okay, female names… tough, wild, slightly terrifying… but also with a sense of style.”

He thought harder, kicking aside a gnarled root.

Then he stopped, eyes lighting up.

“Ha! I have it!” he declared, grinning like an idiot.

The wolf turned back toward him, ears pricking up just slightly.

“I’m gonna call you Peach!”

The wolf blinked.

“After this girl from my village,” Carver went on. “Peaches, everyone called her. She used to chase me around the orchard and tackle me into mud puddles. One time, she licked my entire face ‘cause she said it was funny. And Maker help me, it was.”

He grinned. “You’ve got that same ‘I-do-what-I-want’ attitude, and honestly? You drool like her too.”

Peach—the newly named wolf—just stared at him, ears half-lowered, expression unreadable.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” Carver said, stifling a laugh. “It’s endearing.”

Peach let out a sharp exhale and walked straight into him, shoulder-checking him hard enough to make him stumble back a step.

Carver laughed and reached up to scratch behind her ear. “Hey now, easy! You're not objecting, though.”

She leaned into his hand just slightly.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I knew you'd come around.”

They walked in easier silence after that. Carver still talked, occasionally, but the words didn’t feel like they needed to fill a void. He shared scraps of stories from Lothering—how he once punched a templar’s son for picking on Bethany, how he nearly drowned trying to impress a girl who turned out to be engaged to a merchant, how Garrett used to beat him at sparring until he threw dirt in his face and tackled him screaming like a wild dog.

Peach didn’t respond, of course, but she glanced back sometimes, ears twitching. That was enough.

Eventually, the trees thinned again, and they emerged into another clearing.

This one was different.

A ring of standing stones loomed, half-covered in ivy. The air felt still—expectant. In the center, a crude altar carved from dark stone rose from the earth. On it sat a twisted staff, black as ash, with a single crystal embedded at the top. The air around it shimmered faintly, like heat rising from desert sand.

Peach stopped at the edge of the clearing, unmoving.

Carver hesitated. “What the hell is this?”

The hairs on his neck stood up.

He stepped forward, slowly, and the moment his foot crossed into the circle, the air pulsed—once, like a heartbeat.

The world darkened. Not like clouds covering the sun, but like something old turning its eye toward him.

A voice spoke again—softer this time, whispering directly into his thoughts.

The path is not written. You walk it still. But power answers those who rise from the earth.

Carver swallowed hard. “What… is this staff?”

A choice. A memory. A key. You are not the first, but you may be the last.

Peach let out a low whine behind him.

Carver reached for the staff.

His fingers wrapped around it—and pain seared up his arm, white-hot and biting.

Flashes—visions—burned through his skull:
Fire on snow.
A face, twisted in grief.
A village, surrounded by black water.
A tower—cracked and screaming.
A voice, his own voice, shouting something in a tongue he didn’t understand.

Then—

Silence.

Carver collapsed to his knees, gasping.

Peach ran to him, nose nudging at his shoulder.

He looked up, blinking through the haze. The staff now lay beside him, cool and quiet. Its crystal had turned pale, almost silver.

He picked it up slowly. “Guess I’m carrying this now.”

Peach growled, not in anger—but warning.

Carver stood, still dizzy, and looked toward the distant hills beyond the clearing. The wind shifted.

Somewhere, far away, something was waking.

And Carver Hawke—mud-stained, magic-touched, half-laughing and half-lost—walked toward it, with Peach at his side.

Chapter Text

The black staff was creepy.

Not weird creepy. Not “some mage left their stick in the mud” creepy.

It was alive creepy.

Carver couldn’t prove it, of course, but he could feel it. The wood was cold even when the sun touched it. The gem at the top pulsed sometimes—like a heartbeat. And more than once, he caught himself glancing at it over his shoulder, like he expected it to shift on its own or whisper something in his ear.

And maybe it would. Eventually.

“Magic,” he muttered, eyeing it suspiciously from where it leaned against a nearby rock. “Always feels like it’s waiting to bite me in the ass.”

Which was a bit unfair. Sort of.

He didn’t hate magic. That would’ve been a bit awkward considering both his father and sister were mages. But he didn’t exactly trust it either—not after years of watching his family constantly looking over their shoulders. Every knock at the door might’ve been templars. Every town they passed through meant pretending, hiding, avoiding.

It was hard to love something that kept you running your whole life.

And now here he was, alone in the Wilds, carrying a sword that glowed and a staff that felt like it had opinions.

He wasn’t sure what it said about him that this was an upgrade from his previous situation.

The worst part?

Every time the staff came close to the sword—like, any time they were within a few feet of each other—the runes on the blade began to shimmer. Not faintly. Not politely. They blazed—bright silver lines crawling across the surface like veins, while the gem in the staff lit up like it was about to explode.

At first, Carver had thought he was hallucinating.

Then it happened again. And again.

By the fifth time, he was this close to chucking the staff into a swamp and pretending it never happened.

He sat down on a fallen log, clutching the sword in one hand and the staff in the other, watching them warily, as though they might start talking to each other.

“What the fuck,” he muttered.

The runes flickered. The gem pulsed.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growled, jamming the staff into the dirt beside him and scooting several inches away. “None of that creepy glowing shit. I swear, if one of you explodes, I’m haunting whoever made you.”

That was when Peach nudged his arm.

He glanced down at her. “Don’t start with me, mutt. I swear, if you wag your tail at this, I’ll assume you’ve lost your mind too.”

Peach huffed and pressed her nose to his side again. Then she sat down beside him, big eyes fixed on him with what was probably meant to be comforting.

And, somehow, it was.

Carver sighed. “It’s all fucked up, you know that, right?”

Peach blinked at him.

“I mean, look at me,” he said, gesturing wildly. “I should be dead. I was under an ogre, Peach. A whole goddamn ogre. And now I’ve got magical scars, a spirit in my head, a possibly haunted stick, and a glowing sword that flares up every time I bring the stick near it like they’re dating.”

Peach let out a short bark.

“…That wasn’t an invitation to agree with me,” Carver muttered. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and let the sword rest across his thighs.

For a long moment, he just stared into the trees.

“You know what’s funny?” he said finally, quieter now. “If Garrett were here, he’d probably already have this all figured out. He’d make some speech, talk about purpose and faith, and then walk off into the woods with the staff like it belonged to him.”

His voice tightened, and he looked down.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted, to the wolf, to the air, to whatever spirits might be listening. “I don’t know what the hell that spirit wants from me. I’m not a leader. I’m just a guy with a sword and a chip on his shoulder.”

Peach leaned her head against his knee.

Carver let out a breath. “You’re the only one here who thinks I can pull this off, aren’t you?”

She didn’t move.

He reached down and ran a hand behind her ear. “You’re a weird-ass wolf, Peach. But I appreciate it.”

The wind shifted. The trees whispered.

He stood slowly, grabbing the staff again. This time, when the sword started to glow, he didn’t drop it. He just held both weapons and watched them. The light pulsed in sync. Soft. Steady.

“Alright,” he said, not to the weapons, but maybe to himself. “You want me to carry both, fine. But you start whispering in my head like a creepy librarian, and I’m feeding you to the next dragon I see.”

The staff didn’t reply.

Which, in itself, was kind of a win.

They moved on. The forest was darker now, like the sun had retreated further than it should have for the hour. The air grew thick—moist, heavy, buzzing faintly with unseen life. At some point, Carver stopped noticing where his feet landed. The path, if there ever was one, had disappeared.

He followed Peach. She seemed to know where she was going. Or maybe she was just pretending.

He wouldn’t blame her.

As the trees parted again, they emerged into a clearing shrouded in thick mist. In the middle stood another stone—this one taller, carved with different markings. Not Avvar. Something older. And stranger.

At the base of the stone was a skeleton.

Carver blinked. “Well, that’s not ominous at all.”

The remains were old—covered in moss, armor rusted through. But the strangest part was what sat in its lap: a tiny, leather-bound journal. Untouched by mold or time.

He knelt, carefully picking it up. The cover crackled under his fingers.

Peach circled the area, sniffing the edges, alert but not aggressive.

Carver flipped the journal open.

Inside were pages of drawings—glyphs, runes, sketches of trees and paths. Maps, maybe. Notes in a language he couldn’t read, scrawled hastily. But one page stood out.

Drawn in ink so black it still looked wet, was him.

His face.

His sword.

The staff.

A wolf at his side.

Carver’s throat closed.

“…What the fuck is going on?”

Peach sat beside him and let out a soft, low growl—not a threat, but a warning.

They were being watched.

Carver stood and slid the journal into his pack.

Then he looked to Peach.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s see who—or what—wants to meet the guy with the cursed staff and the bitey wolf.”

But nothing happened.

Not a whisper, not a rustle. Just Peach pacing the edge of the mist and that strange silence pressing in on them like a second skin.

Carver frowned, staring at the clearing. “Seriously? All that build-up and I get—nothing?”

He looked up toward the grey sky, arms outstretched. “Come on! I read the weird vision journal, I grabbed the cursed stick and the glowing sword—what do I have to do, sing a hymn and bleed on a tree?”

Peach huffed.

Carver sighed and dropped onto the nearest rock with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. “Maker’s soggy underpants,” he muttered. “I’m living in one of those horror stories we used to scare Beth with.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. He glanced at the wolf, who blinked slowly at him. “Back when everything was just dumb and harmless. Me, Garrett, and Beth telling ghost tales in the barn. Beth would always end up crying. Every damn time.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the memory washing over him—her wide eyes, curled under a blanket, pretending not to be afraid until she couldn’t hold it in anymore. And their mother would come in furious, scolding Garrett first, then dragging Carver into the kitchen with that dreaded sentence: "You encouraged it, so you're scrubbing the pans too."

Carver smiled, but it didn’t last long.

Those nights had felt safe.

Now? Not so much.

The light had faded completely, though honestly, there hadn’t been much to begin with. Nightfall in the Wilds was just black. No stars. No moon. Just the thick, suffocating kind of dark that made your breath feel loud.

Which led Carver—brilliant, tired, slightly almost crying Carver—to make a choice that future-Carver would soon deeply regret.

“Alright,” he muttered, “I need light. I’ve got glowy shit. Let’s… improvise.”

He grabbed the staff, then reached for the sword.

“Okay, weird magical things,” he said, laying the staff across the blade like some amateur alchemist, “you’re on flashlight duty.”

They didn’t do anything at first.

Carver exhaled. “Figures.”

Still, he opened the creepy corpse journal, holding the pages close to where the staff’s gem hovered over the runes of the sword. The light shimmered faintly, enough to read by—well, assuming he could read what was written.

There was only one sentence on the next page. One.

Scrawled in some jagged, curling language that looked more like claw marks than letters.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “What the fuck does that say? ‘Don’t do the stupid thing, Carver?’ A little late for that.”

Then a whisper curled through his mind.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just present.

Like something remembered it existed through him.

And the words in the book shifted.

Carver blinked. “What the—?”

He stared, heart beating faster.

Then, because he was a Hawke and therefore genetically cursed with bad decisions and worse timing, he said the words out loud.

“Vi relan ta'sul…”

The staff flared.

The sword sang, its runes glowing silver-bright like they’d just been pulled from a forge.

Carver flinched back, eyes wide. “What the fuck?!”

And in that moment of surprise, he dropped everything.

The staff clattered to the stone beside the journal.

The sword hit the ground.

His knee twisted awkwardly—and his leg scraped along the edge of the blade.

“SHIT!” he yelled, clutching his leg as pain lit up his nerves. Blood welled immediately, warm and fast, trickling down to the hilt of the sword… and across the journal… and onto the staff.

The second his blood hit the wood and steel, the world exploded.

There was no sound, just light. It wasn’t warm—it was wrong. White-hot, piercing, searing into his eyes and brain like a blade. He tried to scream, but he had no voice. No breath. The pain turned into heat, the heat into cold, and then—

Nothing.

He woke again in the clearing, gasping, limbs flailing.

Peach was standing over him, eyes glowing faintly, tail stiff.

He scrambled to sit up. 

His leg—completely healed.

His chest—burning with a new mark. A twisting sigil carved into his skin, just over his heart.

Carver stared at it.

Then at Peach.

“…Okay,” he breathed. “No more weird magic. No more reading books out loud. And definitely no more bleeding on things.”

Peach tilted her head.

“I mean it, Peach.”

She barked once, then sat down like she didn’t believe him for a second.

Carver groaned and lay back on the ground, eyes toward the night sky.

“Next time I find a skeleton with a journal,” he mumbled, “I’m walking the other way.”

“Peach… where the fuck is my sword?”

The wolf huffed softly from a few feet away, standing perfectly still, ears pointed toward a moss-covered rock.

“Don’t just stand there looking noble—help me find it!”

He scrambled up, checking the patch of dirt he’d collapsed in. Nothing. No staff. No sword. No cursed journal. Just a ring of trampled earth and blood-streaked grass.

Carver ran both hands through his already-messy hair. “I swear, if I dreamed all that, if I stabbed myself in the woods and passed out hugging a log—”

“Over here. By the rock.”

Carver spun around so fast he nearly fell back down. “WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT?”

Peach didn’t move.

The voice had been inside his head.

“Me.”

That was all it said.

Then something heavy and unreasonably solid smacked him in the back of the skull.

“OW, FUCK!” Carver yelped, stumbling forward and nearly tripping over a root. He turned with his teeth bared and fists raised—half-expecting another nightmare wolf or maybe a very angry tree spirit.

But all he saw was the rock.

And there—on the ground, glowing faintly in the dim mistlight—were the staff and sword.

Only… not quite.

Carver’s eyes narrowed.

They weren’t two separate objects anymore.

The weapon was fused—like someone had melted them together in some mage-forged fever dream. The upper half was clearly the blackened staff: smooth wood, twisting runes, and the cracked, violet gem pulsing faintly at the top. But below that, where the handle and pommel should’ve been, the dark metal of the sword had emerged—its silver runes flickering gently like coals under a blacksmith’s breath.

“What in the hell…”

He crouched, squinting at it like it might suddenly sprout legs and start talking.

Which, honestly, wouldn’t be the weirdest thing today.

Carefully, very carefully, he reached out and picked it up.

It was lighter than he expected. Warm to the touch. Balanced. Familiar in a way that made the hairs on his neck stand up.

He turned it over in his hands. “Okay. Creepy staff. Creepy sword. You two got married while I was unconscious. Great.”

“Merged. Not married.”

Carver nearly dropped it again. “OH, MAKER!”

The voice sounded smug now. Clear. Not just in his ears, but in his head. Not human. But not demonic, either. Something… ancient.

“Okay. That was you?” Carver asked aloud, because why the hell not. “You’re the one who said ‘over here’?”

“Yes.”

He blinked. “Cool. That’s… just fucking fantastic. I get concussed by my own weapon, and now it talks. Definitely not even in the top ten of weirdest things since I struck a deal with a forest spirit”

He eyed the fused weapon. “Do you have a name, or am I supposed to call you ‘pointy’?”

There was a pause.

Then, proudly:

“Vandarel.”

Carver raised a brow. “Well… that sounds dramatic as hell. Vandarel.” He tested the weight of it in his hand, gave it a little swing. “Alright, Vandarel. You better not whisper poetry in the middle of a fight, or I will throw you into a river.”

“I am you. Or rather, what you once were and now must be agin.”

“Great, this makes no sense what so ever.” Carver muttered.

Peach barked once, and Carver turned to her with an exasperated sigh. “What now? Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m talking to a weapon. It talked first!”

She was already moving toward him, tail high, ears twitching.

But before he could reach her—something heavy dropped over his head.

The world spun. Cloth? A sack? Some kind of thick, stinking burlap was yanked down tight over his face, blinding him. He shouted and thrashed, Vandarel still clutched in his hand, but before he could strike, arms grabbed him—rough, strong, and fast.

“Let go, you shits!” Carver bellowed. He swung blindly, but something slammed into his gut, and the wind left his lungs in a rush.

He was hoisted upward. Carried.

Feet off the ground. He kicked and struggled, but the grip tightened around him, and someone muttered something in a language he didn’t understand.

Peach snarled in the distance, barking furiously.

“PEACH!” he roared. “FIND ME, GIRL!”

Then something struck the side of his head again, and everything vanished into the dark.

A splash of cold water jolted Carver back to the waking world with a gasp and a growl.

“Maker’s saggy tits—!”

The words died in his throat when he realized two very specific and extremely unpleasant things:

One—he was tied to a pole.

Two—he was surrounded.

A ring of figures loomed around him, shadows shaped like people, voices murmuring in some thick, growling language he didn’t recognize. There were huts behind them, firelight flickering in crude sconces. Smoke clung to everything, curling from incense pots and cooking pits. The air reeked of herbs, sweat, and blood.

His head throbbed. His arms ached. His stomach growled. And his legs were halfway to numb.

“Great,” he rasped. “Tied up. Half-dead. Surrounded by angry strangers. Just another day in the Wilds.”

A voice barked, deep and rough. Carver turned his head—and instantly regretted it.

A man strode forward. If man was even the right word.

He was massive—like someone tried to build a mountain out of flesh, hair, and fury. His beard was a bright, furious red, braided with bones and feathers. His shoulders were so broad he looked like he could bench press a bronto without breaking a sweat. His arms were tattooed, painted, and caked in dirt. Almost Qunari-sized, though definitely human.

And pissed.

The man snarled something guttural at Carver, pointing a thick finger at his face.

Carver blinked, confused. “I don’t speak ‘grunt and murder,’ buddy.”

That earned him a smack—a backhand so hard his vision blurred and a fresh line of blood spilled down his chin.

He spat it out onto the ground, then glared up at the red-bearded giant with a defiant smile. “You’re gonna have to hit harder than that if you want a real apology.”

The man shouted something even louder.

Carver shouted right back: “Where the fuck is Peach?! And my weirdass sword-staff thing?!”

The crowd murmured. The giant’s face twisted in fury. He raised a dagger, pressing it hard against Carver’s throat.

Carver just grinned, teeth stained with blood. “Do it, tough guy. At least I’ll go out smiling.”

But before the dagger could slide, a new voice rang out—old, worn, and commanding.

The giant paused.

Then stepped back, reluctantly, as a figure emerged from between the huts.

She was ancient. Wrinkled like tree bark. Hair as white as snow, braided with shells and bits of dyed cloth. Her eyes were small but sharp, and her back only slightly hunched beneath layers of stitched hide and beads.

She stepped right up to Carver and placed both gnarled hands on his cheeks, lifting his face to hers.

Her gaze pierced him—deep, calculating, unblinking.

Then her breath caught. Her eyes widened.

She shouted something sharp.

The ropes fell away as hands quickly cut him loose.

Carver stumbled, catching himself on the pole. Pins and needles shot through his legs as he staggered upright. “Peach,” he croaked. “Where’s my wolf?”

The old woman turned to him, this time speaking in the common tongue—slow, with a strange, lilting accent.

“You are the one,” she said. “The spirit told me you would come. The lowlander. The new flesh of the old soul.”

Carver blinked. “What?”

She stepped back. “You carry Vandarel. You are his breath. His bone reborn.”

He stared at her.

“You’re saying I’m… what? Reincarnated?”

A slow nod.

“To lead the tribes,” she continued. “To bind them before the world shatters.”

Carver stared, jaw slack. “I—what?”

The crowd erupted into shouts. Confused. Angry. Voices rising like a storm. And the loudest was the red-bearded man, who barked something guttural and full of contempt.

That was when Carver noticed something clutched in the man’s hand.

Vandarel.

His sword-staff—glowing faintly. Carver’s fingers twitched with longing, fury boiling up inside him.

He took a step forward and shouted, “That’s mine! I bled for that shitty stick! I almost died for it! You don’t get to just grab it!”

As if the weapon had been waiting for his words, it shuddered in the man’s grip.

And then—it flew.

Straight out of the giant’s hand, slicing the air with a sharp hum, landing perfectly in Carver’s open palm.

His fingers closed around the hilt.

Warmth flooded his chest. Not just heat—something more. Like he was whole again. Like something clicked into place.

Gasps rose from the crowd.

The red-bearded man snarled and drew a blade. Two more warriors joined him, stepping forward, weapons flashing in the firelight.

“Of course,” Carver muttered. “Why talk when you can stab someone instead?”

Then Vandarel’s voice spoke again—strong and clear in his mind.

“Use me.”

Carver barely thought. He just slammed Vandarel into the ground.

A shockwave exploded from the point of impact—white light searing through the ground, radiating in a perfect circle. The warriors were thrown back like rag dolls. Even the red-bearded one staggered and dropped to a knee.

Everyone went still.

Except for the old woman. She hadn’t moved an inch.

Carver panted, staring at the staff-sword. “I’m not a mage,” he whispered. “I’m not… I’m not a mage.”

But the runes were glowing. The gem was pulsing. His heart was racing with something more than adrenaline.

Something old.

The warriors were rising, weapons raised again.

He didn’t know if he could stop them a second time.

Then a low growl echoed through the clearing.

The trees rustled.

And out from the shadows stepped Peach.

Her eyes glowed red in the dark, her hackles raised. Her muzzle was bared, teeth gleaming. She growled deep and steady, like a storm rolling in.

The warriors froze.

Even the red-bearded man hesitated.

Peach strode forward, silent and powerful, and came to stand beside Carver. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t have to.

He reached down with his free hand and brushed her fur behind the ears.

“I missed you too, girl.”

The village didn’t speak.

They simply watched, silent, as Carver Hawke—the man with the staff-sword, the mark on his chest, and the wolf at his side—stood tall in their midst, very much not dead.

And, somehow, exactly who he was meant to be.

Chapter Text

With Peach at his side and Vandarel still humming softly in his grip, Carver turned to the old woman.

The firelight flickered across her worn face, casting deep shadows into every wrinkle, every line carved by time and memory. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him like she’d already seen this moment years ago.

But Carver had had it.

He stepped forward, staff pointed right at her chest, the gem crackling with faint light.

“I’ve had enough,” he said, voice low and sharper than he meant it. Harder than he’d ever heard himself sound. “You want to talk omens? Spirits? Rebirth? Fine.”

Peach let out a soft growl behind him, echoing his frustration.

“In the last two days,” Carver snapped, “I’ve been crushed by a fucking ogre at Ostagar, left for dead, dragged back from the brink by some voice calling itself Sìdheach, dumped into a swamp, picked up a wolf who licks my face when I’m dying, picked up a sword, then a staff, then a book full of garbage I can’t read.”

The weapon in his hand pulsed slightly.

“Oh, and I got kidnapped! Tied to a post like a goat! Slapped by your walking cliff of a bodyguard!”

The old woman raised one white brow.

“I’m not a mage,” he went on, louder now, gesturing to himself with his free hand. “I’ve never been a mage. My sister is. My father was. Not me. Never me.”

He stepped closer, now nearly nose to nose with her.

“So tell me,” he said through clenched teeth. “How the fuck did I just blow half your warriors on their asses with magic?”

The entire village had fallen silent.

Some of the people stepped back, as if expecting another outburst from the staff—or maybe from him.

Peach stood close enough now that her fur brushed against his leg, her gaze locked on the old woman too. Ready, if needed.

The old crone finally tilted her head and said, calmly, “Because the blood remembers.”

Carver frowned. “What?”

She reached up—not afraid—and gently tapped his chest, right where the mark had burned into his skin.

“The soul is not always bound by one life,” she murmured. “And blood is not always silent. You carry the echo of a spirit long lost to the Fade. One who lived, died, and now breathes again through you.”

“I’m not some reincarnated—whatever,” he bit out. “I’m Carver Hawke. Youngest son of Malcolm and Leandra. That’s all.”

“You are not just one thing,” the woman said.

He opened his mouth to argue, but something in her tone made him stop.

“You were born of a mage,” she continued, “and you lived your life like one who held no spark. But that was only ever the shell. You awoke something. Or perhaps it awoke you.”

He scowled. “I didn’t awaken anything. I bled on some junk in the woods and got thrown into a fever dream.”

“That ‘junk’ was once carried by a god-souled warrior,” the old woman said, voice low but sure. “The last of the Bone-Binders. Vandarel, who walked between worlds.”

The weapon in Carver’s hand glowed faintly again, pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat.

“You don’t believe it,” she added, “but you felt it. When you held him. When you called to him.”

“It is a him now?”

Vandarel’s voice rang in his skull: “That is my name. That is who I was.”

Carver rubbed at his temple. “This is too much. I’m not chosen. I’m not special. I’m just—”

“You survived where others fell,” the old woman cut in. “You were marked by the wolf spirit of the Earth. Sìdheach does not choose lightly.”

Peach growled softly in agreement.

Carver looked down at her, then back at the old woman. “You expect me to believe that I’m supposed to lead tribes I’ve never met, through a world-ending crisis, with a talking weapon, a psychic wolf, and maybe—just maybe—magic I don’t understand?”

“No,” she said simply. “I expect you to walk. And to learn. And to bleed, again and again. Until you remember who you were.”

He let out a long, ragged breath.

The adrenaline was wearing off, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs like chains. His leg throbbed. His eyes stung.

He turned to look at the rest of the village—some people still staring, others whispering behind hands or teeth. The red-bearded giant was nowhere to be seen. Probably sulking or sharpening something sharp.

“Do I even get a bed?” Carver muttered. “Or do I get to sleep tied to a tree again?”

The old woman actually smiled. “You may rest in the guest tent. You will be watched.”

“Lovely.”

Peach nudged him with her head.

“I know,” he muttered. “Shut up.”

The old woman turned, slowly, and began to walk. A few villagers parted to make way. Carver followed, limping, Vandarel resting on his shoulder, Peach flanking him like a second shadow.

They passed under thick cloth canopies and through woven bone gates until they reached a small hut near the edge of the camp.

“Tomorrow,” the woman said as she opened the flap, “you begin learning what it means to carry a soul older than yours.”

Carver paused at the threshold. “You got a name?”

“Brannagh,” she said. “Bone-Keeper of the southern clans.”

He grunted. “Well, Bone-Keeper, if I wake up to more visions or magic nonsense, I’m leaving.”

“You won’t,” she said.

Then, with perfect timing, Vandarel whispered in his head:

“You might.”

Carver groaned. “I hate magic.”

He stepped into the tent.

And for the first time in days, he lay down somewhere warm—though his sleep would offer no peace.

The night had been short, dreamless, and cold.

Carver woke to the sound of drums far off in the mist, the low thump of something ancient and slow—like the Wilds themselves were keeping rhythm. Peach was curled against his side, warm and solid. The tent smelled of old leather, smoke, and her fur.

He hadn’t meant to sleep. But somehow, he had.

When he sat up, his legs still ached, and Vandarel lay beside him, silent for once. No cryptic whispers. No glowing runes. Just… stillness.

Until the flap opened and a Chasind girl peeked in, eyes wide. “Bone-Keeper Brannagh summons you.”

Carver sighed. “Of course she does.”

He groaned to his feet, slung Vandarel over his back, and gave Peach a quick scratch behind the ears. “Come on, girl. Let’s go get told I’m some walking legend again.”

The girl led them through the village, past cooking fires and sharpened spears, through lines of wary eyes that followed his every move. The red-bearded giant was nowhere in sight, but Carver didn’t let himself relax. He doubted the man had changed his mind about gutting him.

They arrived at a larger tent, bones lining the frame like ribs, painted symbols carved into each one. Brannagh’s scent hit him before the smoke did—sage, ash, and age.

She was already waiting inside, kneeling beside a shallow firepit, stoking it with herbs that snapped in green-blue flame.

“Sit,” she said without looking.

Carver did. Peach settled beside him like a furry sentinel.

“I was hoping this would be the dreamless kind of day,” Carver muttered, “but here we are.”

Brannagh ignored the comment.

She placed a carved bowl into the coals, and a thin steam began to rise.

“Do you know the name Vandarel?” she asked.

Carver raised a brow. “Besides the one whispering bedtime stories in my skull? Not really.”

Brannagh nodded, her eyes far off now. “He was one of us. A Bone-Binder of great power, born when the lands bled during the Third Blight.”

Carver leaned back, arms crossed. “That the one where the Archdemon looked like a rotting bat and Orlais tried to claim they saved everyone?”

The crone chuckled. “That is the one.”

She stirred the steaming bowl, and the smoke coiled upward into shapes—a man with antlered headdress, wielding a staff much like the one Carver now carried.

“Vandarel walked with spirits, spoke to the earth, and fought the third Blight with fire and bone. When the southern clans were being overrun, he crossed into Avvar lands and made peace with their Stone-Singers.”

Carver blinked. “Avvars? I thought your people hated each other.”

Brannagh’s lips twitched. “There was no time for hate when the rotten once attacked. Vandarel knew that. He united clans who had feuded for generations. Together, they carved a line of fire through the Deep Ones, pushed them back into the earth.”

The smoke-shape grew larger, showing a battlefield, darkspawn crawling like insects around the feet of a figure glowing with spirit-light.

“In the end,” Brannagh continued, “he died as he lived. Alone. On a battlefield soaked in ash. But before he passed, he swore this—‘When the dark rises from the roots of the world again, when the blood of our people waters the Wilds, I will return. Not as I was. But I will return.’”

Carver stared at her. “And you think that’s me.”

Brannagh met his gaze.

“I know it is.”

Silence stretched between them. Even the fire seemed to quiet.

Carver ran a hand over his face. “Okay, let’s just say—just say—I am your dead forest hero reborn. What do you expect me to do about it?”

Brannagh tilted her head.

“I’m not smart,” Carver continued. “I’m not my brother. I don’t read old books for fun, I don’t speak Elven, and I sure as shit don’t do diplomacy.”

Brannagh said nothing.

“I’m not strong either,” he went on. “Not like the red-bearded jackass who nearly snapped my neck. I mean, I’ve got muscle, sure, but I’m not winning any arm-wrestling contests with a tree.”

Still nothing.

“I’m not wise. I don’t have visions. I don’t know how to lead anyone. I don’t even know how to talk to people without pissing them off. So unless the big spirit wolf got her soul map mixed up—”

“You are exactly who was chosen,” Brannagh said calmly.

Carver blinked. “Did you not hear any of what I just said?”

Her eyes glinted. “You bleed. You swear. You rage. You laugh at death, even when your neck is at the knife. That is what the Chasind remember. That is what the Wilds honor.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So what? I’m the unwashed, angry savior? Is that it?”

Brannagh laughed.

It wasn’t a kind laugh—it was the sharp, wheezing kind, like bark snapping in the cold.

Carver crossed his arms, sulking slightly. “Glad someone thinks this is funny.”

When her laughter died down, Brannagh reached forward and placed a bony hand over his.

“The path ahead is not carved,” she said. “It is hidden. No map. No signposts. Only your own feet, and the spirit guiding you.”

Carver snorted. “Yeah, well, I’ve got two feet and an attitude problem. That enough to save your people?”

“Time will show,” she said.

“Not the most reassuring answer.”

“It is the only true one.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Peach rested her chin on Carver’s boot, watching the fire.

Finally, Carver muttered, “So what now? You going to dress me in feathers and drag me out for a speech?”

Brannagh smiled. “No. But you will start with the shamans at dawn. If you are to lead, you must first listen.”

“Maker help me,” Carver groaned, “I’m going to have to study, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Brannagh said, already turning back to her fire. “And it will hurt. Learning always does.”

Carver sighed, stood up, and turned to leave.

“Carver,” she called.

He looked over his shoulder.

“Do not fear who you are,” she said. “The Wilds already know your name.”

He didn’t answer.

But Peach followed at his heels as he stepped back into the firelit night, and Vandarel, warm across his back, whispered nothing—for now.

The weeks dragged like rusted chains.

Carver Hawke woke up sore, went to bed sorer, and in between was either getting bruised, burned, or bitten by insects the size of his thumb. If this was what being “chosen” meant, he’d rather be cursed.

The Chasind didn’t like him. Not all of them—not even most of them. He could feel it in the way they stared when they thought he wasn’t looking. In how they spoke around him, not to him. In how they rolled their eyes or smirked when he tried to speak their words and butchered every single one.

And Maker, the training.

It started with the shamans.

Brannagh insisted on it, dragging him to a smoky cave just off the edge of the village, lined with crystals, bones, and dried herbs that smelled like burnt socks.

They made him sit for hours, chanting words he didn’t understand, forcing him to hold Vandarel across his lap as if he were some kind of ceremonial offering.

“You must listen,” one shaman—Muiren, the youngest—told him.

Carver groaned. “I am listening.”

“Not with your ears. With your blood.”

“Oh good. That clears it right up.”

Sometimes the magic sparked. Once, a gust of wind blew from nowhere and knocked over a brazier. Another time, the crystals glowed so brightly they cracked.

But mostly, nothing.

Vandarel’s voice came and went like a particularly mouthy conscience.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re trying like a drunk cow trying to dance.”

“Why don’t you do the spellcasting, then?”

“I would if I weren’t attached to your idiot spine.”

And Peach—Peach just curled up behind him every session and snored as if nothing mystical was happening at all.

Then came the hunters.

Tall, lean, paint-smeared bastards with endless teeth and no patience. They gave him a knife, a coil of rope, and said “Keep up.”

He didn’t.

Carver stumbled through bramble, lost track of trails, slipped on moss, and nearly fell into a bog twice. When he did manage to spot a trail or catch a rabbit, they gave him a slow clap and called him “Halla-foot.”

“You track like a blind shem,” one of them jeered.

“Not my fault the ground here’s made of mud and lies,” Carver shot back, tangled in yet another vine.

They laughed. Every time.

Only Peach refused to leave his side, even when they tried to drive her off. She growled low and sharp until they backed down. A few even started calling her “The Black Shadow.” She seemed to enjoy that far too much.

And then there were the warriors.

They trained in the open pit, just outside the main fire circle, where everyone could watch. Of course they did. Because nothing said bonding like public humiliation.

Hrogarh, the red-haired slab of gristle and ego, seemed to take special pleasure in beating Carver into the dirt.

“Use your legs, lowlander!” he barked, before flipping Carver onto his back.

“I am using them—ow—fuck!”

“Your sword is for children!”

“It talks back, you try using it!”

The other warriors cackled as Hrogarh drove him into the ground again and again. Carver got bruised ribs, a black eye, and what felt suspiciously like a dislocated shoulder.

Once, after a particularly brutal knock to the gut, Carver just lay on the ground wheezing while Peach stood by licking his face, tail wagging like this was the best game ever.

“You’re useless,” Hrogarh sneered.

“Thanks,” Carver rasped, “I was starting to worry you liked me.”

He didn’t win a single match. Not one. But he kept getting up. That seemed to unnerve a few of them more than it pleased them.

The only real peace came in quiet moments.

At night, when the fires died low and the mist rolled in, Carver would sit with Peach curled at his side and Vandarel resting across his knees.

They’d bicker like a pair of old fishwives.

“You should’ve ducked. How does one miss a punch that loud?”

“Maybe I like being punched. Maybe it builds character.”

“You’re lucky I’m bound to you. In my day, I had wielders who could call lightning.”

“Yeah? In your day, people also thought leeches cured fevers.”

“You’ve got the subtlety of a bronto’s backside.”

“And you’re a stick with attitude. We’re all suffering.”

And yet, in between the jabs and snarls, something strange had begun to happen.

They started to sound like friends.

It started like any other day.

Pain.

More bruises. More grunts. More dirt kicked in his face by Hrogarh’s boots. Carver hit the ground hard—again—cheek pressed into the frozen mud of the sparring ring.

The gathered warriors didn’t even bother to laugh anymore. They just watched. Bored. Expectant.

“Stay down, lowlander,” Hrogarh growled above him, sweat gleaming in his tangled red beard. “The ground suits you.”

Carver pushed himself up, biting back the wince. “You wish.”

Another shove knocked him flat.

His ribs throbbed. His pride ached worse.

One of the others chuckled. “Maybe the spirit picked the wrong man.”

That was it.

Carver’s fist clenched around the hilt of Vandarel—he hadn’t even realized he’d reached for the blade. Peach, lounging nearby in the shade, lifted her head and let out a low growl.

Carver stood, eyes blazing. “I chose to help you!” he shouted.

Silence fell over the ring.

He stormed toward Hrogarh, voice cracking with rage. “You think I wanted to be here? You think I crawled out of a battlefield, half-dead, because I enjoy getting the shit beaten out of me by a walking goat with a sword?!”

Hrogarh stiffened, hand going to his blade.

“I left my family behind,” Carver spat. “I gave up everything—because some spirit said you needed me. And what have I gotten? Spit. Mockery. And this constant ‘lowlander’ bullshit!”

He turned to the others, voice rising. “You don’t even see me. You see a foreigner. A joke. Someone to knock down so you can feel like warriors.”

He shook his head, chest heaving. “You know what? Fuck you. All of you. You ungrateful bastards can rot in this forest for all I care.”

He shoved past the circle, Vandarel crackling faintly on his back.

Peach padded after him, tail stiff.

“Carver,” one of the women called after him.

He didn’t look back.

“Carver!” Brannagh’s voice, somewhere near the fire pit.

Still no pause.

Only when the tents began to fade into trees did he finally stop, just long enough to slam his hand into a tree trunk.

“Fucking assholes!” he roared. “Every last one of them!”

“Agreed,” Vandarel said coolly in his mind. “I never liked my people. Full of bluster and mud-headed pride.”

Carver blinked. “Wait—you’re agreeing with me?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Peach huffed beside him and bumped his leg with her nose.

“Yeah,” Carver muttered, running a hand through his hair, “you’re right. No point yelling at bark.”

He turned, about to stomp deeper into the trees—

When the first scream tore through the air.

Then the sound of feet pounding over roots.

A young scout—barely more than a boy—came crashing out of the brush, hair wild and face pale as bone.

“Darkspawn!” he yelled, barely catching his breath. “A pack—big—north ridge—coming fast!”

Carver froze.

The others in the village burst into motion. War cries. Shouted orders. Weapons drawn.

But Carver was already gone.

He ran toward the smell.

Because Maker, he knew that smell.

Rot. Death. Something fouler than blood or filth. Something that clung to the soul and chewed its way in.

He had smelled it on the battlefield at Ostagar. He would never forget it.

Peach loped beside him, silent, her hackles up.

Vandarel pulsed on his back.

“You feel it?”

“Yeah,” Carver growled. “I feel it.”

He didn’t think. Didn’t plan.

He just charged.

They came into view in the next clearing—twelve, maybe fifteen darkspawn. Mostly genlocks. A few hurlocks. One large, broad-shouldered thing with a cleaver the size of a door.

They turned at the sound of his footsteps.

And Carver—angry, aching, done—let the fury take him.

He leapt.

Vandarel hummed to life in his hand, the blade bright with magic.

He struck hard, cleaving through the first genlock’s chest. Blood sprayed. A second came at him—he spun, letting the blade bite deep, then flung fire from his free hand without even thinking. It seared the creature into ash.

Peach lunged with him, ripping into the legs of a shrieker, snapping bone with her jaws.

Magic spilled from Carver in bursts—fire, force, lightning. It didn’t feel forced anymore. It felt like breathing.

Vandarel whispered with every strike.

“There. Strike low.”
“Use the wind, not your rage.”
“Good. Again.”

Carver obeyed. He danced.

Bodies hit the ground. Limbs flew. One hurlock screamed as Carver drove Vandarel straight through its mouth.

Then quiet.

The last fell headless at his feet.

He stood alone in the clearing, blood dripping from his face, soaking his clothes.

He was panting, steam rising from his shoulders.

And then—

The Chasind warriors arrived.

Too late.

They stumbled into the space, blades drawn, paint fresh, breath heavy.

They froze.

There stood the lowlander. Carver Hawke. Covered in blood, surrounded by corpses, his wolf beside him and a staff-blade glowing with pale fire in his hand.

He turned to them, raised Vandarel, and pointed it at their chests.

“I may be a lowlander,” he shouted, voice cracking with fury, “but I’ve fought the darkspawn.I was at fucking Ostagar while you all was hiding in your swamp!”

Silence.

“I know their stink. I know how they move. And maybe I don’t know your rites, or your chants, or what bones to hang on my belt—but I know war!”

No one moved.

Carver took a breath. Then another.

“I chose this. I could’ve run. I could’ve gone back to my family. But I stayed. I walked into this Wilds when I had every reason not to. For you. For what the spirit asked me to do.”

He lowered Vandarel slightly.

“I don’t need your approval,” he said, voice quieter now. “But I will fulfill the purpose I was chosen for. With or without your pride in the way.”

One step forward.

“So maybe, just maybe—next time—thank me. Or get the fuck out of my way.”

He turned from them.

Peach followed, tail high.

The trees swallowed them whole.

Chapter Text

Things got somewhat easier after Carver and Peach tore through a band of darkspawn like a hot knife through cold entrails.

The tribe stopped looking at him like a joke. Now they looked at him like a problem they couldn’t quite solve.

Not quite one of them, not quite not.

Still, the mocking eased. Some of the warriors even nodded at him. Not often. Not warmly. But a nod’s a nod.

Even in the sparring yard, things began to shift. He still got knocked on his ass—frequently. But now he got up faster. He saw patterns, learned when to dodge, how to breathe while moving. Hrogarh still handed him his pride in a broken pile twice a week, but even the red-haired ox had stopped gloating as much.

Carver fought differently now.

He didn’t swing with just rage anymore.

No, he listened. To his feet on the earth. To Peach’s growl when someone came in from the side. To the wind in the trees and the way Vandarel pulsed when something felt wrong.

He used his head.

Which, admittedly, was a first.

He and Vandarel had reached what one might call a truce.

Not friendship.

Definitely not affection.

But co-existence.

They had long since stopped trying to dominate each other. Now, they bickered like roommates forced to share a very tight, very magical living space.

“You’re holding me like a club.”

“I am clubbing something.”

“Try aiming this time.”

“I’d love to see you do better with a spine and lungs.”

“You’re the one who insisted on being made of meat.”

He still trained with Brannagh and the other shamans every morning. His progress with magic was… uneven.

Sometimes the flame jumped from his fingers like it had been waiting.

Sometimes it sputtered and fried his eyebrows.

And yet, it was no longer a mystery. Magic lived in his bones now—hot and strange, but not unwelcome. Just unfamiliar.

Like a new scar.

It was Brannagh who gave him the task.

They sat near her fire, sipping broth thick with roots and meat he didn’t ask about.

“You’re ready,” she said, watching him with that half-lidded stare that always made him feel like she saw straight through him.

“For what?” he asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“The Cave of Ash Breath.”

He blinked. “That sounds like the inside of a drunk’s mouth.”

She ignored him. “The shamans have gone there for generations. It is where the spiritwolf speaks clearest. Where Vandarel's story echoes.”

Carver frowned. “You want me to meditate?”

“You need to listen.”

“I do listen. Vandarel never shuts up.”

“Rude,” Vandarel muttered in his head.

Brannagh reached over and tapped his chest with a crooked finger. “I mean listen with this. Not just that thick skull of yours.”

“…It’s sturdy, not thick.”

“You’ll go alone,” she said. “Only the blade. Only the wolf, if she follows.”

Carver looked at Peach, who was currently gnawing on a stick like it owed her money.

“Right. Great backup.”

Brannagh smiled faintly. “If you’re lucky, the wolf spirit may show you the magic that suits you best.”

“And if I’m not lucky?”

“Then you’ll sit in a cave like an idiot and come back unchanged.”

He sighed. “Wonderful.”

The cave was a half-day’s walk north. The path twisted through thick forest and narrow ravines lined with stones shaped like claws. Peach trotted ahead, tail high, occasionally vanishing into the brush and reappearing like she’d never left.

By the time they reached the cave’s mouth, dusk was bleeding into night.

It yawned open before him—black and damp, smelling of moss and ancient rot.

Carver lit a torch, but Vandarel pulsed against his back.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Put it out. You won’t see what you need to with fire.”

He grumbled but obeyed, snuffing it out with his boot.

The dark swallowed him whole.

Peach followed silently, pawsteps soft on the stone.

They moved deeper.

The air was cold, the kind that got into your teeth and didn’t leave.

Carver placed Vandarel down in the center of a ring of ancient stones, cracked and stained with old symbols. Some glowed faintly, reacting to the blade.

He sat.

And waited.

And… waited.

“I swear to the Maker, if this is just a really fancy way of freezing my ass off—”

A whisper curled through the dark.

Not words. Not quite.

More like breath. Pressure. The sensation of a memory brushing against him.

He closed his eyes.

The symbols grew brighter.

The cave warmed.

And then—

He saw him.

Not clearly. But enough.

A tall man. Face hidden by a bone mask, body wrapped in furs and painted symbols. He stood with the staff-sword across his back—Vandarel, whole and powerful.

He saw the man walk into a battlefield, raise his hand, and shatter the earth beneath darkspawn feet.

He saw Chasind kneeling.

Avvar raising their banners beside them.

He saw a figure fall in battle—stabbed through the gut, but laughing as he bled.

“I will return,” the dying man rasped.

His voice echoed in Carver’s skull.

“When your blood calls me.”

He gasped awake.

Peach sat beside him, ears twitching.

The cave was quiet again.

The symbols still glowed, but softer now.

And something thrummed in his chest—new, but not unfamiliar.

Heat.

Fire.

Force.

Magic, not wild and surging like before—but focused. Centered.

Controlled.

He stood slowly, picked up Vandarel.

“What did you see?”

Carver swallowed.

“…Me,” he said. “But not me.”

Vandarel was quiet.

Then: “Good.”

Carver looked around the cave once more.

He didn’t know everything. Still didn’t know how he was meant to lead, or why the spirit had chosen him out of all people.

But for the first time—

He didn’t feel like an imposter.

Not quite.

When Carver stepped back into the village, the air shifted.

It was subtle, at first. The way the hunters stopped what they were doing to look at him. How the children, who had once run from him, now peeked around tents with wide, curious eyes. A man stirring a pot over the communal fire gave him a quiet nod.

Carver blinked, halfway expecting to be asked to leave again—or at the very least, challenged to another round in the dirt.

Instead, he heard someone mutter, “Wolf-marked.”

Another voice, older, said with a kind of reverence, “He walked the cave and returned.”

He hadn’t realized just how much he’d tensed walking back until Peach nudged his hip, and he exhaled.

“Guess we’re really in it now, huh?”

The wolf snorted, her breath misting in the cool air. Vandarel, strapped across Carver’s back, hummed with quiet energy. Not smug, for once. Almost… solemn.

He made his way to Brannagh’s tent without being stopped, though he felt eyes on him the entire time. Watching. Waiting.

When he ducked past the hide-flap, the old shaman was already sitting cross-legged, a bowl of something steaming in her hands. She didn’t look up as he entered.

“Sit,” she said.

Carver did.

She handed him the bowl.

He stared into it. Roots, bark, and what looked like some kind of bone. “You serve this to everyone, or is this special?”

Brannagh smirked. “You get the good stuff. From the bottom of the pot.”

He grimaced but drank anyway.

After a moment, she asked, “What did you see?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “Vandarel. Or… who he used to be. In the cave. Fighting. Bleeding. Laughing. He said he’d return when the blood called.”

Brannagh nodded, eyes unreadable. “Then the cave showed you truth.”

Carver shifted. “Who was he?”

She looked at him then, sharp and steady. “He was the younger brother of a great chieftain. A leader of men. Strong, proud, beloved. Vandarel lived in his shadow, always second.”

Carver’s breath caught.

“But he had something his brother did not,” she continued. “He heard the spirits. Felt them in the wind, in the bones of the earth. When the Third Blight came, it was not the chieftain who led the clans—it was Vandarel. Chosen by the wolf spirit, same as you.”

Carver glanced toward the weapon at his back.

Brannagh went on, voice low. “He wielded fire and frost. He spoke with beasts. He allied with Avvar warbands, something no Chasind had done in living memory. He turned savagery into purpose.”

“And he died,” Carver said softly.

Brannagh’s eyes glistened in the firelight. “A blade through the belly. He laughed as he fell, they say. Laughed and made a vow. That he would not pass into the Fade. That his soul would stay in the weapon until his people needed him again.”

Carver was silent for a long moment.

“Dumbass,” he muttered. “Who pledges himself to a sword?”

“Do not speak ill of the dead when I’m listening.”

He winced. “It was a compliment. In a… weird, twisted way.”

Brannagh raised an eyebrow, but smiled faintly. “You see the path now.”

“I see a bit of it,” Carver admitted. “I still don’t know why he chose me.”

“Maybe because you’re like him. You stood in another’s shadow. And you walked away from it.”

Carver swallowed, throat tight.

He looked down at his hands. “He… deserved more respect. Vandarel, I mean. I didn’t realize who he really was. What he gave up.”

The staff hummed again. Not smug. Not annoyed. Just present.

Brannagh nodded. “Few do. Until the stories come alive.”

He sat in silence, thinking.

Outside, voices murmured, fires crackled, children laughed.

The village was alive. Not with fear, not anymore. Not like before Ostagar.

There was still tension—he could feel it in the air. But now there was hope, too.

Brannagh set her bowl aside. “Tonight, the clan meets. The darkspawn threat grows. We will speak of what must be done.”

Carver looked up. “You want me to speak?”

She shook her head. “I want you to listen. Then, if your voice burns in your chest… let it out.”

He nodded slowly, already knowing what he would say, if they gave him the chance.

Because something had changed.

Not just in the cave.

Not just in the people.

But in him.

He wasn’t just following the spirit’s will anymore.

He believed in it.

The meeting was held at the heart of the village—near the firepit ringed by spears, antlered skulls, and a towering totem of faded bone. The warriors gathered first, then the elders, the hunters, the shamans, and finally the rest—men and women, young and old, silent, wary, hopeful.

Brannagh sat on her stump, her staff resting in the crook of her arm, saying nothing.

Peach lay beside Carver, unmoving except for the occasional flick of an ear. Vandarel hummed lightly at his back, like a stormcloud waiting for thunder.

Carver said nothing at first.

He wanted to see where it would go.

That lasted about three seconds.

Hrogarh—of course—sprang to his feet like a bear with a splinter in its ass and bellowed over everyone.

“We should strike now! Take the fight to the darkspawn and crush them before they multiply! We are Chasind! Our blades thirst for blood, not for hiding like frightened lowland sheep!”

Some of the warriors growled their approval. Fists pounded on thighs. A few shouted his name. The old woman next to Carver muttered something under her breath that sounded an awful lot like "bloody idiots."

Others, though—especially the elders—looked uneasy.

Another hunter stood and countered, “We barely held them off last time, Hrogarh. We lost four men.”

“Their loss was honorable!” Hrogarh snapped. “Better to fall in battle than rot like cowards in the mud!”

And with that, the meeting descended into noise.

Shouts.

Arguments.

Curses thrown like daggers.

Brannagh stayed silent.

Carver rubbed his hands together, trying to stay calm, but every shouted word burrowed under his skin.

His jaw tightened.

His grip on Vandarel did, too.

Peach gave him a warning look—but it was too late.

He stood up and yelled.

“SHUT. THE FUCK. UP!”

Silence slammed down like a hammer.

Everyone stared at him—most with surprise. A few with outrage.

Hrogarh did not shut up.

Of course he didn’t.

“The lowlander thinks he can bark orders now? Go back to your trees and your spirit tales—”

Carver turned to him with a look that could peel paint.

“Say one more word, and I swear I’ll shove Vandarel so far up your ass you’ll start quoting the Chant of Light backwards.”

Hrogarh opened his mouth.

Then, wisely, shut it.

Carver pressed a hand to his face, exhaling through his nose.

“If you’re so eager to die, Hrogarh, then by all means—go dance with the darkspawn. I’ll even walk you to their campfire myself.”

A few laughs rippled through the crowd.

He dropped his hand and looked around, making sure to meet as many eyes as he could.

“But if you think seventy-five warriors with sticks and warpaint are gonna do what the entire fucking Fereldan army couldn’t? Then you’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something.”

He let the words sit there. No one interrupted him.

Even Brannagh watched with quiet, flickering interest.

Carver took a breath.

“You all know the stories, right? The ones you shout to your kids when they ask why the skies are dark and the ground stinks of rot?”

Silence.

“That only a Grey Warden can kill the archdemon? That it’s not just an army—it's something worse? Something ancient and wrong?” He shook his head. “We’re not winning this by charging in like maniacs.”

Murmurs moved through the crowd now. Less anger. More uncertainty.

“So no,” Carver continued, voice calmer now. “No running in blades drawn. No death wish heroics. That’s not what we need.”

He let his gaze fall back on Brannagh—who gave him a slow nod.

Instead, Carver turned back to the fire and raised his voice again.

“We need the other clans. We need to gather all the Chasind. Bring them in, one by one, because the archdemon decided to wake up here, in our wilds. And you know what that means?”

He swept his arm toward the dark horizon.

“That we’ll be the first to fall.”

Faces changed now.

Anger drained. Fear set in.

But not fear without shape.

Fear with a plan.

“And you know this too—none of us are strong alone. That’s not who we are. We’re strongest when we hunt in packs. When we listen to the trees, the sky, the land. Together.”

Someone in the back murmured, “He speaks like one of us.”

Carver ignored it, pressing on.

“So while the clans gather? We track the bastards. We watch them. We learn where they move, how they spread, and when they’ll strike. And when they do? We’ll have our children and the ones who can’t fight somewhere safe. We’ll hit back on our terms.”

He finally stopped, breathing hard, chest rising and falling.

Peach stood beside him now, silent and solid.

Vandarel pulsed at his back like a living heartbeat.

No one said a word.

Then Brannagh stood, leaning on her staff, her gaze sweeping the gathering.

“The wolf has spoken,” she said. “And the wind hears him.”

The people slowly began to nod.

One by one.

Until only Hrogarh was left standing.

His mouth moved—then closed again.

Carver didn’t look at him.

Silence still lingered like mist after Carver's speech — thick, unmoving, waiting.

Then Carver cleared his throat and said, "There's one more thing you should know. About the Grey Wardens."

All eyes were on him again.

"They were all slain at Ostagar."

Gasps echoed around the fire. Even Hrogarh, who clearly hated the sound of Carver’s voice, looked unsettled.

Carver folded his arms.

"I was there. I saw the king fall—waiting like a godsdamned fool for reinforcements from Loghain, who never came. He died screaming, crushed under an ogre. Same as I nearly did." His voice cracked, not with grief, but memory. "The Grey Wardens died on the front line with him. Every last one of them."

Murmurs swept the crowd like wind through long grass—until a woman with tight braids stood.

"I was in Lothering," she said softly. "Before it burned. People were talking. Said some Wardens did survive. But there were bounties on them. From a lowlander noble named… Howe. Said they killed the king."

Carver snorted so hard it was nearly a laugh.

"Killed the king? Yeah, right. I watched Cailan die like a fool with stars in his eyes and too much golden trim on his armor. The only thing that killed that man was betrayal—and an ogre."

The woman smiled at him, relieved, and quietly sat back down.

Carver turned slowly, scanning the faces around the fire.

"Thank you," he said, genuinely.

She nodded.

Then his brow furrowed. “Do we have any reason to think the Avvar will help?”

A pause. Then quiet shaking heads.

“They’ll stay in their mountains,” someone muttered. “They always do. Hide and wait for it to pass.”

“Cowards,” said another.

Carver scowled. "So much for the fabled strength of the Avvar," he muttered, not bothering to lower his voice. “Glad I ended up with the Chasind instead. At least you lot have the balls they don’t.”

A few people chuckled.

Most straightened their backs with pride.

Brannagh smirked behind her cup of tea.

Carver stepped forward again, voice more thoughtful now.

“What about the Dalish?” he asked. “You’ve dealt with them before, right? In the Brecillian Forest?”

An old man in the back raised his head. His eyes were milked over, almost blind, but his voice was steady. “We used to trade with a clan led by Keeper Zathrian. They took in wounded hunters. We gave them roots for their rituals.”

Carver nodded. “Good. Then maybe they’ll listen.”

He looked around, voice hardening.

“I’ll go. I’ll take three with me—someone who knows the forest, someone who can translate if needed, and someone who can survive. We’ll find this Zathrian, and see what the Dalish know. The Grey Wardens had a treaty with them. If any Wardens are still breathing, the elves might know where.”

“And if not?” Brannagh asked softly.

Carver met her eyes. “Then we try to forge a new alliance. Chasind and Dalish together.”

There was a long pause.

Then he turned to face the elders.

"While we’re gone, I want envoys sent to every Chasind clan in the Wilds. No waiting. No stalling. Tell them to gather or be left behind. If they’d rather die alone, fine. But time’s running short, and we’re not here to play nice and hold hands until they feel ready."

Gasps again. Someone started to protest.

But Brannagh raised her hand.

“He’s right,” she said simply. “The wind does not wait for a slow foot.”

Carver nodded to her, grateful.

“And the last thing—” he added, raising his voice over renewed murmurs. “I want the ten best trackers and scouts. Men and women who can move without being seen. Their job is to follow the darkspawn. Not to fight. Not to charge in. Just… watch.”

“Watch?” Hrogarh finally spoke again, still not quite tamed.

“Watch,” Carver repeated coldly. “Because if we know where the bastards are, we can move our people. Hide the children. The sick. The old. We don’t walk into the jaws of the Blight. We stay a step ahead of it. That’s how we survive.”

The old man Alvor stood, tapping his staff once on the ground. “I’ll give you the names of our best,” he said. “One of them is my own granddaughter.”

Carver nodded, feeling the thrum of something rising in his chest.

Not pride.

Not yet.

But purpose.

The meeting began to disperse in slow waves—some still whispering, others thoughtful. Plans already started to form between family groups, warriors gathering gear, scouts quietly taking instruction.

Carver stepped back, suddenly tired. Peach nudged his hand with her nose.

He scratched behind her ears.

“Guess we’re doing this, huh?”

“No backing out now, pup.” Vandarel’s voice sounded less mocking than usual. Almost fond.

Carver looked to the dark line of the forest in the distance, and wondered what answers—what truths—waited there.

Sleep was a lie.

Carver tossed. Turned. Cursed into his bedroll. Rolled over again. Peach let out a low huff from her side of the tent and lifted one paw over her face like she was embarrassed by him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Carver muttered. “I’m insufferable. Add it to the list.”

But no matter how hard he tried to relax, his mind kept spinning. The meeting. The words he’d said. The way people had actually listened. Without laughing. Without rolling their eyes. Without asking, “And what would Garrett do instead?”

It was nice. And terrifying.

Finally, with a frustrated grunt, Carver gave up.

He rolled to his feet, grabbed his cloak, and stepped out into the night. Peach didn’t follow. Traitor.

The cold air bit at his skin, but it cleared his head. The village was quiet, only the soft flicker of distant firelight and the rustle of wind through bones and branches.

Above, the stars stretched across the sky like an open book.

He stared up at them for a long while.

“Wonder if you’re looking too,” he whispered. “Garrett. Beth. Ma…”

A twig snapped.

Carver’s shoulders tensed, hand twitching toward Vandarel on instinct.

“You are very loud when you think,” said a voice behind him—old and dry like crackling leaves.

“FUCK!” Carver yelped, jumping a foot off the ground and spinning around. “Brannagh, maker’s soggy ass, don’t sneak up on people like that!”

The old woman cackled softly. “If you didn’t think so loud, I wouldn’t hear you.”

He gave her a withering look, but it didn’t land. It never did.

Brannagh stepped closer, her gnarled hands folded in front of her, her eyes raised to the stars.

“One day,” she said gently, “you will see them again. Just… wait. The world turns as it must.”

Carver looked at her, throat tight, and then bent down without thinking and kissed her weathered cheek.

She blinked, then gave a chuckle that made her whole body shake.

“Well, now. I should have startled you sooner.”

He grinned. “You’re the best thing in this gods-forsaken swamp, you know that?”

“Get your handsome behind to bed,” she said, wagging a crooked finger. “You’ve got a journey ahead.”

Carver gave a tired salute. “Yes, wise crone.”

“Charming brat.”

By morning, the mist clung to the ground, thick and cold. But Carver was already packed. Vandarel strapped to his back. Peach stood beside him, yawning with her entire face.

“I still don’t know who’s coming,” Carver muttered. “Knowing my luck it’s Hrogarh and a bunch of angry squirrels.”

“I wouldn’t mind the squirrels,” Vandarel said in his head. “At least they’d have manners.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Then the village gathered. One by one. Dozens. Maybe all of them.

And Carver blinked like an idiot.

“Uh… hi?”

Brannagh stepped forward, but before she could speak, someone else did.

“I’m going with you,” came the gravelly growl.

Carver turned—and nearly choked on his own tongue.

“Hrogarh? You?!”

The red-haired mountain of muscle grinned, already geared up with axes on his back and a pack slung over one shoulder.

“You think I’d let you go off and get all the glory?”

Carver opened his mouth. Closed it. “I… I don’t even have a comeback. I’m too confused.”

Before Hrogarh could make a snarky remark, a smaller voice piped up.

“I’m coming too.”

The braided scout from the night before stepped forward. She was shorter than Carver remembered, but she had that look—like a hawk that had seen too many winters and still didn’t blink.

“Ebba,” she said, with a nod. “I can scout. I know the trails. And you didn’t mock me last night. That earns you a bit of loyalty.”

Carver blinked again. “I—I’ll take it.”

And then the weirdest of all.

Carnuh. The youngest acolyte. Pale, thin, nervous as a deer in spring.

He stepped forward, awkward in his travel robes, carrying a too-large pack.

“I’m coming,” he said, voice soft but firm.

Carver tilted his head. “Carnuh? Are you sure? You look like a stiff breeze could knock you out.”

Carnuh flushed but didn’t back down. “My mother was Dalish. I know their customs. Their language. They won’t kill you on sight if I speak first.”

“Well,” Carver said, lips twitching, “that’s comforting.”

He looked them all over.

Hrogarh, the red-haired berserker with a temper that could scare bears.

Ebba, the sharp-eyed scout who didn’t smile once.

Carnuh, the timid half-elf who was already sweating.

And himself—Carver Hawke, the brother always left behind, now battlemage and bearer of Vandarel.

He let out a laugh and shook his head. “What a band of misfits.”

“Oh good,” Vandarel said dryly. “I was worried we’d be surrounded by competent people.”

Brannagh stepped forward again then, this time with the other elders beside her.

“In our tradition,” she said solemnly, “a hunter who walks into the wilds to seek wisdom, to forge alliance, to carry the hopes of the clan—they are marked by the wolf.”

She held out something bundled in her arms.

Carver took it—and stared.

It was a cloak. Black wolfskin. Heavy. Lined with fur. The head of the beast still intact, its snout resting against the shoulder.

It smelled of sage, smoke, and old, wild magic.

Carver put it on.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like someone playing dress-up in someone else’s armor.

He felt… Chasind.

Brannagh reached up and touched his face gently.

“Go now, child. Find the allies we need. And come back alive.”

Carver gave her a crooked smile.

“No promises. But I’ll do my best.”

He looked to Peach.

“Ready?”

She wagged her tail once.

Then the four of them set off into the wilds, under a sky heavy with clouds, toward secrets, legends, and whatever fate waited ahead.

Chapter Text

It was fucking awkward.

No one talked.

They moved in a straight line through the overgrown forest trails, the sun hidden behind thick grey clouds. The only sound was the steady crunch of boots on damp ground, the occasional rustle of wind through the trees… and the constant, inevitable thump of Carnuh tripping over his own feet.

“Shit—sorry,” the boy muttered for the fifth time that hour, stumbling again over a rock that no one else seemed to notice.

Carver glanced over, watching the half-Dalish acolyte flail like a startled goose. But he said nothing. Just sighed inwardly and let Ebba keep guiding the way.

She moved like a shadow—silent, bow always in hand, her eyes scanning the trees ahead with that intense focus only someone born in the wilds could pull off. She hadn’t spoken since morning. Hrogarh hadn’t either, but that was less unusual. The big bastard had spent most of the journey grunting, glaring, or cracking his neck like he was hoping someone would give him a reason to swing his axe.

They stopped once during the day. No fire. Just enough time to drink, piss, and chew on dried meat that tasted like bark. Peach flopped beside Carver, her black fur blending into the shadows like she was a part of them.

It was only then Carver noticed Carnuh’s hands shaking.

The kid was pale. Dark circles under his eyes. He couldn’t even get his pack off without nearly falling over.

Carver bit back a groan. “Maker’s soggy arse,” he muttered to himself.

Then he stood, walked over, and without a word, grabbed the oversized pack off Carnuh’s back and hoisted it over his own, now carrying both.

Carnuh blinked. “W-what are you—”

“Don’t talk,” Carver said. “You’ll pass out.”

“But I—”

Carver gave him a look that shut him up fast.

And just like that, they kept walking.

No words.

Not until camp that night.

They settled near a riverbend, hidden in a thicket thick with thorns and hanging moss. Carver dropped both packs near the fire pit and rolled his shoulders.

“Remind me,” Vandarel grumbled from the staff strapped to Carver’s back, “why we’re babysitting a fawn-legged elf-child again?”

“Because you’re not the one hauling his weight,” Carver muttered.

“I was once wielded by a warlord who could split ogres in half with one swing.”

“Yeah? And now you’re carried by a grumpy bastard with a bad back and two jobs. Life’s tough.”

“You’re tough,” Vandarel mocked. “That must be why your spine cracked under an ogre and your voice still cracks when Brannagh compliments you.”

Carver didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Peach gave a lazy woof of amusement and circled twice before curling up near the fire.

Across from them, Hrogarh was sharpening one of his axes with a stone that looked like it had seen more blood than rain. The red-haired warrior hadn’t said a single word to Carver since they left. Not a real word anyway. Just grunts. Glares. Once he might’ve growled. Like an actual wolf. It was impressive, really.

Ebba squatted beside the firepit, striking flint. Sparks flew. Smoke started curling up between the kindling.

Carnuh sat a little apart, staring into nothing.

Carver sighed. Fine. He could try.

He walked over and dropped onto a fallen log next to the younger man.

“You always this coordinated?” he asked dryly.

Carnuh startled. “I—I’m not used to travel.”

“No shit.”

The boy flushed. “I’m good with magic. My mother taught me Dalish wards and weather weaves. I can help.”

Carver looked at him sideways. “You’re here. That helps.”

That made Carnuh blink. Then, quietly, he nodded.

A long silence passed.

Then Carnuh whispered, “Thank you… for carrying my pack.”

Carver shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Literally. Don’t. I’m trying to pretend I’m not a decent person.”

Vandarel sighed in his head. “You're failing spectacularly, softheart.”

Carver rolled his eyes. “You want to walk next time?”

The staff stayed quiet.

Later, after they’d eaten and the stars blinked down through the trees, Carver sat beside Peach, arms crossed, his back resting against a tree. Vandarel lay across his knees like a resting limb.

Hrogarh spoke up first. “You handled yourself well at the meeting.”

Carver blinked. “I’m sorry. Did you just say something nice to me?”

Hrogarh grunted. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

Ebba smirked from across the fire. “Mark the day.”

“Will do,” Carver said, raising an invisible quill. “And next you’ll be telling me you don’t want to murder me in my sleep.”

Hrogarh looked thoughtful. “Still undecided.”

Carver laughed despite himself. “Fair.”

Ebba stood, stretching. “We should keep moving at first light. I want to reach the old ruins before midday.”

Carver frowned. “Ruins?”

She nodded. “If the Dalish are nearby, they’ll have watchers posted at the old elven stones. They like to keep an eye on their ancestors.”

“Spooky.”

“Sacred.”

“Still spooky.”

Ebba shook her head. “Try not to offend them, lowlander.”

“I’ll do my very best.”

They slept in shifts that night. Carver stayed up with Peach curled beside him and Vandarel humming softly through their mental link.

“You’re not doing badly,” the spirit finally said. “Your leadership is passable. Your sarcasm is still deeply unfortunate.”

Carver smirked. “Thanks, you insufferable magic stick.”

“I’ve ended wars.”

“You also complain more than my mother.”

“She’s likely disappointed in you too.”

Carver chuckled. “Yeah… probably.”

But despite the jokes, despite the ache in his legs and the weight of everything on his shoulders, he felt… alright.

No one had mocked him today. No one had talked over him.

They followed him.

That was new.

That was terrifying.

But kind of nice, too.

He glanced at the others. Carnuh was curled like a cat, snoring softly. Ebba leaned against a tree, already half-asleep. Hrogarh sat like a boulder, still awake, still sharpening.

And Carver?

He looked up at the stars.

For once, he felt like he was going somewhere.

The forest stretched out ahead of them, wide and drowsy in the late afternoon light. The ruins were a day’s walk away, according to Ebba—if they kept a good pace. Which they would, if Carnuh managed not to fall face-first into every damned root in the Wilds.

Carver glanced behind him. Carnuh was breathing through his mouth, flushed, but still upright. Progress.

He slowed a little, falling into step beside the kid.

“You good?”

Carnuh nodded, then shook his head. “My legs feel like soup.”

“You’ll live. Maybe.”

Carnuh cracked a tired smile.

Carver hesitated. Might as well try. “How old are you anyway?”

“Fifteen.”

Carver nearly tripped over a rock.

“Fifteen?!”

Carnuh winced. “Almost sixteen.”

“Maker’s soggy balls.” Carver rubbed his temples. “I thought you were just short and soft. You’re a baby.”

“I’m not—”

“No, no. Too late. You’re officially the puppy of this messed-up pack.” He looked at Peach. “No offense.”

Peach gave a low, bored huff and flicked her ears.

Carver took a breath, trying to adjust to the idea that one of the people on his very serious diplomatic maybe-we’ll-die mission had barely started shaving.

Still, Carnuh was the first one who hadn’t looked at him like a freak. That counted for something.

“So,” Carver said, “how does a Dalish mage end up with a Chasind warrior, anyway?”

Carnuh’s face lit up, a little shy but proud. “My mother was named Uhnivalla. She was from a clan that had too many mages. The Keepers didn’t know what to do with her, and no other clan wanted another spellcaster.”

“Too many mages?” Carver blinked. “That’s a thing?”

Carnuh shrugged. “They said it would attract too much attention. So they… expelled her.”

“Charming.”

“She wandered for a while. Kept herself hidden. Until some templars found her. Said she was rogue and needed to be ‘cleansed.’” He said the word with clear bitterness.

Carver clenched his jaw. “Let me guess. They ‘cleansed’ her with swords.”

Carnuh nodded. “They struck her down. She tried to run, but they—hurt her. Would’ve killed her.”

Carver didn’t realize his fists were clenching until his knuckles cracked.

Carnuh kept going. “Then this man came out of nowhere. Shouting, swinging an axe like a madman. Cut through all of them. His name was Carn.”

“Huh.” Carver tilted his head. “So you’re named after your dad?”

Carnuh nodded. “He carried my mother back to his village. She was badly hurt, but he wouldn't leave her. He sat beside her every night until she healed. And after that… she stayed. She taught the healers in the tribe about Dalish herbs, and she fell in love with Carn.”

“Let me guess,” Carver said, voice quieter now. “They died.”

Carnuh nodded. “A sickness. It took them both. I was twelve.”

Carver didn’t know what to say for a long moment. Then, softly: “I’m sorry.”

Carnuh didn’t reply right away. Just looked up at the treetops, blinking. “Before she passed, she taught me everything she knew. About Dalish magic. Healing. Shields. Nature wards.”

“Well… that’s a damn sight more than I got.” Carver snorted. “My dad taught me sword drills and how to swear at nobles. My mother taught me how to run.”

“And your siblings?”

Carver paused. “Garrett—my brother—was… good at everything. Always first. Always the golden one. Bethany was quiet. Smart. A mage like our dad. Always looked out for me.”

“You miss them.”

Carver nodded, then spat into the dirt. “Templars hunted us like we were beasts. That’s why we ran. Every time someone spotted magic, we had to disappear. You know how many nights I spent in a muddy ditch, wondering if we’d live to morning?”

He cracked his knuckles.

“So yeah. If a templar breathes near our village now, I’ll rip his fucking throat out and string his armor from the trees. Spike his head for good measure.”

Peach, as if in agreement, gave a low growl.

From up ahead, a loud bark of laughter echoed through the trees.

Hrogarh turned his massive frame back toward them, grinning. “Now that’s more like it, lowlander. I like this version of you. Murderous and unhinged.”

Carver rolled his eyes. “Glad I could finally win you over with casual threats of homicide.”

Ebba, walking just ahead of Hrogarh, smirked over her shoulder. “You could always try flowers and poetry, but I doubt Hrogarh can read.”

The big man growled. “I read just fine.”

“Sure you do,” Carver said, grinning despite himself.

For the first time in days, something eased in his chest.

The silence was still there—but it felt different now. Less awkward. Like the kind that settled between people who’d chosen to stay.

That night, as they set up camp one last time before the ruins, Carver pulled Vandarel out and sat by the fire, running his fingers along the carved runes.

“You’re not bad with people,” Vandarel said in his head. “When you’re not busy biting their heads off.”

“Don’t get mushy on me.”

“I’m a staff bound by soulfire, not a flower.”

“Good,” Carver said, tossing a stick into the flames. “Because if you ever recite a love poem, I’ll throw you into a swamp.”

“It would be preferable to your singing.”

Carver snorted and leaned back, listening to the crackle of fire, to Peach’s soft breathing, to Carnuh’s quiet hum as he cleaned out his spell pouch.

Maybe, just maybe, they could pull this off.

Even if it was with the weirdest damn group Ferelden had ever seen.

 The fire cracked, soft and steady, like it knew better than to speak out of turn.

Carver was just about to nod off with Peach curled beside him, when Ebba—of all people—spoke.

“Want to know my story too?”

Carver blinked, genuinely caught off guard. She’d said fewer words in the past week than Vandarel had said insults.

Still, he nodded. “Sure.”

Ebba didn’t look at him. Her sharp eyes were fixed on the flames.

“I’m twenty-three,” she said, voice calm. “My father was the village drunk. Fell into the river during a bender one winter and froze to death. I was five.”

Carver swallowed. “Shit.”

“After that,” she continued, “I got handed off to his brother and his wife. The lovely village chief and his perfect lady.”

The sarcasm was so dry it could have cracked bark.

“It was a house where fists spoke louder than words. Where nobody hugged you unless it was to hold you still. I stopped crying pretty quick. Learned not to make noise. Learned to keep my back to the wall.”

Carver sat up straighter.

“My aunt was just as good with her hands as her husband. And I was their favorite practice dummy. Only one who ever tried to stop it was my older cousin.”

She glanced over to Hrogarh.

Carver followed her eyes, and his jaw dropped. “Wait—him?”

Hrogarh grunted but didn’t deny it.

“Big dumb ox here used to throw himself between me and their beatings. Took more than his share of bruises. Got half the tribe calling him slow because of how many knocks he took to the skull.”

Ebba chuckled at her own joke. Hrogarh snorted.

Carver stared. “And… and nobody did anything? No one else stepped in?”

Hrogarh’s voice was low and tight. “We tried. But it didn’t matter. My da was the village chief. Everyone else looked the other way.”

Carver clenched his fists. “Fucking Maker. And the elders just let that happen?”

Ebba shrugged. “The old ways run deep. Especially when the ones hurting you smile in public.”

Carver stared at the fire, rage simmering.

“So what happened?” he asked. “How’d it stop?”

Ebba’s smile was cold. “One week after I ran off to the forest, their hut burned down in the night.”

The fire popped. Even Peach raised her head.

“They both died. My cousin got out with a few burns. No one ever proved anything.”

Carver’s mouth was dry. “Holy… shit.”

“Some still think I did it.” She met his gaze now, steady. “That I waited, then came back and burned them while they slept.”

“Did you?”

Ebba didn’t blink. “Does it matter?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “No. I guess it doesn’t.”

Hrogarh looked over at her and muttered, “Worth it.”

Carver blinked again.

“Did I stutter?” Hrogarh rolled his neck. “We were raised in the same dung heap. Got out the same way. Took different paths.”

Carver looked back and forth between them. It was like someone had dropped a brick on his brain.

Ebba gave a small smile. “After the fire, the village turned on me. Even those who’d pitied me before. I became the girl who maybe murdered the chief. The wild one in the woods. A shadow with a bow.”

She stared into the fire, voice quiet.

“Brannagh let me come back years later. Said the forest had given me teeth, and the tribe needed fangs. But no one ever really welcomed me back. Not until you.”

“Me?”

She nodded. “At the meeting. You didn’t cut me off. You didn’t laugh. You listened. And you thanked me.”

Carver scratched the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “That’s just… basic fucking manners, isn’t it?”

Ebba smiled again, but this one was real. “Not around here. Not for me.”

Carver swallowed the lump in his throat. “Well. Fuck them, then.”

“Exactly.”

Silence fell again. But this one wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that sat beside you, warm and honest, and didn’t demand to be filled.

“You know,” Carver said after a while, “I thought I was the only one with a family that tried to ruin them.”

Hrogarh laughed. “We all have something. Or we wouldn’t be out here walking toward elven ruins and possible death.”

“Yeah.” Carver looked around the fire at the strange, broken, maybe-a-bit-violent family he’d ended up with.

Vandarel, ever unhelpful, chimed in his head: “You attract strays, apparently.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Carver muttered.

Peach barked softly and rested her head on his leg.

He scratched behind her ear and let out a sigh.

“Alright. Anyone else got a tragic backstory they want to unload?”

Carnuh raised a hand half-heartedly. “Already told mine, remember?”

“Right. Mage orphan with dead elf mom and vengeful dad. Still beats ‘templars tried to gut me and my sister because magic makes them itchy.’”

Ebba’s smile turned sly. “So we’re a mage, a berserker, a rouge, and a… what do we call you, Carver?”

He shrugged. “Work in progress?”

Hrogarh grinned. “Let’s call you the mouthpiece.”

“Why?” Carver frowned.

“Because you talk so fucking much.”

Carver flipped him off.

But for the first time on the road, he was laughing.

Morning mist clung to the ground like a second skin, and every step Carver took made his nerves itch.

“We’re close,” Ebba said, eyes narrowed. She moved faster, bow in hand, body tense.

Carver opened his mouth to say he felt it too, but Peach beat him to it—ears up, hackles bristling, growling low.

That’s when he heard it—shouting in Elvish, the clash of blades, and a snarl that didn’t sound remotely human.

Ebba froze, hand raised.

“Up ahead,” she said. “Someone’s fighting. Something big.”

Carver didn’t wait. Vandarel hummed in his grip as he drew the blade, and then he was charging, Peach at his side.

“Carver, don’t—!”

Too late.

He burst through the brush and into a clearing—and stopped dead in his tracks.

Werewolves.

Actual fucking werewolves.

Four of them, all muscle and teeth and matted fur, surrounding two elven hunters barely holding their ground. One of the beasts lunged, claws raking through the air. Carver didn’t think—he pointed Vandarel and shouted the first spell that came to mind.

A blast of ice exploded from the staff, freezing the beast mid-leap.

“Peach, left!” Carver shouted, swinging Vandarel like a hammer and cracking the frozen werewolf into the ground. “Wasn’t this shit supposed to be legends?!”

The others crashed into the clearing. Hrogarh let out a roar and charged one of the monsters head-on, axe swinging in brutal arcs. Ebba disappeared into the trees—seconds later, arrows rained down like a storm of knives.

Carver felt a ripple of heat around him—a barrier. Carnuh had arrived, face pale but focused, lips moving in an incantation.

“Thanks,” Carver muttered and ducked low, Vandarel blazing with power as he slashed at another werewolf. The creature howled, but Peach was already on it, her jaws locked around its neck, dragging it down.

The last two beasts tried to run—but Hrogarh was faster. He caught one in the side with a wild swing that nearly cleaved it in two. Ebba’s arrow buried itself in the throat of the final one before it made it ten steps.

Silence.

Only the harsh panting of breath, the faint groan of one of the wounded elves.

Carver rushed toward them, Vandarel still pulsing in his hand.

“Carnuh!” he shouted. “You’re up!”

The young mage stumbled forward, kneeling beside the injured. His hands hovered over them, his face strained.

Carver turned to the others. “Were those—did we just fight fucking werewolves?!”

Ebba wiped her dagger clean on her tunic. “Looks like.”

Hrogarh leaned on his axe, grinning wide. “Bet they’ll sing songs about this one! ‘The Bloody Battle of the Beasts!’ Or maybe ‘The Night the Teeth Broke on Chasind Steel!’”

Carver blinked at him. “You enjoyed that?”

“Damn right I did.”

Before Carver could argue further, Carnuh called out.

“Carver! Over here!”

He rushed back, kneeling beside the young man.

“They’re alive,” Carnuh said, voice shaking. “But not for long. There’s… something in their blood. A taint. I can slow it, but I can’t stop it.”

Carver looked down at the hunters—both Dalish, their armor shredded, eyes barely open.

“Then we find the clan. Now.”

Carnuh nodded, sweat dripping down his temple as he held a faint magical glow over one of the wounded.

“We’ll need proof we helped,” he said. “Or they’ll think we’re the ones who attacked them.”

Ebba stepped forward. “We’ll skin the beasts. Bring their hides. Show the clan we defended their own.”

Carver glanced at her. “You sure they’ll take that as peace and not just… you know, trophy hunting?”

“They’ll know,” Carnuh said. “The smell of sickness on their own. The signs of battle.”

Hrogarh cracked his knuckles. “I’ll take the heads, too. Nothing says ‘we’re friends’ like a monster skull.”

Carver snorted. “Remind me not to let you write any treaties.”

As Hrogarh and Ebba got to work, Carver knelt beside the younger elf whose chest was rising unevenly.

“Hang on,” he muttered, pressing a hand gently to their shoulder. “We’re not the bastards who did this. We’re the ones who stopped it.”

Vandarel stirred in his mind, voice low and grim. “This isn’t natural. These beasts—there’s old magic in their blood.”

“You don’t say,” Carver muttered under his breath. “Any guesses?”

“None I like.”

Peach padded closer, sniffing the blood-soaked fur of one of the werewolves before snorting and backing away. Her ears flattened, tail stiff.

Even she didn’t like it.

Once the skins were packed and the heads tied to a long spear, the group set out again. This time, Ebba didn’t say a word—she moved fast, almost too fast, her face unreadable.

Carver walked beside Carnuh, who looked like he might fall over at any moment.

“You alright?”

“Not really,” Carnuh admitted. “I’ve read about werewolves, but I never thought… they were real.”

Carver sighed. “Yeah. Welcome to my life. First a spirit wolf picks you out of a ditch, then you make friends with a talking staff, then you meet people with more trauma than you, and now werewolves.”

Carnuh gave a weak smile. “We really are the weirdest group ever.”

“You love it.”

“…a little.”

It only took forty-five minutes to reach the Dalish camp.

That, more than anything else, made Carver uneasy. If werewolves had attacked hunters this close to the heart of the clan, then the Dalish weren’t just in danger—they were already being hunted.

He grunted, adjusting the unconscious hunter in his arms. The man was dead weight, soaked in blood, and every step made Carver’s back ache.

Peach paced at his side, ears twitching, body low and tense.

They were almost at the edge of the clearing when an angry voice rang out in sharp, fast Elvish. Carver didn’t understand a damn word, and instinctively reached for Vandarel. But before things went sideways, Carnuh stepped forward, answering in the same tongue. The teen’s voice wavered a little, but his words seemed to calm the air.

Two Dalish archers dropped from the trees. Both were women, lean and dressed in forest-dyed leathers, bows raised and arrows notched.

“What are four shemlens doing this close to our camp?” one barked.

But her words died the moment she saw the wounded elves in Carver’s and Hrogarh’s arms.

“By the Creators…”

Without another word, they stepped aside and signaled for them to follow.

The Dalish camp was woven beautifully into the woods—elegant aravels tucked between trees, lanterns casting soft light, and people watching with narrowed eyes and stiff backs.

A blonde elf stepped forward as they entered the center of camp. She carried a long wooden staff with runes carved in silver, her face calm but wary.

“I am Lanaya,” she said, voice crisp. “Apprentice to Keeper Zathrian. What is your business here, strangers? Keeper Zathrian has already left this morning.”

Carver stepped forward, trying not to look like he’d been carrying a bleeding body for half an hour.

“My name is Carver Hawke. These are my companions—Hrogarh, Ebba, Carnuh. We were sent as envoys from the Chasind. We came to speak of alliance against the Blight.” He glanced at the wounded man in his arms. “But just before we reached your camp, we found these two being attacked by—uh, actual fucking werewolves. We stepped in, killed the beasts, and brought your people back.”

Lanaya’s calm broke. Her eyes widened, and she shouted something in Elvish. A group of younger mages and healers rushed forward to take the wounded elves.

Carver knelt and passed the man gently over, trying not to wince as his back cracked.

Ebba stepped forward then, unslinging the heavy bundle from her back. She unrolled the pelt of one of the beasts at Lanaya’s feet.

“Proof,” she said simply.

Lanaya studied it, then nodded slowly. “You tell the truth. This… is troubling. And you’ve arrived at a difficult time.”

“No shit,” Carver muttered under his breath, which made Vandarel snort in the back of his head.

Lanaya gestured to a log near one of the fires. “Please. Sit. I will explain what I can.”

They sat. Or rather, Carver flopped onto the log like someone who’d just had the worst three weeks of his life—and he had. Peach rested at his feet, while Hrogarh dropped like a boulder beside him and Ebba stayed standing, arms crossed, watching everything.

Lanaya folded her hands. “Our clan has suffered. For weeks now, our hunters have been vanishing, or returning sick, twisted. We thought it was dark magic. Then we learned the truth—werewolves. Something old and cruel stirs in the Brecilian. Our keeper sought to find its source. Two days ago, a pair of Grey Wardens came, asking Keeper Zathrian to honor our ancient oath against the Blight.”

Carver’s head snapped up. “Wardens? They survived Ostagar?”

She nodded. “A human man with blond hair and a dwarven woman with a tattoo on her cheek. They promised to help lift the curse if Zathrian helped in return. They left that same day. Keeper Zathrian followed them this morning.”

“Well, that’s just fantastic,” Carver muttered, rubbing his face. “Grey Wardens. Actual gods-damned werewolves. Everything just keeps getting better.”

Vandarel hummed. “Something ancient fuels this.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Carver mumbled back. “Thanks for the input, walking mystery.”

Lanaya tilted her head, watching him. “You are more than just an envoy, aren’t you?”

Carver looked up at her. She wasn’t accusing—just… knowing. And that made it worse.

He exhaled slowly, gaze falling to the fire. “I didn’t ask for any of this. But I made a promise. So here I am.”

Lanaya smiled, just faintly. “Then you are welcome to remain in the camp until Keeper Zathrian and the Wardens return. Rest. Heal. Speak with the others. You have proven yourselves.”

“Thanks,” Carver said. “I’ll… try not to break anything.”

Ebba snorted. Hrogarh just grinned.

As Lanaya left them to rest, Carver leaned back and looked at the treetops, sky barely visible through the branches.

He was exhausted. His body ached. His brain was one insult away from just shutting down.

But he smiled, just a little.

Chapter Text

Carver was trying to mind his own business—honest he was. The Dalish camp, tucked between curving roots and thick canopies, felt older than time itself. Everything was elegant in that weird, elfy way: tents with embroidered leaves, lanterns glowing soft blue, people walking barefoot like they were born from the bark of the trees.

He was doing fine. Until he saw the deer.

It was snow-white, with sweeping antlers like twisted ivory, eyes dark and wide and way too intelligent for a creature with hooves.

“Maker’s tits,” Carver blurted. “What kind of deer is that? Looks like it walked out of a noble’s fever dream.”

A loud smack landed on the back of his head.

“Idiot,” Carnuh muttered. “That’s a halla. They're sacred. You don’t call them deer. They’re not pets, they’re companions. Revered.”

Carver winced, rubbing his skull. “Well how the fuck was I supposed to know? It’s got hooves and antlers, that’s deer territory!”

Carnuh shook his head in disgust, and Ebba grinned as she passed, her bow slung casually over her shoulder.

“Fuck me” she said. “You and Hrogarh are on fire. I say Carnuh and I place bets—who’ll insult more elves before we leave? My money’s on you, Hawke.”

“Fuck off,” Carver snapped, reddening.

“Oh, it’s you,” Hrogarh growled from a few paces back. “They gave me a look just for sharpening my axe! Didn’t even swing it! The elf girl with the braids looked like she was ready to turn me into bark mulch.”

“You were carving a totem into their table,” Carnuh muttered.

“I was fixing it!”

“You wrote your name.”

“In runes!”

Carver groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re gonna get kicked out before Zathrian even gets back.”

“Not if you keep your mouth shut,” Carnuh muttered.

“Not if you keep tripping over every branch,” Carver shot back.

Peach, curled nearby in the grass, gave a huff that sounded very much like agreement.

Lanaya, mercifully, approached before the bickering could devolve into actual punches. She looked tired, eyes shadowed, but she offered a small nod.

“We’ve stabilized the hunters,” she said. “But… your healer was right. They’ve been infected.”

“Infected?” Carver asked, glancing at Carnuh, who looked grim.

“The bite carries the curse,” Lanaya said quietly. “If we don’t find a cure—or end the one who cast it—they’ll turn.”

Carver blew out a breath. “No pressure or anything.”

Lanaya hesitated. “I know you came here seeking news of the Grey Wardens. And I know your people are in danger as well. But I must ask: if Zathrian and the Wardens do not return… would you go after them?”

Carver blinked. “You mean just us? Into the forest? That forest?”

“You’ve fought werewolves and lived.”

“Barely.”

Lanaya gave him a look. “Still. It would mean much. To us.”

Carver glanced behind him. Ebba was checking the fletching on her arrows. Hrogarh had stopped arguing and was absently rubbing Peach’s head. Carnuh was drawing lazy circles in the dirt with a stick, muttering spells under his breath.

Yeah. They weren’t exactly a shining army. But they’d come this far.

He shrugged. “We’ll wait a day. If no one returns, we’ll go.”

Lanaya nodded once. “Thank you.”

That evening, the group sat around one of the Dalish fires. A few of the younger elves came by to listen as Hrogarh retold the story of the werewolf fight—embellished, of course. In his version, he’d slain two with his bare hands and shouted down a thunderstorm.

“Really?” Carver muttered. “I distinctly remember you nearly getting bit in the ass.”

“I let that one through. For fun,” Hrogarh said, swigging from a waterskin.

Ebba leaned close to Carver and whispered, “Five silver says he’s trying to impress that elf girl with the green scarf.”

Carver looked. Sure enough, she was listening intently, chin in hand, eyes wide.

“I am not giving you more coin, Ebba.”

“You just did.”

“Shit.”

Carnuh sat a little apart, trying to memorize a few elven lines by firelight. His brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently.

“Don’t overdo it, Carn,” Carver said. “You’re already the least offensive of us. Leave some shame for the rest of us.”

Carnuh blinked, then smiled a little. “I’m just making sure I don’t call someone’s grandmother a goat by accident.”

“Honestly? That might be a compliment around here,” Carver muttered.

They laughed. It was small, but real. For a moment, the camp felt almost like home.

Lanaya came to them once more just before nightfall.

“There’s still no sign of the Keeper or the Wardens,” she said.

Carver stood. “Then we leave at dawn.”

She nodded. “May the Creators watch your path.”

He didn’t know if the Creators watched anyone anymore. But hell—he’d take whatever help he could get.

Later that night, Carver stood near the edge of the camp, arms crossed, staring at the dark stretch of trees beyond.

Peach came to sit beside him. Vandarel, slung across his back, hummed faintly.

“You’re leading again.”

“Looks like it.”

“You’re better at it than you think.”

Carver snorted. “Yeah? Don’t suppose you’ve got a guidebook hidden in that gem of yours?”

“No. Just opinions.”

“Figures.”

There was silence for a long while, until Vandarel said, quieter, “You are doing what I did. What I chose to do. Not for glory. For them.”

Carver swallowed hard. “Yeah. But you knew what you were doing. I’m just making this up as I go.”

“So did I.”

“…great.”

Still, he smiled.

Peach growled low, and Vandarel chuckled in his mind.

The next morning, barely an hour into the most spine-crawling, mud-choked forest Carver had ever had the displeasure to tromp through, they heard it—bickering.

Not just any bickering either. Loud, pointed, and unmistakably dramatic.

A woman’s voice snapped through the trees, sharp as a blade. “We should have allied with the spirit and let it tear those arrogant pointy-eared bastards apart. The werewolves were stronger—more primal. It would have been justice.”

Another voice replied, equally female but higher-pitched, almost lyrical, with a faint Orlesian tilt. “Don’t be ridiculous Morrigan! The spirit was freed. The curse was broken! They’re human again. That is no less than a miracle from the Maker himself!”

Carver glanced sidelong at his companions.

“Just kill me,” Hrogarh muttered.

Ebba gave a low, knowing hum. “This should be good.”

Even Carnuh, still half-asleep, managed a skeptical grunt.

The first woman spoke again, venom in her tone. “The Maker isn’t real. He’s a bedtime tale for gullible children and sheep. Fools believe in him. Fools like Alistair.”

There was a moment of indignant silence, before a third voice—a male voice—yelled, “Hey! That was completely uncalled for!”

Then a fourth joined in, lower and gruff, tinged with an accent Carver couldn’t place at first. “Maybe if you topsiders didn’t rush to judge everything, people wouldn’t feel like they were back in bloody Orzammar, up to their necks in noble politics.”

Carver held up his hand, signaling the others to halt. Peach growled softly beside him, hackles raised. But Carver just squinted, straining to see through the dense underbrush as the voices rounded a corner and stepped into view.

Four people emerged from the fog and trees.

The first was a woman with hair black as pitch, lips curled in a sneer that made her otherwise striking face look downright dangerous. Her robes were dark, clinging, and didn’t look particularly warm—or modest. A staff was slung over her back, bone and branch wound together like it had grown from the Wilds themselves. Carver pegged her as the angry one instantly.

Beside her, a redhead stood, freckled, dressed in light leather armor, a bow on her back and a pair of daggers at her hips. She was talking animatedly, waving a hand as she argued. Something about faith, or hope, or… blighted birds, Carver tuned her out quickly. He’d met her type before—charming, naive, dangerous in the exact wrong way.

Then the man. Tall, fair-haired, clad in heavy armor polished enough to reflect the dappled morning light. A sword and shield hung from his back, and he wore an expression of long-suffering exasperation. He had that kind of look Carver hated on sight: noble, slightly confused, and somehow still handsome. The kind of guy who probably apologized to trees for breaking their branches. Something about him tugged at Carver’s memory, but he couldn’t place it.

Last came the dwarf. Short, obviously, with a wild mane of brown hair chopped short and a thick two-handed sword strapped across her back that looked like it weighed more than Carnuh. Her green eyes were sharp, calculating, and a faded tattoo marked one cheek. She walked with a quiet confidence that made Carver straighten instinctively.

He stepped forward.

“Let me guess,” he said loudly. “You’re the group that went into the forest to help the Dalish with their werewolf problem?”

The arguing stopped instantly.

Four heads turned.

The black-haired woman narrowed her eyes. “And who are you?”

Carver inclined his head, only barely polite. “Carver Hawke, Envoy of the Chasind. And I’m here to talk about the Blight.”

“The Chasind?” the redhead repeated, blinking.

“You don’t sound Chasind,” the man said, frowning.

Carver snorted. “Thanks, I get that a lot. And you are?”

The man stepped forward, recovering his manners. “Alistair. Grey Warden.”

Ah. That explained the armor and the dopey sincerity.

Carver nodded. “So the rumors were true. At least a few of you survived Ostagar.”

The black-haired woman scoffed. “Survived is generous.”

“I’m Leliana,” the redhead said with a quick smile. “And this is Morrigan.” She gestured at the brooding woman beside her, who looked unimpressed.

“Charmed,” Morrigan said flatly.

“And that’s Runa,” Leliana added, nodding to the dwarf.

“Hi,” Runa said, raising a hand. “We just got out of a whole mess of forest spirits, curses, and moral debates, so if you don’t mind not shouting for a bit—”

“I’m not the one shouting,” Carver muttered.

Hrogarh stomped up beside him, arms crossed. “That your idea of quiet? Sounded like a nest of wild hens.”

Runa blinked. “You’re huge.”

“You’re short.”

“We’re going to be best friends.”

Ebba snorted a laugh. “I like her.”

Peach, meanwhile, trotted up behind Carver and stared at Morrigan. The witch stared back. Neither blinked.

“…Is that a wolf?” Morrigan asked.

“No,” Carver said. “That’s Peach. She’s smarter than most of us.”

“Debatable,” Carnuh mumbled.

Carver elbowed him gently.

Alistair, stepped forward. “If you're here on behalf of the Chasind, then maybe we should all sit down and talk about next steps. We’ve been looking for allies.”

Carver nodded. “Same.”

He looked over the four of them. They were rough around the edges, a little ragged, not the shining example of Ferelden might he expected—but then again, neither was he.

Runa was the first to speak. “We should head back to camp. Lanaya needs to know what happened down there—and I, for one, am starving.”

Carver didn’t argue. “Fine by me.” He adjusted his grip on Vandarel, giving the enchanted staff-sword a small pat before falling in beside the others.

They set off through the woods in a strange silence. Peach trotted alongside Carver, nose low, ears swiveling at every distant bird cry and twig snap. Carnuh walked a bit too close to Ebba.

It was Alistair who broke the silence, falling into step beside Carver. “So… Ostagar,” he said, trying for casual, but failing miserably. “How do you know what happened?”

Carver didn’t answer at first. His jaw tightened. The memory of smoke, screams —it hadn’t faded, not even now. He glanced sideways at Alistair.

“I was there,” Carver said flatly. “Part of Loghain’s army. I saw everything. From the ridge. I saw your king crushed under an ogre. Saw the Wardens fight until none of them moved. Saw Loghain call the retreat. Saw how it all ended.”

Alistair stopped dead in his tracks.

Carver kept walking.

“You were—what?” Alistair barked, fury igniting like a fire. “Part of Loghain’s army?! A traitor?! And now you’re some noble envoy for the Chasind? How does that work?”

That was it.

Carver stopped so fast the others nearly walked into him. He turned, face thunderous, and stomped up to Alistair, who suddenly seemed to remember Carver was nearly as tall as him—and had a wolf, a magical weapon, and a temper like a brewing storm.

“I am no fucking traitor,” Carver hissed, finger jabbing Alistair in the chest. “You think I wanted to be there? That I had a choice? I was a farmhand in Lothering. Shoveling shit and harvesting turnips. The army rolled through, and they took my brother and me—didn’t ask. Drafted us on the spot.”

Alistair blinked.

“I was nineteen,” Carver growled. “Fresh-faced. Still had hay in my boots. You think someone like me was sitting at war councils with Teyrn Loghain? Sipping wine? Plotting betrayals?”

He took another step forward, and Alistair reflexively took one back.

“Use your Maker-damned head, man. I was just a poor sod with a sword and a number pinned to his chest. Just like everyone else.”

The entire group had stopped to watch. Morrigan looked intrigued, Leliana frowned thoughtfully, and Runa—now atop Hrogarhs shoulders—puffed out her cheeks and shouted, “Use your brain, Alistair!”

That made Morrigan laugh, a sharp, delighted noise that cut through the tension like a dagger.

Alistair flushed scarlet. “I… I spoke out of turn,” he mumbled. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Carver sighed and waved it off. “You’re not the first person to call me something I’m not. Doubt you’ll be the last. Let’s just keep walking.”

They resumed their march in silence again, though the air felt a little lighter. Or at least slightly less likely to explode.

Then Morrigan drifted beside Carver, her steps eerily soundless despite the underbrush. He tensed, shifting Vandarel subtly in his grip. Peach growled low under her breath.

“I don’t bite,” Morrigan said coolly. “Usually.”

“That’s not comforting,” Carver muttered.

She smirked. “You carry something old. Powerful. Ancient magic clings to you like moss to stone. Do you even understand what you are?”

Carver raised a brow. “A man with a very talkative weapon and very little patience.”

Morrigan tilted her head, eyes sharp and hungry as they raked over Vandarel. “You know it speaks to you. That it’s not just enchanted, but aware. Sentient, even. That’s rare.”

Vandarel, always the snarky bastard, whispered in Carver’s head, Oh, tell her I’m also incredibly handsome. That usually seals the deal.

Carver rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. He never shuts up. And trust me, the sass is as strong as the power.”

That clearly surprised her. Morrigan’s eyes widened slightly. “So… the legend might be true. The Chasind’s Bone-Binder reborn. Is that what you are? Or just a man caught in someone else’s myth?”

Ebba, never one to pass up a dramatic moment, tossed her head and called back, “The legend walks again! The Chasind rise!”

Leliana blinked, looking from one to the other. “What legend?”

Hrogarh puffed out his chest. “Vandarel. The warrior who led the Chasind in the Third Blight. They say his spirit sleeps in the earth, bound to his weapon, and he returns when our people are at their lowest.”

Carver rubbed at his neck. “Yeah. No pressure or anything.”

They crested a small hill just as the treeline thinned, and before them, the Dalish camp came into view again. Lanterns swayed gently between wagons, and the smell of cooking herbs drifted on the wind.

“Finally,” Runa groaned, leaping off Hrogarh’s shoulders and landing with a graceful thud. “I need real food. Something that doesn’t crunch when it’s not supposed to.”

Carver exhaled. “Let’s get this over with.”

But as he followed the others toward the campfires and watchful Dalish eyes, he couldn’t help the tingle in his spine. The talk with Morrigan unsettled him, not because she was wrong—but because, deep down, he feared she might be right.

He wasn’t just carrying Vandarel.

He was Vandarel. Or at least, a piece of him.

They left the Wardens and their companions to speak with Keeper Lanaya in peace. It wasn’t their business, not really. Whatever decisions the elves made with the Grey Wardens had nothing to do with Carver, Hrogarh, Ebba, or Carnuh—at least not yet.

Still, Carver found himself pacing along the edge of the Dalish camp, gaze flickering from the halla to the treetops, to the quiet conversations drifting between wagons. There was something gnawing at him, just behind the eyes. A thought that had been growing since the fight with the werewolves, since the moment he realized just how close the Dalish had come to being wiped out.

What if… what if this alliance, this whole push against the Blight, could be something more?

What if this wasn’t just about stopping the Darkspawn?

He said nothing. Not to the others. Not even to Vandarel, who—for once—was oddly silent. As if he too was waiting to see what would come next.

When Runa and Alistair returned with Lanaya, the three of them sat down around the fire without ceremony. The tension on Lanaya’s face said more than words could, but her spine was straight and her hands calm.

“I am now Keeper of this clan,” she said, voice steady. “Zathrian gave his life to end a long and bitter curse. I ask that you speak to me as you would have spoken to him.”

Carver gave a small nod, then bowed his head with surprising grace. “Keeper.”

Lanaya seemed pleased. She gave him a soft smile before continuing. “We will honor the old pact. The Dalish will aid the Wardens. The Blight threatens us all, and though we’ve suffered, we won’t turn our backs now.

Runa gave a sigh of relief. “Well shave my ass, and call me a nug!. That’s more than we’ve gotten from the Circle or Orzammar.”

Alistair nodded grimly. “Yeah, well. No one ever said politics were quick.”

Then his gaze shifted to Carver. “But what about the Chasind? You’re not part of the original treaty. Why are you here? Why do you want to help?”

Carver met his gaze without blinking. “Because the Blight started in our backyard.”

That made Runa snort. “You mean the Wilds?”

Carver gave a humorless smile. “Yeah. The Kocari Wilds. The place you lowlanders barely talk about unless it’s followed by the words ‘full of savages’.”

He let the words hang there, then continued, voice firm. “We know the Wilds. Every riverbend, every swamp hole, every ridge. The darkspawn don’t move an inch without us knowing. You think they’ll march to Denerim without first stomping through the Wilds? Burning, killing? The Chasind are already dying.”

Lanaya nodded quietly. Alistair and Runa said nothing.

Carver looked at Hrogarh, who straightened his spine and crossed his arms. “There are more of us than you think,” Hrogarh said. “We’ve started calling them back. All the clans. All the tribes. If they answer, we’ll have near eight thousand who can fight.”

Runa’s eyes went wide. Alistair actually choked on his own spit.

“You’re not joking,” Runa said. “Eight thousand?”

“Give or take a few drunkards and toothless cousins, yeah,” Ebba added, smirking.

Carver leaned forward, tone more serious. “We’ll help. We’ll watch the darkspawn, track them, report their movements. Maybe even mislead them if we can. Buy you time to gather the other allies. And when the final battle comes… the Chasind will be there.”

Runa looked genuinely moved. “That means a lot. Really. The others—Ferelden, the mages, the dwarves—none of them are stepping up yet. But you’re not even part of the kingdom, and you’re here.”

“That’s the point,” Carver said quietly. “We’ve never been part of the kingdom. And that’s why we want something in return.”

Alistair sat up straighter, face sharpening. “You want something?”

Carver didn’t flinch. “Don’t act surprised. Of course we do. We could just stay hidden, let the lowlanders fight your war. But we’re choosing to help. Choosing to bleed with you.”

He let the silence hang, then continued, voice like iron. “When this is over—if we survive—we want our lands recognized. The Kocari Wilds and the borderlands around it. We want it to be ours. No Ferelden claim. No templars. No banns or arls. Just us. Chasind land, free and independent.”

Vandarel’s voice echoed softly in his mind, warm and fierce: If this happens, never again shall our people bow to theirs.

The others were staring at him now. Carnuh’s mouth was slightly open. Ebba’s eyes shone with something like awe. Hrogarh just gave a slow, proud nod.

Even Lanaya seemed impressed.

Runa stared at him, then spat into her hand and held it out. “If—when—we win this? I’ll do everything I can to make that happen. That’s a promise.”

Carver looked at her, then spat into his hand too, and they clasped palms over the fire.

Alistair smiled faintly. “You know, for a guy who nearly took my head off earlier, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Carver muttered.

Lanaya looked between them. “Then the Dalish and the Chasind shall fight alongside the Wardens. Let this be the start of something better.”

Carver said nothing. But in the quiet that followed, he looked out across the firelight, and for the first time, he let himself imagine it—

A land free of templars.

A place where the Chasind could raise their children without fear.

Their home.

And he would build it, even if it killed him.

Carver was up before the sun, which in itself was strange enough to be a warning sign. Peach stirred at his side but didn’t follow when he stepped outside the tent, boots crunching quietly over dew-frosted grass. The Dalish camp was still and cold, the low hum of morning fires barely stirring.

It should’ve been peaceful.

Should’ve.

"You were magnificent yesterday," Vandarel chirped in his mind, with far too much glee for an ancient spirit supposedly full of wisdom. "All righteous fury and gravel-voiced passion. I haven’t been this proud since I cursed a Bann into growing boils on his—"

“Don’t,” Carver muttered aloud, rubbing at his temple. “Just don’t.”

"I’m just saying, for a lowlander-turned-woodsboy, you’ve grown surprisingly competent. You had the dwarf girl swooning and the dog-man pledging his soul. Very Chasind of you."

“She didn’t swoon, she spat in my hand.”

"Yes, that’s practically marriage in some parts."

Carver groaned. “Sweet Maker, shut up.”

"And yet you invoke him while denying his existence. That’s spiritual hypocrisy, you know."

Carver was ready to hurl Vandarel into the nearest patch of brambles just to shut him up, but then the others started to rise. One by one, they joined him by the dying fire.

Ebba plopped down next to him, rubbing sleep from her eyes with one hand and already chewing a strip of dried meat. “You alright, hero?”

Carver gave a noncommittal grunt.

Hrogarh came next, stretching and yawning like a mountain lion. “Can’t believe you got Runa to spit in your hand. That’s practically a Fereldan knighting ceremony.”

“She’s a dwarf, not a prick,” Carnuh mumbled, stepping lightly between them to sit. “But yes. It was impressive.”

Carver blinked at all of them. “Is everyone on drugs, or did I actually say something useful yesterday?”

“You did,” Ebba said, voice soft but certain. “More than useful. You spoke for us. For all of us.”

Hrogarh nodded, then pointed a thick finger at him. “When the time comes—when the clans gather—I’ll stand behind you. You’ll have my support.”

Carver stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“You earned it.” Hrogarh shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I won’t still knock you flat in the sparring yard. Just means I’ll do it with respect.”

“Touching,” Vandarel said dryly in Carver’s head. "Shall we all braid flowers in our hair and sing around the fire next?"

Carver just shook his head and stood. “Let’s say goodbye before the Wardens leave.”

They found Keeper Lanaya already awake, speaking quietly to Runa and Alistair near the center of the camp. Her silver staff glowed faintly in the morning light, and the way she moved… she looked older today. Worn down but proud.

Carver approached and gave a small bow again. “Keeper.”

Lanaya smiled at him. “Envoy.”

“We’ll be heading back now,” he said. “Let the clans know what we’ve learned.”

“We’ll keep in contact,” Runa said, adjusting the straps of her armor. “I meant what I said. I’ll make sure people hear your demands when the time comes.”

Alistair, beside her, looked between Carver and Lanaya. “Alright but—how exactly are we staying in touch? You planning to send birds with little hats or something?”

Carver blinked.

But before he could answer, Carnuh stepped forward, grinning just a bit too proudly. “In the Wilds, shapeshifting is common. If a strange bird lands next to you and starts watching? Don’t kill it.”

Alistair stared. “That’s… unsettling.”

Runa laughed. “I think it’s clever.”

“So long as it’s not a pigeon,” Alistair muttered. “If it’s a pigeon, I’m throwing it off a cliff.”

Carnuh’s grin widened. “You try. We’ll know.”

With final nods and a few awkward shoulder-claps from Hrogarh (and an unexpected but fierce hug from Ebba), they turned away from the Dalish camp and began their trek home. The trees swallowed them once again, and the sounds of the elven camp faded into morning mist.

The forest was thicker on the return, or maybe it just felt that way now. Every snap of a twig made Carver’s hand drift to Vandarel. They didn’t talk much that day—not until the sun was overhead and the quiet started to feel… heavy.

“What do you think?” Carver asked, breaking the silence.

“About what?” Ebba asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The clans. You think they’ll come?”

Hrogarh snorted. “They’ll come. Might take some yelling, maybe a few fists. But if word’s spreading, they’ll show.”

“They’ll follow you,” Carnuh added, walking beside Carver now. “The legend is alive again. The clans believe in signs. Spirits. Magic. And you’ve got all three.”

Carver groaned. “I am the sign. Great.”

“Better than being the omen,” Ebba said with a smirk.

They walked a while longer before Carver sighed. “You really think we can make it happen? The lands, I mean.”

Hrogarh’s voice came low and sure. “If anyone can carve that future out of the mud, it’s you. We’ll fight for it.”

Carver didn’t answer right away. He just walked, each step in rhythm with his thoughts. His mind kept drifting back to the words he’d said to Alistair—our land, free and ours alone. He meant it. But now he felt the weight of it, too. That dream… it wasn’t just his anymore.

And in his mind, Vandarel spoke softly for once. “We failed to claim it before. You have a chance to finish what I began. Don’t waste it.”

Carver didn’t reply, but his hand tightened around the staff. They would return to the village. They would call the clans. And he would stand before them—not just as a stranger from Lothering, not just a lowlander who had been crushed by an ogre and spat out by the Wilds.

No. He would stand before them as the one chosen by the spirit-wolf, the bearer of Vandarel, and a Chasind in truth.

Chapter Text

The return to the village was—if you asked Carver—pretty damn anti-climactic. No roaring welcome. No songs. No firelit parade.

Instead, there were thousands of people shouting over one another like a drunk fight in a cramped tavern. Weapons were drawn, arguments flying fast, and—because of course—magic was flaring off fingers like angry fireflies.

It was a miracle no one had exploded yet.

Carver elbowed his way through the sea of angry Chasind, shoulder to shoulder with his travel-weary crew. “Where’s Brannagh?” he muttered.

“Do you see her?” Carnuh asked, ducking under someone’s swinging staff.

“She’s like three feet tall,” Ebba muttered. “And old. She's probably been flattened.”

Carver groaned. “We’re all gonna die here in a mage-induced riot and no one’s even gonna notice.”

That’s when Peach—blessed, smug, traitorous Peach—threw back her head and howled.

Not a cute bark. Not a little yip. No. This was a bone-deep, sky-splitting, attention-demanding howl of a creature who had no patience left.

And it worked.

The crowd stilled.

Thousands of wilders turned to stare.

And standing dead center of it all was Carver Hawke, looking like someone had dumped him into the middle of a play he hadn’t rehearsed for. His cloak was dusty, his hair full of leaves, and his glare fixed on Peach. “Really?” he hissed.

Peach wagged her tail and looked immensely pleased with herself.

Hrogarh, of course, loved every second of it. “OI!” he bellowed. “Shut your mouths, all of you! We’ve got news!”

Ebba covered a grin with her hand. “Subtle,” she whispered to Carver.

Carver just sighed. “He’s doing it, might as well let him.”

And Hrogarh did do it. Loud and proud, he gave the entire damn crowd the rundown—tales of the Dalish, Keeper Lanaya, werewolves (which earned gasps), and the Wardens who had survived Ostagar.

Carver quietly counted down the seconds until—

“Liar!” a voice cut through the crowd.

Ah. There it was.

A tall, broad-shouldered woman pushed her way forward. Her braided blonde hair swung behind her like a whip, and her glare could’ve carved stone. “There’s no such thing as werewolves, you ox-brained idiot!”

Hrogarh didn’t even blink. “Hey, Carnuh.”

The young mage blinked, then lit up like a lamp. He reached into his oversized pack—gods, how did he even fit all that—and pulled out four ragged, bloody pelts. Heavy. Furry. Still stinking.

“Thought we gave those to the Dalish,” Carver muttered.

“We did,” Ebba whispered. “Then Hrogarh stole them back.”

Carver pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course he did.”

“I helped,” Carnuh whispered, oddly proud.

“Wonderful,” Carver muttered. “And we’re not dead how?”

“Fuck if I know,” said Ebba.

The woman in front looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon. “That could be any pelt. Just—just wolves.”

“Wolves don’t walk on two legs Bea” Carnuh offered politely.

That shut her up.

Then—just as Carver was preparing to fade back into the crowd and pretend none of this involved him—her voice rang out.

“Does the carrier of Vandarel have more news for us?”

And just like that, the entire crowd went silent.

Every single face turned toward him.

Carver’s spine went rigid. “Brannagh,” he muttered under his breath.

There she was, standing tall as she could (which was still not very tall), leaning on her cane, and somehow radiating more authority than a whole Templar garrison.

“Well, Hawke?” she called again. “Got more for us?”

Carver stepped forward.

He looked ridiculous. His boots were muddy, the wolfskin cloak clung awkwardly to his back, and there was pine sap in his hair. But when he looked out over the thousands of Chasind gathered there—men and women and children and mages and warriors—something in him clicked into place.

“My name is Carver Hawke,” he began, loud enough for all to hear. “I’m the one chosen by Vandarel. You all know the story. Bone-Binder. Wolf-Sworn. Returned in our hour of need. He’s back—and he chose me.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

Carver raised the staff, letting its silver-etched head catch the sunlight.

“You want news?” he went on. “The Blight is real. The Archdemon is real. And the Wardens—some of them survived. They’re trying to unite Ferelden. The Dalish will help, and as we speak, the Wardens are moving towards the cicle and the dwarfs.”

He paused.

“And now I’m standing here, asking the same of you.”

He walked forward, weaving through the stunned gathering. “You all came here to talk. To yell. To fight. But this is what we need to do: we gather. We unite. We track the darkspawn from the Wilds. We get our people—our children, our elders—somewhere safe. And when the time comes, when Ferelden fights back… the Chasind will be there.”

Gasps. Whispers. Someone let out a low “Shit” to his left.

Carver stopped next to Brannagh and turned back to the crowd.

“And after?” he said. “After we help save this miserable country that’s never given us a damn thing? We take something. We take our home.”

Now that got silence.

He lowered the staff.

“No more hiding,” Carver said. “No more running from Templars. From lowlander lords who call us monsters. This time? We build something for us. We claim the Wilds. The deal I made with the Wardens means that when we win, the wilds will belong to us. Forever”

There was a beat.

And then Hrogarh raised his axe high. “You heard him! What are we waiting for?! Let’s show the world what the Chasind can do!”

Roars broke out like thunder.

It wasn’t just yelling now.

It was rallying.

Carver looked over at Brannagh. Her face was unreadable.

“You’ve stirred the wolves,” she said softly.

He nodded.

“And now?”

She smiled faintly. “Now you lead them.”

The bath had helped.

Not much. But a little.

His muscles still ached, and there was dried blood in his hair he didn’t want to think too hard about, but at least he didn’t smell like rotting werewolf anymore. That was progress.

Carver adjusted the clean tunic Brannagh had shoved into his arms, brushed a leaf out of Peach’s fur, and tried—really tried—not to look nervous as he approached the wide round tent.

Inside were the ten clan chiefs of the Chasind Wilds.

No pressure, he thought.

Peach trotted beside him, tail high, and Vandarel muttered in his mind like a disapproving grandfather at a village feast.

Straighten your back. Don’t shuffle like a farm boy. Speak like you’ve killed things. Preferably recently.

Carver rolled his eyes. “You were there. I did kill things recently.”

Peach chuffed at him.

Then the flap of the tent was pulled aside, and he stepped in.

The scent of herbs and fire smoke was thick in the air. Around the ring sat twenty people—ten chiefs, ten shamans—each seated on hides and mats, some adorned in bone, some with warpaint, and all looking at him like he was a bear that might talk.

And to Carver’s great relief, the one face he trusted most in this room—besides Brannagh—sat near the back, arms crossed and smirking faintly.

Hrogarh.

Carver remembered what Ebba had told him: that Hrogarh’s da had been the chief before—well—before he oh-so-tragically died. Carver hadn’t asked for details. Probably never would.

Seeing no better option, Carver walked straight to where Brannagh and Hrogarh sat and lowered himself beside them. Peach plopped down with a dramatic sigh.

“About time,” Hrogarh muttered.

Carver ignored him.

The oldest of the chiefs, a woman with white tattoos all across her scalp, raised a hand. Her voice was rough with age, but sharp. “So. You are the one the Bone-Binder chose.”

Carver inclined his head. “I’m Carver Hawke. Or… Vandarel. Depending on who’s asking.”

Murmurs.

“And you carry him?” asked one of the younger shamans, narrow-eyed and suspicious. “That spirit lives in you?”

“Something like that,” Carver said. “He talks. A lot. It’s very annoying.”

Laughter from a few. Not many. But enough to ease some of the tension.

The older chief narrowed her eyes. “Then tell us, Hawke. Tell us how this came to be. From the beginning.”

Carver took a breath.

And then he told them.

He didn’t embellish. Didn’t try to sound braver than he was. He just… told it.

How he’d stood at Ostagar. How the king had been betrayed—he saw it, he said, with his own eyes. How he’d thrown himself between his family and a ogre, knowing full well it would kill him. How death had wrapped its fingers around his spine—

—and how, instead of the Maker, a wolfspirit had come.

“I had a choice,” he said quietly. “Die, or… take up a purpose. Not even my purpose. His. Yours.”

He told them how Peach had found him, how he’d stumbled into the Wilds, how the blade and staff fused in his hands like they were always meant to be one. He told them of Brannagh, of the shamans who tested him, of the warriors who beat him into the mud until he could stand on his own. He told them of Vandarel, and how—bit by bit—the spirit and he had stopped fighting for control and started… sharing.

He left nothing out.

Even when it made him look small.

When he finished, the tent was silent.

Then a gruff voice cut through. One of the northern clan chiefs, a huge man with a scar across his face. “You say you carry him. You say the Bone-Binder lives again. But talk is wind. What proof do we have that you are not just another lowlander who lost his way?”

Carver didn’t move. He just raised the staff.

The room hummed.

Not a sound exactly. Not like thunder. Not like magic. But the feeling of the air itself shifting, recognizing something older than all of them.

Then Brannagh spoke.

“Vandarel returned in the body of a man who bled for others,” she said simply. “If that is not the way of our ancestors, then I no longer know what is.”

The old chief nodded once. “And the Wardens?”

Carver sat straighter. “We met them. In the Brecilian Forest. Helped the Dalish with a werewolf curse—yes, they’re real,” he added, cutting off someone’s scoff, “and in return, the Dalish agreed to honor their ancient alliance with the Wardens. The Wardens are still gathering allies. Ferelden’s a mess, and Loghain still holds power. But they’re trying.”

“And the Chasind?” another chief asked. “What deal did you make on our behalf?”

Carver met each of their gazes one by one.

“That we would help the Wardens,” he said. “Track the darkspawn. Slow them. Guide the others through the Wilds. And when the final battle comes, we’ll stand with them.”

“And in return?” the scarred chief asked.

Carver hesitated.

But then he stood.

“In return, we get what we never had. Our own land. The Kocari Wilds—ours. No lowlander rule. No Templars. No more taking our mages. No more dragging our children away.”

Dead silence.

Then, slowly, one of the older shamans began to nod. “At last,” she whispered. “A voice that speaks not just for battle… but for home.”

Hrogarh leaned back and grunted. “Told you he wasn’t just a soft lowlander.”

“You said that while punching me into a river,” Carver muttered.

“Still counts.”

Brannagh’s smile was faint. “Let them speak, Carver. Let them vote.”

One by one, the chiefs stood.

Some slow. Some with proud, lifted chins.

But they stood.

And when the last one rose, the tent felt different. Like the very ground beneath it had shifted.

Then came the real battle.

Not blades. Not blood. But words. Planning. Endless talking.

Carver had faced ogres, darkspawn, werewolves, Morrigan—and still, he thought this might be the most exhausting trial of all. The chiefs were relentless. Every word a dagger, every suggestion a test. They haggled like merchants on market day, stubborn as swamp-root and twice as foul-tempered when challenged.

He respected it. But also? It was a nightmare.

“They’re like fishwives,” Carver muttered to Vandarel at one point. “Angry, armed fishwives.”

You forget, boy, Vandarel replied dryly. These are the ones who’ve kept your people alive through four Blights and two civil wars. Let them shout. It means they care.

Carver grunted.

It was then Bea—Beatha, as Carnuh had called her earlier—rose to her feet. Broad-shouldered and stern, she had a voice like a thunderclap and blond braids looped over her shoulders like coiled snakes. She hadn’t spoken much until now.

“Are we to govern like the lowlanders then?” she asked, cutting across three men arguing about river borders. “Is that your plan, Hawke? You their ‘king’ now?”

The word hung in the air like a bad smell.

Carver blinked. “What? No.”

But she was already walking toward him, fists clenched at her sides, chin high with offense. “You laugh?”

“I’m not—!” He held up both hands. “Look, I’m not laughing at you. Just—at the idea. Me? A king? That’s…” He gave a huff of laughter. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“You find leadership funny, then?”

“I find kings funny,” he shot back. “Stupid hats, worse advisors, and they always end up stabbed in a tower somewhere. No, thank you.”

Brannagh coughed into her hand, clearly trying not to laugh. Even Hrogarh smirked.

But Beatha didn’t. Her eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms, looking very much like she was considering where to plant her axe—in the ground, or in his skull.

Carver sighed, took a breath, and tried again.

“I’m not mocking you, Bea. I’m just saying I don’t want to rule over you like some lowland noble with a shiny seat and a throne to piss off. That’s not what this is.”

She stared. He met her gaze.

Then he said, slower this time: “The clans should still govern themselves. Like always. You know your people. You know your lands. That doesn’t change.”

More nods now. Muffled murmurs of agreement.

Carver continued. “But four times a year, the clans meet. All of us. Here or wherever we decide. We talk, settle disputes, share news, trade, whatever needs doing. If the Blight taught us anything, it’s that being alone makes you dead faster.”

A long pause.

Beatha tilted her head. “So no king.”

“Gods, no.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then snorted and returned to her place. “Good. I’d hate to have to kill you over something that stupid.”

Hrogarh leaned over to Carver, whispering, “You’re doing great.”

“Shut up,” Carver muttered.

But in the flickering firelight of the great meeting tent, with the chiefs still grumbling and the shamans weighing words like steel, Carver felt it again.

That shift. That quiet pull of something larger than himself.

Silence hung thick in the tent.

Then the scared-looking chieftain—Tarn, Carver thought his name was, though honestly most of them had started blending together at this point—cleared his throat. He was narrow of face, wide of eye, and looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“My clan agrees,” Tarn said, voice barely above a murmur. “To your deal with the Wardens. To your words. But… what now? What’s the plan?”

A hum of agreement moved through the circle. Carver sat up straighter, feeling Vandareal nudge at the edge of his thoughts like a wolf at the edge of the firelight.

Now, boy, the spirit murmured. Speak, or they drift like smoke.

Carver inhaled slowly, then stood.

“All right,” he said, glancing around at the twenty pairs of eyes that now pinned him in place like spears. “We start simple.”

He pointed to the east side of the map one of the shamans had drawn on a piece of deerhide, charcoal lines smudged but still legible.

“Any clan farthest from the darkspawn movements needs to prep to receive people. Elderly. Children. Pregnant folk. Wounded. Anyone who can’t fight. Get your shelters ready.”

“And what of food?” one of the women asked. “What of winter?”

“We stockpile,” Carver said. “Every single clan needs to be gathering food, drying meat, salting fish, anything. Hunters hunt. Foragers forage. You know this land better than anyone, so use it.”

A few nods. Good.

“Weapons. Armor. Medicines. Bandages. Poultices. I want every damn thing ready to move.”

Carver hesitated for half a second, then added, “And if anyone knows a way to get lyrium to the mages… now would be the time to speak up.”

That caused a ripple of murmurs. Disbelief, confusion, maybe even a bit of fear.

One of the older shamans wrinkled his nose. “That’s tightly controlled. The dwarves sell it to the mages under Chantry watch. Always have.”

“Yeah, I know,” Carver said. “The Chantry’s got its claws in everything, like a pack of sour old hags. If the ‘proper’ way doesn’t work…” He grinned now. “Then we take the Carta route.”

Someone gasped. A few people even laughed.

“You’d make deals with dwarven criminals?” someone else asked, scandalized.

Carver shrugged. “If the Carta can supply lyrium, and we can offer them paths through the Wilds the Chantry doesn’t know about? Paths to move goods under their radar? That’s a fair deal, isn’t it? Safer for us. Safer for them. And it keeps the mages sharp.”

Silence again.

Then—

“Carver,” Hrogarh said, voice loud as ever, “you’ve got the biggest fucking balls I’ve ever seen. You’re the perfect criminal!”

That finally broke the tension. The tent exploded in laughter. Even Brannagh chuckled behind her hand.

Carver just smirked. “Look, this is our land. And the day the Chantry tries to tell us what to do? That’s the day I bend over and kiss an ogre’s ass.”

The laughter turned to roars.

“I’m serious!” Carver shouted over them. “We don’t follow their god. We don’t live by their rules. This—” he spread his arms “—this is ours. So we act like it. And we survive.”

As the laughter settled into a hum of approval, Carver pressed forward.

“Every scout and hunter, I want them watching the darkspawn. Tracking them. Mapping them. But don’t engage. This is about information. Nothing else.”

He turned to Brannagh and the shamans. “To send messages between the clans, we’ll need the shapeshifters. Carnuh told me about them. Mages who take bird form. We use them. That’s how we stay ahead.”

One of the younger chiefs leaned forward. “You’re serious? You trust a bunch of half-trained kids to deliver war messages?”

“I trust that the Chasind don’t have time to waste,” Carver said flatly. “And if those mages can help us save even one life, that’s worth it.”

Then the oldest shaman in the room—a bent-backed woman with eyes like moss and a voice like cracking wood—stood slowly, her staff thudding against the ground.

“The spirit knew,” she said. Her voice carried like the wind in a canyon. “Vandareal knew. He chose well.”

The room fell deathly quiet again.

She turned to Carver.

“You’re not one of us by blood,” she said. “But by fire. By loss. By choice. And now we see you. Not as an outsider. But as what was promised.”

Her old hands lifted her staff slightly.

“The clans will follow you, Carver Hawke. Through the Wilds. Through the Blight. Through whatever comes next.”

The shamans murmured together, then bowed their heads.

Hrogarh let out a proud, barking laugh. “You’re really stuck with us now, brother.”

Carver blew out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he muttered. “Shit.”

Vandareal’s voice echoed in his mind, smug as ever.

I told you. The wolf leads the pack. Whether he means to or not.

That night, Carver lay flat on his back, arms sprawled, head spinning.

“Uggghhh,” he groaned, blinking blearily at the tent’s fabric ceiling.

He didn’t even like mead, not really. But Hrogarh had handed him a carved horn full of the stuff and shouted “TO THE MAN WHO OUTSMARTED THE WARDENS!” and then Ebba had added, “TO THE IDIOT WHO MAKES DEALS WITH DWARVEN SMUGGLERS!” and well… after that it had kind of spiraled. Mead. More mead. And then something that might have been fermented goat piss. He wasn’t sure. His tongue had gone numb halfway through.

Now, the world tilted and rocked around him like a boat in a storm. Peach lay curled beside him, snoring like a beast, and Carver, full of mead and the kind of misplaced confidence that only came after surviving a high-stakes political summit, had a thought.

“What if…” he whispered to the ceiling, “I could shapeshift?”

The idea hit him like a cart to the face.

He sat up—slowly—blinking. “No, really. What if I could turn into a wolf? Or a bear? Or a… I don’t know, a giant fucking eagle? That would be amazing.”

You could, came Vandareal’s dry, amused voice in his head. Though I recommend mastering walking straight before attempting feathers.

Carver narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Really?”

You have the potential, Vandareal said. You carry a spirit, magic, will… and you have enough stubborn idiocy to fuel it. But for that kind of power, you’ll need to meet someone first.

Carver blinked. “Someone who?”

A teacher, Vandareal said. Old. Powerful. Bitchy beyond reason. She was ancient when I was alive.

Carver frowned. “You mean Brannagh?”

No, though she’s impressive in her own right. Vandareal chuckled. I mean Flemeth. The Witch of the Wilds.

Carver sat bolt upright, which immediately made him fall back again because the tent ceiling had apparently decided to spin faster.

“Flemeth?! Are you insane? She’s not real. Just… bedtime horror stories. Mothers tell their kids that if they steal pie, Flemeth will eat their souls.”

And yet, Vandareal said with smug calm, I am real. And so is she. Go to sleep, Carver Hawke. When morning comes, I’ll take you to her.

“Great,” Carver muttered. “Fantastic. Sure. Let’s just add ‘hunting down a possibly mythical witch’ to the list of things I’m doing between hangovers.”

He closed his eyes.

Carver woke with the sun stabbing him directly between the eyes. Rude.

Still, he dragged himself out of his tent, face freshly washed, new tunic laced loosely at his throat, and started packing.

He was halfway through tying his bedroll when someone cleared their throat.

Three someones, actually.

Hrogarh stood there with his arms crossed, a huge grin on his face. Ebba had her hood down and her arms full of rations. Carnuh looked like he’d gotten maybe two hours of sleep and still had grass in his hair—but his staff was slung across his back and his pack already tied.

“…What are you three doing?” Carver asked, squinting at them.

Ebba rolled her eyes. “Coming with you. Obviously.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going yet!”

“Don’t matter,” Hrogarh said. “You go, we go. Pack’s a pack.”

“I didn’t even ask you to come!”

Ebba looked at him with that annoying grin. “And that, my friend, is exactly why we’re coming.”

Carver opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“You people are insane.”

“You’re welcome,” Carnuh mumbled.

And Maker help him, warmth bloomed in Carver’s chest. Stupid, ridiculous, ride-or-die maniacs. Real friends. His first, maybe.

Then came a polite cough from behind.

He turned to see Brannagh—stern, proud, arms folded—and behind her, the other nine clan shamans. Each held something in their arms.

Brannagh stepped forward.

“The pelts you brought back from the Wilds—” she began.

“Stole,” Carver muttered automatically.

Smack!

Ebba’s hand connected with the back of his head like a snapping fish. “Shut up and take the compliment, idiot.”

Brannagh didn’t even blink. “—have been sewn into cloaks. One for each of you. For the four of the Wolfpack.”

Carver blinked. “We have a name now?”

“You’ve always had one,” Brannagh said, handing him a cloak. “Now the clans know it too.”

Carver ran his hands over the rough grey pelt. The werewolf’s head had been kept intact, reshaped into a hood with the fangs curled just above the brow. It was warm. Heavy. Perfect.

He put it on. It felt like it belonged.

The others did the same—Hrogarh practically roared with joy, Carnuh fumbled with his ties, and Ebba gave a rare, genuine grin.

Then, without fanfare, they walked into the Wilds again.

After a long while of crunching leaves and awkward silence, Carnuh finally spoke.

“...So, uh, where exactly are we going?”

Carver grinned. “We’re going to find Flemeth.”

The other three stopped dead in their tracks.

“WHAT?” they yelled in unison.

Carver just kept walking, whistling under his breath.

Peach trotted at his heels, tail wagging.

Chapter Text

Two hours.

That’s how long Ebba and Carnuh had kept yelling at Carver. About how it was reckless, about how insane it was to seek out Flemeth of all people, and how, for the love of the earth, there were plenty of Chasind mages who could teach him shapeshifting without possibly getting everyone flayed alive or turned into frogs or something worse.

“Do you even know what she’s capable of?” Ebba hissed for the tenth time. “She’s the Witch of the Wilds, Carver. She eats mages. Like snacks.”

“I heard she’s not even one person,” Carnuh added, pale. “Some say she’s a spirit that jumps from daughter to daughter, just… living forever and collecting power.”

Carver just kept walking, hands stuffed in his cloak, pretending he wasn’t kind of rethinking everything.

Beside him, Hrogarh was grinning like an idiot. “I heard she was beautiful once,” he said cheerfully. “Still is, by some accounts.”

That made all three of the others stop walking at once.

Ebba blinked. “She’s older than the Wilds, Hrogarh.”

Hrogarh just shrugged. “Some people age well.”

Even Vandareal muttered in the back of Carver’s mind, He’s out of his fucking tree.

“Don’t I know it,” Carver murmured, loud enough for the others to hear.

Three days passed with more complaining, more arguing, and more attempts to convince Carver to turn back. But he didn’t. Because now he was committed. And honestly? If there was even a chance—just a sliver—that Flemeth could unlock the kind of magic he’d only dreamed of, he’d take it.

They reached the spot just before dusk.

“There,” Vandareal said. “This is the place.”

Carver squinted through the trees at the crooked, half-rotted hut. Moss crawled up its sides. The roof sagged. One shutter hung loose on a hinge, creaking slightly in the wind.

It looked… unimpressive.

“That’s it?” Carver said, disappointed.

“Maybe she’s dead,” Carnuh offered hopefully.

Carver ignored him, straightened his cloak, and knocked politely on the door.

Nothing happened.

He knocked again—harder.

Still nothing.

Carver scowled. “Seriously?”

He kicked the door.

That got a response, alright.

“Still without patience,” came a voice behind them. “Just like in your last life.”

Carver spun, yanking Vandareal free and aiming it straight at the speaker.

An old woman stood there.

She was tall—taller than Brannagh, almost Carver’s height—but willowy, wearing a tattered green and brown robe that shimmered faintly, like tree bark in moonlight. Her silver-white hair was pulled into a braid wrapped like a crown around her head. Her eyes—Maker, her eyes—were gold. Not hazel. Not yellow. Gold. Burning. Ancient. And deeply amused.

“Hello, Vandareal,” she said, smiling faintly. “It’s been a long time.”

Vandareal did not respond.

Carver stepped back a little, still holding the staff-blade. “Are… are you Flemeth?”

She arched an eyebrow. “If I say no, will you run away?”

“Probably not,” Carver muttered.

“Shame.”

The others just stood there, gobsmacked. Carnuh had gone pale as snow. Ebba actually reached out and grabbed Carver’s sleeve, like she was ready to pull him backward if the old woman so much as twitched.

Hrogarh, bless his empty skull, stepped forward and smiled. “You’re not as wrinkled as I expected.”

Flemeth tilted her head at him. “You’re not as smart as I expected.”

He grinned wider. “I get that a lot.”

She let out a small chuckle, then turned her attention back to Carver. “So. You want to become something more. Something old. Something dangerous.”

“I want to protect my people,” Carver said firmly, voice steady. “And if I have to grow fangs and wings to do it, fine.”

Flemeth’s eyes glinted. “Do you know what you’re asking, boy?”

“Do you know what I’ve seen?” Carver snapped. “I’ve seen a king crushed by an ogre. I’ve seen friends torn apart by darkspawn. I’ve seen a dozen clans of my people gather, ready to fight—and no one to guide them but me.” He lowered Vandareal slightly. “So yeah. I’m asking.”

The clearing went still.

Then Flemeth smiled, slow and sharp. “Good. I hate cowards.”

She turned, walking toward the hut.

“Well?” she called over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”

Carver exhaled shakily. He turned to the others.

“You don’t have to come in.”

“Damn right I don’t,” Ebba said, arms crossed.

“I’m staying out here,” Carnuh mumbled. “I value my spine.”

“I’ll stand watch,” Hrogarh said helpfully. “If she kills you, I’ll avenge you. Probably.”

Carver rolled his eyes, then stepped after Flemeth.

The door creaked open—and swallowed him into the darkness beyond.

The hut was… shockingly clean.

Carver had expected bones, dust, maybe some dried blood or a bubbling cauldron full of eyeballs. Instead, the interior was tidy. Cozy, even. Shelves were lined with herbs and books, a low fire crackled in the hearth, and there was a faint smell of juniper and mint in the air.

Still clutching Vandareal tightly in his hands, Carver sat when Flemeth gestured to a wooden chair across from her. Peach curled up beside him, alert but calm. Vandareal was quiet—too quiet.

Flemeth sat opposite, one leg crossed over the other, studying him with a gaze that felt like sunlight through glass: warm, but burning if you stayed still too long.

"You remind me of someone," she said finally, her voice as smooth as aged wine.

Carver blinked. "Who?"

Flemeth’s mouth curled in a sly smile. "A family I rescued not long ago. Fleeing the darkspawn. A worn-looking woman, a young man with too many questions, and a girl with a fierce glare. They had just lost someone... a brother. A son. Crushed beneath an ogre’s fist."

Carver’s breath caught.

Flemeth tilted her head. "I made a deal with them. Passage to the coast, safety. In return, they would deliver something for me. The boy—he asked me to teach him the ‘dragon trick,’ as he called it." She gave a little huff of amusement. "Foolish boy. But sweet."

Carver’s heart thudded. "Garett. That was Garett. My brother. And my sister. My mother."

"So they were yours," Flemeth said softly, eyes narrowing slightly. "I felt something then. A thread. But I never imagined the boy I watched die beneath an ogre would rise again, bonded with a spirit, chosen by ancient forces to lead the Chasind."

She chuckled. "The world has a sense of humor, doesn’t it?"

Carver didn’t laugh.

But the heaviness in his chest eased. His family was alive. Maker. Even if it was just for now, it was something.

Flemeth’s golden gaze sharpened. "So. You want to learn the old ways. Why ask me? Why not your own people?"

Carver straightened. "Because the Chasind mages can teach me, sure. But they have limits. You don’t. If I’m going to keep in contact with the Wardens, scout, protect the clans... I need to learn from the best."

Flemeth arched a brow.

"And you’re the best," he added, trying not to flinch as the words left his mouth.

She crackled—a true, belly-deep laugh that made Peach lift her head.

"You’re as charming as your brother," she said, shaking her head. "And just as foolish."

Carver shrugged. “Runs in the family.”

Then Vandareal spoke.

Out loud.

Carver nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Flemeth," the weapon said, its voice deep and clear, reverberating in the small hut. "You owe me a favor. I’ve come to collect it."

Carver twisted around. “You can talk out loud?!”

"Yes," Vandareal replied. "But you never shut up long enough for me to try."

Flemeth laughed again. "Oh, I remember. I never forget a debt." Her eyes sparkled. "And what better way to repay it than to teach your new host what you never quite mastered?"

She rose without another word, stepped forward, and pressed her hand gently to Carver’s forehead.

And everything changed.

The moment her skin touched his, something bloomed inside him. Shapes and movements poured into his mind—claws, wings, fur, feathers. The beating of hearts not his own. The hum of animal instinct layered atop human thought. The howl of wind in a wolf’s throat. The soft whisper of a snake slithering through grass.

It was overwhelming. Brilliant. Terrifying.

Then it stopped.

Flemeth pulled back, her expression unreadable. Carver gasped, bracing himself on the chair.

"...What the fuck," he mumbled.

"It will take time to control," Flemeth said mildly. "But it’s yours now. You’ll feel it when the moment’s right."

He nodded, still dazed.

Then she added, as if in afterthought, "In ten days’ time, the Wardens will be at Orzammar. If you happen to see my daughter, Morrigan—tell her: nice shot."

Carver’s head jerked up. “Morrigan’s your daughter?!”

"Indeed. She thinks herself cleverer than she is. Typical youth."

Of course. It all made too much sense now.

Carver stood slowly, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself. "Thank you."

He turned to leave, then paused. "...Since I’m already here, could you teach me the dragon trick?"

Flemeth’s lips quirked. "Who says I haven’t already?"

He gawked at her.

With a wink, she turned her back on him and vanished into the shadows of the hut.

Carver blinked, then shook his head and opened the door.

"Well?" Ebba asked immediately. “Still breathing?”

“Barely,” Carver said. “But yes.”

Behind him, Flemeth’s voice carried faintly on the breeze: “When the sky falls, and the world splits—seek where the land reaches the sky.”

"...The fuck does that mean?" Carver muttered.

Vandareal was quiet again.

But Carver had a feeling he'd find out soon enough.

They had a long road ahead—straight through the mountain passes, toward the gates of Orzammar.

Carver’s ass hurt.

Not just a little. Not the "I’ve been walking too long" kind of sore. This was a full, throbbing ache that reminded him of the hard, unforgiving ground and the fact that he had, yet again, made a complete fool of himself.

"Try again," Carnuh had said cheerfully that morning, perched on a rock, his clothes folded beside him. And then, before Carver could even sigh, the boy had shifted—feathers rippling into place, bones narrowing, body shrinking—until a sleek black raven stood where the half-elf had been.

It cawed once, flapped its wings, and launched into the sky, circling the small clearing before landing on Hrogarh’s head and shitting squarely in his hair.

"Fucking—Carnuh!" Hrogarh yelled, waving his arms wildly. The raven cawed again, smug as hell, before hopping off and transforming back into a grinning fifteen-year-old.

Carver, meanwhile, had been trying very hard not to strangle anyone.

He’d spent the last week attempting to tap into the shapeshifting ability Flemeth had so generously bestowed on him. But it had been fruitless. Every time he felt like something was almost happening, it slipped away—like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.

Until, three days from Orzammar, something clicked.

He closed his eyes. Focused. Reached into that place inside himself that wasn’t quite him anymore. Where Vandareal lived. Where magic stirred and howled. And suddenly—

Feathers. Talons. Wind. Lightness.

He had done it.

He had shifted. Into a bird. More specifically—into a hawk.

The irony wasn’t lost on anyone.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Ebba had said flatly, eyes wide.

"Well, that’s on the nose," Carnuh added, squinting at him.

"Looks more like a pigeon to me," Hrogarh said.

But Carver was flying. Flying, damn it!

...For about ten seconds.

Then, without warning, the magic slipped. His concentration broke. And mid-air, feathers became skin and wings became flailing limbs—and with a thud that rattled his teeth, Carver plummeted ass-first into the dirt.

A long, painful silence followed.

Then Ebba snorted. Loudly.

Hrogarh started howling with laughter, actually falling over and kicking his legs like a dying spider. “The mighty Hawke takes flight—then lands like a sack of turnips!”

Carnuh turned away and sprinted into the trees, shoulders shaking as he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Carver lay there, dazed, staring at the sky.

"You gonna piss yourself, Ebba?" he asked bitterly.

She wiped tears from her eyes. "At this rate? Maybe."

He groaned and flopped onto his stomach.

Later that night, as they sat around the fire, licking their wounds (well, he was), Hrogarh—gods save him—sang.

“Oh, the hawke took flight, a noble bird,
But fate, it seems, was most absurd.
For up he soared, then down he dropped,
And right upon his arse he plopped!”

Ebba doubled over.

Carnuh actually begged him to stop singing, saying he hadn’t finished laughing yet and his stomach hurt.

Carver sat in sullen silence, Vandareal vibrating with suppressed laughter in his mind.

"Traitor," Carver muttered under his breath.

“You must admit,” Vandareal replied, far too smugly, “you were majestic. For a whole five seconds.”

Carver sighed and stared into the fire.

These assholes.

His assholes.

And as much as he wanted to be annoyed, as much as his bruised ego—and arse—were still smarting... he couldn’t help but smile.

Because this? This was friendship.

The gates of Orzammar loomed before them, carved from dark stone, etched with the pride of a thousand years of dwarven history. And yet, they remained shut.

“City’s closed,” the gatekeeper barked without even looking up from his clipboard. His armor gleamed, but the beard beneath his helm was frayed and gray. “No entry until a new king is chosen.”

Carver stepped forward, brow furrowed. “We’re not here to start a tavern brawl. We’re envoys of the Chasind tribes. We have news and—”

“Don’t care,” the dwarf snapped. “Unless your news is ‘The Stone has chosen a king,’ you can turn around and take your tales back to whatever bog you crawled out of.”

Carver grit his teeth. “Have any Grey Wardens passed through recently?”

That made the dwarf glance up, and then spit on the stone at his feet.

“Two of ’em. Slipped through four nights ago. Shouldn’t have let that brand back in, not after that disgrace of a Proving.” He muttered the last part, but not quietly enough. “Don’t know what the Assembly’s thinking, letting traitors and surfacers run wild.”

Carver stared hard at the man but said nothing. There was no getting through those gates, not today.

“Come on,” he muttered to the others. “Let’s see what the traders are selling.”

A shanty market had sprung up outside Orzammar’s walls, filled with tents and wagons, shouting vendors and bored guards keeping just enough order to prevent riots. Most traders looked half frozen, teeth chattering in the chill mountain wind, but their eyes gleamed like coins when they saw newcomers with coin.

Carver’s gaze swept across the crowd, eyes narrowed with purpose.

Ebba noticed. “What’re you looking for?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then, with a shrug of his shoulder, he leaned closer. “If you were a Carta member pretending to be a trader,” he said lowly, “how would you look?”

Ebba frowned. “Not too clean. Not too ragged. Just... forgettable. Like you belonged. Someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but wasn’t trying too hard to disappear either.”

Carver nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

His eyes locked onto an unassuming wagon near the edge of the market, flanked by a bearded dwarf and a much smaller one—his daughter, maybe. The man had graying hair and a pipe clenched between his teeth, while the girl sat atop a barrel, idly whittling a block of wood with a small knife. Carver couldn't tell her age—dwarves aged weirdly—but ten seemed about right.

“Come on,” he said, tugging Ebba’s sleeve.

Behind them, Carnuh had his hands full keeping Hrogarh from challenging a baker to a wrestling match “for the last sweetroll.” Carver figured that meant they had maybe five minutes before something exploded.

The older dwarf spotted them approaching and immediately burst into a smooth sales pitch. “You’ve got good taste, friend! Rare goods from the Deep Roads themselves! Stone-burnished relics, enchanted steel, even a bone-chime from the lost Thaig of Ortag—”

“Deep Roads?” Carver cut in, pretending to peer at a rusted blade. “You’ve been down there?”

The dwarf puffed on his pipe. “Of course. You think I buy this crap from scavengers? My own two feet, boy. Me and the girl, we travel light and smart.”

Carver arched a brow. “That so?”

He glanced at the girl, who hadn’t once looked up from her carving.

“Maybe we could talk over a meal,” Carver said casually. “I’ve got a proposition. Business, not stealing.”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of proposition?”

Carver leaned in close, voice barely above a whisper. “Lyrium.”

There was a beat of silence. The dwarf’s pipe stopped smoking.

Then a smile bloomed across his face—but it was the kind of smile that showed too many teeth.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he said smoothly. “Me and the girl would be honored to join you for supper.”

Carver nodded and turned to walk back toward their camp. But the dwarf called after him.

“Wait—before we break bread, mind telling me your name, stranger? And where you're from?”

Carver turned, smirking slightly. “Carver. Leader of the unified Chasind tribes.”

The dwarf’s brows lifted. The girl finally glanced up.

“And you?”

The dwarf dipped his head. “Rorik Cadash. At your service.”

Ebba shot Carver a side-glance as they walked away.

“Carta?” she whispered.

“Oh, definitely Carta,” Carver replied. “No honest trader smiles like that.”

As Carver and Ebba arranged firewood and cleaned a few battered pans for dinner, a commotion broke out near the trader wagons. It started with Carnuh’s furious voice shouting something about stupidity incarnate, followed by the thud of heavy boots. Carver looked up to see Carnuh stomping toward them, dragging a sheepish-looking Hrogarh by the wrist.

Hrogarh, for reasons Carver couldn't immediately process, had a giant wooden cage strapped to his back.

Carver blinked. “…Why do I feel like this is going to be stupid?”

Carnuh, red in the face and breathing like he’d sprinted the whole way, jabbed a finger behind him. “Ask that idiot!”

Carver raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Hrogarh?”

The big man beamed. “Won us dinner.”

Ebba muttered, “Oh no.”

Carnuh threw his hands up. “He challenged a merchant to an arm-wrestling match. Beat him, of course—but the prize, Carver. The prize.”

Carver peered into the cage as Hrogarh swung it off his back. Inside, ten fat, twitchy-eyed nugs blinked back at him, pink noses wiggling. One promptly took a dump in the corner.

“Nugs,” Carver said, stunned.

“Breeding nugs,” Carnuh snapped. “Ten pairs! Males and females! I checked!”

For a long beat, there was silence. Then Carver doubled over, laughing—loud and from the belly. He slapped his knee and gasped for air.

“Oh sweet Andraste on a unicycle,” he wheezed. “You—you solved the food problem!”

Carnuh blinked. “What?”

Carver pointed at the cage, still giggling. “Nugs! They breed like mad, eat trash, take up no space, and grow fast. You just gave the clans a sustainable food source in one ridiculous arm-wrestling match.”

Ebba leaned against a wagon, snorting. “Hrogarh, you walking disaster, you might actually be a genius.”

Hrogarh puffed his chest and stuck out his tongue at Carnuh. “Told you it was a good deal.”

Carnuh looked to the sky like he was praying for strength. “You cannot possibly understand how embarrassing it was, Carver. He shouted 'For the pride of the Chasind!' before slamming the poor dwarf’s hand into the table hard enough to break it.”

Carver was still grinning like a madman. “And now we’re feeding Carta smugglers spit-roasted nug. Can’t make this stuff up.”

Ebba patted Hrogarh on his oversized shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ve won the honor of killing and preparing the first nug for dinner. Show ‘em how the Chasind feast.”

Hrogarh grinned so wide his ears nearly moved. “Oh, hell yes.”

The scent of roasting meat hung thick in the air, sticky with honeymead and mingled with the sharp, earthy tang of forest roots. Hrogarh had done a decent job turning the nug on the spit, basting it with a mix of pine syrup and whatever spices Ebba had found in her bottomless pack. Even Carnuh, still annoyed, had to admit the smell was mouthwatering.

They were just setting out bowls when Rorik Cadash and his daughter Mika appeared from between the trader tents. The dwarf’s weathered face was hard to read, but Mika’s eyes went wide when she spotted the spread—fire-roasted nug, foraged tubers, and fresh flatbread cooked over stone. Carver rose with a relaxed smile and gestured toward the fire.

“Evening,” he said. “You’re just in time. Hungry?”

Rorik nodded once, and Mika gave a shy little bob of her head as they stepped forward.

“Help yourselves. There’s plenty,” Carver said, motioning for them to sit. “We don’t let anyone go hungry under the stars.”

They didn’t speak while eating, but Carver noticed how both dwarves ate—carefully, slowly, like they weren’t used to full bellies. Mika kept glancing at the pot, then at her father, then back at her plate, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed seconds. Carver kept nudging more food toward them, pretending not to notice.

When the last bones were stripped clean and the fire crackled low, Rorik finally leaned back, wiping his hands on a worn cloth. His eyes were sharp now, full of quiet calculation.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s talk business. What does the united Chasind want from Clan Cadash?”

Carver didn’t miss a beat. “Lyrium.”

That got Rorik to snort.

“You picked the wrong Carta for that,” the dwarf said, shaking his head. “Cadash clan’s down on its luck. We’ve lost half our smugglers in the last year—killed, arrested, or just plain vanished. Shipments gone, trade routes burned. Me and Mika here are stuck selling fake trinkets, and my boys are off breaking skulls for gold. We’re a shadow of what we were.”

Carnuh tilted his head, frowning. “So why not start over with us?”

Rorik gave a short, bitter laugh. “You think it’s that easy?”

Carver leaned forward, his tone steady. “No. But I’ve always rooted for the underdogs.”

Mika laughed quietly, surprising them all.

Carver kept going. “We’re not offering gold. We’re offering something better—freedom. You and yours can move your lyrium through the Wilds, led by Chasind guides who know every root and bog. No Chantry, no Templars, no prying eyes. You reach Gwaren or even the coast, sell what you want, and in return... you supply our mages.”

“For free,” Rorik said.

“For freedom,” Carver corrected. “It’s a risk, sure. But it could change everything for both of us.”

Rorik rubbed his beard, thinking. His eyes lingered on Mika, who was quietly licking honey off her fingers.

Then he looked at Carver. “I want something more.”

Carver raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“If we’re doing this, I want a place for my people. The families. The ones who don’t smuggle or fight. A place to winter. Shelter. Somewhere safe.”

Carver didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

That gave Rorik pause. “Just like that?”

“You said you’ve lost most of your men. I say you haven’t lost your worth. You help us protect our mages, and we’ll give you shelter. A foothold. Not just trade—trust. Fourteen days from now, send your people to the base of the mountain pass. A few of ours will be waiting to guide them in.”

Rorik studied him a moment longer. Then he reached out and clasped Carver’s forearm.

“This might be the start of something beautiful.”

Carver grinned. “That’s what I said to the nug roasting on the spit.”

Mika giggled, Rorik groaned, and even Carnuh cracked a smile.

The next morning, Rorik and Mika packed up their wagon, cheeks flushed with anticipation. The old dwarf kept grumbling to himself while Mika beamed like she’d just been crowned Paragon. Before they left, Ebba stepped forward and pressed a smooth stone into Rorik’s hand. A Chasind rune had been carved deep into its face, glowing faintly with protective magic.

“Show this to the ones waiting for you at the foot of the mountains,” she said. “They’ll know you’re the one we promised to guide.”

Rorik nodded. “We’ll be there. And tell that mountain-sized bastard to keep breeding those nugs. I have a feeling I’ll be wanting stew come winter.”

With a loud clatter of wheels and a cheerful wave from Mika, the wagon rolled off down the stony pass, kicking up dust as it disappeared.

Watching them go, Hrogarh snorted. “That poor Carta clan has no idea what they’ve signed up for.”

Carnuh just smiled faintly. “I believe it’ll work out. The underdogs bite hardest when cornered.”

Then—creaking like thunder—the enormous gates of Orzammar began to open.

A dwarf in gleaming ceremonial armor stepped forward, beard braided with gold thread. His voice boomed down the mountainside.

“By decree of the Assembly and the aid of the Grey Wardens, a king has been chosen! All hail King Bhelen Aeducan! Orzammar shall march to war!”

Cheers erupted from the other traders and travelers gathered near the gates, but Carver just nodded to himself. Whatever the Wardens had done inside, it had worked. The how and the why didn’t interest him much. All that mattered was that things were finally moving.

Almost an hour later, a group appeared on the winding path from the gate—Alistair and Runa leading the way, followed by Morrigan, and a red-haired dwarf Carver didn’t recognize, stumbling slightly and swaying like a tree in high wind.

As soon as Runa spotted Hrogarh, she raised her arms and shouted, “To the skies, you giant lout!”

Hrogarh grinned and swept her up onto his shoulders like she weighed nothing, despite her full armor and claymore. Runa laughed, gripping his hair like reins.

Carver shook his head and turned to Alistair, who looked bruised and tired, but still on his feet.

“You look like something that crawled out of the Deep Roads,” Carver said, extending a hand.

“Feels about right,” Alistair muttered, shaking it. “And you smell like smoke and wet dog.”

“Thanks. It’s called style.”

The red-haired dwarf stepped forward, belched loudly, and slapped Carver’s arm. “Name’s Oghren,” he said, swaying. “Don’t touch my beard, and I won’t punch your teeth in.”

“Charmed,” Carver said dryly.

From behind him, Peach let out a wheezing snort and buried her face in her paws. Vandareal muttered in Carver’s mind, I’m putting that one on the ‘Do Not Invite to Dinners’ list.

Then Morrigan stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

Carver gave her a friendly smile. “Your mother says hello.”

That stopped her cold. “...What?”

“Oh, and she said to tell you: ‘Nice shot.’”

Morrigan paled. “You lie.”

Alistair looked between them, confused. “Wait, hold on—you talked to Flemeth? We killed Flemeth. Or, well... we thought we did.”

Carver shrugged. “She taught me to shapeshift. Even gave me a crash course in the Dragon Trick.”

“The... what?” Alistair blinked. “That’s not a thing. That sounds made-up.”

Morrigan took two steps forward, fury in her voice. “My mother is dead. I saw her die!”

Ebba rolled her eyes. “Looked pretty alive to me. Spry, even.”

Snarling, Morrigan got right in Carver’s face. “Why would she teach you? Of all people?!”

Carver leaned in slightly, smirking. “Must’ve been my charming smile.”

Morrigan’s eyes flashed, and she reached for her staff—but Carver slammed the butt of Vandareal into the ground, releasing a thrum of magic. The resulting shockwave sent Morrigan tumbling backward, landing on her ass in a puff of dust.

Alistair covered a laugh with his hand. “Maker’s breath. You’re my new favorite person.”

Ignoring the scowling witch, Carver turned to Runa, who was still perched atop Hrogarh.

“So what now?”

Runa leaned forward slightly. “We’re heading to the Circle. Got to wrangle up the mages before the Chantry talks them out of doing anything useful. After that, Redcliffe. Arl Eamon’s still in hiding, but if he’ll support the Wardens, we’ll have a real shot at challenging Loghain.”

“Solid plan,” Carver said, nodding. “Good luck.”

They clasped hands one last time, and with a few more jokes and a shove from Oghren that nearly toppled Carnuh, the two groups parted ways.

As the Wardens headed east toward the Circle, Carver and his companions turned back toward the Wilds, toward home.

Chapter Text

Carver was honestly glad to see that shit was moving along when they returned. The village was packed with people—not just milling around, but doing things. Real things. Weapons were being sharpened, armor repaired or cobbled together from scrap, food prepped in massive cauldrons, and smoke drifted from cookfires. It felt alive.

He weaved through the bustle, ignoring the respectful nods and curious glances, heading straight for the one person he wanted to see.

Brannagh sat in a circle of shamans near the central fire, her long braids loose and a bit windswept. The others were murmuring among themselves, threads of magic drifting lazily in the air. Without pomp or ceremony, Carver dropped down beside her with a huff, earning a few lifted brows and amused glances.

Without looking at her, he fished something from his pouch and handed it over. A delicate silver necklace shaped like a dragonfly, its wings spread in motion. The enchantment etched into its back glimmered faintly.

“Bought it off a merchant,” he muttered, beet red. “Carnuh said it wards off some physical strikes. Nothing fancy. Just thought—uh—I wanted to give you something. You were the first one here who didn’t treat me like mud, and I just... yeah. For protection.”

Brannagh’s eyebrows shot up, and for a heartbeat she looked completely startled. Then she gave him the warmest, toothiest smile he’d seen all day, leaned in, and pulled him into a hug. “You sweet boy,” she whispered, then pinched his cheek. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

The other shamans around them chuckled softly, smiling at the exchange, and Carver, still glowing crimson, rubbed the back of his neck.

“So,” one of them said, gently, “what happened while you were gone, Wolf-Blood?”

Carver let out a breath, leaning back on his hands. “Where to start? Found Flemeth. Yes, that Flemeth.” That got a chorus of startled gasps. “She taught me how to shapeshift. Sort of. I’m still new at it. She also confirmed my family made it out of Lothering. That was... something.”

He paused, then added, “Also, made a deal with the Carta.”

Now he had their full attention.

“Clan Cadash,” he clarified. “Rorik’s his name. Times’ve been hard on them. Selling fake goods and scraping coin. I offered them passage through the Wilds in exchange for lyrium. Free lyrium. For our mages.”

“And in return?” Brannagh asked calmly.

“They get a place to winter,” Carver said, glancing at her. “I told them we’d build them something. Big enough to hold the whole clan. Maybe a little out of the way, but close enough they can trade and get food. They don’t ask for much.”

Brannagh nodded slowly. “A fair bargain. Lyrium’s too hard to come by through ‘proper’ channels. I trust your judgment.”

One of the older shamans leaned in, eyes narrowed. “You trust the Carta?”

“No,” Carver said flatly. “But I trust the fact that they’re desperate enough to make this work. And I know underdogs. They fight hardest.”

Brannagh gave him a sideways smile. “Spoken like someone who’s always had to claw his way up.”

Carver grinned. “Damn right.”

Then her expression softened even more. “While you were gone, we did what we promised. The scouts are out, tracking the darkspawn. The smiths work through the night. The elderly and the children, the wounded and those who can’t fight—they’re already gone. Sent to the farthest clans. Safer ground.”

His chest loosened, hearing that. “Good,” he said, quietly. “Really good.”

He kissed her wrinkled cheek gently. “I better go check on Hrogarh the Nugwrangler.”

A scream of frustration echoed from the far side of the village.

“—WHY won’t you stay in the pen, Gritsnout?! Grubtoes, don’t you dare bite Skitterback! EBBA! CARNUH! HELP!”

Carver winced. “Too late.”

Brannagh snorted into her tea. “He named them?”

“Oh yeah,” Carver muttered as he stood. “All nine. Even the runt. ‘Piddlefeet,’ I think.”

He headed off toward the growing disaster that was Hrogarh’s nug operation, muttering to himself, “Spirits help me, I’m leading a rebellion with a man who named a nug Piddlefeet.”

And yet... he was smiling the whole way there.

Weeks passed, and though Carver tried to tell himself it was boring, it really wasn’t.

His days were full. Too full, honestly.

He spent most mornings with Brannagh, sweat beading on his brow as she pushed him harder than anyone ever had. Magic was tricky—his kind of magic even more so. Brannagh had quickly figured out what he was good at—earth, lightning, and force—and promptly decided that was not what they’d focus on.

“No warrior improves by doing what he already knows,” she’d said, whacking him on the wrist with her staff when his fire spell fizzled out again. “And if you ever set fire to my tea kettle again, I will shift into a bear and sit on you.”

So Carver learned ice and fire—slowly, painfully, sometimes with his eyebrows singed—but he learned.

The afternoons were spent with the warriors. They didn’t go easy on him, not even a little. That red-haired bastard Hrogarh made sure of that. They trained until Carver’s muscles screamed and his arms trembled. But it paid off—he was faster now, harder to knock down, sharper with his strikes. Vandareal, the sarcastic shadow in his mind, often muttered things like Finally! You swing like a grown man, not a half-dead goose.

Evenings were... a different kind of battle.

“PIDDLEFEET! Not in the stewpot!”

“Hrogarh, why is there a nug in my hammock?!”

“Carnuh, tell me you didn’t just lose three nugs—again!?”

The nugs were... chaos incarnate. No pen could hold them, no order could contain them. But Carver kept helping anyway, mostly because the idea of Hrogarh weeping over a missing nug named Cheeklicker was too much to bear. That man had muscles the size of barrels, but somehow managed to be the world’s softest nug-dad.

Somewhere between wrestling errant nugs and dodging Brannagh’s spell drills, Carver also built.

The great hut rose slowly, but surely. A solid structure made from pine logs, clay, and stone, big enough for Rorik’s entire extended family. He carved the Cadash rune into the beam over the doorway himself, shoulders aching, fingers raw. But he wanted it to be right. Rorik had kept his end of the deal; the Chasind would keep theirs.

When the Carta came, they’d have shelter.

Still no sign of Rorik, though.

Carver tried not to worry. The dwarf knew what he was doing. The stone Ebba had enchanted would make sure the scouts didn’t mistake him for some random trader. He’d show.

Probably.

Maybe.

Vandareal, unhelpfully, whispered If he doesn’t, I’ll haunt him until the end of time. Which was comforting, sort of.

When Carver wasn’t being roasted by Brannagh, beaten by Hrogarh, or pecked by rampaging nugs, he met with the scouts. The news they brought wasn’t great.

The darkspawn were moving. Fast.

Faster than he liked. The tunnels were spewing them up like bile from the Deep Roads, and their trails twisted through the forests like rot spreading through bark. The southernmost clans were already skirmishing with small groups—nothing serious yet, but it wouldn’t stay that way.

Carver chewed his lip raw over it at night. He knew he had to check in with the Wardens soon. He’d promised.

But he didn’t want to leave until Rorik arrived. That promise mattered too.

One evening, after Brannagh had dismissed him with a nod of approval (he only singed her shawl that time), he sat down on a log, watching the sun set in a blaze of copper.

Peach padded over and flopped down beside him, tongue lolling.

“Do you think I’m doing okay?” Carver asked softly, glancing at her.

Peach made a low whuff in her throat and pressed her head to his knee.

Vandareal, in his mind, added, You are doing more than okay. You are doing what I failed to do. You’re holding them together, boy. Now don’t get weepy, or I’ll mock you into the Fade.

Carver smiled faintly and scratched Peach behind the ears. He didn’t say anything more.

Because sometimes, silence was all that needed saying.

And because somewhere in the village, Hrogarh was yelling about how Piddlefeet had learned to open gates, and Carver really needed to go help.

The Cadash wagons rolled in just after midday, creaking under the weight of crates, tools, tarps, and supplies. Five of them in all, pulled by shaggy mules and trailed by a cloud of dust and laughter.

Carver stood at the edge of the village with his arms crossed, watching them approach. The sun glinted off the silver rune marker swinging from Rorik’s neck as he hopped down from the lead wagon and clasped Carver’s hand.

“You kept your word,” Rorik said, eyes creased in a rare, sincere smile. “A place to winter. That’s more than we’ve had in years.”

“I don’t break promises,” Carver replied simply. “Not anymore.”

Rorik gestured behind him. “This is the rest of the crew.” One by one, he introduced them—his sharp-eyed wife, her cranky sister, a round old dwarf he called Mother with the tone of someone who respected her more than he liked her. Then came his younger brother and a half-dozen nephews, the kind of dwarfs who could disappear into a crowd or a shadow in the same breath. Carta, through and through.

His daughter Mika jumped down from the wagon and launched herself into Carver’s arms before he could protest.

“I came!” she squealed.

“Of course you did,” Carver said, adjusting his grip so she didn’t slip. “Got your whole house ready and everything. Want to see?”

She nodded eagerly, and Carver carried her as he led the group through the village toward the large hut—now fully built, weather-sealed, and ready.

Rorik took one look at it and let out a low whistle. “You weren’t joking.”

“Told you. The Wilds keep their word,” Carver said with a grin.

The dwarves began unloading their wagons, filing into their winter shelter with murmurs of approval. Some of the Chasind villagers nearby offered cautious nods and curious stares—but no one interfered.

One item off the list.

Carver felt that strange flicker of pride again—warm and sharp and unfamiliar.

Then, the weight of the next task landed on his shoulders.

The Wardens.

He sighed, shifted Mika gently down to the ground, and gave her a soft pat on the head. She ran off to help her father, already chattering with one of the younger Chasind children about “our hut.”

He didn’t want to leave. Not again. Not with so much still happening here.

But he had to.

He made his way across the clearing to the nugpen—now twice the size it had been before, and ten times louder. Inside the fence, the nugs squealed and scrambled, while outside the fence, three people argued.

Predictably, Carnuh looked exasperated, Hrogarh looked smug, and Ebba looked like she was about to punch someone.

When they spotted Carver, the bickering died down. Ebba stepped forward, arms crossed.

“What’s wrong?”

Carver didn’t bother sugarcoating it. “I need to go. Tomorrow. Lake Calenhad. The Wardens.”

All three groaned immediately.

“Oh come on—”

“Again?”

Carver raised his hand. The tone in his voice cut through their protests.

“I need you all here.”

That stopped them.

He looked at Hrogarh first. “I want every warrior ready to move at a moment’s notice. But not all of them. We need a line left here—enough to protect the elders, the children, anyone who can’t run.”

Hrogarh nodded once, serious now.

Then Carver turned to Ebba. “You lead the scouts. With your own eyes. I want to know exactly where the darkspawn are, and where they’re going. If you can push them away from our lands—do it. But only if it’s safe. I’m not losing you.”

Ebba made a face, but it wasn’t a real protest. “Fine,” she muttered. “But you’d better bring me a shiny Warden dagger or something when you get back.”

Carver smiled. “Deal.”

They were quiet for a moment, the three of them.

Then Hrogarh said gruffly, “Next time, we’re coming. Don’t care what it is. Dragon? Demon? Divine? We go, Carver.”

He nodded. “Next time.”

Finally, he turned to Carnuh. “You’re with me. And pack light this time. We’re flying.”

Carnuh groaned. “You say that like flying doesn’t mean crashing into trees and getting crapped on by other birds.”

Carver just grinned. “You say that like I care.”

The flight went fine… ish.

Carver's hawk form made the trip to Lake Calenhad fast—wind in his feathers, freedom in his bones. The only problem?

The Wardens were not at Lake Calenhad.

Instead, Carver and Carnuh were greeted by a very pissed-off dwarf woman at the tavern.

“Wardens?” she snapped, slamming a tankard down on the bar. “You’re five days late. They left for Redcliffe. Off to meet Arl Eamon. And if you see that drunken lout Orghren—tell him he smells like a dead bronto!”

Carver blinked. Then glanced at Carnuh.

“…She’s not wrong,” Carnuh muttered.

And just like that, they were off again.

Redcliffe looked like the end of the world.

Rotting corpses, twisted by magic, were dragging themselves through the streets. Villagers screamed. Fires burned. The air reeked of blood and bile.

Without hesitation, Carver and Carnuh dove from the sky and shifted back mid-air, landing in the chaos. Carnuh raised barriers. Carver unleashed fire and force magic, his spells arcing like lightning through the undead. Vandarel sang in his hand, cutting through rotting flesh beside Warden steel.

Alistair fought to Carver’s left. Runa to his right. Together, they hacked their way through what felt like endless waves until finally—finally—the last corpse dropped.

Vandarel’s voice echoed in Carver’s mind.

“This is the stink of demons. Blood magic. A possessed one.”

Fucking demons.

The doors to the Chantry creaked open, and out stepped a man in fine clothes. Alistair jogged over, calling him Bann Teagan. Carver, less impressed, wiped gore off his blade.

Runa clapped Carver on the shoulder. “You came just in time!”

Carver gave her a look. “What. The. Fuck. Happened here?”

Runa winced. “The Arl’s sick. His son—Connor—got possessed. He raised the dead. It's… complicated.”

Then an elderly woman in mage robes approached, voice thin and brittle. “The Circle may be able to free the boy, if we—”

Carver scoffed, loudly.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “And who are you, apostate?”

Before Carver could speak, Carnuh stepped forward, voice cold as a northern wind. “This is Carver, Chasind Wolf, bearer of Vandarel, leader of the unified tribes and ally to the Grey Wardens.”

Then he tilted his head. “And you can’t be an apostate if you don’t give a shit about the Chantry, the Maker, or his imaginary bride.”

The old woman—Wynne, apparently—gasped like she’d been slapped.

Alistair sighed. “Maybe, uh… Wynne, maybe you should check on the wounded.”

Carver raised an eyebrow. “What’s the plan?”

Runa stepped in. “We need to free Connor, save the Arl, and then we go to Denerim to confront Loghain and Howe.”

Carver nodded. “Fine. What do you need from me?”

Before Runa could answer, Bann Teagan piped up. “Wait. The Wardens are allied with wildlings now? Savages?”

Carver’s patience snapped.

“The Chasind have known the truth of the darkspawn since the beginning. While you Lowlanders were busy choking on your silver spoons, we’ve been bleeding. Maybe be grateful instead of being a judgmental ass.”

Teagan flushed and stammered. “I… apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“Apology accepted,” Carver said coolly. “For now.”

Runa clapped her hands, trying to get the mood back on track. “We’ve asked all our allies to rally here at Redcliffe Castle. We’ll move from here to Denerim.”

Carver gave her a slow smile. “Then you’d better get ready for six thousand Chasind warriors and mages.”

Alistair blinked. “Wait—I thought you said eight thousand?”

Carnuh, grinning like a little shit, chimed in: “The scouts won’t march. They’ll keep tracking the spawn. So we know where they are. Always.”

Runa nodded, clearly pleased.

Carver and Carnuh made ready to leave. Before shifting back to hawk form, Carver turned to Runa one last time.

“Oh—and if you see Orghren? Tell him a dwarf named Felsi says he smells like a dead bronto.”

Runa burst into laughter, and Carver leapt into the sky to the sound of it echoing behind him.

The wind howled through the trees as Carver and Carnuh landed hard just beyond the village, shifting from hawk to man mid-stride. Carver’s boots struck the earth with force, and he didn’t stop. His cloak snapped behind him, his eyes grim and set, and Carnuh followed silently, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.

The village was stirring—people running errands, hunters sharpening blades, warriors sparring under the early morning sun. But as soon as they saw Carver’s face, everything slowed. Silence rippled outward like a thrown stone across still water.

He found Brannagh first, seated with two other shamans near the fire. She looked up, and something in his expression made her rise immediately.

“It’s time,” he said without preamble.

Brannagh’s mouth tightened. She nodded once.

Within the hour, every shapeshifter of the Wilds stood before him. Men and women of all ages—some with grey in their hair, some barely past youth. Each one bore the marks of their clan, their magic, their animal kin. Some were bare-chested, covered in ritual tattoos. Others wore heavy leathers, their totems hanging from their necks. All of them were quiet.

Carver stood tall before them, Vandarel resting against his back, the mark of the wolf carved into his brow by shadow and spirit both. His voice rang out clear and steady.

“You fly to the nine clans. Now.”

A beat. Then he continued.

“You tell them this: the time has come. The clans are to march. Every warrior, every mage. They are to gather at the edge of the Brecilian Forest. There, we will meet with the Dalish. And from there—we march to Redcliffe.”

A low murmur spread through the gathered shapeshifters. Peach stepped beside him, silent as a shadow. Her presence was calm and sure.

“The lowlanders are waking up,” Carver went on. “But they are not ready. We are. We have always been ready. The Blight is here, and it does not care for borders, blood, or names. So neither will we.”

He turned to the outer ring where scouts and trackers stood waiting.

“You,” he said. “You run with the darkspawn.”

The scouts straightened. Some bared teeth.

“You track them. You needle them. Hit their flanks. Poison them. Blow up every hole into the Deep Roads you can find.”

He took a breath, eyes burning.

“Do not be seen. Do not be caught. You are not here to fight. You are here to harass. To bleed them slowly. To make them afraid.”

Gasps and dark laughter from the scouts.

“If they move toward any lowlander village, you warn them. Ring bells. Light fires. I don’t care how—you warn them.”

He raised Vandarel then, the ancient weapon thrumming with something deep and old. Something wild.

“This is our land. And we do not let rot take root in it.”

The wind stirred the trees. A hawk cried above. For a moment, the forest itself seemed to listen.

Carver stepped back, and Carnuh raised his hand. A green shimmer danced across his fingers, then burst upward—sending a ripple of magic pulsing through the gathered mages and shifters. A signal. A call. Beside him, Hrogarh and Ebba appeared.

One by one, the shapeshifters bowed their heads, then turned—and shifted. Ravens. Hawks. Owls. Falcons. One by one, they took to the sky.

Carver watched them go, a storm of wings rising toward the clouds.

Then he turned to the scouts.

“You heard me. Move.”

And just like that, the scouts vanished into the trees like ghosts.

Brannagh approached, placing a hand gently on his arm. “You have become what we needed,” she said softly.

Carver didn't answer. He watched the skies for a moment longer, then turned away.

The march had begun.

And the Blight would never see them coming.

Chapter Text

If Carver had known just how long and miserable the trek to Redcliffe Castle would be, he might've considered letting the Wardens fight the Blight on their own.

Nine thousand warriors, rogues, and mages—Chasind and Dalish both—moving through the Ferelden countryside like a great, loud, impossible tide. Carver walked at the front, alongside his companions, a headache already brewing at the base of his skull and no end to the bickering in sight.

"They're worse than toddlers," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Ebba, walking beside him with a scout's grace, smirked. "Toddlers don’t carry axes or throw fireballs when someone insults their stew."

Behind them, two clans were at it again, yelling about hunting rights. Carver swore under his breath, waved Hrogarh forward, and let the red-haired giant sort it out. Sometimes, Carver had to be the leader. Other times, delegation was survival.

And now, as if the massive mobile camp of Chasind weren’t enough, the Dalish had joined them.

Keeper Lanaya, fierce and calm in equal measure, had become their spokesperson. Carver admired her, really. She kept her people in line, despite centuries of mistrust. But it was another layer of complexity he could've done without.

"We need to avoid the western hill," Lanaya said to him one morning as they studied maps. "There are reports of darkspawn patrols and... lowlanders."

"More Bann-supporters?" Carver asked, already knowing the answer.

"More frightened idiots with torches and pitchforks," she replied with a thin smile.

Great. Just great.

They tried to stay clear of trouble, but it always found them. Villages lay in their path, and though Carver had no interest in bloodshed, he couldn’t just pass them by. So he went in, every time, with Peach at his side and Vandarel at his back.

They warned. They begged. They pleaded.

"The darkspawn are coming," he told a mayor in a crumbling hamlet three days north of Lothering. "Take your families and head north. Don’t wait. You won’t survive."

The man scoffed. "And abandon my land? My home? To run off with savages and elves?"

Carver clenched his jaw. He could smell the rot of the Blight on the wind.

But he learned. Not all minds could be changed with reason. So he changed tactics.

In every village, he found the women.

It was always a wife. A mother. A widow. He would kneel before their washbasins or interrupt their baking and explain—quietly, honestly—what was coming. And somehow, they listened. They gathered children, slapped sense into husbands, and organized the escape before sundown.

Carver learned something in those days: Ferelden did not run on kings or Arls. It ran on mothers with wooden spoons and a spine of steel.

He wished he could save them all. But sometimes, they were too late. Sometimes, smoke rose behind them, and the stench of death followed.

He never slept those nights.

And then there were the Revered Mothers.

Those bitter-faced, sanctimonious vultures who thought five templars in shiny armor could stand against nearly ten thousand Chasind and Dalish warriors.

Carver stood before one once, a woman with a face like a dried prune and eyes that glowed with barely concealed hatred.

"This army is a threat to the Maker's peace," she spat.

He tilted his head. "Lady, if the Maker wanted peace, maybe he should've shown up during the last four Blights."

She ordered her templars to attack.

The result was almost disappointing.

The mages didn’t even break a sweat. A few whispered words, a gesture, and the templars froze in place like statues.

Carver, curious, had later asked Brannagh how it was so easy.

"They’re trained to handle Circle magic," she told him. "Polite, refined. This? This is Chasind magic. Raw. Real. It bends the world, not rules. They have no answer for it."

That made sense.

The next evening, drunk on too much mead, Hrogarh shared his theory with the camp.

"You wanna know what the real danger is?" he slurred. "Celibacy."

Carver blinked. "What?"

"Those Chantry bats choose to never fuck," Hrogarh explained, waving a mug. "No release, no joy. That's why they're all mad. It curdles the brain!"

Laughter exploded around the fire.

Carver, already red-faced from drink, blushed deeper.

"You’re awful quiet there, Carver," Ebba said, elbowing him.

He tried to deflect. Failed. Hrogarh's eyes gleamed.

"Don’t tell me our grand Chasind leader's still a virgin?"

Carver bolted from the firelight, their howls of laughter trailing behind him. Even Vandarel was chuckling in his head.

A day’s walk from Redcliffe, Carver called counsel.

The nine other Chasind clanleaders, the oldest shamans, and the four Dalish keepers sat together in a large circle around a fire. The air smelled of ash, leather, and damp earth.

Carver cleared his throat. "We’re close. Less than a day from Redcliffe. But let’s not kid ourselves—there’s no way in hell we all fit inside the castle. Not Chasind, Dalish, dwarves, and mages."

He looked around. The firelight flickered in the lines of weathered faces, all hardened by years, some by centuries.

"So. How do we do this?"

Lanaya stepped forward. "We send representatives. One for each people. The rest stay outside the walls, on the hills, in the trees. The castle won’t crumble."

She winked. Some of the Chasind laughed softly.

"I will go for the Dalish," she added.

Brannagh grunted in agreement. "And you," she said to Carver, "will go for us. You and the misfits you dragged with you."

Carver groaned. "Of course I will."

Brannagh thumped her staff against the ground. "You’ve spoken with the Wardens, you brought us together, and you know how lowlanders talk. You’ve got the face for it."

That earned a snort from Hrogarh and a grin from Carnuh.

Carver stood and gestured to two figures waiting behind him. "Tarn. Bea."

They stepped forward—Tarn tall and broad, Bea lean and sharp-eyed.

"While I’m at the castle, you two are in charge. Keep the clans in line. No infighting, no drama. Anyone who stirs shit answers to me."

They both nodded, pride gleaming in their eyes.

The council broke up with murmurs and nods. Orders were relayed. Torches lit paths through the camp.

Carver looked toward the distant lights of Redcliffe Castle.

And then they were there.

Redcliffe Castle rose on the horizon, all stone and banners, perched like a smug vulture over the lake. Carver had expected some kind of greeting, maybe fanfare, perhaps someone who didn’t look like a confused lump of metal.

Instead, they were stopped by a knight in armor so polished it nearly blinded him. The man stood tall, blocking the road, sword sheathed but hand on hilt.

"Halt!" the knight bellowed. "State your purpose!"

Carver blinked. Then glanced behind him at nearly ten thousand Dalish and Chasind warriors, mages, and scouts fanning out behind their representatives.

The knight didn’t waver.

Well, alright then.

Carver stepped forward, voice solemn. "We’re here for the sightseeing."

The knight's brows furrowed. "Pardon?"

Carver raised his arms, sweeping dramatically toward the castle and the nearby windmill. "That magnificent structure—truly, what Chasind could resist the dream of seeing a real, lowlander windmill in action? We traveled across the Wilds and through the Brecilian just for this moment."

Behind him, Ebba stomped hard on Hrogarh’s foot to keep him from laughing. Carnuh ducked behind Lanaya, shoulders shaking.

"It's... that important to you?" the knight asked, uncertainty cracking his stern expression.

Carver nearly lost it. "Oh yes. Ser... ?"

"Perth," the knight said. "Ser Perth."

"Ser Perth," Carver echoed solemnly. "You, good Ser, have fulfilled the childhood dream of every painted savage this side of the Frostbacks."

Perth blinked slowly, clearly trying to make sense of it all.

Thankfully, Alistair came running up from the gate before Perth had a chance to call for reinforcements.

"Carver!" Alistair shouted. "Stop teasing Ser Perth. He’s been through enough."

Alistair was trying to look stern, but the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

Carver gave him an exaggerated bow. "How could I resist, when the spitits themself saw fit to send me such a shining example of knighthood?"

Perth stepped back, clearly relieved to be relieved. Alistair slapped him on the shoulder and gestured for them to follow.

"Come on," he said. "The Arl’s awake. Connor’s... handled."

Carver raised an eyebrow. "Handled?"

Carnuh leaned in. "Please define 'handled'."

Alistair scratched the back of his neck. "So the Arl was poisoned. Agent of Loghain, apparently."

"Shocking," Ebba muttered.

"We got some ashes—Andraste’s ashes, actually—and that fixed him."

Carver stopped. "I’m sorry, did you just say ashes?"

Alistair nodded enthusiastically. "Yep. Legendary, sacred, miracle-working, all that."

"And you’re sure they were hers?"

Alistair shrugged. "There was a test of faith, a dragon, a weird temple. Standard fare."

Carver exchanged a look with Carnuh.

"He’s serious," Carnuh whispered.

"Of course he is," Carver muttered.

They were led through the gate, up the winding path toward Redcliffe Castle. It loomed ahead, stone cold and very much not prepared for what was coming. Behind them, the armies waited on the outskirts, fires already beginning to dot the hills.

At the castle entrance, Lanaya stepped up beside Carver.

"You still want to do the talking?" she asked.

Carver exhaled through his nose. "Only because I don’t trust Hrogarh not to challenge someone to a duel."

Behind them, Hrogarh was already eyeing a statue with suspicion.

Inside the castle, the contrast was immediate. Quiet halls, noble tapestries, candlelight flickering on polished stone. Redcliffe was very much a lowlander stronghold.

Carver felt like a bear in a tea shop.

They were led into a grand hall where Arl Eamon sat. Beside him stood Runa, arms crossed, and Morrigan, who narrowed her eyes the second she saw Carver.

"Oh no," she said.

Carver grinned. "Hello again."

Morrigan glared at Carver from across the hall, still clearly pissed that her mother was alive. Carver smirked at her. Inside, he praised Flemeth with silent reverence. The old woman was downright awesome.

Then Arl Eamon stepped forward.

He looked… well, like a man recently hauled back from death, dressed in noble finery, his face drawn and pale but eyes sharp. Carver had to admit—he didn’t flinch. Which was more than Carver could say for half the Bannorn.

And really, the sight that met the Arl was something to behold. Lanaya in full Keeper regalia, serene and elegant, flanked by Carver, Carnuh, Ebba, and Hrogarh in their ceremonial werewolf cloaks. Carver and Hrogarh were bare-chested, as tradition demanded, kilted and painted from neck to navel in swirling blue ink and sigils. Vandaral hummed with quiet pride on Carver’s back, a silent presence in the room.

The Arl didn’t recoil. Good. Carver liked that.

Until the woman beside him made a face like she’d smelled something awful.

“This is my wife, Lady Isolde,” the Arl said stiffly.

Lady Isolde gave them a sneer so sharp it could cut leather. Behind Carver, Peach let out a low growl, teeth bared. Isolde flinched, grabbing Eamon’s arm, and Carver almost smiled.

He inclined his head. “Carver Hawke. These are my companions—Carnuh, Ebba, Hrogarh. Leader of the unified Chasind. And Keeper Lanaya, voice of the Dalish.”

There was a silence. Then one of the knights—Ser Bryant or Braddock or some other “Sir Shithead”—cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“This is madness,” he muttered. “You expect us to ally with wilders? With knife-ears and savages—”

Carver stepped forward so fast the knight’s hand went to his sword.

Hrogarh growled, low and warning.

Even Runa looked nervous. Alistair made a face like he was watching a pot boil over.

Carver stopped inches from the knight and raised his voice—not shouting, but with a force that filled the hall like thunder waiting to crack.

“You don’t want our help?” he said. “Fine.”

The room froze.

“We didn’t come here because we had to. We came because we chose to. We came to fight a Blight that your nobility ignored until it burned the countryside. We came with nine thousand warriors, mages, and scouts ready to bleed for a land that’s never done a damned thing for us.”

He stepped back, slowly, turning to face the gathered nobles.

“I can turn around. Recall my scouts. March every Chasind back to the Wilds and wait this whole thing out. Let the Blight kill half the Bannorn, and if you’re lucky, the Orlesians will come mop up after and crown themselves saviors.”

He let the words hang in the air.

“And once that’s done?” he added. “I’ll send every man and woman I’ve got to strip your villages bare. Take your steel. Your livestock. Your gold. Everything that’s worth a damn. You’ll be too broken to stop us.”

A stunned silence.

Then Lanaya stepped forward beside him, her voice even and calm as winter rain.

“If this is how allies are welcomed,” she said, “then perhaps the Dalish should leave too. We have no stake in this war. No debts owed. But we came because we believed in the cause and the treaty. And if this is the treatment we receive, we’ll walk back into the Brecilian and not look back.”

She glanced at the nobles.

“And I wonder,” she added, “what the dwarves will do, when they see how their allies are treated. Will they stay? Or go?”

Silence reigned.

Eamon finally stood, face pale but steady. “Enough,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “No one will insult our allies again. Any man who does will face execution. This is the will of King Alistair Theirin.”

Carver blinked.

Wait. “King?” he asked. “Alistair is king now?”

He turned sharply to look at Runa. “What the fuck did I miss?”

Runa smiled brightly, far too pleased with herself. “Turns out our dear friend Alistair is the bastard son of King Maric. Cailan’s little brother.”

Carver turned to look at Alistair, eyes narrowing. “You’re Cailan’s brother?”

Alistair grimaced. “Surprise?”

Carver slapped a hand over his own face. “Of course. I knew you reminded me of someone. That stupid grin.”

Hrogarh elbowed him. “You’re not exactly one to talk.”

Carver ignored him and stepped closer to Alistair, meeting the man’s eyes. His voice was low now, grim and solid.

“If you honor your word, about the land—then the Chasind will fight beside you. We will help you win your throne. But if you lie to us...”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Alistair swallowed and nodded. “I won’t. I swear it.”

Carver studied him for a beat longer, then stepped back and looked to Lanaya, who gave the smallest nod.

“Good,” Carver said. “Then let’s win a war.”

A servant led them through the castle, toward their assigned chambers. Each of them had been given their own room, which sounded nice until they saw them—massive, echoing things made of cold stone and silence. Carnuh squinted at the carved pillars and muttered, "This room's bigger than my entire hut. What a waste of space."

They lasted all of five minutes before dragging all their mattresses into Carver’s chamber, which was slightly bigger than the others. Chasind didn’t sleep alone, not when you could pile up in a warm heap like a sane person. Even Vandaral was silent in his approval.

They were in the middle of rearranging the furniture when a sharp knock sounded on the door. Leliana, red-haired and radiant as always, stood in the hallway beaming like they’d already saved the world.

“You’re all invited to dinner with the Arl and the Wardens!” she chirped.

Carver groaned. "Can we not?" The thought of sitting down for a polite meal with Arl Eamon and his sneering wife made his stomach turn.

But Leliana just tilted her head. “You did insult half the knigths during the war council. Might be best to smooth things over.”

He growled low in his throat, but she wasn’t wrong.

“Fine,” he grunted. “Let’s just get it over with.”

But Leliana wasn’t done. “You’ll need to get ready first. Baths. And something presentable!”

Carver’s eyes widened. “We’re not putting on silk.”

Leliana placed her hands on her hips. “You’ll bathe. I’ll compromise on the silk.”

And that was how Carver, Carnuh, and Hrogarh ended up in the massive stone bathhouse reserved for male guests of the castle. The place smelled like herbs and expensive soap, and had more marble than all the lowlander temples combined.

“It’s so... shiny,” Hrogarh muttered.

“Naked and still bitching,” Carnuh said, scrubbing his arm. “Incredible.”

Carver rolled his shoulders and sank a little deeper into the hot water, steam curling around the edge of the pool.

Just as they were drying off and grumbling about the whole affair, something smacked Carver square on the ass.

He whirled around, towel half-wrapped around his waist.

An elf stood behind him, golden-haired, tattooed, completely nude, and smirking.

Carver blinked. “What the fuck?”

The elf bowed. “Zevran Arainai, former Crow of Antiva, current traveling companion to the Grey Wardens. And you, tall, dangerous, and very paint-covered—what a delightful specimen you are.”

Carver narrowed his eyes. “What does your assassin resumé have to do with touching my ass?”

Zevran stepped closer, utterly unashamed. “I’ve a fondness for strong men with power in their limbs and war paint on their skin. And if you wield that blade as well as you seem to, I would very much like to find out if that talent extends to the bedroom. Repeatedly.”

Carver stared at him, slack-jawed, every drop of blood in his body rushing to his face.

“I—”

Carnuh stepped in like a merciful spirit and grabbed Carver by the arm, hauling him away. Behind them, Hrogarh howled with laughter.

"Elf tamer!" Hrogarh called after him.

Back in the room, Carver dressed quickly, cheeks still flushed. Ebba entered a moment later, completely naked, casually dropping her towel and pulling on a tunic like nothing had happened.

Hrogarh wasted no time recounting the story.

Ebba raised an eyebrow. “Are you into men?”

Carver’s face lit up again. “I—I don’t know. I’ve never really... been with anyone.”

Carnuh nodded. “Nothing wrong with that. Chasind don’t care what shape love takes.”

“Yeah,” Hrogarh said with a grin. “But our fearless leader is a virgin. At twenty-one. Can you believe it?”

Carver opened the door. “I’m leaving.”

The rest followed him, still snickering.

Inside, his mind was a storm of confusion. He hadn’t felt attraction the way others did. Man, woman—no one had ever sparked that kind of fire in him. Until now? Maybe? He didn’t even know.

Try both, Vandaral whispered in his mind. You won't know until you do.

Carver mentally slammed the door on him.

They reached the dining hall just in time for Runa to raise her head and ask, “What’s with your face?”

Before Carver could stop him, Hrogarh grinned wide and said, “Gay sex.”

Alistair promptly dropped his forehead into his plate.

Carver looked up at the long dining table, full of nobles, Wardens, the Arl, and Lady Isolde’s pinched, judgmental face. It was going to be a long night.

Dinner was... tense. Like really tense.

Runa and Leliana did their best to smooth things over, keeping conversation going and trying to make Carver and his companions feel welcome. Runa took it upon herself to introduce everyone around the table.

"You've already met Orghren," she began, just as the dwarf let out a mighty belch and lifted his tankard in greeting. "And you’ve seen Wynne—our resident elder and healer." Wynne nodded politely.

Runa pointed toward a towering figure at the far end. "That’s Sten. He’s Qunari. Don’t try to pet him."

Sten gave Carver a solemn nod.

"And that,” she said, gesturing to the golden-haired elf sitting far too comfortably beside Alistair, "is Zevran."

Zevran raised his goblet and winked. Carver immediately flushed.

Hrogarh laughed. “Careful, Zevran. Our fearless leader might faint if you smile at him again.”

Zevran, unbothered, just leaned in closer across the table. "Oh, but he blushes so beautifully."

Carver resisted the urge to leap across the table and launch himself out the nearest window.

“And somewhere outside,” Runa continued, “is Shale, our resident golem. Last I saw, she was trying to crush pigeons for fun."

Carver stared. "You really have a golem?"

"The sassiest piece of enchanted stone I’ve ever met," Runa said with a grin.

"How does a golem have personality?"

"Apparently she remembers bits of who she used to be. She was Shale of House Cadash—a noble house in Orzammar before it fell apart."

Carver blinked. "Huh. The Cadash clan’s still kicking around."

That drew Bann Teagan’s attention. "How would you know that?"

Smirking, Carver met his eyes. "Even the Chasind need lyrium."

Laughter erupted from Runa, Zevran, and Orghren, while Teagan went pale. "...Carta," he muttered under his breath.

Then Arl Eamon, cleared his throat. "You said your name was Carver, yes? Were you born Chasind? You’re quite young to be leading their people."

Carver smiled thinly. "Carver Hawke. Middle child of Malcolm and Leandra Hawke. Born and raised in Ferelden."

The Arl tilted his head, curiosity blooming. "Your parents?"

Carver leaned back in his seat, folding his arms. "My father was—what you'd call an apostate. Escaped the Circle before the Templars could shove a brand in him. My mother is a noble from Kirkwall."

At that, Isolde scoffed, her voice sharp. "A noble from Kirkwall? How convenient."

Carver’s gaze locked with hers, voice hard. "My mother is Leandra Amell. Daughter of the Amell family of Kirkwall. She chose love over comfort, married a mage, and raised three children—two mages and one very unlucky normal boy. We moved constantly. Always hiding. Templars don’t leave families like ours alone."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"My magic didn’t show until I found Vandaral. Dad had died years before. We were living outside Lothering when the Blight hit. My brother and I joined the army, watched Loghain betray the king. We ran back to save our family. I tried to hold off an ogre so they could escape. I should’ve died."

The hall was silent.

Carver’s voice dropped. "But I didn’t. I was saved—by the wolf spirit of the Chasind. Peach found me. I bonded with Vandaral. And over time, the clans rallied behind me. Not because I wanted to lead them. But because I couldn’t walk away."

He let the last words settle in the still air, his fingers tapping against his cup.

No one spoke. Not even Isolde.

Runa gave him a small smile.

Zevran, uncharacteristically quiet, gave him a nod of respect.

And from somewhere under the table, Orghren belched again.

The silence finally broke as Leliana began humming softly and refilled a few goblets, easing the tension back into something more manageable.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed movement—a small figure, quiet, barely a whisper beside Lady Isolde. Carver blinked. He hadn’t noticed him earlier.

A boy, perhaps ten years old, with soft brown hair and pale skin, sat stiffly by his mother, hands folded neatly on his lap, eyes hollow. That had to be Connor.

Carver’s posture softened slightly. He knew that kind of look. It was the same one he’d seen in the mirror after Lothering, when the smell of burning wood and blood had clung to his skin for days.

“Hey,” Carver said gently, leaning forward, voice warm but quiet, “you feeling better now?”

Connor looked up at him. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. “I’m fine. If you ignore the part where I killed a lot of people. I guess I’m a murderer now.”

The room froze. Even Orghren stopped drinking.

Isolde’s face twisted with maternal panic, hand flying to her son’s shoulder. “Connor—!”

But Carver cut in, his voice firmer now, clear and sharp like a blade. “No Conner, this was not on you.”

Connor looked at him with wide, confused eyes.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Carver continued. “You were a kid trying to save your father. You didn’t know what you were doing. The blame doesn’t fall on you. It falls on the adults around you. The ones who should’ve known better.”

He turned his gaze on Isolde, eyes narrowing. “Your parents.”

Isolde shot to her feet, righteous fury burning in her eyes. “My son did nothing wrong! I DID NOTHING WRONG!”

“And that’s the damn problem!” Carver rose as well, fists clenched at his sides. “He’s a child. He needed guidance, help. And what did you give him? Fear. Silence. Denial.”

“You have no right—!”

“I have every right!” he snapped, voice rising now, louder than anyone expected from him. “You had options. You could’ve contacted the Circle. Sent for help. Found someone to teach him. Hell, you could’ve hidden him, found a hedge-witch, anything! But you let your fear and pride blind you.”

Isolde was trembling now, lips drawn in tight defiance, but she had no words.

Carver’s voice dropped, low and bitter. “And because of that, a desire demon sunk its claws into him. And then the corpses rose. People died. A whole village torn apart because the adults were too afraid to admit what was right in front of them.”

Eamon stood, trying to placate the moment. “That’s enough—”

“No,” Carver said, rounding on the Arl. “I’m not done.”

Everyone stared.

“You lowlanders,” Carver said, sweeping his gaze across the nobles, “you’ve let the Chantry convince you that magic is something to fear. Something evil. You rip children from their homes, put them in towers, guarded like criminals—treated like criminals—until they either conform or break. You think that keeps people safe?”

He pointed at Connor again. “This. This is what that system creates. A scared kid with no idea what’s happening to him. The perfect bait for demons.”

Carver looked to Runa, then to Leliana, then to Alistair. “In the Wilds, in the Dalish clans—we teach our children. We don’t fear them. We prepare them.”

He faced the table again, and there was a quiet storm in his eyes.

“This was never his fault,” he said again, softer now. “And none of you will ever make him believe otherwise.”

He sat down slowly, the tension radiating off him in waves.

Zevran raised his goblet, swirling the wine inside with a smirk. “That was... honestly? Very hot.”

Carver groaned.

Around the table, murmurs started up again, voices hushed and cautious, but the worst of the tension had bled out.

Bann Teagan leaned closer to Carver and whispered, “You were right. They needed to hear that. We needed to hear that.”

Carver didn’t answer. He just stared at his plate, trying not to look at Connor’s wide eyes.

Across from him, Isolde sat frozen, lips pressed tightly together, one trembling hand on her son’s back. Eamon looked tired. Like a man finally realizing how little control he had over anything anymore.

Connor, for his part, slowly leaned toward Carver. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Carver gave him a tired smile. “You’re welcome, kid.”

Chapter Text

After what had to be one of the tensest dinners of Carver's entire life, Arl Eamon finally stood with a polite smile plastered on his face. "It grows late," he said with forced calm. "Lady Isolde and I shall retire for the night. Please, enjoy yourselves, within reason."

"Within reason," Isolde echoed stiffly, glaring daggers at Carver and Hrogarh like they’d pissed in her wine.

Carver lifted his goblet with a grin. "Sleep well, Your Ladyship."

Isolde sniffed and swept out of the hall with her husband in tow.

And then, at long last, the real dinner began.

Cups were refilled, boots were kicked off, and the tension began to bleed out of the room like air from a punctured wineskin. Leliana brought out her lute and played something soft and cheeky. Runa started telling a story about the time Alistair mistook a druffalo for a mabari (which the former Templar immediately denied with increasing volume), and Orghren declared loudly that he was going to teach everyone a drinking song that included the words "arse," "tankard," and "seven kinds of cheese."

Carver, trying to keep his cool, leaned back in his chair and let the buzz of the room wash over him. Even Ebba looked relaxed, tossing back mead like it was water.

And then Zevran moved.

Somehow—someway—the damn elf had maneuvered his way across the table to sit right next to Carver. He didn’t even look like he moved. He just... appeared there. Like a shadow made of silk and suggestion.

"Ah, mi amor," Zevran purred, nudging Carver's elbow with his own. "It is so unfair, you know. A warrior with such... prowess." He eyed the greatstaff strapped to Carver’s back.

Carver gave him a sideways glare. "What?"

Zevran leaned in, voice sultry and low. "I merely wonder, is the staff in your pants as impressive as the one on your back?"

Carver choked on his wine. Hrogarh spat his drink across the table in laughter. Leliana shrieked in delight. And worst of all?

Vandaral laughed.

"Oh, he’s good," the spirit said inside his mind, cackling. "I like him."

Carver was about to sputter a reply when he felt something under the table. A hand.

A hand on his thigh.

Zevran kept talking, smiling, laughing with the others like nothing was amiss—but his hand slid higher. And higher. And higher, until Carver was nearly vibrating from the sheer panic.

He bolted.

One moment he was seated, and the next he was up, mumbling something unintelligible and power-walking straight out of the dining hall with a trail of confused and laughing voices behind him.

He didn’t stop until he was in his room, door shut, bolt locked, chest heaving.

"Shit," he muttered, splashing cold water from the washbasin onto his face.

He looked at himself in the mirror, water dripping from his chin. His warpaint was smeared, his hair a mess, and his eyes wide with something between horror and... excitement?

He felt lost.

He didn’t like Zevran. Not like that. He didn’t know him. He wasn’t looking for romance. But his body had reacted all the same, and it left him shaky and confused.

He’d never even kissed someone before. Let alone... that.

But one thing he did know—if he ever ended up in bed with Zevran, he would be the one doing the giving. Not the receiving. That much was crystal clear.

"So? Try it," Vandaral said casually, voice echoing in his mind.

Carver groaned. "Not now, Vandaral."

"Sex doesn’t have to be about love, pup. Sometimes it’s just about need. If you find him attractive, and he wants you—which, I might add, is very obvious—then why not? Just talk first. Make sure you both know what you want. No one needs to get hurt."

Carver buried his face in his hands. "I don’t even know how."

Vandaral perked up immediately.

"Well, it starts with prep. First, you need to make sure everything is clean, then you use oil. Lots of it. And then there’s the angle. Human men are most sensitive around the base of the—"

"STOP," Carver yelped out loud, cutting Vandaral off.

"It’s educational!"

"It’s mortifying!"

Somewhere in the dining hall, Zevran was probably telling the others how delightfully red Carver’s face had turned.

The wilds help him.

He was not ready for this.

At his wit’s end and needing to cool down—physically and mentally—Carver did the only sensible thing he could think of.

He went to the bathhouse for an ice-cold soak.

He even left Vandaral behind. The staff/spirit was getting too graphic.

The halls of Redcliffe Castle echoed with drunken laughter and the occasional thud as someone clearly failed to hold their mead. Carver passed one knight face-first against a tapestry and didn’t even blink.

Finally, he reached the bathhouse. Mercifully empty.

He stripped down and eased himself into the cold water, sighing as the chill bit into his flushed skin. The heat in his cheeks slowly began to fade as the water numbed him to everything. He leaned his head back against the stone, closed his eyes, and let himself breathe.

Just for a moment.

Then a hand touched his thigh, again.

He jolted, eyes snapping open.

Zevran.

Naked. Smirking.

The elf was already in the water, and before Carver could get a word out, he had climbed onto Carver’s lap, straddling him with all the grace of someone who absolutely knew what they were doing.

Zevran’s hands cupped Carver’s face, his eyes locking with his. "Relax, mi amor," he said. "I’m not interested in hearts and flowers. I want sex. Just sex."

Carver blinked. He searched Zevran’s expression for any sign of manipulation, of lie, of deceit.

There was none.

Only heat. And honesty.

Carver swallowed hard. His brain screamed a thousand reasons why this was a terrible idea. But his body didn’t care. And his heart, to his surprise, wasn’t scared. It just felt...

Ready.

"Okay," Carver said, voice low.

Zevran leaned down and kissed him.

And Carver kissed him back.

At first, it was awkward. Hesitant. Carver wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to any of it—but Zevran was patient. Warm. Confident without being overbearing. He moved like water, like silk, like something out of a dream he didn’t even know he’d had.

Carver's hands settled on the elf’s hips. Zevran’s skin was warm despite the cold water, and his lips tasted faintly of wine and mead. The kiss deepened, and something in Carver loosened—unclenched.

He didn’t need to think. Didn’t need to speak. He just let himself feel.

Zevran explored his mouth with a teasing gentleness, coaxing him to respond, to move, to touch. And he did. Tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. His fingers found muscle and curve, scars and softness. Zevran moaned softly against his lips, dragging his nails lightly along Carver’s chest in approval.

It was heady. Dizzying.

By the time they broke apart, Carver’s heart was pounding. Their breaths came fast and shallow. And when Zevran nipped his lower lip and whispered, “I’ll stop if you want me to,” Carver didn’t hesitate.

“Don’t,” he said.

So they didn’t.

They kissed again. Touched. Learned each other.

Carver's hands roamed; Zevran guided him, gasping softly, whispering praise in Antivan between low, sultry hums.

And just when Carver thought he couldn’t take any more, Zevran shifted—pressing closer, nuzzling into the crook of Carver’s neck—and said with that teasing lilt, “You’re a fast learner, mi amor. I’m impressed.”

Carver let out a breathless laugh. “Shut up.”

Zevran kissed his shoulder. “Gladly.”

Zevran rose from the water with a fluid grace that seemed almost unnatural, his movements as smooth as the water in the pool. He crossed the room with purpose, his eyes never leaving Carver’s.

The elf’s light build made him seem almost fragile next to Carver’s towering frame, but there was a strength in his presence that commanded attention. He reached the pool’s edge and extended a hand, his smirk widening as he spoke in a voice that was both teasing and inviting.

Come, wilding chief,” Zevran purred, his accent lilting with the musical tones of the elven tongue. “The water is lovely, but I have a feeling you’d enjoy something a bit more… intimate.”

Carver hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He was shy, unaccustomed to such bold advances, and the elf’s confidence was both thrilling and terrifying. But there was something in Zevran’s gaze, a promise of pleasure and release, that drew him in despite his fears.

He took the elf’s hand, feeling a jolt of electricity at the touch, and allowed himself to be pulled from the pool. The cool air of the bathhouse kissed his wet skin as Zevran led him to a nearby bench, its surface carved with intricate patterns of vines and flowers. “Sit,” Zevran commanded, his tone gentle but firm, and Carver obeyed, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him.

The elf knelt before him without hesitation, his hands resting lightly on Carver’s thighs. “Relax,” Zevran murmured, his breath warm against Carver’s skin. “Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”

Before Carver could respond, Zevran’s hands were moving, sliding up his thighs, his touch feather-light but deliberate. The elf’s fingers traced the contours of Carver’s muscular legs, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring every inch of skin.

“Shit,” Carver muttered, his voice rough with desire as Zevran’s fingers wrapped around his cock. The elf’s touch was firm but gentle, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head in a way that sent shivers down Carver’s spine. Zevran’s other hand moved to cup Carver’s balls, his touch warm and reassuring. “You’re so hard, so big” Zevran murmured, his voice a low purr. “Tell me, my wildling, have you ever been touched like this before?” Carver shook his head, his eyes closing as pleasure washed over him. “N-no,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a virgin.” Zevran’s lips curved into a mischievous smile, and before Carver could process the words, the elf’s mouth was on him, warm and wet.

 Zevran’s lips closed around the head of Carver’s cock, his tongue swirling in a way that made Carver’s toes curl. The elf’s hands remained on him, one stroking his shaft in time with his mouth, the other squeezing his balls gently.

“Fuck,” Carver groaned, his head falling back as pleasure overwhelmed him. Zevran’s mouth was a marvel, his technique expert and relentless.

The elf moaned around Carver’s cock, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through his body. Carver’s hands fisted in Zevran’s hair, his fingers tangling in the elf’s blond locks as he fought to keep himself from coming too soon.

But as the pleasure built, Carver’s nerves resurfaced. He was on the edge, teetering between ecstasy and release, and the thought of losing control terrified him. With a guttural groan, he pushed Zevran away, his hands gripping the elf’s shoulders firmly.

“Stop,” Carver panted, his voice hoarse with need. “Not yet.” Zevran pulled back, his lips glistening with saliva, his eyes dark with desire. He smirked, a look that was both playful and predatory. “As you wish,” he said, rising to his feet with a grace that belied his earlier eagerness.

“But I have a feeling you’ll be begging for more soon enough.” Carver’s heart was still racing as he watched Zevran move to the bench, the elf’s hips swaying slightly with each step. Zevran bent over the bench, his hands resting on the cool marble, his blond hair cascading over his shoulders.

His ass was on full display, the curves of his body a tantalizing invitation. Carver’s mouth went dry as he took in the sight, his want to fuck the elf roaring back to life.

He rose from the bench, his legs feeling unsteady, and began to look around for something to ease the way. His eyes landed on a small vial of oil sitting on a nearby table, and he grabbed it with a haste that bordered on desperation.

Zevran’s soft laughter filled the air, a sound that was both mocking and encouraging. “Take your time,” the elf teased. “I’m not going anywhere.” Carver approached Zevran, his steps slow and deliberate, the vial of oil clutched tightly in his hand.

He was nervous, his virginity a weight that pressed down on him, but he wanted to do this right. He uncorked the vial, the scent of lavender and musk filling the air, and poured a generous amount of oil onto his fingers.

“Relax,” Carver murmured, his voice soft but firm as he placed a hand on Zevran’s lower back. The elf’s skin was warm beneath his touch, his muscles tense with anticipation.

Carver’s other hand moved to Zevran’s ass, his fingers tracing the curve of one cheek before slipping between the elf’s legs. Zevran shivered at the touch, his breath hitching as Carver’s oiled fingers brushed against his entrance.

“Careful,” the elf muttered, his voice thick with desire. “I’m… sensitive.”

Carver nodded, his focus intense as he pressed a finger against Zevran’s hole, the oil making his touch slick and smooth. He applied gentle pressure, his finger sliding inside with a slow, deliberate motion.

Zevran gasped, his body arching slightly as Carver’s finger breached him, the elf’s muscles clenching around the intrusion.

“Thick fingers,” Zevran muttered, his voice a mix of pleasure and discomfort.

“You’re… filling me up.” Carver took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he added a second finger, moving slowly to stretch Zevran open. The elf’s moans filled the air, his body trembling with each thrust of Carver’s fingers.

Carver’s own desire was a roaring flame, but he forced himself to take it slow, to savor the moment and ensure Zevran was ready.

“You’re doing well,” Zevran panted, his voice strained as Carver’s fingers scissored inside him, preparing him.

“But I want you. Now.”

Carver’s fingers withdrew, leaving Zevran’s body feeling strangely empty. He uncorked the vial again, pouring a generous amount of oil onto his cock, his hands trembling slightly as he coated himself.

His heart was pounding, his breath coming in short gasps as he positioned himself behind Zevran. “Ready?” Carver asked, his voice hoarse with need. Zevran’s response was a soft, eager whine, his body shifting slightly to give Carver better access.

Carver took a deep breath, his hands resting on Zevran’s hips as he pressed the head of his cock against the elf’s entrance. He pushed forward slowly, his movements deliberate, his cock sliding inside Zevran with a wet, slick sound “Fuck,” Carver groaned, his eyes closing as he felt Zevran’s tight heat envelop him.

It was heaven, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity. He paused, giving Zevran a moment to adjust, his cock throbbing with the effort of holding back. “Move,” Zevran demanded, his voice a husky whisper.

“Please.” Carver pulled back slightly before thrusting forward again, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. Zevran’s moans filled the air, the elf’s body moving in time with Carver’s thrusts, his hands gripping the edge of the bench tightly.

Carver’s control was slipping, his desire a raging fire that threatened to consume him, but he forced himself to take it slow, to savor the moment. But as the pleasure built, his restraint shattered.

With a guttural growl, he grabbed Zevran’s hips, his fingers digging into the elf’s skin as he began to thrust with abandon. His cock slid in and out of Zevran’s body with a wet, slick sound, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through them both.

 “Yes,” Zevran screamed, his voice echoing through the bathhouse. “Fuck me! Harder.”

Carver needed no further encouragement. He pounded into Zevran with all his might, his muscles straining with the effort, his cock throbbing with each thrust. Zevran’s screams of pleasure filled the air, the elf’s body trembling as he teetered on the edge of release.

“I’m close,” Carver panted, his voice hoarse with need. “Tell me what you want.” “Cum inside me,” Zevran gasped, his voice desperate.

“Fill me up, Carver. I want it all.” The words were Carver’s undoing.

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep within Zevran, his body tensing as pleasure exploded through him. He groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and release, as his cock pulsed, spilling his seed into the elf’s waiting body.

Zevran’s screams of ecstasy filled the air, his body shaking as he came, his release triggered by Carver’s own. The elf’s muscles clenched around Carver’s cock, milking him for every last drop, the sensation sending Carver over the edge once more.

As their cries echoed through the bathhouse, Carver collapsed onto Zevran’s back, his body spent, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Zevran’s body was still trembling beneath him, the elf’s skin slick with sweat, his hair clinging to his forehead. “That,” Zevran panted, his voice soft and satisfied, “was worth the wait.”

Carver smiled, a sense of contentment washing over him as he pulled out of Zevran, his cock slipping free with a wet sound. He helped the elf to his feet, his hands gentle.

“Ah, mi amor,” Zevran panted, eyes fluttering as he gripped Carver’s shoulders, “apparently I am... how do you say... entirely ruined?”

Carver raised a brow. “Can’t walk?”

Zevran pouted up at him like a wounded cat. “Would you carry me, my strong wildling man?”

Carver rolled his eyes—but he was grinning. Without a word, he hauled Zevran into his arms, bridal-style, like some ridiculous hero from one of Leliana’s songs. The elf weighed next to nothing, all wiry strength and smug exhaustion.

“You smell like bathwater and sin,” Carver muttered.

“And you, my dear Carver, smell like victory and woodsmoke. Mmm.” Zevran nuzzled into his neck. “Keep going. I’m almost ready for round two.”

Carver barked out a laugh. “You’re not even ready to walk, you menace.”

“Ah, but I could lie very still.”

The trip to Zevran’s room was mercifully quiet. Carver kicked the door open and lowered the elf onto the bed with unexpected tenderness, even tucking the blanket around him like some overgrown mother hen. Zevran yawned, eyes fluttering shut.

But just before Carver turned to go, Zevran cracked one golden eye open and murmured, “If you’re still in the mood later, I wouldn’t say no to another... demonstration.”

Carver smirked, hands on his hips. “As long as we keep things simple—no strings, no feelings—my dick and I are at your service.”

Zevran giggled, actually giggled. “Get your hot wildling body into this bed, now.”

With a mock salute, Carver dropped his kilt to the floor and crawled back in beside him, already grinning.

“Brace yourself,” he whispered, and Zevran just laughed again, pulling him down into the sheets.

Carver woke with the sun. And sore muscles.

His whole body ached in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, but certainly told him he’d worked harder than expected. Zevran, for all his shameless teasing, had stamina. Who knew a man that small could wear someone out that thoroughly?

Beside him, Zevran lay sprawled out across the mattress, completely out cold. His golden hair was a tangled mess, one leg dangling off the side of the bed, mouth slightly open. There were faint red marks along his neck and hips—Carver’s marks, he realized, feeling an odd flutter in his chest.

The elf had passed out hard after round... what was it? Four?

Carver shook his head, amused.

He gently shifted out from under the blanket, careful not to wake Zevran. There was a war council meeting this morning, and while he wanted to stay tangled up in the elf’s limbs and sass, duty called.

He padded over to the washbasin, splashed his face, and stared at himself in the mirror.

Bruised lips. Scratches down his back. Hair an absolute disaster.

But he looked... content.

No regrets. No fear. Just a low, simmering satisfaction in his chest—and an ache in his thighs that told him he’d definitely need to walk this off before the meeting.

Before slipping out the door, he looked back once.

Zevran was still snoring.

“Spirits guide me,” Carver whispered, pulling the door shut behind him with a grin.

Carver stood tall, arms crossed, still riding the afterglow of a thoroughly satisfying night. He’d had worse ways to wake up, that was for sure.

He stifled a grin as he entered the chamber. Only Arl Eamon, Bann Teagan, Runa, and Alistair were present. A small group, which meant this was serious.

Eamon, seated at the head of the table, cleared his throat. "Now that we're all here, we can begin. We need to discuss our next step."

Teagan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Denerim. We have to move soon if we’re going to dethrone Loghain before he digs in even deeper."

"And to do that," Alistair added, rubbing his temples with a groan (the man looked mildly hungover), "we’ll need to travel light. A big army would be noticed a mile away."

"We leave the armies behind," Runa agreed. "Just a small group. Quiet, fast, surgical."

Eamon frowned. "That’s incredibly dangerous. Who would go?"

Runa turned to Carver. "What about you? Would you come with us?"

Before Carver could answer, Eamon threw up a hand. "Absolutely not! He’s a Chasind leader. His place is with his people. We can't risk—"

Runa waved a hand lazily. "Relax, Eamon. He won’t be coming as a human."

That made Eamon pause, blinking. "What?"

Carver said nothing. He simply stepped back from the table, closed his eyes—and changed.

Bones cracked and shifted, feathers sprouted, and in a heartbeat, the tall, broad Chasind man was gone. In his place stood a majestic hawk, feathers dark and sharp, wings spread wide.

With a shrill cry, he flapped into the air and landed on Alistair’s head.

"Hey!" Alistair swatted lightly at him, grinning. "Watch the hair. Took me ages to get this mess to behave."

Runa laughed, and even Eamon looked stunned.

Carver shifted back into his human form with ease, landing lightly on his feet beside the table again.

Eamon shook his head in amazement. "That’s... certainly a handy skill. If you would be willing, could you perhaps fly ahead and spy on Loghain and Arl Howe for us?"

"That was my plan," Carver said, nodding. "I’ll speak to Hrogarh, Ebba, and Carnuh. They’ll command the Chasind army while I’m with you. They’re more than capable."

Runa smirked. "And that gives you the perfect opportunity to spend more time with Zevran."

Alistair snorted, slapping a hand over his mouth, clearly trying not to laugh.

Carver rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "That’s an added bonus, I suppose."

Eamon groaned under his breath.

Runa just winked. "May the stone help Denerim."

Carver found the three of them where they always seemed to end up—at the edge of the training grounds, where the Chasind warriors and Dalish hunters were sparring in mock duels and slinging insults louder than their blades. Hrogarh was chewing on a skewer of meat like it had personally insulted his ancestors, Ebba sat cross-legged polishing her dagger, and Carnuh was hunched over a map with a frown deep enough to drown in.

Carver cleared his throat.

All three looked up. Carnuh squinted. "You look... smug."

Hrogarh raised a brow. "That elf kissed you, huh?"

Ebba glanced at Carver, narrowed her eyes, and then let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, he did more than that. Look at that glow. Our little hawk's a real man now."

Carver groaned. "Can we not start with that?"

"No," all three said in unison.

He waved them off, leaning down to draw a crude X over the location of Redcliffe on Carnuh’s map.

"Anyway. I have something to tell you," Carver said, serious now. "I'm going to Denerim. With Runa, Alistair, and the arl."

Ebba’s head snapped up. "What?"

"We’re going to try and remove Loghain from power, before the final battle," Carver said. "It has to be done, and they need someone who can scout without being noticed. So I’ll be flying with them."

Carnuh crossed his arms, scowling. "You're just going to leave? Abandon your people when we’re this close to war?"

"I’m not abandoning anyone," Carver said firmly. "I’m trusting you. All three of you. I need you to lead the Chasind army while I’m gone."

That silenced them.

Hrogarh tossed his meat skewer aside and stood. "You're serious?"

"Very."

They stared at him. Carnuh opened his mouth, closed it again, and then finally said, "You trust us with everything you’ve built?"

Carver met each of their gazes. "I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t."

Ebba, for all her strength, blinked like she was trying not to tear up. Hrogarh just rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, "Shit, don’t go making this all emotional."

They were quiet for a moment longer, and then Carnuh sighed. "Fine. We’ll do it. But only because you’ve got the balls to fly into Denerim with those lunatics."

Ebba grinned. "Besides, you need to keep your elf warm."

Carver groaned. "Don’t."

"No no," Hrogarh said with a wicked grin. "I have to know—how was it? Was it as amazing as he made himself sound? Did he sing a song while doing it?"

Carnuh leaned in. "Did he do that thing with their tongues?"

Ebba whooped. "Was it just once, or did he rock your world, Cheif?"

Carver buried his face in his hands, laughing despite himself. "You're all the worst."

"But you're glowing," Ebba teased.

"Shut up," he mumbled through his hands.

Even Vandaral chimed in, voice smug and amused in his mind:
“I must admit, I’m proud of you, pup. You took initiative, satisfied your urges, and didn't trip over your own feet. Growth!”

Carver groaned louder. "Not you too."

“What? You handled your staff like a proper mage. Good form. Good stamina. Excellent use of pressure.”

"Stop."

Hrogarh narrowed his eyes. "Is it the spirit? What’s he saying?"

"He’s being grossly supportive," Carver muttered.

They all burst into laughter.

As the sun dipped lower and the warriors continued to train in the distance, Carver sat back and listened to his friends heckle him with every nickname from Elf Layer to Warden’s Favorite Hawk. And even though he pretended to hate it, a part of him warmed.

Chapter Text

The ride to Denerim was supposed to be dignified. Regal. Strategic.

Arl Eamon, in all his noble wisdom, insisted on taking a proper entourage: knights on horseback, servants, and of course, his pristine carriage with Lady Isolde nestled inside like a sanctified vulture. The rest of them were expected to ride horses.

Carver refused.

"I would rather become tranquil than sit on a fucking horse," he had said flatly, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the saddled beasts like they had personally offended him. "I have wings. I’m going to use them."

And so he did. Taking the shape of his great hawk form, Carver soared above the caravan, scouting ahead, avoiding dust, and more importantly—Isolde.

That woman was a walking ulcer.

Every word out of her mouth made him want to cast fireballs just to drown out the shrill hypocrisy. One moment she clutched her pearls over poor little Connor, sobbing that he was just a child, and the next she was snarling to Carver's face—and Morrigan’s—that they both should be either killed or made tranquil for being unlicensed mages. Dangerous. Unholy. An affront to the Maker.

The same Maker whose teachings she only seemed to care about when they didn’t apply to her own family.

Carver almost admired the sheer audacity of it.

Almost.

The last straw came two days into the journey. Isolde, lips thin with contempt, looked between him and Morrigan with the kind of expression one reserved for dried shit on a noblewoman's shoe.

"You people," she sneered. "You should not be allowed to walk free. Apostates. Wilders. Corrupting my son’s mind just by existing. You’re a danger to everyone."

Morrigan smiled then.

Not a pleasant smile. Not even a polite one.

No. It was the kind of smile that made dogs howl and men go missing.

"Perhaps," Morrigan said sweetly, "I might use your hair and eyes for a potion. Your blood for a spell. And when I'm done, dump your bones in a swamp. Let the bog reclaim you."

Isolde paled.

Carver stepped in, voice cold as the wind over the Korcari.

"If it were up to me, I'd barter you off to the most stubborn Chasind clan I could find. Not for pleasure—Maker knows you couldn’t tempt a corpse—but to serve. To clean. To scrub floors and gut fish, and do all the degrading shit you sneer at. And after that? We’d use you in one of our rituals. Paint you in blood and ash, let the earth swallow your pride. Then maybe Eamon could have you back."

Eamon had the gall to raise a hand in protest.

Alistair looked horrified.

But Carver wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

He turned to Eamon, voice rising with the rage of every insult swallowed since Redcliffe.

"I’ve had it. Enough, Eamon. Your wife’s tongue is sharper than her mind, and I’m done pretending it doesn’t matter. You think you’re irreplaceable? You’re not. No one is."

He jabbed a finger toward the carriage.

"You’ve got the smallest army, you’re still recovering from your illness, your noble alliances are shaky at best, and your wife? An Orlesian with a superiority complex and zero tactical value. The Wardens chose diplomacy to avoid bloodshed, but don’t ever think you hold all the power here."

He paused, gaze steady and dark.

"I could fly back, gather my shapeshifters, and give the order—we could rip through Denerim before Loghain or Howe could wipe their arses. Anora included. The Chasind don’t need this alliance. But we’re choosing it."

Carver took a breath, then added, voice calm but firm:

"So rain in your bitch, or I’ll rain blood over the Bannorn. Your choice."

There was silence.

Even the horses stopped moving.

Then, after a long pause, Eamon nodded stiffly. "...Understood."

Carver turned on his heel without another word, feathers exploding around him as he launched into the sky once more.

By the time Carver had calmed down, night had already fallen. The fires of their camp crackled softly under the stars, less than a day's ride from Denerim. He landed in a rustle of feathers, shifted back to his human form with a grunt, and made his way toward the Wardens' fire.

Leliana handed him a bowl of something grey and vaguely steaming.

"Alistair calls it lamb and pea stew," she said sweetly.

Carver stared at the questionable mixture, then shrugged and started eating. He was too tired to care. It didn’t taste awful, just bland. Like the rest of civilized Ferelden.

He was halfway through when he noticed Alistair watching him.

Carver paused. "Do I have something on my face?"

Alistair shook his head, thoughtful. "What possessed you to talk to Arl Eamon like that?"

Carver wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and frowned. "Because someone had to. He thinks he's the Maker reborn, and someone needs to remind him he’s not. And you, Your Majesty-to-be, need to see it too."

Alistair looked mildly offended, but Carver kept going.

"Even if Eamon's a good man, everyone looks out for themselves in the end. Look at the arls and banns siding with Loghain. And who's with Eamon? Just Teagan. You think that's coincidence?"

Alistair frowned. "I... hadn’t really thought about it that way."

"Start thinking about it," Carver said bluntly. "If you're going to wear a crown, you have to see the whole board. The nobles, the army, the people in the streets. Ask yourself why you're doing this. Why you want to be king."

Alistair let out a slow breath. "I don’t want to be king. But I have to be. For Ferelden. For the people."

That made Carver smile.

"That’s the same reason I accepted the spirit’s offer. Because my people needed me. Just like Ferelden needs you. Don’t ever forget that. You’re not here for the arls or the nobles. You're here for the farmers, the blacksmiths, the washerwomen and their kids. The ones who can’t afford to play politics."

Alistair looked down at his hands, then into the fire.

Carver continued, voice softer. "Cailan trusted Loghain too much. Ignored advice. Look where that got him. I won’t let the same thing happen to you. Don’t just listen to Eamon. Listen to everyone. Then make up your own mind."

There was a long pause.

Finally, Alistair nodded. "You’re right. I need to see the bigger picture."

Carver got to his feet, stretching his arms with a wince.

He clapped a hand on Alistair’s shoulder, firm. "And I think you’ll make a great king. Because the ones who don’t want power? They’re usually the best ones to wield it."

With that, he left the firelight behind, leaving Alistair to his thoughts and the crackling of the flames.

Someone had been kind enough to pitch a tent for Carver—his gold was on Leliana and Runa. Thoughtful, meddling women. He grunted in tired appreciation, kicking off his boots and unclasping the heavy cloak from his shoulders. Vandaral, for once silent, was gently placed beside his bedroll, lying atop his werewolf pelt like a trusted sentinel.

Carver stretched out, one arm slung lazily behind his head. His body ached in a good way—muscles sore from flight, adrenaline, and the emotional weight of the day.

He was just slipping into sleep when someone straddled him.

Fingers toyed with the hem of his kilt. A familiar voice, smooth and smug, whispered in his ear.

"Keep your eyes closed, my fierce hawk. Just enjoy the ride."

Carver smiled. "Zevran."

The elf chuckled. "Who else would dare?"

Carver let the moment happen. Let himself be touched, kissed, teased. He had to do nothing but lie there and enjoy, which—Maker help him—he did.

Zevran rode him with a hunger Carver hadn’t expected, moaning between words. “The way you command respect, the way you spoke to Eamon? I may have climaxed then and there.”

Carver grunted, rolling them over in one motion and pinning the elf beneath him.

“Stop talking about the arl while I’m inside you,” he growled.

Zevran laughed, hands pulling Carver in for a kiss. “Noted.”

They didn’t sleep for a while.

Eventually, wrapped in furs, limbs tangled together, Zevran whispered against Carver’s skin, “If you ever want to try being the bottom, I’m a very generous tutor…”

Carver groaned and shoved a pillow into his face.

“Sleep, you menace.”

Morning came cool and crisp. Carver woke early, stretched his sore muscles, and slipped out of the tent with quiet steps and a smirk that refused to leave his face.

Not long after, he found himself near the campfire, sharing a roasted root with Oghren and the massive form of Shale looming nearby, standing perfectly still except for the faint grinding of stone.

“So,” Oghren said, chewing like a warhorse, “did ya bang the elf?”

Carver blinked. “Subtle.”

“Bah. I’m a dwarf. Subtlety is for humans with their tunics and forks.”

Carver smirked and shrugged. “Yeah. It happened.”

Oghren whooped. “Ha! So how was it? I always figured the elf’d be all bendy. Like a sex acrobat. Am I right?”

Carver laughed despite himself. “He is flexible. And very… enthusiastic.”

Oghren slapped his thigh. “By the Stone! That’s what I’m talking about. Damn, now I’m jealous.”

“Jealous of me?” Zevran said smoothly, appearing from nowhere with a grin. “That’s understandable.”

Oghren grunted. “Still don’t swing that way, knife-ears.”

Carver shook his head with a smile, then turned to find Shale watching them with her glowing eyes.

“I do not understand,” Shale said. “Why would the wild man expend energy engaging in friction-based bonding rituals with the squishy elf?”

Carver and Oghren both burst out laughing.

“It’s not about logic, Shale,” Carver said. “It’s about what feels good.”

“I still do not understand.”

Carver stepped forward. “Then maybe this will make more sense. Some of the Cadash clan are still alive. They’ve got a winter place in the Wilds. Rorik and Mika—they keep the name going.”

Shale stilled completely. Then, after a long pause, she said, “The House Cadash... still exists?”

“Yeah,” Carver nodded. “I’ll tell them about you. You’re always welcome in the Wilds. Always.”

Shale didn’t respond for a long time. Then, softly, almost imperceptibly:

“...Thank you.”

They were led through the halls of the royal palace under heavy guard. Cauthrien walked ahead, stiff-backed, her armor clicking with each step. Behind her, the companions murmured in low voices—speculation, strategy, and more than a few muttered curses aimed at the walls around them.

Carver remained in hawk form, shifting his claws slightly as Zevran walked, tilting his head this way and that, catching snippets of conversation. He could feel Zevran’s heartbeat beneath him—calm, steady, as if he was out for a casual stroll and not walking into the belly of a political beast.

At last, the doors opened—and there he stood.

Loghain Mac Tir. Older than the last time Carver had seen him from the battlefield at Ostagar, but no less dangerous. Armor polished, sword at his hip, face carved in stone. Standing beside him was a weasel-faced man with hollow eyes and a mouth like a dagger.

Howe.

Runa visibly bristled. Alistair’s jaw clenched.

Carver dug his claws into Zevran’s shoulder slightly.

Eamon stepped forward, voice formal. “We come with concerns. There are accusations to address. The queen’s disappearance. The betrayal at Ostagar. And the Blight.”

Howe sneered. “All of which, I am sure, you have convenient evidence for.”

Loghain lifted a hand. “This is not the time for open accusations, Arl Eamon. You’ve made your presence known. Let the Landsmeet decide.”

“Then let us speak to Queen Anora,” Runa snapped. “If she’s truly free.”

“She is not detained,” Loghain said smoothly. “But she is in no state to entertain... company.”

Carver shrieked suddenly—loud, sharp, interrupting.

Zevran smirked. “The bird thinks that’s horse shit.”

Loghain’s eyes narrowed. “Control your... pet.”

Alistair grinned despite himself. “Not a chance.”

Carver took to the air the moment night fell.

The city was quieter in darkness, though not silent. Carver flew above it all—dark wings cutting through moonlight, sharp eyes scanning the palace towers.

He found her on the top floor. Anora, daughter of Loghain, widow of King Cailan, and perhaps the cleverest person in the entire city.

She was pacing. Alone, except for two guards outside her door.

He perched on the windowsill, feathers ruffling, silent.

She didn’t see him at first.

But then she stopped. Turned. Looked straight at him.

“I assume you’re not just a bird.”

Carver blinked once. Dammit.

She approached, not unkindly. “So you’re the hawk, then. The leader of the Wilders.”

He tilted his head.

She leaned on the windowsill, glancing toward the door to be sure the guards weren’t listening. “My father believes I’m safe in here. That I’ll support him in the Landsmeet. That he can control me.”

She met Carver’s sharp eyes.

“He had me locked up. I escaped once. Howe caught me. If not for a servant, I’d still be in a cellar.”

She took a breath.

“If the Wardens ask, I’ll say Loghain had me abducted. That part is true. But I will also say I trust him. That part is... useful.”

Carver narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t want to be queen beside a tyrant,” she whispered. “But I do want to be queen. Ferelden needs more than a sword with a crown on it. So if the Wardens wish to remove my dad... I will support them. Quietly.”

She leaned back from the window.

“Listen. Decide. And return to your people.”

Carver remained a moment longer, then with a beat of wings, flew into the night.

After his late-night 'conversation' with Queen Anora, Carver didn’t return to Eamons place immediately. Instead, he took a sharp turn midair, wings cutting the moonlight like a blade, and landed in a narrow alley in the merchant district. Shadows swallowed him as he shifted, feathers falling away and flesh returning. He crouched for a moment, catching his breath, the air heavy with damp stone and distant torch smoke.

His thoughts were racing.

Alistair. The poor bastard really wanted to be king. Or rather, needed to be. For the people, for the Wardens, for Cailan’s legacy. Carver respected that. The man had the bloodline, the charisma, the face people wanted on a coin.

But that was also the problem.

Alistair was... naive. Too honest for politics. Too kind. He’d fall for every pretty speech and handshake, and Ferelden would suffer for it unless someone reined him in. He wasn’t trained for trade deals or negotiations. Carver doubted the man had ever even seen a tax scroll, let alone balanced one.

And then there was Anora.

Sharp as a dagger in a silk glove. Regal, poised, and the real brain behind Cailan’s rule. There were whispers that Cailan had been little more than her handsome puppet.

But her baggage? Heavy.

Barren, some said. Though rumors were rumors. And worse, she was Loghain’s daughter. The very man they were planning to kill.

That was a lot to unpack.

Carver leaned against the wall and sighed. He hated lowlander politics. This wasn’t what he’d been born to do. He was supposed to fight, to lead his people through the mud and blood. Not choose between kings and queens.

Still. He had to play the game. He was here now.

Alistair could unify the people—but Anora could stabilize the nobility. Carver scowled at the dirt. Two strong candidates. Two paths.

And then it hit him.

His eyes widened.

What if...

He reached for Vandaral, who let out a sleepy hum as he was unsheathed. "It’s far too late for your nonsense, pup."

"Is there a spell," Carver asked, ignoring the sass, "to check if someone’s barren?"

There was a long pause.

"There is," Vandaral finally replied, voice suddenly alert. "Why? What are you plotting?"

Carver’s grip tightened around the staff, a smirk forming.

"Peace," he said simply. "I’m plotting peace."

When Carver reached Eamon’s mansion, he nearly gave a servant girl a heart attack.

One moment, a regal hawk had landed gracefully in the entrance hall. The next, a 6'5" Chasind warrior wrapped in a werewolf cloak and kilt stood in the middle of the marble floor, bellowing like a madman, "I NEED TO SEE WYNNE! NOW!"

The girl screamed and ran, dropping a tray of linen as she went.

Carver scratched the back of his head, muttering, "Alright, maybe I could’ve said that quieter."

He found Wynne in the library, calmly sipping tea and thumbing through a book on magical theory. The old mage looked up with a practiced frown. "Carver Hawke. You know, libraries are sacred places of quiet study, not wildling shouting arenas."

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. Emergency. Do you know any spells that can tell if someone’s barren?"

Wynne’s eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know that? Because I’m a hundred percent certain Zevran is male, and unless something truly magical happened last night—"

Carver groaned and stuck his tongue out. "Not for Zevran!"

Wynne snorted and flicked his forehead. "Brat."

Carver straightened up, face serious now. "There is such a spell. Chasind. I know it. But no noble’s going to believe me casting it. You, though? Trusted Circle mage, Grandmother of all Ferelden’s children—you cast it, they’ll believe it."

Wynne tilted her head, thoughtful. "And you want me to learn it so I can cast it on…?"

"You’ll see," he said cryptically.

"Maker help me," she muttered. "Fine. Teach me."

And he did. Step by step, focusing on the runes and the intent of the magic—an old spell passed from Bone-Binders and Wild shamans, not invasive or dangerous, just precise.

Once Wynne had it down, Carver grabbed her wrist and all but dragged her through the mansion.

They entered the Arl’s study, mid-conversation. Eamon stood beside Runa and Alistair, while Leliana leaned against a shelf with arms crossed. A stranger with Orlesian flair stood near the hearth—a man with sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. Carver immediately picked up the Warden air about him.

Runa saw them and waved lazily. "Carver, you're back. Stop scaring the help."

Before Carver could answer, he caught sight of two other figures near the window. One was unmistakably Anora, dressed in pale silks like she was already queen. The other—

The tall, dark-haired man looked up, eyes shadowed and grim.

Leliana added helpfully, "We found him and Riodan in Howe’s dungeon. Morrigan and Zevran led the rescue."

Wynne raised a brow. "That sounds like a terrible idea."

Runa laughed. "It worked. Somehow."

Carver nodded once to the Orlesian. "So you're Riodan."

The man bowed slightly. "Senior Warden of Orlais. At your service."

Carver turned to Anora, his tone sharper now. "And you just happened to be in the same dungeon?"

"I was betrayed," Anora said smoothly, unbothered by his suspicion. "By my father. Or perhaps by Howe. It’s all very complicated."

The air in the room shifted.

And so the next game of politics began.

Carver crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest wall, eyes scanning the room. "Alright, that’s all well and dandy," he said, voice dry. "But what now? Who do we support at the Landsmeet?"

Eamon straightened as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why, Alistair, of course! He is Maric’s son—he has the bloodline."

Before Alistair could even respond, Anora stepped forward like a predator catching the scent of weakness.

"With respect, Arl Eamon," she said smoothly, "I have ruled this nation in practice for years. I know the court, the nobles, the economy. I bring stability and experience."

"And I bring a royal bloodline and the respect of the Grey Wardens," Alistair countered, bristling. "You were Queen because of Cailan."

Anora’s eyes narrowed. "And you’re suggesting we place the future of Ferelden in the hands of a man who spent his adult life dodging responsibility in a Chantry?"

And just like that, the room exploded into shouting.

Eamon and Anora were going back and forth like crows in a grain fight, and Alistair jumped in to defend himself, only to get overrun. Riodan stood to the side, awkward and amused. Fergus Cousland arched a brow as if he regretted being rescued.

Then Runa threw up her arms. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Silence hit like a hammer. Even Carver blinked.

Runa pointed at the ceiling. "You’re all yelling over a damn crown like it’s the last sausage at breakfast! Alistair marries Anora. Boom. Done. Now shut up and breathe before I turn this whole place upside down."

The outcry was immediate.

"Marry her?"

"That’s absurd!"

"I refuse to be shackled to—"

It grated on Carver’s ears like metal on stone.

He raised his voice, loud enough to shut everyone up. "No, she’s right. Runa’s idea is the best option."

Eamon turned to him like he’d grown a second head. "You can’t be serious."

"Deadly." Carver pointed at Anora. "She knows how to run a country. Trade, politics, the nobility—she’s already doing it."

Then he turned to Alistair. "And he’s got the bloodline. The heart. The leadership. People like him. Put them together? You’ve got a ruler the nobles respect and someone the people believe in. They’d be unstoppable."

The room quieted. Even Anora and Alistair were suddenly, confusingly thoughtful.

But Eamon… oh no. He wasn’t done.

"She’s barren," he said, voice like sour wine. "And the daughter of the man who betrayed Ferelden! You would have her queen?"

Carver lifted a hand. "First of all, Loghain being a traitor isn’t Anora’s fault. Blame the father, not the daughter."

He looked Eamon dead in the eye. "Second, who said she’s the problem? Maybe it was Cailan ‘shooting blanks.’"

That got a reaction. Even Leliana chuckled.

"There’s enough tavern songs about Cailan’s ‘charms,’ right? But where are the golden-haired bastards? You ever consider that, Eamon?"

Laughter rippled through the room. Even Alistair had to smother a grin.

Wynne looked at Carver, who gave her a slight nod.

She cleared her throat. "There is a spell. If the queen consents, I will perform it."

Anora, clearly thrown by the sudden change in tone, nodded slowly.

Wynne stepped forward, hands glowing faintly. She murmured ancient words—the ones Carver had taught her—and a soft green light settled around Anora’s torso.

Wynne smiled. "She is not barren."

Eamon looked like someone had slapped him with a trout.

Anora straightened. "Then I am willing to marry Alistair—for Ferelden’s peace."

She turned and left the room with regal silence.

Eamon stormed out a moment later, muttering under his breath about ‘madness.’

Wynne gave Carver a knowing look and followed.

The doors closed behind them.

Leaving just Carver, Runa, and a very red-faced Alistair.

Alistair rounded on them, wild-eyed. "I can’t marry her! She’s the daughter of fucking Loghain! She’s my brother’s widow!"

Runa sighed and sat down heavily. "It’s the best option. And you know it."

Carver walked up to him. "Look at it from her side. She was raised to be queen. Never had a real choice in it. Her husband, your brother, spent more time in brothels than in court. She’s blamed for being barren—even though we now know she’s not. And then she loses him in a battle caused by her own father."

He leaned closer. "What was she supposed to do, Alistair?"

Alistair looked down, running a hand through his hair.

"And now," Carver continued, "the two of you have a chance to unite Ferelden. To actually fix something."

Alistair muttered, "How about love? What if I want a wife who loves me?"

Carver smirked. "Then woo her."

Alistair blinked. "Woo her?"

"Use that famous charm. That boyish grin. Your bleeding heart. Show her you’re not just a crown on a head. Show her you."

Alistair gave a hollow laugh. "You make it sound so easy."

Carver shrugged. "I have no fucking clue."

Alistair looked sideways at him. "Then how did you woo Zevran?"

Carver gave him a look. Then smacked him on the shoulder. "There was no wooing. Just two men who enjoyed sex and happened to be near a bedroll."

Runa snorted. "And yet, here we are."

Alistair groaned. "Maker preserve me."

Carver just grinned. "Oh, you’ll need more than the Maker, Your Majesty."

Chapter Text

The servant girl who led him to his quarters looked like she was moments from fainting. Carver tried not to blame her. If he had seen himself charging into the estate, wrapped in a fucking werewolf pelt and yelling about ancient fertility magic, he probably would have been terrified too.

She walked stiffly ahead of him, hands trembling as she opened the door to the guest room. Carver cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Hey," he said, gentling his voice as much as he could. "What’s your name?"

She flinched but answered softly, "Sena. I’m from the Alienage."

Carver nodded, stepping inside the room, noting it was clean but barely furnished. He turned back to her, noticed how downcast her eyes were. She looked so small. So tired.

"You okay?" he asked, and when she didn’t answer, he crouched slightly and tilted her chin up gently with his fingers. "Hey. What’s wrong?"

Her lips trembled. "My family is starving. My little brother and sister. And... and Lady Isolde cut my pay in half. Said I was clumsy. Said... said a knife-ear like me wasn’t worth full wages."

Carver exhaled slowly, counting to ten in his head. Three times. He’d only just met Isolde and he already hated her more than most people he’d known for years.

He dug into his pouch without thinking, fingers brushing the weight of the sovereigns he had tucked away for emergencies. Well, this counted. He pulled out ten gold coins and placed them in Sena’s hand.

She looked like he had just handed her the moon. "I can’t take this! That’s... that’s too much!"

"No," Carver said firmly. "That’s just enough. You can feed your siblings, learn a real trade. Hell, pay for them to learn one too."

Sena looked at him with wide, skeptical eyes. "What do you want in return?"

He smirked. "Two things. One: you live the life you deserve. And two? When you quit, you march right up to that prissy bitch Isolde and you tell her it was Carver Hawke who gave you the coin. Make sure she hears it real clear."

Sena giggled, then surged forward to kiss his cheek. "Thank you!"

Before he could even process it, she bolted from the room, nearly skipping.

Carver laughed and shook his head. Vandarel stirred against his back, whispering through the bond, That was satisfying.

"Oh, we’re just getting started," Carver muttered, flopping onto the bed. "What else could we do to piss off the Arlessa while looking completely innocent?"

A feral wolf cub in her chambers? Vandarel suggested.

"Too subtle," Carver grinned. "Maybe we could teach all the servants to chant 'bitch' under their breath every time she walks by."

They were both in the middle of crafting a truly excellent plan involving exploding perfume bottles when someone cleared their throat behind him.

Carver froze, turning slowly. Standing in the doorway, elegant as a painting and twice as intimidating, was Queen Anora.

Shit.

"Uh," Carver said. "Would you like to sit? Drink? I mean I only have mead but..."

Anora stepped in, nodding with all the grace in the world. "Mead will suffice."

She sniffed the tankard before taking a long sip. Carver blinked. Hrogarh would have approved.

She didn’t waste time. "I came to thank you. For defending me. For the spell. I know it came from you."

Carver scratched his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "Just seemed the right thing to do. I mean, you’re not barren, and Eamon was being a sanctimonious ass."

Anora gave a faint, amused huff. "You know, I was told you were here only for the Chasind."

"I am," Carver said bluntly. "I have a deal with Alistair. The Wilds go to the Chasind. Permanently. You okay with that?"

Anora nodded. "Some in the Bannorn will protest. But it’s fair. And wise. As long as there is an accord, it will benefit Ferelden."

Carver gave her a nod of respect. She really was smart.

Then she did something unexpected. She hesitated. Her fingers curled around the tankard. She looked... uncertain.

"Can I ask you something personal?"

"You’re the queen. Pretty sure you can ask whatever the hell you want."

She didn’t smile. "Do you think Alistair will make a good king? A good husband?"

Carver blinked. "Why the fuck are you asking me?"

Anora looked him in the eyes. "Because you are honest. Brutally so. You put Eamon in his place. You told Isolde exactly what she was. And the Chasind would not choose someone like you to lead them if you did not have the backbone to speak truth."

Carver shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. He sighed.

"Alistair has the potential to be one of the best kings Ferelden’s ever seen. But all his life, he's been told not to seek power. Maybe so no rebel Bann or arl could use him to overthrow Cailan. That’s left him unsure of himself. He needs to be seen. Heard. Encouraged. Do that, and he’ll give you the same."

Anora opened her mouth, but Carver held up a hand.

"He respects women. Look at how he treats Runa, Wynne, Leliana. He won’t shove you into the shadows. As for marriage... I don’t know. He told me he wants love. Trust. A partner."

"Love," Anora repeated flatly.

Carver smirked. "Only a fool believes in love at first sight. But friendship? That can come first. Start there. Talk to him. Figure out what you have in common. Shared ideas for Ferelden. Build from that."

Anora was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, finished her mead, and stood.

"Thank you, Carver Hawke."

"Any time, your majesty."

When the door clicked shut behind her, Carver leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

"What the fuck is happening?" he muttered. "I'm out here crowning kings, calming queens, giving marriage advice?"

Truly, Vandarel whispered, the world is upside down.

Carver snorted. "Next thing you know, I’ll be giving cooking lessons to the fucking Chantry."

You can’t cook.

"Exactly," Carver said, grinning to himself. "Exactly."

And still laughing softly, he let his head fall back on the pillow, wondering how in the name of the Maker he’d ended up here.

Peace was a lie. Or rather—Vandarel was a dick.

An ancient, mouthy, dramatic dick with a perverse sense of humor and a habit of dragging Carver into the kind of messes that left him covered in blood, half-naked, and screaming at nobles. And that was just last week.

It all started after a nap. A really good nap. Like the kind where you don’t drool, but your body forgets what year it is when you wake up.

And just as Carver cracked one eye open, there it was.

“Finally awake, are we? Sloth suits you.”

Carver groaned and pulled the blanket over his face. “Nope. Not today. I earned that nap. Fuck off.”

“Warden secrets, Pup.”

The blanket slid off his face like a corpse sheet. Carver blinked. “…What?”

Vandarel sounded smug. Too smug. “You do know that only a Grey Warden can kill an Archdemon, yes?”

“…Yes?” Carver said slowly, sitting up.

“And why is that?”

“…Because magic?”

“Because when a Warden kills the Archdemon, the soul of the corrupted Old God doesn’t just jump into the next darkspawn. It leaps into the nearest tainted vessel. And Wardens? They're walking corpses with a leash on their sanity.”

Carver blinked. “So if a Warden kills the Archdemon…”

“Both die.”

That sat in his stomach like a stone. Cold. Heavy.

He shot upright, suddenly very awake. “So—wait. You mean if Runa or Alistair does it, they die?”

“That’s what I just said, yes. Are you always this slow when you're sober?”

“Shit. Fuck. Shit.” Carver stood and began pacing. “What about Riordan? He’s a Warden. He can do it.”

“He’s also half-dead and leaking darkspawn rot like a drunk leaks piss.”

“…Vivid.”

“Realistic.”

Carver’s hand ran through his hair. “What the fuck are we supposed to do then? If Riordan dies before the battle, then one of them has to—” He paused. “…Wait. Waitwaitwait.”

Vandarel, of course, offered no help.

Carver narrowed his eyes. “You said Warden. Just… Warden. Doesn’t have to be my Wardens, right?”

“Correct.”

“…And we’re executing Loghain after the Landsmeet, yeah?”

“So they say.”

It hit him like a punch to the chest. Or like Vandarel flying across the room and smacking him in the head. Which he promptly did.

“OW. You ancient fuck!”

“Took you long enough.”

Carver shoved the staff aside. “Loghain. You want us to conscript Loghain. Make him the Warden. And when the time comes…”

“He dies. Archdemon dies. Runa lives. Alistair lives. And your dream for an independent Wilds lives.”

“…Fuck me sideways,” Carver whispered.

“I’m not that kind of spirit.”

Carver snatched Vandarel and bolted for the door, shouting as he ran. “RUNA! ALISTAIR! RIORDAN! GET TO MY FUCKING ROOM RIGHT NOW!”

Alistair arrived first, looking both annoyed and half-asleep. Runa came next, with Peach slinking beside her, eyes sharp. Riordan stumbled in last, pale and irritable.

Carver stood in the center of the room with Vandarel planted blade-first into the wooden floor. The staff glowed faintly, throbbing like a heartbeat.

“What’s this about?” Runa asked warily.

Carver held up a hand. “Just listen. Vandarel has something to say.”

“Wait,” Alistair said, eyeing the staff. “You mean the staff?”

Vandarel flared with light, voice rich and echoing. “I have a name, whelp.”

All three Wardens jumped. Riordan reached for his sword.

Peach growled.

Carver didn’t flinch. “Go ahead. Tell them what you told me.”

Vandarel did. He laid it all out—taint, soul-transfer, double death. The room grew colder with every word.

When the spirit finished, Riordan exploded.

“THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!” he barked, stepping forward. “This knowledge is sacred! It’s mine to reveal when the time is right! You—how does your staff know this?!”

“Because I was alive when in the third Blight! I have witnessed it with my own eyes!.”

Riordan opened his mouth.

Peach snarled.

He shut it.

Carver exhaled. “Now that that’s settled, here’s the idea: we conscript Loghain.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him. Different reactions.

Alistair looked like someone just told him to marry a nug. “NO.”

Runa tilted her head. Thoughtful.

Riordan looked sick.

Carver held up his hands. “Listen. He’s going to die anyway. Either by your hand or the Landsmeet’s. But if we make him a Warden… he can take the final blow. Die fighting the Blight. Die usefully.”

Alistair snapped. “He doesn’t deserve the honor!”

Runa slapped his arm so hard it echoed. “It’s not a fucking honor, Alistair! It’s a death sentence! A cursed half-life where you wake up screaming and shit blood until the Calling comes for you!”

Everyone stared.

Runa blinked. “…Too graphic?”

Peach wagged her tail.

Carver stepped between them. “Look. I get it. You hate him. I hate him. But if we let him die as a Warden—if he kills the Archdemon—we get everything. No guilt. No martyrdom. And Anora doesn’t have to start her marriage with her husband slaughtering her father.”

Alistair hesitated. His jaw clenched.

Riordan, surprisingly, nodded. “It’s… not unwise.”

Runa sighed, rubbing her face. “It’s the smartest move. The only one where no one we care about dies.”

Alistair still looked like he’d swallowed a wasp. “He’s a traitor. A coward.”

Carver pointed a finger. “He’s also the Hero of River Dane. Half the country still respects him. And making him fight and die for Ferelden again? That’s a story they’ll remember.”

Silence settled.

Then Vandarel muttered, “You’re surprisingly good at politics for a man who once tried to headbutt a orge.”

“That orge deserved it,” Carver muttered.

Runa smirked. Riordan sat down and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Alistair paced in a tight circle, muttering to himself.

Finally, he stopped. “Fine. If—and only if—Loghain agrees. And if he tries anything… I’ll gut him myself.”

“Deal but first we need to win the landsmeet,” Carver said.

Much later, when they’d all gone and the room was quiet again, Carver collapsed face-first into his bed.

Peach curled up beside him. Vandarel lay against the wall, humming something that might’ve been a war song—or a lullaby.

Carver rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“I just convinced the future king of Ferelden to spare his worst enemy and make him a magical suicide weapon,” he said aloud.

Peach sneezed.

“…I’m gonna need a drink before the battle.”

“Just one?” Vandarel asked.

“Don’t push your luck.”

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon when Carver finally tracked down Oghren. The dwarf was exactly where Carver had expected him to be: half-slumped against a wine barrel in the palace cellar, tankard in one hand and a grin that could make a bard blush.

Carver leaned against the doorframe. "Fancy a drink?"

Oghren squinted up at him, eyes bleary but focused. "Do I look like I’m busy, twig?”

Carver grinned and stepped inside. Someone had rigged up a makeshift tavern down here: a rickety table, a few chairs, and enough liquor to get a Qunari ambassador to loosen up. Carver grabbed a tankard and sat across from him.

They drank. And drank. And drank some more.

At first, it was just casual. Carver venting about nobles and their endless speeches, Oghren ranting about Orzammar politics and how he missed Felsi but also wanted to throttle her. By the third round, things got weird.

"Y'know what she does, Carver?" Oghren slurred, swaying in his seat. "When she's mad at me? She pulls my beard. Not gently. With her teeth."

Carver choked on his drink. "Why would anyone do that?!"

"Because she's a vicious little nug-humper, that's why!" Oghren said proudly. Then he leaned forward conspiratorially. "And it hurts. But... it kinda works."

Carver groaned. "Maker's tits, Oghren. Please. My brain can't unhear that."

Oghren laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. "And what about you, pretty boy? That elf of yours got any... interesting tricks?"

Carver flushed, glaring into his tankard. "Zevran is... inventive."

"Ha! I knew it. Bet he ties you up, huh? Bet he says all kinds of filthy Antivan things in your ear."

Carver stared at the dwarf, utterly deadpan. "Do you want me to describe it? Because I will. In detail. With hand gestures."

Oghren went bright red and waved both hands. "Alright, alright! Mercy! You win."

They shared a companionable silence, sipping their drinks.

Then Oghren snorted and muttered, "Still think about her, you know. Felsi. Even when she's screaming at me, I miss her."

Carver didn’t mock him for it. He understood too well. Missing someone wasn’t about logic. It was a gut-deep thing. Like hunger. Or pain.

"Maybe you should tell her that," Carver said. "Women like hearing they're missed. Even if they pretend they don't."

Oghren gave him a sideways look. "That how you got your Antivan assassin to stick around?"

Carver chuckled. "No. I think he just enjoys my dick."

They laughed again, and for a while, Carver felt like he was back in the Wilds, before nobles and treaties and kings. Just drinking with a friend.

Eventually, Oghren slurred his way through a joke about a noblewoman, a goat, and an ill-timed thunderstorm before trailing off mid-punchline and snoring right there on the table.

Carver pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the ache in his back. He grabbed a blanket from a nearby crate and tossed it over Oghren's hunched form.

"Sleep tight, you drunken bastard."

The halls were quiet as Carver made his way back to his room, the stone corridors muffling his footsteps. The wine buzz clung to his skin, warm and drowsy. He was ready for bed, ready to collapse.

And then he opened the door.

Zevran was sprawled on the bed, completely and gloriously naked, stroking himself lazily with a smug little smile on his lips.

Carver stopped dead in the doorway. "Maker's fucking balls, Zev. What are you doing?"

"Oh," Zevran purred, eyes glittering with mischief. "I was getting impatient. The bed was cold, and I missed your delightful scowl. I thought I’d... entertain myself."

Carver blinked, stared, then looked down at his own half-laced tunic. He shoved the door closed behind him and practically tore his clothes off.

Vandarel, still strapped across his back, groaned. No. Not again. I will not be subjected to this.

"You and me both," Carver muttered, grabbing the staff and opening the wardrobe. He shoved Vandarel inside with a scowl. "Time out. No talking. No glowing. Stay."

He slammed the door, then turned back to the bed just as Zevran let out a delighted squeak.

"You pounced! I knew you would!"

Carver didn’t answer. He climbed onto the bed, grabbed Zevran by the hips, and dragged him down with a growl.

What followed was... not quiet.

There were gasps and moans and laughter. There were whispered jokes between kisses, bites traded for groans, nails raked down backs. There were slaps to Zevran's ass and breathless cries of "harder!" and "more!"

Carver lost count of how many times he made Zevran shiver. How many times he broke apart under those clever hands and that wicked mouth.

At one point, Zevran rolled them both over, straddled him with a grin that could kill, and whispered, "I should misbehave more often if this is the punishment."

Carver just pulled him down and kissed him until neither of them could breathe.

Eventually, they collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap, limbs intertwined, hearts pounding.

Zevran nuzzled into his chest, breath warm against Carver's skin. "You are magnificent, you know. Ferocious. Like a bear in heat."

"You say the weirdest shit," Carver muttered, half-asleep already.

Carver didn’t answer. He just let his hand settle on Zevran’s hip, pulling him close.

Outside the window, the wind howled gently through Denerim. Tomorrow would bring the Landsmeet, the crown, the weight of all Ferelden.

Carver woke to pain. A sharp, smarting thwack across his forehead. He groaned and rolled over—only to realize that Zevran and the blanket rolled with him, leaving his entire backside exposed to the brisk morning air.

And to Brannagh.

The tiny shaman stood beside the bed with her staff in hand and her foot tapping like a war drum. Arms crossed. Eyes blazing. Carver blinked up at her, bleary and naked, and tried to make sense of the situation.

“Bran—?!”

“Get up, lad.”

Carver moved to cover himself, but the gods-damned elf had the blanket wrapped around him like a smug, golden burrito.

Brannagh didn’t blink. She tossed Carver’s kilt at his head. “We need to talk.”

Gulping, Carver did as he was told. He pulled the kilt on and started fastening it as he turned. Brannagh, ever the perceptive elder, caught sight of the fresh scratch marks across his back and let out a huff.

“Well, good to see you’ve been busy,” she muttered. “But I hope getting your dick wet hasn’t dulled your senses. You still have work to do.”

Carver squinted at her. “Work? What work?” he mumbled, opening the wardrobe and dragging out a grumpy Vandarel.

I do not consent to being stored like a pair of boots, the staff grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, cry me a river,” Carver muttered.

Brannagh gave him another whap! across the shoulder with her staff.

“You’re representing the Chasind at the lowlander meeting, boy! The Landsmeet! That requires preparation!”

Carver’s stomach flipped.

“But that’s today—?”

“Yes” she snapped. “But you think we walk in there like it’s a pub visit? Get moving.”

Before Carver could object, Brannagh shoved him toward the bathing room. A cold bucket of water, a bar of soap that smelled like tree bark, and a very insistent shaman later, Carver found himself standing naked in the center of the room while Brannagh circled him with a bowl of blue pigment and a low, rhythmic chant.

She painted ancient symbols on his skin: across his chest, down his arms, along his spine and shoulders. Her fingers were steady despite their age, and Carver didn’t dare interrupt. The moment was too heavy, too thick with meaning.

Still, curiosity gnawed at him.

“How did you get here, anyway?”

Brannagh snorted. “I flew.”

Carver blinked. “What?”

“I said, I flew. You think I’m going to ride a horse all the way to Denerim with knees like mine? Spirits lift me when I ask nicely.”

Right. Of course. Because that made so much sense.

Once the last symbol was finished—a spiral over his heart—Brannagh stepped back and inspected her work. Carver reached for a clean kilt, slipping into it carefully, then tied on his werewolf cloak. Vandarel slung over his back with a soft, annoyed sigh.

He looked down at himself in the polished metal mirror. He looked... wild. Not savage, not brutish—but fierce. He looked like the man who had stood in the Wilds with spirits singing in his bones. The man who had earned the trust of shamans and spirits alike.

Brannagh nodded once. “That’ll do.”

She was already in her shaman’s garb—her beads, feathers, and skull-charms rattled softly as she walked. Carver offered her his arm. She sniffed, then took it anyway.

Together, they walked through the estate to the main chamber where the Wardens, Arl Eamon, and the rest had gathered.

All conversation stopped when they entered.

Alistair’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered. “I forget, sometimes, that you’re the leader of the Chasind. But now? Now I don’t think anyone will forget.”

Carver didn’t say anything at first. He just nodded to the group, then gestured to Brannagh. “This is Brannagh. Shaman of the tribe. My mentor. You’ll show her respect.”

Brannagh inclined her head with a faint smile, her presence oddly serene.

Morrigan gave a slight bow. Leliana offered a warm smile. Even Riodan looked impressed.

And then Arl Eamon opened his mouth.

“She has no place at the Landsmeet,” he said. “This is a matter for nobles and generals, not—”

Snap!

Brannagh flicked her fingers, and Eamon opened his mouth to speak again.

Only a croak came out.

A loud, unmistakable ribbit.

Carver snorted. Alistair choked on a laugh.

Eamon clutched his throat in horror. He tried again.

Ribbit.

Zevran, lounging against the wall in a robe, whispered, “Ah, the noble bullfrog. Rare in these parts.”

Carver grinned, arms folded. “You were saying, Arl?”

Eamon glared.

Alistair knelt beside Brannagh, looking up at her with pleading eyes. “Would you, uh, consider removing the spell? Eventually?”

Brannagh gave him a look like she was considering turning him into a squirrel instead.

“I’ll lift it when we arrive,” she said flatly. “Not before. Let the man listen for once.”

Alistair chuckled and rose. “Fair enough.”

Carver felt a warm tug in his chest. The room—this room that had never felt like his—felt a little different now. He looked down at Brannagh, who stood barely at his waist and somehow still managed to make him feel like a scolded child.

He offered her his arm again.

“Let’s get ready.”

She nodded once. “Let’s show these lowlanders what the earth remembers.”

And as they left the room, Carver didn’t miss the looks exchanged behind him. Shock, yes—but also respect.

Chapter Text

The ride to the Landsmeet was quiet. Blessedly quiet. Carver didn’t think he’d ever appreciated silence so much, and he gave full credit to Brannagh’s spell. Eamon hadn’t made a sound since she turned him into a croaking sideshow, and by the spirits, it was refreshing.

What wasn’t refreshing was Morrigan. She sat her horse like it was beneath her, and her eyes were locked on Brannagh with the kind of look one usually reserved for poison or... demons. It made Carver’s skin crawl.

His grip on Vandarel tightened.

Then, Brannagh spoke. "I know what you're up to, girl."

Morrigan arched a brow. "Do you now?"

"I know your goal. And I know it will slip through your fingers."

Morrigan laughed. It was sharp. Dry. "You presume much, old woman."

Brannagh didn’t flinch. "Flemeth warned me about you long ago. She said you'd fly too close to the sun, that you'd mistake your mother’s shadow for your own strength. The bird has already flown."

Morrigan’s expression tightened. She looked away.

Brannagh added, softer now, but no less piercing, "No spell can mend what pride will ruin."

Silence stretched again, but this time it was brittle. Carver glanced at Runa, who looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon. She met his gaze with a desperate question in her eyes: What the fuck?

He gave her a helpless shrug. He had no idea what Brannagh had meant—but shit, it had felt true.

Alistair let out a slow breath like he’d been holding it the entire ride. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Well," he said quietly, "that was the most satisfying thing I’ve seen all week."

Carver nodded. "Same."

Finally, Brannagh snapped her fingers again, and Arl Eamon gave a sputtering cough.

His voice came back hoarse. "Is... everything ready?"

Alistair nodded. "We're here."

Inside the chamber, it seemed like every noble in Ferelden had gathered. Velvet and silver, banners and whispers—too much perfume and not enough honor. Carver stayed in the back with Brannagh, standing still as stone. This was Alistair and Runa’s moment. He was here as a presence, as a threat if things went sideways—but mostly, to bear witness.

And Loghain was already speaking. Loud, self-righteous, polished in the way only men who think they’ve done nothing wrong can be.

Runa stood beside Alistair, her Warden armor dark and sharp. Her voice cut across the din as she presented the truth, piece by piece. Documents, testimony, blood and bones laid bare. She told them about Howe. About the elves taken from the Alienage and sold like cattle to Tevinter. About what they found in the dungeons. About the cries. The chains. The stench.

Then Fergus Cousland stepped forward.

Carver didn’t know him well, but in that moment, he didn’t need to. The pain in his voice told the story.

"Howe murdered my family. My parents, my wife, my son. My people. There is still no word on my brother. He painted the walls of Highever with their blood. And Loghain let him."

Loghain tried to deny it, of course. Spoke of rogue agents and twisted ambition. Claimed Howe had gone too far, that he hadn’t known.

Alistair wasn’t having it.

"You held his leash, Loghain! You unleashed him on Ferelden! You let him slaughter innocents while you sat in Denerim calling it strategy."

The room crackled with tension.

Then Loghain snapped, “And what of my daughter? What did your so-called Wardens do with Queen Anora? Did you kill her?"

And from the side of the chamber, Anora stepped forward.

Always the dramatist, Carver thought, but she knew how to use a moment. Every noble turned toward her.

"Howe imprisoned me. Locked me in a tower like some ornament. The Wardens saved my life."

Gasps. Murmurs. A sharp intake of breath from a noblewoman in the front row.

Anora went on, clear and strong. "The Blight cannot be stopped by men like my father. We need leaders who will fight, not hide behind their titles."

The silence that followed was a living thing.

Then the vote.

One by one, banns and arls stood and gave their voices.

For the Wardens. For Alistair. For a future that didn’t stink of betrayal.

And when the last vote fell, Loghain lost it.

He roared something incomprehensible and lunged for Alistair.

Carver reached for Vandarel, but he didn’t need to. Alistair met the charge like a seasoned warrior. The clash of swords rang loud in the chamber, and for a moment, the nobles scattered, shouting and ducking behind guards.

Two minutes. That’s all it took.

Steel against steel. Alistair’s shield crashed into Loghain’s side, then again, then again. Loghain stumbled to one knee.

Carver’s pulse thundered. Was Alistair going to kill him?

But no. Alistair lowered his sword.

"You’re a traitor," he said, breathless. "But I won’t kill you. Not here. Not like this."

Loghain spat blood.

Alistair turned to the room. "He’ll join the Wardens. Let him fight the Blight. Let him see what true sacrifice means."

Riodan stepped forward silently. Guards followed. Loghain didn’t resist.

As he was dragged out, Alistair faced the throne.

He stood for a moment, just breathing.

Then he looked to Anora.

"I will marry Queen Anora. We will rule together. She will lead while I fight. And when this Blight ends, we’ll rule as equals."

Gasps rippled through the chamber. Carver scanned the nobles—some shocked, some intrigued.

Anora stepped forward, and took Alistair’s hand.

The way she looked at him—soft, curious, surprised—made Carver raise a brow. He leaned down toward Brannagh.

"Think they'll fall in love?"

"Hmph," Brannagh muttered. "Wouldn’t bet a goat on it right now. But give it time, maybe."

Carver chuckled. Vandarel made a grumbling sound on his back, and he patted the staff lightly.

Alistair’s voice rang again. "Gather your armies. Every last soldier, every sword and shield. We march for Denerim. Runa and I will lead. We fight for Ferelden. We fight for all of Ferelden."

Cheers rose, uncertain at first, then louder. Stronger. Hope, not fear.

Carver didn’t cheer.

He just stood tall, a spirit-bound blade on his back, blue paint still dry on his skin.

The chamber they'd been herded into was somewhere deep within the royal palace—rich with velvet tapestries, gold trim, and that cloying scent nobles seemed to mistake for cleanliness. Carver had barely stepped over the threshold before the voices hit him.

"Redcliffe is where the bulk of our forces should gather," Riodan was saying, gesturing to a map laid out across a massive oaken table. "The darkspawn will move fast. We must be faster."

"And yet no one consulted me about this—about any of this," Arl Eamon snapped, sour as ever. "I was to be Chancellor. It was agreed. And now I find myself sidelined, while Queen Anora plots to strip the crown from Alistair’s very head!"

No one responded. Not even Riodan.

Carver stood by the door with Brannagh, arms crossed. He wasn't even trying to hide his scowl anymore. Honestly, why was he here? This wasn’t his war table. These weren’t his people. Riodan was speaking in urgent tones about troop movements, scout lines. Eamon, meanwhile, muttered darkly to himself like a child denied a sweet.

Carver didn't care. None of it mattered until it did.

And then he’d be expected to bleed for it.

The tension wound tighter with every breath. Alistair leaned forward, pointing at a path drawn in charcoal across the map. Leliana murmured something about supply lines. Zevran yawned.

Carver's patience snapped like a twig.

"We're leaving. Now."

The room froze.

Alistair blinked. "You're...what?"

Carver raised a brow. "You’ve got a kingdom to ready. I’ve got a people to lead. Unless everyone’s conveniently forgotten—I command eight thousand Chasind. Not to mention my scouts, who’ve actually been *tracking the spawn these past weeks. I trust them. No offense, Riodan, but I trust very few these days."

Riodan inclined his head. "None taken."

Eamon made a noise like a wounded goose. "You can’t just—"

"I can. I am, I owe you nothing." Carver said, already unfastening the clasp on his cloak.

Brannagh stepped beside him, brushing invisible dust off her sleeve. Her smile was faint and deeply unsettling.

"We fly faster."

Runa opened her mouth, brows drawn. "Wait—what does that mean?"

Brannagh didn’t answer her directly. Instead, she looked at Runa, then at Alistair. Her eyes lingered on them, that piercing Chasind stare that always made people shift in their boots.

"Somethings," she said, "are not worth the price. Don’t forget that."

Then she twisted, feathers bursting through her skin as her form shimmered and broke. Wings stretched out, vast and golden. She shrieked like a windstorm. A moment later, she was an eagle, talons scraping the marble floor.

Gasps filled the chamber. Chairs tipped. Someone cursed.

Carver laughed under his breath.

"Old bat."

And then he shifted.

The magic swept through him like a tide, familiar and wild. Bones shortened. Limbs bent. Feathers tore through flesh and the world tilted. When he beat his wings once and took to the air, the room below erupted into shouts.

Alistair’s voice, clear and baffled, chased him out the open window:

"Why are old women always so cryptic?!"

Carver screeched in reply—something between a hawk's cry and a laugh.

And then they were in the sky.

Carver landed hard in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle, shifting mid-roll as his talons scraped against the stone and his hawk form collapsed into legs, arms, skin. He barely had time to shake the feathers from his vision before a familiar weight collided into him.

"Oof!" he grunted, stumbling backward. "Peach!"

The massive wolf licked his face with a happy whine, tail wagging like mad.

"I missed you too, girl," he mumbled into her fur, rubbing behind her ears as he sank to his knees. She smelled like pine and blood and damp forest. Comfort.

Footsteps approached fast. Then he heard Ebba.

"Look what the wind brought back."

He looked up. Ebba stood with her arms crossed, grinning. Carnuh was beside her, his usual serious self, but even he looked relieved. And Hrogarh—well, Hrogarh stood there with his arms folded over his chest and an expression that might've passed for smug pride if you tilted your head.

"You're late," Hrogarh said.

Carver rose, brushing off dirt. "You're ugly. And still here. Must be fate."

Ebba snorted.

"Get over here," Carver said, throwing an arm around her shoulders and tugging her close. With his free hand, he scratched behind Peach’s ears again, her tongue still hanging out the side of her mouth. "Anything happen while I was off saving Ferelden from itself?"

Carnuh nodded. "Few scuffles. Arl Eamon's men didn't take kindly to some of our warriors. Bann Teagan smoothed it over."

Carver's brow rose. "What kind of scuffles?"

Hrogarh grinned, showing teeth. "Knights tried their charm on some of our women. Got their faces rearranged for it, by the women."

Carver laughed. Loud and long.

"Serves 'em right. Bet they thought they were being gallant."

Ebba smirked. "One of 'em tried to call Leida 'sweetheart.' She knocked out two teeth."

"I need to buy her a drink," Carver said, eyes gleaming.

Then, with a heavy sigh, he pulled back. "Alright. Enough fun. We’ve got work to do."

He turned to Carnuh. "Fly to the lead scout. I want them to shift position and move toward the castle. Bring everyone in. No more open patrols for now. If the darkspawn are moving, I want to be ready."

Carnuh didn’t waste time. He just nodded, shifted into his raven form mid-step, and took off into the air.

Ebba tilted her head. "What happened in Denerim?"

Carver rubbed the back of his neck. "Landsmeet went our way. Runa and Alistair presented the evidence against Loghain. Howe's mess too. Anora backed them up."

"So he's done?" Hrogarh asked.

Carver hesitated. "Alistair beat him down in front of the court. But instead of killing him, he made him a Warden."

Ebba's expression darkened. "You trust him now?"

"No," Carver said bluntly. "Alistair made the decision. And if Loghain steps out of line, it won’t be my blade that ends him."

He felt the faint pulse of agreement from the staff, strapped across his back.

Ebba and Hrogarh exchanged a look. Peach whined again and sat beside Carver, resting her chin on his boot.

"We’re marching soon," he said. "Big push. Probably the last."

Ebba's gaze sharpened. "You sure about that?"

Carver looked toward the castle gates, toward the storm clouds gathering over the hills. He didn't answer right away.

When he did, it was with a quiet voice:

"No. But we don’t have a choice."

That night, Carver stood alone on the ramparts. The wind off the lake bit at his skin, and the stars were sharp in the cold sky. Behind him, the castle was alive with movement. Chasind mingled with Redcliffe's soldiers, uneasy but slowly finding rhythm.

He watched Carnuh return in the distance, gliding down with sharp wings, landing near the barracks. A soft voice joined him.

"You're brooding again."

Brannagh.

Carver didn’t turn. "I’m thinking. There’s a difference."

She came to stand beside him, wrapped in her furs, her staff clacking softly against the stone.

"So. The war begins soon."

"Yeah."

"And you’re afraid."

He exhaled sharply. "Not for myself."

Brannagh nodded slowly, gazing out over the dark hills.

"You lead well, boy. Even when you don’t think you do. They follow because they believe you’ll walk through fire first."

"I will."

"I know. That’s what frightens me."

Carver finally looked at her.

"You think I’ll die."

"I think the land takes what it wants. And you were never meant to grow old quietly in a tent."

He chuckled. "You’re really bad at comfort."

Brannagh gave him a sideways glance, then smacked his arm with her staff. "Stop whining."

He winced. "That thing hurts."

"Good. Means it still works."

They stood in silence a while longer. Then Carver spoke, more to himself than her.

"If I fall... you make sure Peach is cared for. And Vandarel. He’s loud, but he’s got a good heart."

"You’re not going to fall," Brannagh said.

He raised a brow. "Change your tune, did you?"

She gave him a tired smile. "I said you weren’t meant to grow old quietly. Didn’t say you wouldn’t make it. Just that, if you do, it won’t be because the world was kind."

He nodded. That, at least, felt true.

Below, he could hear the Chasind drums beginning again—a low, steady rhythm like the heartbeat of something ancient waking up.

It took two fucking days.

Two days of pacing, growling, training drills, and swearing at birds. Two days of pretending not to worry.

Then, finally, the scouts arrived.

Carver met them just outside the eastern walls of Redcliffe Castle, boots heavy on the dirt path, Peach at his side, growling low and anxious. The wind carried more than dust today—there was something else in it. A scent of old blood, of sick meat.

When only two hundred scouts stumbled through the trees, Carver’s gut clenched.

“Where the fuck are the rest of you?”

Fenya, the lead scout, dropped to one knee in front of him. Her braids were streaked with ash, and one side of her face was scorched black with smoke.

“Gone to intercept the horde,” she said hoarsely. “The Archdemon is marching with them. Straight for Denerim. I sent the others to warn the Wardens, to try and slow them down if the message failed.”

Carver’s stomach bottomed out. He felt his fingers clench around Vandarel until the wood creaked.

Carver growled low in his throat. Peach mirrored him.

“There’s more,” Fenya said, glancing west. “A splinter of the horde broke off. A large group. They’re heading here. Hours away at most.”

That hit like a hammer to the ribs.

“How many?”

“At least a thousand. Maybe more.”

He cursed violently, turned on his heel and started marching toward the keep. “You did good, Fenya. Rest if you can. Drink something. We’ll need you again soon.”

She saluted, then crumpled against a tree.

Carver didn’t stop moving. He stormed into the great hall, calling for Bann Teagan so loudly the echoes startled two servants into dropping trays.

“We need to evacuate the village,” he said as soon as Teagan appeared. “Now.”

Teagan blinked. “Evacuate? Why—?”

“Darkspawn,” Carver snapped. “A few hours out. A large group. You want Redcliffe to burn? You want people screaming in the night? Move them to the castle. Everyone.”

Teagan paled. “Right. Yes. I’ll rally the guards.”

“I’ll send some of mine to help,” Carver said, already turning toward the door. “You know your people. Move fast.”

Outside again, he found Tarn and Bea in the training yard. They were sparring, sweat-slick and laughing until they saw his face.

“Time to move,” he said. “Take five thousand. Head for Denerim. Tell the Dalish, the dwarves, the mages—move now. No more waiting. No more meetings. Just fucking move.”

Tarn frowned. “What about you?”

Carver glanced toward the village.

“I stay. With the rest. We hold the line here.”

Bea looked at him, brow tight. “You sure?”

“No. But it’s what we have to do.”

Tarn nodded once. “Then it will be done.”

They didn’t waste time. Orders were given. Horns were blown. Chasind warriors moved with purpose, braiding hair, sharpening axes, whispering old songs. Horses were mounted, and scouts dispersed to rouse the allied camps.

Carver returned to the hall, gathered the remaining leaders, and made the announcement.

“The horde’s coming to Denerim,” he said flatly. “We’re moving our forces to intercept. But a splinter is coming here. We’ll have to hold Redcliffe with what we have.”

Murmurs filled the room. Most of the Arl’s knights looked like they wanted to piss themselves.

“What do we have?” one asked.

Carver looked around. “About a thousand Chasind. A handful of your men. And the walls.”

Teagan cleared his throat. “We have stores of oil. Arrows. Ballistae.”

“Good,” Carver said. “We’ll use it all.”

They dispersed to prepare.

Later, Carver stood on the battlements, wind tugging at his cloak. Below, the villagers shuffled through the gates under guard, clutching baskets and crying children. Chasind warriors lined the walls, painting their faces, tying on bones and charms.

He felt Brannagh arrive before she spoke. The scent of sage and smoke clung to her.

“The sky smells of rot,” she said quietly. “They come fast.”

“I know.”

She looked at him. “You fear for the others.”

He didn’t deny it.

Brannagh gave a slow nod. “Then fear, and fight anyway. That is what we do.”

Carver exhaled through his nose. “I just hope they get there in time.”

Brannagh’s eyes glinted. “And if they don’t?”

He rested one hand on Vandarel, the other on the cold stone of the wall.

“Then we make this place a graveyard for monsters.”

Brannagh smiled.

Below, a bell rang three times. The last villager had made it in. The gates groaned closed.

It started with growls. Then came the stench.

Carver wrinkled his nose. "Shit, those fuckers smell like they crawled out of a latrine."

Peach growled beside him, her fur bristling.

From the ramparts, he could see the small horde emerging from the trees—twisted shapes of genlocks and hurlocks, some dragging crude axes, others hunched like broken things. And there—lumbering at the back—were five ogres. Huge, grey-skinned, and slobbering.

Ugh, they’d brought ogres.

Carver raised his hand, signaling the thirty-five mages lined along the inner walls. Robes snapped in the wind, and staffs began to glow. Brannagh stood tall at the center, her voice rising like a storm chant, echoed by Carnuh, his eyes shining with light.

"Now!" Carver barked.

The air shattered with power.

Lightning cracked the sky open, a web of white fire striking the front ranks. Fire spiraled down in hungry tongues, igniting clusters of shrieking darkspawn. Blizzards churned above them, shards of ice slicing flesh, turning dirt to frozen mud. One hurlock burst into flame, staggered, then exploded in a spray of bone and gore.

The mages wove destruction in brilliant arcs—wind, storm, fire, frost. It was beautiful. Terrifying. And sweet music to Carver’s ears.

Darkspawn screamed. Bodies fell. The front of the horde was obliterated before it reached the gates.

As the last firestorm flickered out, Carver raised his arm again.

“Ebba! Archers!”

A sea of sinew tightened as two hundred and fifty Chasind archers drew their longbows.

“Ready!”

He held his breath, then dropped his arm.

“Loose!”

The arrows fell like rain. No hesitation. No misses. Every arrow found something to bury into—skulls, shoulders, bellies, eyes.

The few remaining darkspawn from the first wave barely had time to realize they were still alive before the next volley struck.

“Fire at will!”

Bows twanged. Screams rose. Flesh tore.

Then came the tremor.

The ground buckled beneath the pounding feet of the ogres. Five of them charged straight for the gate, bellowing. One caught a ballista bolt in the shoulder but kept going. Another crushed a cart and hurled it at the walls. The gate groaned.

Carver’s eyes narrowed. “They’re going to break it—”

With a thunderous crack, the main gate shattered inward. Splinters flew. Guards were thrown. The darkspawn surged.

“Hold!” Carver shouted, dropping from the wall to the courtyard. “Warriors! With me!”

Hrogarh was already waiting, axe in hand. “Been itching for this!”

They clashed like a tidal wave of muscle and steel.

The courtyard became a meat grinder. Chasind warriors met the charge with screams and painted faces, blades flashing. Teagan’s knights stood their ground, surprisingly disciplined, holding shields against genlocks.

Carver cut through a hurlock, Vandarel’s edge glowing. The staff hissed.

To his left, Ebba drove a dagger into a shriek’s neck. Carnuh, back in human form, loosed bolts of force from his hands.

The ogres were harder.

Carver ducked as one smashed down with a fist the size of a wagon wheel. The ground quaked. Warriors leapt and rolled, striking with spears and axes.

Two ogres fell. Then a third.

Then he arrived.

The biggest hurlock Carver had ever seen stepped through the shattered gate. Seven feet tall. Black armor. A twisted sword the size of a tree.

Carver felt it immediately. Power rolled off the creature. Not just brute strength—something else. Something wrong.

“Leader,” Vandarel whispered in his mind. “Kill it. Now.”

The hurlock didn’t wait.

It plowed into the warriors, swinging its sword in wide, brutal arcs. Chasind fell. Blood splashed the stone. One knight was split in half.

Carver charged, screaming. “You want a fight? COME GET IT!”

The clash was like a thunderclap. Blade met blade. Carver’s feet skidded back on the stone, the impact jarring his teeth.

He twisted, forced Vandarel up in a spiral of force, then slammed it down. The hurlock blocked, countered, kicked him in the ribs. Carver hit the ground hard, rolled, came up swinging.

They fought like giants—magic and steel colliding, slamming into walls, leaving craters. Every blow from the hurlock cracked stone. Every spell Carver flung lit the sky.

Blood ran down his face. He didn’t know if it was his.

“You done yet?” Vandarel growled.

“Not even close.”

Carver summoned more. More power. More force. He struck with wind, with raw power, with memories of every friend this Blight had taken.

Still the hurlock came.

Then Carver screamed, and all of it—the fury, the fear, the flame in his blood—boiled over.

He raised both hands.

Raw force snapped through the air like thunder. Invisible hands grabbed the hurlock’s arms. It roared, thrashing.

“Hold still!” Carver bellowed.

With a wrench of magic, he pulled.

Both arms tore from the creature’s shoulders, bone and sinew ripping with a wet, sickening sound.

The hurlock screamed.

Carver strode forward, eyes burning white-blue, Vandarel in hand.

“No more,” he whispered—and plunged the blade into the hurlock’s skull.

Its head exploded like a melon. Blood sprayed across his face. The body dropped like a stone.

Silence.

Around him, the last ogre fell. The final genlock was pinned to the wall by three arrows.

Carver looked around, breathing hard, magic still crackling around him. Everyone was staring.

“What?” he said.

No one answered.

Peach padded up beside him, leaned against his hip.

He let out a long breath.

“Right,” he muttered. “Someone fix the fucking gate.”

The cleanup was surprisingly easy.

At least, the darkspawn part.

The mages, still brimming with lingering power, made quick work of the corpses. Flesh turned to ash. Bones to cinders. No one said a word as the field of war was cleansed with fire.

Carver stood near the broken gate, wiping blood from his face with a rag that had once been white. Now it was red and black and smelled like burnt rot.

But then came the hard part.

Their own dead.

Two hundred.

He clenched his jaw when Brannagh read the number aloud. Of those, thirty were men-at-arms and knights under Bann Teagan’s command. The rest—Chasind.

Peach sat beside him, her head low, her fur singed and stained. Carver rested his hand on her neck, drawing comfort from her steady presence. The adrenaline was gone now, and all that was left was a gnawing ache deep in his chest.

Brannagh led the rites at dusk.

The sky bled red and gold as the bodies of their fallen were carried one by one to the fire pit built in the center of the courtyard. Chasind custom demanded fire—not just for cleansing, but to send their souls back to the earth, back to the forest and sky.

Carnuh sang.

It was an old song, in a language Carver still didn’t fully understand. But the grief in it needed no translation. The whole group fell quiet, warriors standing bare-headed, some still in bloodied armor, others with tears painting their cheeks.

The soldiers from Redcliffe were taken by the Chantry sisters. Carver saw one of them making the sign of Andraste as they passed, whispering prayers. He didn’t stop them.

It was the least they could do.

The next day was spent tending the wounded and rebuilding the damned gate.

Carver oversaw what he could, limping a little, bruised ribs wrapped tight beneath his armor. Peach stayed at his side, barking orders when he couldn’t. Hrogarh had taken it upon himself to boss around anyone who looked too idle, which meant half the camp kept a wary eye on him.

But it wasn’t all grim.

Hrogarh also found the mead.

A whole cask of it, buried beneath one of the carts they'd salvaged from the village. “Emergency celebration reserves,” he claimed. And within an hour, mugs were passed around, a bonfire lit, and the wounded gathered with blankets and songs.

Carver leaned against a crate, sipping slowly. Vandarel rested on the ground beside him, the staff quiet for once.

Peach flopped down with a heavy sigh, her head in Carver’s lap.

“You earned your mead,” he told her, scratching behind her ears.

Then a cheer went up.

“To Bann Teagan! Slayer of two ogres!” someone shouted.

Teagan, cheeks flushed with wine, looked like a deer in torchlight. “I—I only stabbed them,” he said modestly.

“Twice each!” Hrogarh shouted back, slapping him on the back.

Next thing Carver knew, Teagan was being painted in blue warstripes by Carnuh and Ebba, while someone fashioned a talisman out of bone and hung it around his neck.

“Congratulations,” Brannagh said with a proud smile. “You’re Chasind now.”

Teagan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s done,” Brannagh said, tone final. “You fought beside us. You bled with us. That makes you kin.”

Teagan looked baffled, but he smiled, holding the bone talisman like it was the crown of Ferelden.

Carver chuckled into his mead.

And that was when he saw them.

Runa. Alistair. Riordan. Arl Eamon. And the rest of the Warden companions, walking up the road toward the nearly repaired gate.

Carver’s smile vanished.

He stood, Peach following. He strode across the courtyard, eyes locked on Riordan.

The Warden didn’t even flinch as Carver jabbed a finger into his chest.

“Oh, I have intel that the battle will happen at Redcliffe,” Carver said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m a senior Warden. I know best!”

He stepped back and yelled, loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear, “THE FUCKING HORDE IS MARCHING TO FUCKING DENERIM!”

Everyone froze.

“I sent the army after it,” Carver said, arms wide. “I sent the Chasind. The Dalish. The dwarves. The mages. All of them. After your fuck-up.”

Riordan said nothing.

Alistair looked like he wanted to sink into the ground.

Carver turned away before he threw his mug at something.

That was when Eamon’s voice rang out. “Teagan! What in the Maker’s name are you wearing?!”

Teagan, very drunk now, turned with a bright smile. “Oh, this? Bit of warpaint. Killed some ogres. Got adopted. I’m Chasind now.”

Eamon’s eye twitched.

Runa burst out laughing.

Alistair snorted, trying not to grin.

Carver just groaned and slumped down beside Peach again.

“I need a bath,” he muttered.

Vandarel grumbled in his mind. You need a river. And soap. Several kinds.

Carver didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

They marched.

Well, technically, they ran.

Not at first. At first it was the slow, stiff gait of the recently battered and barely healed. But then someone spotted the first trail mark — a bent branch, tied with deer sinew and a tuft of yellow grass.

Carver grinned. "Bea," he muttered.

"Tarn too," added Hrogarh, nudging a stone out of the path with his boot. "He always carves that little tree symbol. See?"

Sure enough, scratched into the bark was a crude but familiar pine tree. Tarn’s mark. It meant they were on the right path. It also meant the main force was near.

Peach picked up the pace immediately, her heavy paws thudding against the wet road as she ran ahead. The Chasind followed suit, muttering their appreciation. 

Behind them, Alistair wheezed.

"Do you people ever slow down?" he complained, mopping sweat from his brow.

"No," Hrogarh said, grinning over his shoulder. "We follow the earth. The earth doesn’t wait."

Carver didn't laugh. Not this time.

He scanned the horizon. Every few hundred paces, another mark. Twine tied to branches. Small stone cairns with a feather wedged in the top. A woven thread caught between thorns.

They were getting close.

But something still felt... wrong.

He frowned and looked around. Runa was a few paces back, trudging in silence. Teagan was up ahead, conferring with Ebba. Brannagh rode a mule someone had stolen from a Redcliffe cart.

Where the fuck was Morrigan?

He stopped walking and turned. "Runa."

She didn’t answer.

"Runa. Where’s the witch?"

Runa looked up sharply. Then she spat.

"Gone."

Carver blinked. "Gone where?"

"She left. After Redcliffe. Walked off while we were counting the dead. Didn’t even say goodbye."

Carver raised an eyebrow. "What, just like that?"

Runa’s jaw worked, her expression turning to stone. "She wanted something. I said no. So she left."

That was all.

Carver didn’t ask. He could see the tension in Runa's shoulders, the way she kept her eyes on the road like it might open up and swallow her. It wasn’t his business.

He stepped closer and clapped her on the shoulder. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

Runa kicked a clump of dirt off the road. "We’ll see. Just... I hope she doesn't come back."

"Same," Alistair muttered, having finally caught up.

Runa ignored him. "I’m going to find Loghain."

That got Carver's attention. "Why?"

"To make sure no one kills him before the battle," she said, voice tight.

Carver snorted. "You planning to do it yourself?"

She gave a thin smile. "Maybe. Maybe I’ll let the archdemon eat him. I haven’t decided."

He let her go after that.

The path bent eastward, then north again. A stream crossed the road, the banks churned from dozens of feet. Carver knelt and dipped his fingers into the water. Still cold. Still muddy.

They were close.

By evening, they heard the horns.

One low note, then another, echoing from the hills beyond the trees. Not a warning. A signal.

The main army had made camp.

The last few miles were brutal, uphill and wet, the wind biting at their cloaks. But when they crested the ridge and saw the campfire smoke, Carver felt something in his chest loosen.

They had made it.

The Chasind raised their own horn in answer.

Soon, runners were racing up the slope to meet them, faces wide-eyed and disbelieving. Tarn tackled Carver in a rough hug. Bea punched Hrogarh in the gut, then did the same to Carver for good measure.

"You took your bloody time," Bea said, grinning despite the mud on her face.

"You didn’t leave bread crumbs," Carver replied.

"We left branches!"

"That’s not food, Bea."

Tarn laughed. Then he looked over Carver’s shoulder. "Runa? Everything okay?"

She just nodded. "Where’s Loghain?"

"Near the command tent. We’re setting up for the meeting."

Runa walked off without another word.

The rest of them entered camp as the sun dipped low, casting the tents in golden-orange light. Dwarves hammered armor. Elves sharpened arrows. Mages meditated in tight, tense circles. Bannorn lords paced like wolves.

Carver found a moment of stillness.

He dropped onto a log near the edge of camp, pulled off his boots, and let Peach rest her head in his lap.

He looked to the horizon.

Carver stormed out of the command tent, the flap snapping shut behind him like a whip. "Idiots!" he snarled, kicking a rock with such force it clattered off a nearby wagon. "Bloody lowlanders wouldn’t know a formation if it bit 'em in the arse."

Peach trotted beside him, tail swishing uncertainly. She’d seen him angry before, but this? This was a new shade entirely.

He had nearly taken a bann’s head off. Not metaphorically. The man had suggested they rush the city gates of Denerim with no scouts, no flanking, no godsdamned plan. Carver had risen so quickly from his seat that even Brannagh flinched. Eamon had opened his mouth to speak, and Carver had pointed at him and yelled, just for the hell of it. Something about inbreeding. Possibly sheep.

He couldn’t remember.

He was too furious.

At the bottom of the hill, he spotted Alistair and Runa talking near the weapon racks. He stomped over and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

"Brannagh wants to see you both. Now. If it were me, I'd already be there."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "You look like you want to punch a tree."

"If I punch anything, it's going to be Eamon," Carver snapped. "Go."

They went.

And he walked.

He passed through the Chasind quarter of camp, where fires burned low and warriors sat in silent circles. The mood here was not tense. Not afraid.

It was focused.

They knew what came tomorrow.

They always had.

He reached the center of the ring. The ritual grounds.

Already, Chasind warriors had stripped down to loincloths, their bodies daubed with soot and clay, oil and sweat glistening on their skin. The shamans were present, dressed in ceremonial furs and beads, smoke curling from the burning sage and pine in their bowls.

No words were spoken.

Only breath. Only fire.

Carver removed his clothes piece by piece. Cloak. Kilt. Bracers. Until all that was left was his skin and the wind.

He stepped forward.

Raised his arms.

And let out a long breath.

The chants began.

Low at first. Barely above a whisper. A rhythm that matched the pulse in his throat. Shamans stepped between the lines of warriors, circling them with smoke, whispering old words that brushed Carver's spine like wind through bone.

A cough broke the spell.

He opened one eye.

And there stood Runa.

And Alistair.

Both of them frozen mid-step, staring at nearly eight thousand mostly-naked Chasind.

Carver didn’t move. Didn’t drop his arms. Just raised an eyebrow. "Took you long enough."

Brannagh appeared like a wraith, her robes trailing behind her, her staff clicking against the stones. She walked straight up to Alistair and looked up.

Way up.

She only reached his elbow.

"Strip," she said.

Alistair blinked. "I—what?"

"You heard me. Remove your armor."

"I can’t—I’m the King of Ferelden. I can’t just—I mean, there are people here."

Brannagh smacked him.

Hard.

Right on the shin.

"Either you remove it, or I do. And my nails are long and sharp."

Alistair yelped.

Runa was already unbuckling her pauldrons. She shot Carver a grin. "Well. This is going to be memorable."

Once they were both stripped down, Brannagh guided them into the circle. Carver didn’t say anything. Just shifted slightly to make room. Alistair looked mortified. Runa looked curious. The chants rose again, this time stronger, deeper, the air humming with power.

Brannagh stepped into the center.

Her voice rose above the others.

Words in the Old Tongue. The first tongue.

Carver didn’t understand every syllable, but he knew the shape of them. A plea to the spirits of fire and rain, stone and wind. A call for their eyes, their blessing, their memory.

A promise that they would fight not for conquest, but for protection. For the land. For the people. For the world.

Then the acolytes came.

Dozens of them, each carrying wide bowls of blue warpaint mixed with ash and powdered stone.

One by one, they stepped to each warrior. Painted their faces, their arms, their chests. The symbols were old. Circles for unity. Lines for strength. Spirals for endurance.

When the paint touched his skin, Carver closed his eyes.

He felt heat.

Then something else.

A soft glow.

He opened his eyes and looked down.

The paint shimmered. Just for a moment. Like sunlight caught in water.

Alistair jumped. "Did yours just... glow?"

Runa’s eyes were wide. "They all did."

Brannagh nodded once. "The spirits heard. You are marked. They have given their blessing. Do not wash it away."

Alistair blinked rapidly. "I wasn’t planning to bathe anyway. Not until the war is over. Or maybe ever."

"It won’t last forever," Brannagh said. "But it will last long enough."

Carver smirked. "See? Not everything needs steel and shouting."

Alistair glanced sideways. "I feel underdressed for a compliment."

Runa rolled her shoulders. "I feel ready."

They dressed again slowly, reverently.

The warpaint stayed.

Carver buckled his belt, Vandarel already humming in the back of his mind.

Tomorrow, the blade whispered.

Carver knew that if sleep didn’t find him, Zevran would.

And he’d be the biggest liar in Thedas if he said he wasn’t hoping for it. He’d heard it a hundred times over the years—old soldiers half-drunk in taverns, bragging that there was nothing better than a warm body and a rough fuck before a battle. Back then, Carver had thought it was all talk. But now? Now he knew they weren’t wrong.

So he’d pitched his tent a little further from the rest of the Chasind, near the treeline where shadows fell heavier and sounds didn’t travel as far. Not for secrecy. Not really. Just for a bit of privacy… in case a certain nimble assassin decided to stop by.

Ebba, Carnuh, and Hrogarh had seen right through him, of course. Hrogarh only snorted and slapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him over. Carnuh said nothing—just gave him that quiet, knowing look. And Ebba? She’d leaned down and told Peach to go sleep in her tent tonight, because “your master’s having a boy sleepover.”

Carver didn’t even try to argue.

And he wasn’t disappointed.

When he stepped into his tent after the ritual, muscles still humming from the power in the warpaint, Zevran was already there. Naked. Relaxed. Lying on his stomach, his long hair loose and tousled like he’d shaken it out just for show. His arms were folded beneath his chin, and his back—scarred, tanned, sculpted—moved in slow, steady breaths.

His ass was up just slightly, a subtle invitation.

“Finally,” Zevran purred without looking up. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost—or worse, decided to be virtuous. And tonight, of all nights?”

Carver chuckled low in his throat as he stripped off his gear. The tent was warm from the lingering summer heat and the press of magic still hanging in the air. “Virtue isn’t something I plan on dying with.”

Zevran rolled onto his side and stretched, every line of him elegant and taunting. “Good. Then give me your worst, mi amor. If we don’t survive tomorrow, I want to meet death sore and smiling.”

Carver didn’t need another invitation.

What followed was anything but gentle. Carver had never pretended to be soft—not in war, and certainly not in bed. Zevran didn’t want gentle, anyway. He wanted it rough. Fast. Deep enough to leave marks. And Carver gave it to him without hesitation. They barely spoke between kisses, but they didn’t need to. Every groan, every gasp, every scrape of teeth said enough.

By the time round one ended, Zevran was already wrecked—hair a mess, skin flushed, nails digging into Carver’s shoulders. But he was grinning.

“Again,” he breathed, voice husky.

Carver didn’t argue.

Round two left them tangled in the blankets, bodies slick with sweat, limbs trembling from exertion. Carver had never felt more alive. The air smelled like sage and pine, like warpaint and sex. Outside the tent, the camp was quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes before a storm.

Zevran bit his neck during round three. Hard. Carver responded by grabbing his hips and slamming in deep enough to make the elf curse in Antivan. And when it was over, when Zevran collapsed against him, panting, body marked and sore and gloriously spent—Carver pulled him close.

“Passed out on me?” he whispered, running a hand through Zevran’s damp hair.

Zevran mumbled something unintelligible and tucked his face into Carver’s neck.

The assassin’s back was a canvas of red marks and bite wounds. His neck sported at least three hickeys, and his ass—gods, his ass was going to feel that tomorrow.

Carver smiled faintly.

He should sleep. He knew that. Morning would come too fast, and with it, the last stand. The final fight.

But instead he watched Zevran breathe.

Watched the way his lashes fluttered. The way his chest rose and fell, slow and steady. He looked younger like this. Softer. Peaceful, in a way Carver hadn’t seen before.

He hadn’t expected this. Not Zevran. Not any of it.

What had started as banter and flirting had become friendship. Trust. Lust. Carver didn’t know what to call it, and maybe now wasn’t the time to try.

But he did know one thing.

He hoped the elf lived.

He hoped they all did.

Even if it was stupid. Even if the odds were bad.

He tugged the blanket over them both, ignoring how sticky they were, how sore his thighs felt. Zevran shifted in his sleep and curled tighter into him.

“Stupid elf,” Carver murmured, fond.

He let his eyes close.

Let the heat and the scent and the weight of Zevran lull him under.

Let the hope linger just a little longer.

Even if it was fucking naïve.

Denerim was already burning. The smoke choked the sky, painting it a heavy shade of grey that hung low over the city like a curse. The wind carried ash and the sick stench of rot—a smell that meant darkspawn.

Sixteen thousand warriors stood assembled outside the city walls. Humans. Dwarves. Dalish. Mages. Chasind. Folk who didn’t speak, didn’t mix, didn’t trust one another. But they had come. Carver didn’t know if it was hope or desperation or just a shared hatred for the Blight that drove them, but they were here.

And they were ready.

Carver stood near the foot of the raised platform, his arms crossed as he surveyed the gathering. Beside him stood Keeper Lanaya, cool and poised even with the wind tugging at her robes. King Bhelen stood on the other side, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, though his fine armor gleamed. The bastard had style, Carver would give him that. First Enchanter Irving looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Eamon hovered nearby, trying to look noble and dignified while Runa stood beside him, eyes sharp and face unreadable.

On the platform, Alistair took his place.

Carver had to admit—he looked the part.

The armor was made of polished black dragonbone, every edge etched with silvery runes. Carver had heard the story from Oghren—how they’d carved the pieces from a high dragon they’d killed on some mountaintop just to get the dirt that would save Eamon’s old wrinkled ass. Worth it, apparently.

Alistair raised his hand, and the crowd quieted. A hush rolled out like a wave.

Then he began to speak.

“Thank you.” His voice was strong, steady. Loud enough to carry. “To each and every one of you. For coming here. For standing with us. Not just for Ferelden, but for the land itself. For your people. Your kin. For everything that lives.”

Carver listened, eyes flicking across the crowd. So many faces. So many stories. Mages from the Circle. Dalish hunters who had lived in hiding. Dwarves, bristling with weapons and pride. And his own kin—the Chasind, wild and painted, standing bare-chested and ready beneath the shadow of the gate.

“You come from different places,” Alistair continued. “You were raised with different beliefs, shaped by different histories. Some of you once fought one another. Some of you might do so again, after this. But not today.”

He paused, then drew a breath.

“Today, you fight not for kings or crowns. Not for gold or glory. You fight for something that cannot be bought or ruled.”

Carver swallowed hard. There was weight in the words. A truth that sat heavy in the chest.

“You fight for freedom,” Alistair said, and his voice cracked just slightly. “For the right to choose your own future. To protect the ones who cannot protect themselves. To stand before evil and say, ‘No more.’”

The army was still, holding their breath.

“I know what we face,” Alistair said. “I have seen it with my own eyes. The Archdemon is real. The darkspawn do not stop. But neither do we.”

A murmur spread through the gathered warriors.

“The Blight ends here.” Alistair raised his blade high, the metal catching what little sunlight still pierced the smoke. “Not because we are stronger. Not because we are chosen. But because we are united.”

The cheer that followed was deafening.

Carver found himself yelling too, fist raised. Even Bhelen clapped once. Runa just nodded.

Alistair lowered his blade, and the noise faded slowly. He looked over the crowd again, his eyes sweeping the gathered fighters.

“Today, some of us may fall. That is the truth of battle. But if we fall, we fall knowing that we stood when it mattered. That we faced the dark and did not flinch.”

Another cheer.

“Thank you,” Alistair said one last time, quieter now. “For standing with me. For standing with each other. Let’s end this.”

He stepped back.

The crowd began to move again. Slowly at first. Some turned toward their leaders. Some wept. Others embraced.

Carver exhaled, long and slow.

“I gotta admit,” he muttered to Runa, “not a bad speech.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” she replied, dry as dust.

He smirked. “You do that. Might give him the courage to survive.”

She shot him a look, then walked off toward her men.

Carver stayed a moment longer, staring up at the black sky.

Chapter Text

Everything was shit.

For all the fancy planning done by the so-called "experienced commanders of the Fereldan army" (cough Eamon), their brilliant strategy had gone to pieces the moment the darkspawn hit the lines. Formations dissolved like wet parchment. Tactical flanking maneuvers became screaming mobs. Friendly fire was more common than orders being followed.

Carver was knee-deep in blood and worse, swinging Vandarel with one hand and flinging raw magic with the other, trying not to get gutted.

He was in the Pig Market—though there sure as hell weren't any pigs, just shattered stalls, mangled bodies, and so much smoke he could barely see. Beside him fought Ebba, Carnuh, Hrogarh, and Peach, who had turned red from all the blood soaked into her fur. The wolf looked more like a demon than a wolf.

All around them, pockets of fighters clashed with spawn in brutal combat. He caught glimpses—two dwarves and a Dalish archer bringing down an ogre, one arrow to the eye, a hammer to the spine. Nearby, two Chasind shamans chanted furiously, locking ten genlocks in place with paralyzing spells. A group of Fereldan soldiers didn’t wait for instructions—they surged in, stabbing the immobilized bastards like they were gutting fish.

Where were the Wardens? Who the fuck knew? Maybe off chasing the Archdemon like they were supposed to. All Carver knew was that it was their job to clear the way. And he wasn’t about to let some demon-spawned monsters rip through Denerim while the rest of them cowered.

“Carver!” Ebba yelled. “Left!”

He turned just in time to block a hurlock’s blade with Vandarel, the impact nearly jarring his arm out of socket. With a grunt, he shoved it off, pivoted, and buried the blade in the creature’s neck. Blood sprayed, and the hurlock crumpled.

“You owe me a drink!” she shouted, already moving on to another enemy.

“If we live, you can have the whole damn keg!”

Then came the tremor. A deep, distant rumbling that made the broken cobblestones shift beneath their feet.

Carnuh’s voice was tight. “Ogres.”

Six of them.

They tore through the smoke, massive and unstoppable, roaring and smashing everything in their path. Two human soldiers were pulped before they could even scream. Another was thrown across the market like a rag doll.

“Fuck this,” Carver muttered.

He planted Vandarel into the ground. The spirit inside surged forward with him, magic answering without hesitation. The stones buckled, cracking outward in jagged veins of light. The ogres didn’t stop. They charged.

Then the ground opened.

A massive fissure split the earth, swallowing the beasts mid-charge. Their roars became screams as they plunged into the abyss. Carver clenched his fist, and the earth sealed shut with a thunderous boom.

Ebba blinked. “That was new.”

Carver exhaled hard. “Getting better at not blowing myself up.”

“You’re still ugly, though!” Hrogarh barked.

“And yet I’m prettier than you,” Carver shot back.

Then came the scream.

“The Alienage! They’re through the gate!”

Carver didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran, the others close behind. Peach weaved between them, already covered in gore.

The Alienage was a nightmare. A few Dalish archers were dug in on a crumbling bridge, loosing arrows as fast as they could. Elven civilians tried to help, but it was like tossing pebbles at a landslide. A wave of darkspawn surged toward them—genlocks, hurlocks, shrieks.

Carver reached the edge and bellowed, “Archers, keep shooting! Everyone else, get the fuck back!”

A few alienage elves tried to argue. He wasn’t listening. He grabbed one by the collar and shoved him behind a barricade.

Carnuh stepped forward, nodded once. They moved in unison, calling on the winds of winter.

The air turned sharp and white. Two massive blizzards swept forward from their palms, engulfing the front line of darkspawn in a storm of biting cold. The monsters froze in place, ice clinging to limbs and jaws. Carver didn’t wait.

“Go!” he shouted.

He and Hrogarh charged in, swinging. Vandarel cut through frozen flesh with sickening ease. Limbs snapped. Blood burst from cracked torsos. Hrogarh brought his axe down on a shriek, cleaving it in two.

Ebba, tossed a small, carefully timed bomb through a side alley. With a boom and a puff of green smoke, the hole in the outer wall sealed with rubble.

“Now they’ll have to go through this first,” she said.

The fighting slowed for a moment. Carver leaned against a cart, panting, throat raw.

Then something soft slammed into his chest.

He jerked—ready to strike—until he looked down.

Sena. The elf girl. The one he’d helped.

She clung to him, sobbing. “You came. You saved us.”

Behind her, two small children stared up at him with wide eyes—one boy, one girl. Her siblings.

Carver’s voice came out rough. “Go. Get inside. Barricade the door. Don’t come out unless you see my ugly face.”

Sena nodded, eyes still wet, and hurried the kids toward a small house.

Carver turned to the others. “We need to move forward. The city won’t hold if we stay in one place.”

“You trying to die first?” Ebba asked.

“No,” he growled. “I’m trying to end this.”

They pushed deeper into the city. Fires raged in every direction. Screams filled the air—human, dwarf, elven, beast. Everything stank. Blood and smoke and rot.

A pack of shrieks dove off a rooftop. Carnuh skewered one in midair. Carver sent another flying with a wave of force.

They found a wounded mage being dragged by two darkspawn. Peach launched herself at them, tearing out one’s throat. The mage flung a weak fireball, but it fizzled.

“Keep moving,” Carver barked, grabbing the mage by the robes and hauling him up. “Or die here.”

He didn’t know how long they fought. It could have been hours or minutes. But the streets grew more twisted, more broken. Fort Drakon loomed in the distance, black against the ash-choked sky.

Then they heard it.

A scream so loud it cracked windows. So deep it rattled their bones.

The Archdemon.

Carver saw it then—soaring high, its wings massive, its body armored in jagged black scales. It circled above the fort, then descended in a roar of fire and shadow.

“Shit,” Ebba breathed. “That’s their job, right?”

“Yeah,” Carver said. “Let’s make sure they have the chance to do it.”

Up. They were going up.

For something called Fort Dagon—Drakon? Carver didn’t know, didn’t care. All he knew was that the Archdemon had landed on its roof, and that was where the Wardens were headed. So, naturally, he was charging straight toward it.

The Palace District was a nightmare of stairs. Endless stairs.

"Lowlanders are insane!" Hrogarh bellowed as they climbed. "Why so many stairs? Mountains are better! More honest!"

Carver didn’t reply. He was too busy dragging his tired legs up another flight, Vandarel heavy on his back.

As they rounded the last corner, the entrance to Fort Drakon came into view—and with it, carnage. Twenty dwarves held the narrow approach, covered in blood and soot, surrounded by corpses. In the middle of them, a wounded dwarf lay on the ground, a hurlock looming over him with a raised blade.

Carver didn’t think. He flung out a hand. The hurlock flew backward, hitting a wall so hard it left a dent. Hrogarh charged forward, roaring, and cleaved its head off in one clean swing.

Ebba and Carnuh hauled the dwarf to his feet, and Carver’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

"King Bhelen?"

The dwarf coughed, spat blood, and gave a crooked grin. "In the flesh. Or what’s left of it."

"You’re lucky we came when we did," Ebba muttered.

"Seems so. You’ve got my thanks—and whatever you want."

Carver shook his head. "Just stay alive. That’ll be enough."

Bhelen clapped him on the shoulder. "Rica would kill me if I didn’t."

Carver frowned. "Wait. Rica?"

"My wife. Queen of Orzammar."

His eyes widened. "Runa’s sister?"

"The very same. That makes Runa my sister-in-law. Didn’t she tell you?"

"No. No, she bloody didn’t."

Carnuh arched a brow. "You married a casteless woman?"

Bhelen’s face hardened. "I married someone I loved. And after this war, the caste system ends. No more brands."

Carver blinked. That... was impressive. Ballsy, even.

Before he could respond, Bea and Fenya came running, out of breath.

"Brannagh!" Bea cried. "She flew onto the top of the fort!"

Carver froze.

"What?"

Fenya nodded. "She just took off."

Carver looked up. He couldn’t see the top of Fort Drakon through the smoke and fire, but he could feel something. A wrongness. A pull.

Ebba grabbed his arm. "Go. Fly. We’ll catch up. She needs you."

Carver didn’t wait. He didn’t argue.

He shifted.

Wings burst from his back in a surge of pain and light. He took to the air, leaving the shouting and the burning city behind. His friends—his pack—were somewhere below. But Brannagh... Brannagh was alone.

And no one, no one, touched her and got away with it.

Wind howled past him as he climbed higher, flames licking the edges of the tower. The Archdemon still circled above, a blot of shadow against a dying sky.

At the top of Fort Drakon, a battle was already underway.

The Wardens were there—Alistair, Runa, Loghain, and others. Brannagh knelt at the center, runes glowing around her. She was chanting something in an ancient tongue, her eyes glowing faintly gold. She wasn’t bound. She wasn’t afraid.

She was doing something.

And the Archdemon screamed.

Carver landed with a crash, sending cracked tiles flying.

Alistair looked up. "Nice of you to join us."

"Couldn’t let you hog all the glory."

Runa stepped forward, blood splattered across her armor. "She’s weakening it."

Brannagh’s voice rose in pitch. A shockwave of energy burst out from her, striking the Archdemon in mid-flight. It faltered, wings spasming.

Carver was lost for words. He had no idea what Brannagh had done, but whatever it was, it had shaken the Archdemon. It staggered in the sky, reeling like a drunkard, its wings faltering as if something ancient had reached through the Veil to slap it across the snout.

But it didn’t last.

The Archdemon roared and snapped back into itself, its yellow eyes burning with fresh fury. Before anyone could react, it lunged downward, jaws opening wide. Brannagh didn’t flinch.

The beast clamped down on her.

"NO!"

Carver screamed as the massive head lifted again, Brannagh's broken body clenched between its fangs. It tossed her like garbage. She crashed into a collapsed archway, blood spraying, limbs bent wrong.

He didn’t remember running to her. Only that suddenly, she was in his arms, her warm blood soaking into his hands. Her head lolled back, eyes fluttering, and he sobbed without shame.

"Brannagh… Brannagh, please…"

Her hand rose, trembling, and cupped his cheek. Her voice was barely a breath.

"Carver. Look at me."

He obeyed.

"It’s time, boy," she whispered. "I go to the spirits, and I go gladly. You’ll be alright. The people will be alright."

Tears blurred his vision. "Don’t say that. I need you. I don’t know what to do without you."

Her thumb brushed his cheek. "You do. You always have. But you have to promise me something."

"Anything," he said, voice cracking.

"When I’m gone, you let it out. Everything. No fear. You let it happen. If the Wardens are to win this fight, it has to happen."

"I don’t understand—"

"Promise me."

He nodded. "I promise."

She smiled.

And then she was gone.

Carver didn't move. He knelt there with her cooling body in his lap, his sobs shaking him, until the screams of the wounded brought him back. He looked up.

The Wardens were losing.

The Archdemon was fury incarnate, its wings battering the rooftop, its fire sweeping wide and hot. Warriors were dying. The line was breaking.

Vandarel whispered.

"Let it go."

Carver stood.

Something unfurled inside him. Not the familiar rush of magic. Something deeper. Older.

Power gathered around him like a storm.

His eyes turned white.

And then he changed.

Bones cracked. Flesh stretched. His scream became a roar that split the night.

They watched him become something vast, something monstrous. Horned and winged, scales like obsidian and veins of light pulsing beneath his hide.

Not his hawk.

A dragon.

Someone below shouted in horror.

"He turned into a fucking dragon!"

Carver looked down at them—tiny, fragile. And then turned his eyes to the Archdemon.

He roared.

The Archdemon turned.

Challenge accepted.

They collided.

Flame met flame, claw met claw. The tower shook with every blow.

Carver bit into the Archdemon's neck and was repaid with a blast of fire to the face. He raked its side with claws long as spears, tore through flesh, and it screamed in return, slashing its barbed tail across his wing.

Blood—black and silver—splashed across the stones.

Wardens scattered as the titans fought, unable to get close. Carver slammed the beast into the tower wall. It retaliated by driving him backward off the roof.

They plummeted, twisting, biting, rending.

Carver caught himself on a lower ledge, wings snapping out to slow his fall. The Archdemon followed, smashing into him again. Together they tore through a spire, stone exploding as they fell into a courtyard of fire and broken bodies.

Carver slammed a clawed foot down on the Archdemon’s chest. It threw him off, wings hammering at him. Fire erupted from its throat and seared across his shoulder. He roared and charged again, fangs snapping, tail whipping to shatter what was left of the wall behind them.

And then—something landed on his back.

A man.

"KEEP GOING!" the figure bellowed.

Carver fought on, not knowing who it was, only that he was bleeding badly, wings torn, vision blurring.

The Archdemon was no better.

It stumbled, one wing dragging. It screeched and tried to leap, but Carver tackled it mid-air, smashing it into a ruined gate. He pinned it with one claw, raised the other—

And the man on his back leaned in.

"Thank you," the voice said, "for protecting my daughter."

Carver blinked.

Loghain.

"Tell Anora I love her."

And then Loghain leapt.

Sword raised.

He drove it down through the Archdemon’s skull.

The world exploded.

Carver felt light, flame, and pain all at once. Power blasted out in every direction. Everything turned white.

And then darkness swallowed him whole.

Something heavy was sitting on him. Warm. Slobbering.

Carver groaned and tried to shift, but everything hurt. His eyes were glued shut, his chest felt like it had been trampled by a bronto, and there was a steady puddle of wetness collecting at his belly.

"Peach," he rasped.

The wolf let out a joyful bark and licked his face with enthusiasm, tail thumping hard against the floor. Carver cracked one eye open and saw the massive wolf's head resting on his stomach, eyes full of slobbery relief.

Then something smacked the back of his skull.

"You reckless, idiot bastard!"

He yelped. "Ow!"

Ebba, eyes red and streaming, stood over him with her fists clenched, lips trembling. Then she dropped to her knees and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

"You were dead! I thought you were dead!"

"I’m not that easy to kill," he muttered, ignoring the throb behind his eyes.

"You turned into a godsdamned dragon!" Hrogarh’s voice exploded from behind them, full of giddy disbelief. "A dragon, Carver! Black as the Void, and glowing blue all over—like your warpaint. You looked fucking terrifying!"

Carver blinked. "I don’t... remember much."

"No shit! You were about the size of a house and breathing fire like you'd swallowed a forge!" Hrogarh practically bounced with excitement.

Someone else grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down again.

"You're not sitting up yet," Carnuh said, stern and firm. His fingers glowed as he worked healing spells over Carver’s ribs and legs. "Your body’s a mess. Scorched muscle, ripped tendons, torn ligaments. You should be dead."

"But I’m not," Carver grunted.

"No, because you’re lucky and stupid."

"Did we win?" Carver asked, head swimming.

The room went quiet. Hrogarh answered, voice softer now.

"Yeah. We won. Loghain killed the Archdemon. Died doing it. Blade straight through its skull. You two finished it together."

Carver closed his eyes. Loghain. He’d climbed onto his back. Said something about his daughter. Anora. Gods, he’d actually done it.

"What about the Wardens?"

No one answered at first.

Then Carnuh sighed. "They all made it, well, beside Loghain."

Carver sat up again, ignoring Carnuh’s protests. "What happens now?"

Before anyone could reply, the door creaked open. Runa stepped in, armored but pale, with Alistair at her side. The king had a busted lip and one arm in a sling, but still managed a crooked smile.

Runa pointed at Carver. "What happens now is that you tell us how the fuck you turned into a fucking dragon."

Carver blinked at her. "I used the dragon trick."

Alistair burst out laughing.

Runa did not laugh. She glared.

Carver held up his hands. "I swear, I don’t really know how. Brannagh told me to ‘let it all out.’ Said it was the only way to win. And then... something inside me just broke free."

Runa folded her arms, frowning deeply. Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Like... spirit magic? Or ancient Chasind magic?"

Carver gave her a look. "Fuck if I know."

Runa muttered something under her breath and paced away.

He turned to Ebba, who was sitting on a crate, arms wrapped around herself.

"How many?" he asked.

She didn’t look up.

"Ebba. Please. How many Chasind?"

She exhaled through her nose. "One thousand, one hundred. Dead. Not counting the wounded."

Carver's stomach turned. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared at the blood-spattered floor.

Brannagh. Gone.

So many lives. Gone.

And for what? Victory? The Archdemon was dead, yes. But the cost...

He stood up, bare as the day he was born.

Alistair yelped and threw his hands over her face.

"Oh for—everyone in this room’s seen a dick before," he said. "Stop being prudes."

Hrogarh howled with laughter.

"Still got both balls?" he called.

"Fuck off," Carver muttered.

He found his kilt near the bed and wrapped it around his waist. Vandarel, leaned beside the cot.

"You really went full lizard, huh?" Vandarel said, his voice tinged with something like awe.

Carver ignored the staff’s commentary. He strapped the staff to his back and turned to Ebba.

"Take me to the others."

She looked up, eyes wide.

"Are you sure you’re strong enough?"

"No. But I owe them that. Every one of them."

Ebba nodded and stood.

Outside the healer’s ward, Fort Drakon was a ruin. Smoke hung low in the air. Parts of the walls were still glowing from magical fire, and every other step brought them past charred bodies, some beyond recognition.

But the Chasind were there.

A camp had been erected in the courtyard, surrounded by ash and rubble. Fires crackled in iron pits. Survivors moved like ghosts, bandaged, bloodied, their eyes heavy.

When Carver stepped into the light, a hush fell.

They looked up.

Some rose to their feet. Others stared. He saw disbelief. Anger. Grief.

He walked forward until he stood in the center of them.

He said nothing.

Then a child broke from the crowd. A little girl, no more than six. She ran straight at him and threw her arms around his legs, why was she here?.

"You came back," she said.

Carver knelt, pulled her into his arms.

Others followed. A man sobbing. A woman who slapped him and then hugged him. More and more surrounded him.

He met every one of their eyes.

"We lost so much," he said quietly. "But we survived. And we will remember every name. Every life."

Silence followed.

Then Carnuh stepped up beside him, lifting a staff. He spoke the names of the dead.

One by one.

Carver stood tall. Silent. Grieving.

When the list was finished, he took a deep breath.

"No more hiding," he said. "No more being forgotten by the rest of the world. The Chasind have bled for Ferelden. For Thedas. And they will know who we are."

The people murmured, fists clenched, heads bowed. For the first time since the fight began, Carver saw something beyond grief in their eyes.

Pride.

As the sun dipped behind the city, Carver lifted Vandarel high.

"Let the world remember this day. Let them remember the Wilds rose to fight back the dark."

They roared back.

And Carver knew.

Brannagh had been right.

Everything was going to be alright.

Chapter Text

Carver wanted to go home.

Not to the stone walls of Fort Drakon, not to the velvet halls of the palace with its endless council meetings and sneering nobles who flinched every time he opened his mouth—but to the Wilds. To the trees, the mud, the open sky. He craved the wind in his hair and the smell of damp earth, not the stench of burning bodies and noble perfumes.

He’d done what he had to do. Now he just wanted to vanish.

But the world wouldn’t let him.

He stayed out of the palace as much as possible, leaving the stiff robes and politics to Runa and Alistair. Instead, he led cleanup efforts through the city, boots caked in ash and blood, hands blistered from hauling debris. He ordered the main Chasind force—those who had survived, about 6,500—to return to the Wilds. Their job was to lead the sick, the elderly, the children—anyone who couldn’t fight—back home.

The remaining four hundred or so stayed behind with him. They helped clear streets, burn darkspawn corpses, bury the dead. The mages were a gift in that regard—flame spells made short work of the tainted flesh, purging rot before it could spread.

But what Carver couldn’t burn down, no matter how hard he tried, were the stories.

He’d overheard them whispered everywhere—from soldiers, from street urchins, even from the templars who pretended not to notice him. The rumors spread like wildfire, licking across Ferelden faster than any cleanup crew could keep up.

The Black Dragon of the Wilds, they called him.

What a load of nugshit.

He hadn’t even meant to do it. One moment he was fighting the Archdemon, the next... his body split open and something ancient had crawled out. A spirit? Magic? He didn’t know. What he did know was that now, every time someone looked at him, they saw the beast—not the man.

And worse, the damn Chantry had noticed.

It happened in the Alienage.

He and his crew—Ebba, Carnuh, Hrogarh, Peach,—had been hauling rubble from a collapsed granary when a cluster of templars marched in with swords drawn and self-righteous stink radiating off them like a bad stew.

“You are under arrest,” the lead one barked, “for apostasy and consorting with demons. Submit now, and you will be given a clean execution in the Maker’s name.”

Carver wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and stared at them. “The day I go with you willingly is the day the sun shines out of the Grand Cleric’s arse.”

Hrogarh cackled.

The templars didn’t laugh. They raised their weapons.

Before Carver could even draw Vandarel, the air was filled with shouting—and rocks. Dozens of them. The elves of the Alienage, tired, hungry, furious, took action. They pelted the templars with stones, screaming for them to leave Carver and his people alone.

It all unraveled from there.

One templar tried to slash a boy’s face. Carnuh moved fast—too fast—catching the elf just before the blade could take off his arm.

Carver didn’t wait. He struck. Hrogarh followed.

Steel clanged. Blood sprayed. When it ended, seven templars lay in pieces, their armor cracked and soaked.

Carver stood panting, drenched in gore.

“Ebba,” he said calmly, “get a bag.”

“A bag?” she asked, blinking.

“For the heads.”

She shrugged. “Alright.”

They marched straight to the Grand Cathedral, heads slung in a bloody sack, and made quite the entrance. Worshippers screamed. Templars reached for blades. Carver didn’t blink.

He strode straight to the altar and dumped the heads onto the marble.

The Grand Cleric gasped. “What is the meaning of this?!”

Carver stepped up, face smeared with ash, sweat, and blood.

“Send your templars after me again,” he said, voice low, “and I will burn every Chantry in Ferelden to the ground. You think the Maker will protect you? He didn’t protect your soldiers.”

Her lip quivered.

“And if you scurry to the Divine for help,” he added, leaning in, “tell her I’ll pay Orlais the same courtesy.”

Gasps. Prayers. A woman fainted.

Then a voice behind him cleared its throat.

“Erm, excuse me... Carver Hawke? The King and Queen would like a word.”

Carver turned around slowly.

A young scribe stood wringing his hands, his eyes darting between the head-strewn altar and the giant wolf beside Carver.

“Now?” Carver asked.

“If... if it’s not a bad time?”

Carver sighed.

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Carver hated the palace. The guards were too clean, the air too perfumed, and the nobles always looked at him like he might set the drapes on fire just by breathing near them. He followed the boy sent to fetch him through winding halls until they reached a side room draped in Fereldan banners.

Alistair and Anora sat comfortably at a small table, a bottle of red wine between them and a platter of cheeses half-eaten. They looked far too peaceful. Carver, still blood-slicked, bits of dried gore clinging to his boots, stood in the doorway until they looked up.

"Maker's breath," Alistair said, eyes wide. "Is that... is that blood?"

Carver walked in and slumped into a chair across from them. "Yes. And yes, it’s fresh."

Anora raised one graceful eyebrow but said nothing.

Alistair swallowed the chunk of cheese he’d been chewing, then set it down carefully. "Should I even ask?"

"Grand Cleric sent templars into the Alienage," Carver said flatly. "To arrest me. Called me an apostate and told me to submit to execution. So I killed them, chopped their heads off, and dropped them on her altar."

Alistair blinked slowly. "Right. Well. That's one way to send a message."

Anora didn’t flinch. She just sighed. "It was bound to happen. The Chantry has never handled fear well. And you are very frightening to them."

Carver scoffed. "Not my fault they piss themselves at anything that doesn't fit into a Chant verse."

"I’m not criticizing you," she said, folding her hands neatly. "In fact, I applaud it. The Chantry has too much power and far too little sense. But that’s not why we summoned you."

Carver leaned back in his chair. "Then get on with it."

Anora glanced at Alistair, who nodded for her to continue.

"Tomorrow is the coronation ceremony," she said. "Ferelden will honor the promise made to you and your people. The Wilds will belong to the Chasind. Legally, officially, and permanently."

Carver couldn’t stop the smile. "Good. That’s what I fought for. What I bled for."

Anora’s expression softened slightly. "And what you kept your word for."

She hesitated, then added, more quietly, "There’s a second reason we asked for you. It’s personal. I wanted to thank you... for what you did at Denerim. For helping my father kill the Archdemon."

Carver stilled.

"Did he... say anything to you? Before the end?"

He met her eyes. "He said to tell you he loved you."

Anora inhaled sharply. Her hands clenched, then relaxed again. She nodded, her eyes slightly red. Alistair placed a hand over hers. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

Carver gave them that moment.

Then Alistair straightened and looked back at him. "There’s a third matter. And it needs to stay secret. You’re the only one we trust with it."

Carver raised an eyebrow. "Now I’m curious."

Alistair hesitated, then said, "The Joining. It makes you infertile. I can't have children."

Carver blinked. "Well... shit."

He cleared his throat. "What’s that got to do with me?"

Anora took over. "We know the Chasind have ways of testing fertility. Spells. Potions. Maybe something... more? Something that could help? Ferelden needs an heir. Preferably two."

Carver reached behind him and set Vandarel beside the chair.

"Alright, old man," he said aloud. "You’ve lived for, what, eight centuries? Heard of anything like that?"

'You absolute goblin, Vandarel muttered in his mind. *Do you have to summon me like I’m your grandmother’s ghost?'

"Do you have an answer or not?"

'Of course I do. But if they want my wisdom, they can at least offer me some cheese.'

"He says he wants cheese," Carver muttered.

Alistair and Anora stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

Carver waved it off. "Ignore that. Vandarel says there’s a ritual. Needs to be done during the full moon. Both participants drink a specific tea, and a shaman paints fertility runes on them."

Anora nodded slowly. "Is it effective?"

Carver looked at Vandarel. The staff buzzed with smugness.

'Never seen it fail. If they follow the ritual properly, they’ll get a baby—or two.'

Carver relayed the message.

Alistair leaned forward. "Could you do the chanting? If we keep it secret, we can't risk bringing in someone else."

Carver scratched the back of his neck. "You want me to chant over you two while you try to make a royal heir? That’s... new. But yeah. I’ll help. The full moon is tonight, though, so we need to hurry."

He scribbled the ingredients for the tea on a nearby scroll. Anora took it without hesitation and left the room.

That left Carver and Alistair alone.

Awkward silence.

Then Alistair said, "How... how do you even have sex with a woman?"

Carver blinked at him. "You’re joking."

"I’ve never been with a women, or anyone really."

Carver snorted. "You think I’ve done any better? Zevran’s the only one I’ve been with. But if I had to guess? Be gentle. Take your time. Make sure she enjoys it. That sort of thing."

Alistair nodded, face going red. "Right. Good advice. I’ll try not to be terrible."

Carver stood, slinging Vandarel back over his shoulder. "Since I’m the one helping you with this whole moonlit fertility thing, you better name the kid after me."

Alistair grinned. "Carver, really?"

"I’m serious. If it’s a boy, Carver. If it’s a girl, Carva. Or Carvina. Whatever sounds least awful."

With that, he left the palace room behind, already thinking about what paints to prepare for the ritual.

This was not what he expected from the end of a war. But then again... nothing ever went the way he expected.

The moon had just reached its peak, hanging silver and fat above the palace, when Carver found himself seated on the floor of the royal bedchamber, surrounded by velvet and candlelight. If his mother could see him now, she’d faint. Possibly twice.

He had drawn the circle with care—ochre and ash in sweeping lines—and filled it with the symbols Vandarel had barked at him to use. Fertility signs. Chasind runes. All the old ways. In front of him, Alistair and Anora sat cross-legged in loose robes, steam rising from the special tea in their cups.

Carver exhaled slowly. "Anora, step outside for a moment."

She blinked. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said. "Just tradition."

She got up and left the room in silence.

Carver turned to Alistair. "Drink your tea. Then take off the robe, lie down in the circle."

Alistair gave him a slightly panicked look, but obeyed. He gulped the tea—wrinkled his nose—and laid down.

Carver knelt beside him and dipped his fingers into the bowl of paint. He began to draw the markings across Alistair’s chest and arms, chanting in a low, rhythmic tone. The words felt strange in his mouth—old, gravel-thick syllables—but familiar too. He could feel Vandarel watching, murmuring faint corrections when he faltered.

When the markings were complete, he pressed a hand to Alistair’s sternum. The paint shimmered faintly in the candlelight.

"Done," he murmured. "You can get up. Go tell Anora to come in."

Alistair stood, awkwardly clutching the robe around his waist, and left.

When Anora entered, her steps were measured, but Carver could see the nerves beneath them. She sat where Alistair had been, folding her hands in her lap.

She was shaking.

"Everything will be fine," he said quietly.

Anora nodded, then whispered, "Cailan never touched me. Not once. I’m a virgin. I don’t know if that will... upset him."

Carver snorted. "Alistair’s as green as you are. Don’t worry. He’s not going to judge you. He’s too busy worrying he’ll mess everything up."

She smiled a little, tension easing from her shoulders.

"Drink the tea. Then lie down."

She drank with a small grimace, and laid back into the circle.

Carver worked quickly, drawing the same symbols across her body—shoulders, belly, thighs—careful not to touch more than was necessary. As he chanted, the room seemed to shift around them, air thick with scent of smoke and herbs. When the last symbol was drawn, he stepped back.

"It’s done," he said softly. "You can sit up."

He walked to the door, cracked it open. Alistair stood outside, wringing his hands.

"Go in," Carver said. "She’s ready."

Alistair entered, nervous but smiling. Carver closed the door behind him and sat cross-legged outside. He began the final chant, a long, slow repetition that helped keep the spell intact.

He lost track of time. Could’ve been an hour. Could’ve been four. At some point, Peach waddled down the hallway and curled beside him, yawning. Hrogarh appeared not long after and offered a smug thumbs-up before passing out against the wall.

Carver kept chanting.

Then, finally, a gentle knock.

He stood, stretching out his sore legs. His knees cracked. His back popped. He gave the door a pat and wandered off toward his own room.

He didn’t make it ten steps before nearly tripping over Peach again, this time sprawled across his doorway. Hrogarh snored from the floor beside her.

"Idiots," Carver muttered fondly.

He stepped over them and into his chamber, kicked off his boots, and collapsed into the bed, face-first.

Sleep hit him like a falling tree.

Carver could barely keep his eyes open.

He stood among the gathered crowds in the great hall, surrounded by Ferelden's nobility, representatives of allies, and far too many people who smelled like they hadn’t been near sweat or a battlefield in months. The coronation was everything he expected: long, fancy, and full of overly dramatic speeches. His legs ached, his ribs were still sore.

Still, he kept himself upright. This was important. Even if he wanted to sleep standing.

He glanced sideways at Alistair and Anora as they stood before the Grand Cleric. Both were dressed in ceremonial robes, golden thread catching the sunlight pouring through the windows. Alistair looked like he hadn’t slept much either, and Carver grinned to himself. Good. Let the poor bastard know what exhaustion felt like. If Anora wasn’t pregnant after last night, Carver was going to scream.

He didn’t even hear most of what the Grand Cleric said. Something about the Maker, the Light, blessings, oaths—same old stuff. He tuned back in only when Alistair and Anora turned to face the crowd, newly crowned.

"To our allies," Anora said, voice crisp and clear, carrying across the room with regal precision. "To the brave warriors of Orzammar, the wise Dalish clans, the mages of the Circle, and above all, to the Chasind of the Wilds."

Carver straightened, blinking.

Alistair took over. "The Korcari Wilds, from the edge of the Brecilian Forest and deep into the South, shall now and forevermore belong to the Chasind. The land is theirs—independent, free."

Anora added, "And an alliance has been formed between Ferelden and the Chasind people. We shall aid one another in times of need."

The applause was instant. Cheers rose like thunder. Even some nobles who had clearly not voted in favor of this deal clapped, if only to keep up appearances.

Carver forgot his exhaustion for a moment. His chest swelled, and a strange warmth spread through him. That was it. That was the thing he’d fought for, bled for. What Vandarel had shoved him into, what Sìdheach had whispered about in dreams. It was done.

"Took us long enough," he muttered under his breath.

And then, the party began.

The feast that followed spilled through the palace like a tide of food, wine, music, and bad dancing. Carver grabbed a mug of ale from a passing servant and wandered through the crowd. He spotted Runa, standing beside Leliana, both talking quietly.

He walked over and tipped his head. "You kept your word."

Runa gave him a rare, warm smile. "And you kept yours. Without you, none of this would have happened."

He scratched at his neck, awkward. "So what now? You going to vanish into the Wilds too?"

She shook her head. "No. I’ve been named Warden-Commander. I’m to rebuild the Order at Vigil's Keep. In Amaranthine."

Carver let out a low whistle. "Good. You’re the right woman for it. If you need help, you know where to find me."

Runa reached out and clasped his forearm in the Chasind way. He returned the gesture. No more words were needed.

From there, he moved on. Teagan clapped him on the back, told him he should visit Redcliffe sometime. Wynne hugged him briefly and said something about how proud she was, though she sniffed and muttered about his continued use of spirit magic. He laughed and called her a hypocrite.

Lanaya stood beside Bhelen, of all people, the two engaged in a debate about trade rights. Carver interjected long enough to make a crude joke, and Bhelen actually laughed.

Later, he found Felsi sitting with a very drunk Oghren.

"You know," he said as he approached, "he still smells like a dead bronto."

Felsi barked a laugh. "Good. Then my message got through."

Oghren blinked at them both. "Wha...? Did someone say bronto?"

Carver patted his head like a child. "Sleep it off, warrior. You’ve earned it."

Eventually, he found himself standing beside Alistair again. The king looked happy, if a little frayed around the edges.

"We leave in the morning," Carver said.

Alistair nodded. "I figured. Still, going to feel strange."

"You can always send a letter," Carver offered.

"Letters are boring."

"Then send Teagan. Or better yet, send Sena from the Alienage."

Alistair laughed. "I think Eamon would have a heart attack."

"Good," Carver grinned. "He deserves it."

They stood in companionable silence for a moment longer before Carver clapped him on the back. Then he scanned the room.

There. Zevran, chatting with some noble who was trying a little too hard to look interested.

Carver didn’t hesitate. He strode across the hall, reached out, and without a word, scooped Zevran over his shoulder.

"Oh! Carver! Are we doing this here? In public?" Zevran laughed, wriggling playfully.

"I’m tired, and I’m horny," Carver growled, slapping the elf’s ass as nobles stared in open-mouthed shock. "I want our last night to last. You ready?"

"Maker, yes," Zevran purred. "Take me away, mighty dragon."

Carver marched out of the hall, Zevran slung over his shoulder, both of them laughing like idiots.

Tonight, Carver wasn’t going to hold back. He wanted this to be raw, brutal—a release.

His hands gripped Zevran’s slender waist, lifting the elf effortlessly and throwing him onto the bed. The movement was sudden, forceful, and Zevran let out a startled gasp as his back hit the mattress. Carver loomed over him, his shadow casting a dark silhouette on the wall.

“Carver—” Zevran began, but his words were cut off as Carver’s hands tore at his clothes. The elf’s tunic was ripped open, buttons scattering across the floor, and his trousers followed suit. Carver wasn’t gentle, and he didn’t want to be. Tonight was about dominance, about claiming what he desired without hesitation.

Zevran’s breath quickened as he lay bare before Carver, his body exposed and vulnerable. But there was no fear in his eyes, only a hungry anticipation that mirrored Carver’s own desire. “You’re a beast,” he murmured, his voice breathless.

“And you love it,” Carver growled, his fingers tightening around a length of string he’d pulled from his pocket. He didn’t bother asking for permission—he knew Zevran craved this, the roughness, the surrender. With swift, practiced movements, he bound the elf’s wrists together, the string digging into Zevran’s skin just enough to make him squirm.

“Turn over,” Carver commanded, his voice low and commanding.

Zevran obeyed without hesitation, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his forehead into the pillow. His bound wrists were pressed against the small of his back, leaving him completely at Carver’s mercy. His gaze trailed down the elf’s body, taking in the curve of his spine, the swell of his ass, the way his muscles tensed in anticipation.

Carver’s breath hitched as he leaned down, his lips brushing against Zevran’s shoulder blade before trailing lower. He paused at the elf’s ass, his hands gripping the firm cheeks and spreading them apart. Zevran let out a soft whine, his body arching slightly as Carver’s mouth descended, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” Zevran hissed, his voice muffled by the pillow. “You’re going to leave marks.”

“Good,” Carver muttered, his lips curving into a smirk as he pressed a gentle bite to the elf’s left cheek. Zevran’s skin was warm and soft, and Carver reveled in the way the elf’s body reacted to his touch. He released the cheek with a soft pop, his tongue tracing the mark he’d left behind.

Zevran’s breath came in short gasps as Carver’s mouth moved lower, his tongue dipping between the elf’s cheeks. His hands held Zevran open, exposing him completely, and the elf let out a sharp cry as Carver’s tongue pressed against his entrance.

“Fuck,—what are you doing to me?” Zevran moaned, his voice trembling with need.

“What do you think?” Carver murmured against Zevran’s skin, his words vibrating through the elf’s body. He lapped at the tight hole, his tongue teasing and probing, before slipping a finger inside. Zevran’s muscles clenched around him, and Carver smirked, adding a second finger, stretching the elf open.

Zevran’s cries grew louder, his body twisting against the bed as Carver’s fingers thrust in and out, relentless and demanding. His other hand gripped Zevran’s hip, holding him steady as he sought out the elf’s prostate. When he found it, he pressed firmly, and Zevran’s body shook with a sharp, uncontrollable moan.

“Carver—I’m—” Zevran’s words were cut off by a strangled cry as his body trembled with release. His cum spilled onto the bed, hot and sticky, but Carver didn’t stop. He kept his fingers buried deep, his thumb pressing against the elf’s prostate, milking every last drop of pleasure from him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” Carver growled, his voice thick with desire. He pulled his fingers free, slick with Zevran’s release, and the elf whimpered at the loss.

Without warning, Carver gripped Zevran’s hips, lifting them and positioning himself behind the elf. His cock, thick and hard, pressed against Zevran’s entrance, and the elf let out a breathy laugh.

“No lube?” Zevran teased, his voice shaky.

“You’re wet enough,” Carver replied, his tone dismissive as he thrust forward, burying himself inside the elf in one brutal motion.

Zevran’s cry was sharp, his body arching as Carver filled him completely. His grip on Zevran’s hips was tight, his fingers digging into the elf’s skin as he began to move. His thrusts were hard and relentless, his cock sliding in and out of Zevran’s tight hole with a wet, obscene sound.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Carver groaned, his breath hot against Zevran’s ear. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the elf’s neck as his hand reached around to grip Zevran’s hair, tugging sharply. Zevran’s head tilted back, exposing his throat, and Carver’s other hand wrapped around it, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin.

“Carver—I can’t—” Zevran gasped, his voice strained as Carver’s thrusts became more frantic. The human’s body was a powerhouse, his muscles straining as he pounded into the elf, his cock hitting Zevran’s prostate with every stroke.

“You take it so well,” Carver growled, his voice laced with admiration. He released Zevran’s throat, his hand moving to the elf’s ass, slapping the cheek hard enough to leave a stinging mark. Zevran cried out, his body jolting with each slap, his moans echoing through the room.

The night wore on, and Carver lost track of time, his focus solely on the elf beneath him. He fucked Zevran with a ferocity that left them both breathless, their bodies slick with sweat and cum. Carver’s thrusts never slowed, his cock relentless as he sought to wring every last drop of pleasure from the elf.

“Carver—I can’t take much more—” Zevran whimpered, his voice weak as his body trembled with overexertion.

“You’ll take it all,” Carver promised, his voice dark and possessive. He leaned down, his lips brushing against Zevran’s ear as he whispered, “You’re mine tonight. All mine.”

Zevran’s breath hitched, his body surrendering completely as Carver’s thrusts became more brutal. His cock slammed into the elf’s prostate, and Zevran’s cries filled the room, his body shaking with another orgasm. Carver followed soon after, his release explosive as he emptied himself into Zevran, his seed spilling deep inside the elf.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Carver cracked open one eye, groaning at the soreness in his limbs. Every muscle ached. His back, his thighs, his arms—hell, even his damn toes. Next to him, Zevran lay sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging off the edge of the mattress, snoring softly. His skin was littered with bite marks and hickeys, and his ass—spirits forgive him—looked like it had lost a brawl with a very enthusiastic bear.

Carver rolled out of bed with a grunt and shuffled toward the wash basin. The water was cold. Good. It woke him up fast. He scrubbed the smell of sweat and sex off his skin, dried himself with a nearby towel, and began dressing piece by piece, quietly so as not to wake Zevran.

He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, looking at the sleeping elf. Damn, he looked peaceful. Carver didn’t want to wake him. He reached for the small piece of parchment on the desk and scrawled a quick note:

Zev,

Thanks for the wild nights and the bruises. I’ve got a people to lead, and the Wilds won’t wait forever. If you’re ever near our lands, show this to the nearest Chasind. We’ll meet again. And we’ll fuck again. Promise.

- Carver.

He placed a Chasind medallion beside the note, ran his fingers through Zevran's hair once, then stood and walked out the door.

Downstairs, outside the palace gates, Ebba, Carnuh, Peach, and Hrogarh were already waiting. Their packs were full, weapons secured, and faces grim with purpose.

"Well, well," Ebba said with a wicked grin, "look who finally dragged himself out of bed. That elf wear you out, Chief?"

Carver grunted. "You're just jealous."

Hrogarh snorted. "I’d be more concerned about what you saw me doing last night."

Carver mock-shuddered. "Don’t remind me. That poor Dalish rogue…"

They laughed, loud and unfiltered, and for a moment, it felt like things were normal again.

They walked toward the outer gates of Denerim where the remaining Chasind—roughly four hundred strong—had assembled. Most had packs slung over shoulders, others pushed carts full of salvaged supplies. When Carver stepped up on a stone wall to speak, all heads turned.

"We’re going home!" he bellowed.

A wild cheer erupted. Drums pounded. People stomped and howled and grinned with teeth bared.

As they began moving, Carver fell into step with his usual group. He let his shoulders relax. The city was behind him. The Wilds called.

Peace, he thought.

"Peace?" Vandarel’s voice rasped in his skull. Keep dreaming, boy.

Carver rolled his eyes. "Can you just let me have one moment?"

No.

They argued for a bit, Vandarel sniping and Carver growling under his breath, until he noticed something strange among the travelers. A group of people in circle mage robes.

Frowning, he slowed his steps and fell in beside Carnuh. "Why are there Circle mages with us?"

Carnuh shifted uncomfortably. "They wanted out. Said they were done living under Templar eyes. I promised them freedom."

Carver stared at him.

"Twelve of them," Carnuh added sheepishly. "Give or take."

"Of fucking course," Carver groaned.

He rubbed his temples. Templars would come sniffing around soon enough. But what could he do? Turn them away? Not happening.

He sighed and raised his voice again. "Move your asses! We're not waiting for Denerim to change its mind."

The column of Chasind and stragglers surged forward, a river of people flowing south.

As the city faded behind them, Carver let out a long breath. Vandarel was still chuckling in his head, Ebba was singing something bawdy about a sailor and a bear, and Hrogarh was already trying to arm wrestle someone while walking.

Carver pulled his cloak tighter, glanced up at the grey sky, and whispered to himself:

"Time to go home."

Chapter Text

The village looked the same. Same huts, same smoke curling into the sky, same worn paths winding between tents and longhouses. But it wasn't the same. Not really.

People moved about with the usual rhythm of daily life: grinding roots, tending fires, sharpening blades, washing linens by the riverbank. But grief lingered like a film over everything. Every face told a story, every glance carried weight. The battle had taken its toll.

So many were gone. Some lost in the first charge, others in the second wave. Carver saw the gaps clearly now—a missing laugh, an absent voice, the empty tent where someone used to sleep. He'd thought victory would feel different. It didn't.

The first thing he had to handle was the children. The orphans.

There were only four, which, all things considered, was merciful. Still, four was four too many. Carver made it a priority to find out who their kin were—if they had anyone left at all. One boy, Harl, had an aunt on his mother’s side. A stern woman with a sharp voice and hands calloused from years of scraping bark for salves. Carver met with her personally.

"He your sister's boy?" he asked.

She nodded. "Aye."

"You want to take him in?"

She looked him in the eye. "I’ll keep him safe. Feed him, teach him to fish."

Carver studied her. Saw no cruelty there. Just the tired strength of someone who’d buried more than one person. He nodded. "Good."

But not every child had someone.

One little girl, barely five, had no one left. Carver held her hand while she cried. He sat with her until she calmed. Then he asked for volunteers.

A young hunter and his partner came forward—two men. They wanted to give her a home filled with loce. Carver made sure they were well-fed, stable, that they weren’t trying to fill a hole with something they couldn’t handle.

Then he passed the word to the other tribes: No child goes unloved. No child is mistreated. If I hear otherwise—if I see bruises, if I smell fear—there will be no trial. Only a grave.

He meant it. And they knew it.

Next was Brannagh.

Or rather—the lack of her.

Carver walked to the old shaman's hut and stood outside it for a long time. It smelled of herbs and ash and bitter root, same as always. But it was empty. No soft humming, no rattle of bones, no cackling insults hurled at Vandarel. Just silence.

"You were a pain in my ass," Carver murmured, kneeling to touch the ground outside the doorway. "But I’d give anything to hear you insult my posture one more time."

Vandarel said nothing.

The Nine would choose her successor. That wasn't his place. But he knew no one could replace her. Not really.

He stood, brushed his hand off on his leg, and walked away.

And then—the mages.

The twelve Circle runaways kept mostly to themselves. Carver didn’t blame them. They were afraid, looking over their shoulders, speaking in hushed tones like the Templars were about to burst from the trees.

They weren’t wrong.

His father had told him once—Templars took a sample of every mage's blood. Stored it. Used it for some ritual that let them track any of them.

"Blood magic," Carver muttered under his breath, pacing the edges of the camp. "They say it’s evil, then turn around and do it themselves."

The phylacteries. That was what they were called.

Twelve of them. Sitting in the Tower of Magi. Just waiting for some knight to use them like hounds on a scent trail.

Carver spat on the ground. He could feel the noose tightening already. The Chantry had no love for the Chasind. And even less for him. It was only a matter of time.

So he made a decision.

"Carnuh," he said the next morning, pulling the other man aside.

"Yeah, Chief?"

"You brought them here. You and a few skilled shapeshifters are going back."

Carnuh blinked. "Back? To Denerim?"

"No. The Circle Tower. You’re going to destroy the phylacteries. All of them. Not just the twelve that belong to our people. All of them."

Carnuh stared, wide-eyed. "You serious?"

"Deadly."

He hesitated. "Won’t that make them hunt us harder?"

Carver grinned, teeth sharp. "They already hate us. At least this way, we hit them first. It’s the biggest fuck-you we can give them. Let every mage in Fereldern know they’ve got a shot at freedom."

Vandarel laughed in his mind, low and gleeful. Now you’re thinking like a Chasind.

"Go," Carver said. "Choose your people carefully. Fly as crows or owls or whatever suits you best. And burn it all. Don’t leave a single drop of blood behind."

Carnuh nodded, eyes hard. "I won’t fail."

"You better not."

The days blurred. Time passed—no, flew. The village settled into a rhythm again, even with the occasional darkspawn still lurking near the edges of the Wilds. Hunters brought back fresh meat, warriors repaired what had been damaged, and fires burned bright at night while songs drifted up into the stars.

Carnuh and his team had returned triumphant. Every phylactery in Ferelden—destroyed. Carver had laughed for a full minute when he’d read Alistair’s letter, asking politely (and somewhat suspiciously) if he “knew anything” about the mysterious fire in the Circle Tower.

He wrote back:

‘Absolutely no clue at all. Strange how these things happen, isn’t it?’

Vandarel had cackled inside his head for hours after that.

They even had a new shaman now—Brannagh’s nephew, of all people.

When Carver met him, he’d muttered, “If you’re her nephew, how old does that make you?”

The old man thwacked him on the shoulder with a gnarled staff. “Old enough to beat sense into mouthy war chiefs.”

Carver winced, rubbing his arm. “Well. That’s settled.”

The resemblance was uncanny—the same piercing gaze, the same sudden bark of laughter, and unfortunately, the same swing. Vandarel called him “Brannagh-lite” until he earned a name of his own: Crowbane, after he’d chased a murder of scavenging birds out of the ceremonial grove with a spell so loud it made the warriors duck.

Carver’s quarterly tribal gatherings helped keep the peace. Sometimes the different clans argued—over hunting grounds, trading routes, a shared lover here and there—but the meetings gave them a place to air grievances before things got bloody.

All in all, things were... steady. Not perfect. But better.

Until the Avvar came.

Carver stood at the edge of the village, arms folded across his chest, as the delegation approached. Ten of them, maybe twelve, all scarred and broad-shouldered, and at their head—Morvran the Under.

The man was a wall of meat and fur, standing nearly eight and a half feet tall. His beard was braided with bone rings, and his arms were tattooed with snarling wolves.

Carver narrowed his eyes. “Well. He looks like a friendly neighbor.”

Hrogarh, standing beside him, cracked his knuckles. “I’m gonna enjoy this.”

Morvran raised his hand in greeting—or maybe in challenge. “Chasind! This land does not belong to you.”

Carver blinked. “I’m sorry, who the fuck are you again?”

“I am Morvran the Under, son of Torgahn the Hung, and rightful war-chief of these hills. You squat on Avvar land. Surrender it, or submit to our rule.”

Carver and Hrogarh both burst into laughter.

Carver finally managed, “You want me to give you our land?”

“Yes,” Morvran growled. “Or prove your right to it. Challenge me. One-on-one.”

Hrogarh leaned in. “You know you have to do it. Can’t let this guy strut in and bark orders.”

Carver sighed. “Of course I fucking do.”

Morvran stripped off his furs and cracked his neck. “We wrestle. As warriors. In the mud.”

“Fine,” Carver said, tugging off his shirt. “But I hope you’re ready to eat dirt.”

The entire village gathered. Bets were placed. Rorik, the cheerful Cadash carta leader who’d somehow become a Chasind trader, was taking them gleefully.

The pit was dug quickly—wet soil turned to sludge, and the two war-chiefs squared off, barefoot and bare-chested.

Morvran charged first.

Carver ducked low, grabbed a fistful of slippery earth, and shoved it straight into the Avvar’s eyes. The crowd gasped. The Avvar roared.

Then it was all movement: limbs locking, muscles straining, shouts echoing across the field.

Morvran was massive, but Carver wasn’t the boy he’d once been. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair tied back in a bun, and he now stood a towering seven feet tall himself. Hardened from battle, his body rippled with strength. He used leverage, used anger, used Brannagh’s training.

He caught Morvran’s left leg mid-kick, twisted sharply—pop—and brought an elbow down onto the man’s jaw.

The Avvar crumpled into the mud.

Silence.

Then an explosion of cheers.

Carver stood, panting, chest heaving. His ribs ached. His arm throbbed. But he lifted both hands anyway.

Rorik shouted, “I told you he’d break something! Pay up, bastards!”

Carver walked over to Morvran’s men. “Take him. Get out. This is our land. You step foot here again, I won’t wrestle. I’ll cut throats.”

They hesitated—but then they lifted their leader and slunk away.

Hrogarh clapped him on the back. “Nice work. Mud looked good on you.”

“Shut up.”

He limped back to the healer’s tent with a grin on his face.

Vandarel muttered in his mind, Well, I suppose there’s worse ways to win a war than by snapping a man’s kneecap.

“Felt good,” Carver murmured. “Really good.”

And just like that, another threat gone. Another fire put out.

Life in the Wilds resumed, the drums of the tribes echoing into the night.

When winter ended, so did the quiet lull that had blanketed the Wilds like a thick fur. The snows melted, the rivers swelled, and life returned with a hiss and a snap. Carver sat hunched in his longhouse—well, technically a longhouse. He still called it a hut, despite the fact that the Chasind had built him something fit for a damned thane. He hadn’t asked for it. Had grumbled endlessly. But they insisted. “Our chief must have a proper place,” they’d said, “to sleep and receive guests.”

Peach lay beside him, the massive wolf snoring like a bear, twitching in some happy dream. And as for guests, well—Ebba, Carnuh, and Hrogarh had all moved in months ago, without bothering to ask.

Carver hadn’t minded. He hated being alone. Always had.

If he was honest, those three—and Peach and Vandarel, of course—were his heart’s circle. His family.

But that morning, Carver felt heavy. Gloomy. His eyes ached, dark circles etched beneath them. Another dream. Another night of voices, of shadows, of his family calling to him across the Fade. He’d woken in a sweat, the weight of everything he hadn’t done pressing on his chest.

He hadn’t seen them in almost two years. Gareth. Bethany. His mother. Safe in Kirkwall, he hoped, but always far. Always just out of reach.

He’d thought of visiting. So many times. But something always got in the way.

This time, that something was Rorik.

The dwarf and his nephews had gone trading before winter, promising to return by Wintersend. It was now spring. No sign of them. No word.

And Carver liked Rorik. Mika, Rorik’s daughter, was his favorite kid in the clan. She perched on his shoulders like a hawk, braiding his hair, babbling about frogs and fireflies.

She reminded him of Beth when she was little.

“Oi,” Ebba said, nudging him with her elbow. “You look like a wet dog. Let’s go talk to Hird.”

Carver groaned. “No. Nope. Not alone.”

“Afraid of an old lady?”

“She’s not a lady. She’s a fucking hurricane in dwarf form.”

Carnuh and Hrogarh were already gearing up. Hrogarh smirked. “You are tense lately. Maybe you just need to get laid. There’s more than a few lads in the village who would love to ride the staff of the Chief.”

Carver snorted. “I don’t shit where I eat. That only ends in trouble.”

Still grumbling, he pulled on his boots, adjusted Vandarel on his back, and headed for the dwarven longhouse.

Hird Cadash, matriarch of the trading/Carta clan, was already mid-rant when they entered. Poor Elma—Rorik’s wife—sat there wringing her hands while Hird paced and bellowed.

“Useless daughter-in-law! Spineless son! Wild granddaughter—she’s half bear, I swear to the Stone—and now we’re stuck in the damned trees like squirrels!”

Carver cleared his throat.

Hird spun. “What?”

He raised a hand. “We’re here to help, not to take another verbal beating. Hird, Elma—do you know anything about where Rorik might’ve gone?”

Elma looked up, wide-eyed. “He was going to Tantervale. Through Kirkwall. Said he had a meet with a dwarf named Javaris Tintop.”

Carver blinked. “That’s… a name.”

He was about to ask more when Torn, a young scout, burst into the room.

“Chief! Lowlanders! At the edge of the camp!”

Carver groaned. “Now what?”

But when he stepped outside, he froze. His expression lit up.

“Teagan! Sena!”

He rushed forward, clasping Teagan’s shoulder and planting a kiss on Sena’s cheek.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Teagan grinned. “Bringing tidings from the King and Queen. You’re invited to the capital, to celebrate the birth of Crown Prince Duncan Therin and Princess Carmen Therin.”

Carver’s jaw dropped. His heart skipped.

It worked. It fucking worked.

Aloud, he grinned. “Alistair kept his promise!”

Teagan blinked. “What promise?”

“He swore to name his kid after me. Carmen.”

Teagan nodded. “They kept it secret for months. Assassins, politics, you know how it is.”

Carver’s grin faded into thought. Rorik. Javaris. Kirkwall.

He made his decision quickly.

“I’ll come. But I won’t stay long. I’ve got unfinished business in Kirkwall.”

He rushed back to Elma, crouched, took her hands.

“I’ll go. I’ll find out what happened to him. I promise.”

The woman hugged him tightly, her shoulders shaking.

“Thank you, Carver.”

He patted her back and stood. As he exited the longhouse, he bellowed, “Bea! While I’m gone, you’re in charge. Don’t burn the place down.”

Then to his companions: “Ebba, Carnuh, Hrogarh—pack your shit. We’re going to Denerim. Then Kirkwall.”

Hrogarh whooped. “Road trip!”

Carnuh sighed. “Again?”

Ebba grinned. “About time.”

Carver adjusted Vandarel on his back.

“Let’s move. We’ve got dwarves to find, royals to congratulate.”

Peach barked once and ran ahead, tail wagging.

Vandarel murmured in his mind, And here I thought we might enjoy a season of rest.

Carver smirked. “That’s what dreams are for.”

You’re a menace.

“I learned from the best.”

The road to Denerim was muddy and cold, but the company made it bearable. Teagan was better company than most nobility Carver had met, and Sena? Well, she was his favorite elf—besides Zevran, of course.

They rode side by side, the wet road splashing up against their boots and horses. Clouds hung low, threatening more rain, but Carver found himself smiling as they passed the outskirts of another half-sunken village. The air was crisp, and for once, his thoughts didn’t feel so heavy.

“So,” he said, nudging Sena’s shoulder with a grin, “what in the world are you doing out here? Didn’t expect to see you riding in with a nobleman.”

Sena beamed, her cheeks pink from the wind. “Oh! The Queen hired me. Can you believe that? I’m her personal messenger now. Her actual, real royal runner. I get a seal and everything.”

Carver chuckled. “No way. That’s amazing.”

“And my siblings are doing well, too,” she continued proudly. “My brother’s apprenticing with a merchant in the Market District. Real numbers guy. And my sister—she’s with a seamstress near the palace. Says she wants to design dresses for nobility.”

“That’s… damn good to hear, actually.” Carver meant it. “Glad you all got out. I worried about you after the Blight.”

Sena reached over and squeezed his arm briefly. “We made it. Thanks to people like you.”

Carver didn’t say anything to that. Just smiled and looked ahead.

After a few moments, he turned to Teagan, who was riding just ahead, straight-backed and wrapped in a deep blue cloak. “And what about you, Teagan? Still taking care of what your brother should be doing?”

Teagan glanced back, an amused look in his eyes. “More or less. Officially, I’m the Arl now.”

Carver blinked. “Wait. What?”

“Eamon’s son, Connor, is in the Circle of Magi now. With no other heirs, the arldom passed to me.”

Carver tilted his head. “Huh. Well, good for you. I always thought you had more sense than Eamon.”

Teagan’s face darkened slightly.

“What happened to him, anyway?” Carver asked, sensing a story.

Teagan sighed. “He and Isolde were banished. Alistair’s doing.”

Carver frowned. “Banished? What the fuck for?”

“He questioned the twins. Said Carmen’s dark hair wasn’t natural. Started asking questions in court about their father.” Teagan shook his head. “It was nonsense. Carmen has Alistair’s eyes—light brown, just like his. Duncan’s got Alistair’s blond hair and Anora’s blue eyes. Besides, Loghain had black hair, and they’re twins. People forget how genetics work.”

Carver gave a low whistle. “And Alistair didn’t take it well?”

“No. He snapped. Stripped Eamon of the title, sent him and Isolde to Rainsfere—my old estate. Said they were to live out their days there in peace, but away from court.”

“Shit,” Carver muttered. “That’s… harsh. But I guess I get it. If someone started claiming Peach wasn’t my wolf, I’d be pissed too.”

Teagan let out a quiet laugh. “It’s not the same, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, Teagan dropped another bomb. “Also, I married.”

Carver’s head whipped around. “You what?”

Teagan chuckled. “Yes. Her name’s Kathelynn. She’s from the village. Strong, clever, doesn’t put up with my posturing.”

“That’s incredible,” Carver said, grinning wide. “Congrats, Teagan. Truly. And here I thought you’d die alone in a castle with only your wine and memories.”

“There’s still wine,” Teagan said dryly. “And I took her brother on as my squire. Gavin. He’s young, but he’s got heart. Wants to be a knight.”

Carver’s smile turned fond. “I like that. Sounds like you’re building something real.”

They rode in silence for a while, the mud sucking at the hooves of their horses, the wind tugging at cloaks and hoods. But the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence Carver appreciated—shared, steady, filled with understanding.

After a time, Sena asked, “Will you be staying in Denerim long?”

Carver shrugged. “A few days, maybe. Long enough to pay my respects to the royal nappies, maybe drink something expensive and regret it.”

Teagan raised an eyebrow.

The rest of the day passed quietly, the road winding through villages still recovering from the long winter. Farmers waved as they passed, and once or twice they stopped at a roadside inn for hot cider and fresh bread. At night, they camped under the stars—well, Carver insisted on it, despite Teagan’s protest that they could afford proper rooms.

“I don’t sleep well under roofs anymore,” Carver explained. “Give me dirt and firelight over stone and straw.”

They reached the gates of Denerim two days later. The guards recognized Teagan and let them pass without fuss. The streets were busy with preparations—banners strung from windows, musicians practicing in corners, bakers and brewers hauling barrels and trays.

“Smells like celebration,” Carnuh muttered.

Carver dismounted slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s find the palace, say hello, and get this over with before someone decides I need to wear something uncomfortable.”

Sena flashed her royal seal. Within minutes, they were ushered inside. Carver couldn’t help but grin at the opulence, even if it made him itch.

But when he saw Alistair again, standing at the top of the stairs, twin infants in his arms, the grin turned into something softer.

“Fuck,” Carver whispered. “He really did it.”

Anora appeared behind Alistair, regal and glowing.

Carver stepped forward, bowed just enough to be polite, then straightened. “Carmen and Duncan, huh?”

Alistair beamed. “Told you I’d name one after you.”

Carver blinked. “Wait—you took me serious?”

“I did.”

He held out Carmen, who had a tiny fist stuffed in her mouth and a head full of dark curls.

Carver took her gently, staring at her wide brown eyes. “She’s gonna be a menace.”

Anora smirked. “She already is.”

Carver looked between them, then at the babies. “You did good. Both of you.”

Alistair grinned. “And you. Heard you took down a Avvar chief.”

Carver shrugged. “Yeah, fuck that asshole. Trying to take my land.”

He passed Carmen back, gave Duncan a little pat on the head.

From his pocket drew a small bundle from his belt pouch—wrapped in plain brown cloth, tied with a bit of braided leather.

“For the twins,” Carver said, offering the bundle to Anora with both hands.

Alistair leaned in curiously, but it was Anora who untied it, revealing two gleaming silver pendants—one shaped like a sun, the other a crescent moon. Both were carved with tiny, swirling runes that shimmered faintly under the chandelier light.

“From the Chasind,” Carver explained. “They’re blessed. The sun wards off poisons and sickness. The moon keeps magic from touching them, or at least... most magic.”

Anora stared at the necklaces in stunned silence. She reached out, touched the sun-shaped one with the tips of her fingers like it might vanish if she blinked too fast.

“Carver…” she said softly, voice catching.

Alistair looked down at them, then at Carver, then at Anora—and pulled them both into a firm, clumsy hug.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Alistair murmured into Carver’s shoulder.

Carver gave a small shrug. “You’re family. In a weird, roundabout, bligth-adjacent way.”

That made Alistair snort. Anora didn’t laugh. She held him a moment longer, then stepped back, eyes bright.

“If something were to happen,” she said quietly, her voice pitched for Carver’s ears alone, “if the capital ever became unsafe for them… could we send them to you? Would you protect them?”

Carver didn’t even hesitate. “Of course. Always. You don’t even have to ask.”

Her relief was palpable. But now Carver’s expression sharpened. “Is there something I should know?”

Alistair sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “There’s always something, isn’t there? Mostly Orlais. They smile, they bow, they send gifts—and then they sharpen their knives when you turn around.”

“Fucking Orlais,” Carver muttered.

Alistair nodded grimly. “They’ve been sniffing around again. Rumors about the children. Claims that twins are unnatural. Some claim Cailen had a hidden heir. Some just want to stir the pot.”

Carver folded his arms. “If they come near those kids, I’ll gut them.”

Anora gave him a sharp, grateful look. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

There was a pause, then Alistair grinned. “Alright. Now we owe you. What do you want? We can’t give you a title, I don’t think you’d like it—”

Carver held up a hand. “Just a ship. With a crew. I need to get to Kirkwall.”

Alistair blinked. “A ship?”

“Leaving tomorrow.”

Anora arched a brow. “You move quickly.”

Carver offered a crooked smile. “Shit doesn’t wait. Neither do I.”

Alistair put a hand on his shoulder. “Done. It’ll be ready by noon.”

Carver nodded, then hesitated. “One more thing. Runa. Is she here?”

Alistair’s smile faltered. “No. She’s… gone.”

“Gone?”

“She left. Gave command to Nathaniel Howe. Left behind a note, short and vague as hell. Something about needing to end the Blight once and for all.”

“After the attack on Vigil’s Keep and Amaranthine,” Anora added. “Talking darkspawn. Not your usual horde.”

Carver frowned. “You’re telling me she just vanished?”

Alistair gave a tired nod. “Yeah. She’s always been like that. Does what needs doing. Doesn’t explain it.”

Carver looked away, chewing on that. Then: “Do you know where the others are?”

Alistair started ticking names off with his fingers. “Wynne and Shale went to Tevinter. Trying to reverse the golem process.”

“Huh.”

“Leliana works for the Divine now.”

Carver wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

“Sten went back to Par Vollen. Leading something, I think. A war band?”

“Figures.”

“Oghren joined the Wardens. Maker knows how he survived the Joining.”

Carver smirked. “By drinking the taint under the table.”

“And Zevran’s in Antiva. Killing Crows. Trying to take over, from what I hear.”

“Of course he is.”

They parted not long after, Carver clapping Alistair on the back and bowing to Anora, though she pulled him into a second hug that startled him more than it should have.

He left them, heart lighter, and wandered back into the banquet hall.

The party was no longer gentle or noble.

Hrogarh and Ebba were on a table, shirtless and stomping to a drunken rendition of a Chasind battle song. Peach was curled under the table with her head on a sleeping noble’s lap, occasionally snorting at the music. Someone had turned a candelabrum into a drinking challenge.

Carver laughed, grabbed a tankard, and joined Hrogarh for three rounds of something that tasted like pine resin and regret.

The more he drank, the warmer the hall felt. Someone pressed food into his hand—bread, cheese, roasted venison—and he ate it without thought.

Then he noticed the guard.

Tall. Dark hair cropped close to the scalp. Lean muscle under a fitted tabard. Green eyes. Kept sneaking glances at him between rounds of drink refills.

Carver tilted his head. Waited. The glances didn’t stop.

After maybe half an hour, Carver stood and crossed the room. Ebba shouted after him, laughing about him finally “catching the scent.”

He stopped in front of the guard and said, “You’ve been looking at me all night. Like you lost a bet and I’m the prize.”

The man flushed. “I—sorry, ser, I didn’t mean—”

Carver cut him off. “Im no fucking Ser. You want me to fuck you?”

The guard’s eyes widened.

Carver leaned in. “You want it, ask. That’s all.”

“Yes,” the man said, breathless. “Yes, ser.”

Carver grinned. “Good. Come on.”

He grabbed the man by the collar and led him out of the hall, ignoring the hoots and catcalls from his crew.

They didn’t even bother with stairs. First door they found, Carver shoved open. The room was half-lit by firelight, soft and quiet.

“Strip,” Carver ordered, kicking the door shut behind them.

The guard obeyed.

Carver didn’t waste time. Didn’t play sweet. He gave the man exactly what he wanted—rough, breathless, pulled between kisses and growls. Took him hard, then harder, until he cried out against the bedposts and Carver's name was the only sound in the room.

He didn’t stop until the man collapsed, sweat-slick and panting, thighs trembling, mouth parted and dazed.

Carver leaned over him, bit the guard’s neck lightly, then rolled away. The firelight painted his skin in amber as he pulled his kilt back on.

“You’re welcome,” he said over his shoulder.

The guard groaned in reply.

Carver stepped back into the hallway. His hair was a mess. He didn’t care.

Back in the hall, the music was still going. Hrogarh had stolen a crown made of pastries. Ebba was challenging a Fereldan knight to a bare-knuckle fight.

Carver poured himself one last drink, sat down beside Peach, and scratched behind her ears.

Chapter Text

Carver threw up over the side of the ship again, gripping the slick railing with both hands as his stomach twisted like a knife in his gut.

“This is hell,” he groaned, forehead pressed to his arm. “I’m in hell.”

“Come on,” Hrogarh called from behind him. “You survived darkspawn, demons, and a pissed-off Avvar chieftain. And a little rocking boat’s what does you in?”

Carver heaved again in answer.

Ebba laughed so hard she nearly dropped her apple. “I’ve seen mabari with more sea legs than you.”

Carver staggered back from the railing, green in the face. “I hate all of you.”

“You can’t hate me,” Carnuh said cheerfully, “I made you tea.”

He handed Carver a steaming tin mug. It smelled like herbs and death. Carver sniffed it suspiciously, then took a sip—and immediately spat it overboard.

“That tastes like wet moss and regret.”

Carnuh grinned. “It’s fermented wildroot. Clears the stomach.”

“Too late for that,” Carver muttered, setting the mug down and slumping onto a crate.

The boat creaked and tilted again, sending a rush of nausea through him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “If I die here, I want it known that I went down cursing every one of you.”

Ebba patted his shoulder. “Noted.”

By the second day, the winds shifted. The sky darkened. Sailors moved faster, voices sharper. A storm gathered on the horizon like something alive, and by evening, it hit them.

The ship bucked like a wild horse. Sails snapped. Rain slapped the deck in sheets. And one by one, Carver’s tormentors fell.

He was the first to puke, yes. But then Ebba stumbled past him and vomited behind a barrel. Then Carnuh went pale and collapsed beside a coil of rope, groaning. Hrogarh held out the longest—but after the third wave slammed the deck, he keeled over the railing with a dramatic shout.

Carver grinned through his sickness, weakly victorious. “I warned you.”

“Go... to hell,” Ebba groaned, face pressed to the wood.

“Already here,” he muttered.

The sailors were merciless. Jokes flew between the riggings as they watched the proud warriors of the Wilds reduced to moaning heaps.

“Look at ‘em! Poor land rats can’t hold their ale nor their lunch.”

Carver raised a middle finger without lifting his head.

“I’m not above murder,” he croaked.

They laughed harder.

Three days. Three miserable, wet, rocking days.

By the third morning, the rain had calmed. The skies lightened. And in the distance, rising out of the water like a scar on the horizon, stood the jagged walls and dark towers of Kirkwall.

Carver wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared.

The long spires. The brooding, oppressive architecture. The smell of salt, smoke, and too many people crammed into too little space.

His stomach flipped—but this time, it had nothing to do with the sea.

“You good?” Carnuh asked, leaning beside him, still pale.

Carver didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“About this Tintop fellow?”

Carver frowned. “Partly.”

Truth was, he had no idea how the fuck to find the man. The name was all he had. No district, no contact, nothing. Just “Tintop.” Could be a nickname, a codename, or someone’s actual bloody surname. And Kirkwall wasn’t exactly small.

But that wasn’t what weighed on him the most.

He gripped the railing again and looked toward the city. Somewhere in there was his family. Or what was left of it.

Bethany. His mother. Garreth. Probably still believing he was buried in Ferelden under a pile of darkspawn. Maybe that was better. Cleaner.

Did he want to see them?

Would they even want to see him?

Carver sighed through his teeth. The salt in the air stung more than it should have.

“You want to find them,” Carnuh said softly. “But you’re scared.”

Carver blinked at him. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise. You’re just slow.”

Carver shoved his shoulder, half-hearted.

Another gust of wind caught their cloaks. Kirkwall loomed closer, the docks now visible—crowded with merchant vessels, fishers, and massive guard towers bristling with templar banners.

And there it was. The second weight in his chest.

The Circle in Fereldern might’ve been broken, but Kirkwall was still a place where the templars ruled by blade and boot. Knight-Commander Meredith had seen to that. She wore a crown of iron in everything but name.

This place wasn’t safe. Not for him. Not for Carnuh. And not for any of them if things went sideways.

He turned to the others, voice firm.

“Alright, listen up. We’re almost there. And Kirkwall is... not like Ferelden. The templars rule this city. Meredith runs the show.”

“Thought she was just a Knight-Commander?” Ebba said, blinking.

Carver snorted. “In name. But make no mistake, she’s the power behind the throne. The guards, the laws—hell, even the nobles bend knee when she snaps her fingers.”

Carnuh’s brow furrowed. “So what does that mean for us?”

“It means we’re careful. We keep our heads down. No war paint. No staff-waving. No yelling about spirits or visions or bones.”

Ebba grunted. “Spoilsport.”

Carver looked at her. “I’m serious. You mess up here, no one’s coming to help us. We’ll be lucky if we make it back to the ship, let alone the Wilds.”

He turned to Carnuh. “Your staff. Hide it. You too.”

The young mage nodded, already wrapping his in a cloth and strapping it to his back like a walking stick.

Carver did the same, sighing. “Shit, I hate pretending.”

“Pretend well,” Hrogarh muttered, tying his braids back with a leather thong. “We’ll watch each other’s backs. And yours.”

Carver gave him a faint nod. The big man’s voice had shifted—quieter, thoughtful. The Wilds were gone now. Here, they were strangers again. Outsiders. Ferals with no names in a city that looked at them like animals.

The ship docked with a lurch, ropes flying, sailors barking orders.

The crew began to disembark.

Carver stood tall, rolling his shoulders.

Behind him, the others readied their gear. Cleaned their faces. Removed paint, charms, bone necklaces. Tried to look like something they weren’t.

If the city of Kirkwall had a heart, it was black and rotting—and they were walking through its veins.

The Gallows were the first thing they passed through after leaving the docks, and Carver hated every moment of it. The towering grey stone arches. The shackles still bolted into the walls. The dead-eyed templars marching in rows like caged dogs. Mages watched from behind bars, their eyes sunken with fear and years of isolation. Even the air felt heavy here, like it had absorbed too many screams over too many years.

No one spoke for a while. Even Peach padded silently beside them, her ears flat, hackles raised.

Carnuh finally muttered, “This is worse than the bligth.”

Ebba grunted in agreement. “I’d rather be back at that dinner with Lady Isolde. At least she served wine.”

Carver didn’t respond. His jaw was locked so tight it ached. The Gallows felt like it had been carved out of a nightmare. And it sat right in the city’s center like no one gave a damn what it stood for.

They moved on quickly, doing their best not to attract attention. Carver kept one hand near the hidden staff slung on his back beneath the canvas wrap. Just in case.

Once outside the gates, the city only got worse.

Lowtown was a mess of tight alleys, sagging balconies, and walls stained with old piss. Laundry fluttered overhead between buildings like desperate flags. The streets stank of fish guts, rot, and unwashed bodies. Someone coughed behind a barrel, a deep, wet sound that spoke of disease no healer could fix.

Carver scowled. “I miss the Wilds.”

Carnuh blinked. “Already?”

“I miss the honesty,” Carver snapped. “Out there, things make sense. Hunt, survive, protect your own. You know who your enemies are. You know what’s real.”

He kicked a broken crate aside, startling a pair of rats.

“Here?” he said. “It’s all lies. Everyone smiling while they stab you in the ribs.”

Hrogarh grunted. “Even the air’s filthy.”

Ebba spat. “At least it’s not raining.”

It was the only thing going for them.

They wandered for the better part of an hour trying to find somewhere to stay. The better inns wouldn’t even open their doors. The worse ones smelled worse than the gutters. At one point, Carnuh tried asking for directions, but was ignored by three people in a row.

Eventually, Hrogarh spotted a street urchin lurking near an alley mouth—a kid no older than ten, grubby-faced with sharp eyes and a too-thin frame.

“Oi,” Hrogarh said, grabbing him by the back of the collar and lifting him like a sack of turnips. “Where’s a cheap tavern that’s not completely shit?”

The boy struggled but didn’t cry out. He just stared, lips pressed tight.

Carver sighed and pulled a silver coin from his pouch. “Here. For information.”

The boy’s eyes flicked to the coin. Still, he said nothing.

Carver added two more.

“The Hanged Man,” the boy said, voice quick and scratchy. “Lowtown. Back behind the docks. Can show you.”

Carver nodded. “Lead on, then.”

The urchin dropped to the ground and darted ahead, weaving through crowds and alleys until they reached a large, rundown building with a crooked sign swaying above the entrance. The words The Hanged Man were half-faded, the image of a dangling corpse chipped and worn.

“Of course it’s called that,” Carnuh muttered.

The inside was somehow worse than the outside.

The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the scent of spilled ale. A bard played in the corner with two strings missing from his lute. The patrons ranged from half-conscious drunks to the kind of mercenaries who didn't ask questions before stabbing someone in an alley. The floor was sticky. The walls were stained. The bedding in the rooms made Carver want to sleep outside with Peach.

Even she refused to lie on the mattress, opting instead to curl up in a corner by the door.

“Well,” Ebba said, standing with her hands on her hips, “this is lovely.”

“I’ve fought in Blight-ridden tunnels that were cozier,” Hrogarh added.

Carnuh sat on the bed and immediately stood up again. “That’s it. I’m drinking myself unconscious.”

Carver gave a short nod. “Go ahead. I’m going to find out what I can.”

He left the room and walked back down to the bar. The barkeep was a wiry man with a mop of greying hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. He was polishing a mug that still looked filthy.

“Need something?” the barkeep asked.

Carver leaned against the bar. “I’m looking for someone. Dwarf. Name’s Jarvais Tintop.”

The man frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But if it’s dwarves you’re after, ask Varric Tethras. He’s got ears all over this part of the city.”

Carver narrowed his eyes. “Where can I find him?”

The barkeep pointed up a nearby staircase. “Suite at the top. Never leaves unless it’s to piss or chase a new story. Tell him Brogan sent you.”

Carver grunted. “Thanks.”

He returned to the room just long enough to grab the others.

“Come on. Got a lead. Some dwarf named Varric.”

“Doesn’t sound made-up at all,” Ebba muttered.

They tromped up the stairs, the boards creaking beneath them, and stopped at a heavy door with scratches near the handle. Carver didn’t bother knocking. He pushed it open.

Inside sat a dwarf with a trim beard, an open shirt, and a mug in one hand. The room smelled of ink and whiskey. Books were stacked on every available surface. A quill twitched in a pot of drying ink.

Varric looked up, eyebrows raised. “Well, hello. I usually charge for company this pretty.”

Carver didn’t waste time. “Do you know a dwarf named Tintop?”

Varric leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Maybe. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m trying to find him,” Carver said, arms crossed. “And I don’t have time for cleverness.”

Varric smiled like a cat. “Information’s a currency, friend. What’re you offering in trade?”

Carver took a step forward, voice flat. “How about I shove my foot so far up your ass, you’ll be licking my toes?”

Varric blinked. “Tempting. But not quite the kind of payment I was hoping for.”

Carver flipped him off and turned to leave.

“Waste of time,” he muttered.

As he reached the door, it opened—and Carver slammed into someone entering the room. A tall man with dark hair, a sword on his back, and a very familiar scowl.

“Watch it,” Carver grunted, pushing past him.

“Fuck off,” the man snapped.

Then Varric suddenly barked from behind, “HAWKE!”

Both men stopped.

Simultaneously: “What?”

They turned.

Carver blinked.

The stranger stared.

“Carver?” the man said, voice cracking.

“…Garreth?” Carver echoed, louder.

For a long heartbeat, neither moved.

Then they both said, “What the fuck?!”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other.

Carver had always remembered Garreth as tall, lean, and just a little too pretty to be taken seriously in a fight. But the man in front of him now? Broader. Stronger. Scarred. His jaw was thicker, his shoulders heavier. He carried himself like a soldier who’d been through more than just drills and noble skirmishes. His eyes, too—those deep blue eyes—were weighed down by things that didn’t belong to the soft boy who used to strut around Lothering like he owned the place.

Huh. Big brother had gotten bigger.

Garreth looked just as stunned. “You—Maker’s breath, you’re actually—”

“Alive?” Carver offered with a smirk. “Yeah. Surprised me, too.”

Behind them, Hrogarh gave a low snort of laughter.

Varric leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but didn’t you tell me your brother was dead, Hawke?”

Garreth didn’t take his eyes off Carver. “He was.”

Carver shrugged. “I got better.”

Hrogarh choked back a laugh, and even Carnuh cracked a grin. Peach gave a quiet whuff from her corner, tail swishing once.

Then—out of nowhere—Garreth stepped forward and punched Carver square in the jaw.

The impact rang through his skull, sharp and immediate. Carver staggered back a step but didn’t fall. His head whipped sideways, teeth rattling.

“You son of a bitch!” Garreth shouted, voice full of raw hurt. “We thought you were dead! We mourned you! You were alive this whole time?! What the fuck, Carver?! Why didn’t you come find us?!”

And just like that, the anger boiled up in Carver’s chest like wildfire. His fist came up without thinking, crashing into Garreth’s face with all the rage he hadn’t known he’d been carrying.

There was a crunch—probably the nose—and Garreth stumbled back with a curse, hand going to his face as blood poured between his fingers.

“You LEFT me!” Carver shouted. “You ran! I bought you time—I fought that ogre so you could live—and you just LEFT me there! Don’t talk like you gave a shit, Garreth! You didn’t come back! None of you did!”

Garreth blinked through the blood, eyes wide. “We thought you were dead, Carver! Your skull was crushed! There was blood everywhere—”

“Not enough, apparently,” Carver spat. “Guess I should’ve screamed louder before I blacked out.”

“You bastard,” Garreth growled.

“Ass.”

“Idiot.”

“Coward.”

“ENOUGH!”

Ebba stormed forward and smacked both of their heads together. Hard. The crack echoed off the walls.

“You’re like toddlers!” she snapped. “You’re grown men screaming like boys fighting over who gets the last potato. Shut it. Pack it up. We’ve got bigger shit to deal with than your sad little pissing contest.”

Both brothers reeled from the hit, dazed and now equally bleeding. Peach sat down with a huff, ears flat as if embarrassed to be seen with them.

Carnuh was covering his mouth, definitely trying not to laugh. Hrogarh just folded his arms and muttered, “About time someone did that.”

Carver wiped blood from his lip, glaring at his brother.

Garreth pinched the bridge of his nose, probably trying to stop the bleeding. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was hoarse.

“…Will you come home? At least for a bit? To see Mother?”

The words punched harder than the fist had.

Carver looked away, jaw working. “She’s alive?”

Garreth nodded, still pinching his nose. “We’re Hightown. It’s… not perfect, but it’s home.”

Carver was quiet. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers brushing the base of his braid. He glanced at Peach, then at the others—Carnuh, Ebba, Hrogarh. His people. His pack.

“I’ll come,” he said, finally. “But they come with me. All of them.”

Garreth hesitated, glancing at the ragged group of warriors and the enormous wolf.

“…Of course,” he said, nodding. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Good,” Carver said. “No them, no me.”

“Understood.”

The tension thinned, but didn’t vanish. They were still standing on years of distance, of different paths taken and bridges burned.

But it was something.

Behind them, Varric leaned forward in his chair with a grin.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said, lifting his mug, “but it’s going to make one hell of a story.”

Carver flipped him off again. Varric just toasted him with the drink.

“Alright,” Garreth said, voice rough. “Let’s get out of here before someone else throws a punch.”

“I might throw another,” Carver muttered.

“You punch like a drunk noblewoman,” Garreth shot back.

“Better than looking like one.”

Ebba rolled her eyes. “I swear to the spirits, if you two don’t shut it, I will stuff socks in your mouths and carry you like luggage.”

They left the Hanged Man together, though not quite in step. Garreth kept stealing glances at Carver as they walked, like he still couldn’t believe it. Carver didn’t know what to do with that look. He felt wrong-footed, like the ground had shifted and he hadn’t moved.

Peach walked close at his side. Carnuh leaned down and scratched her ears once, murmuring something too soft to catch. Hrogarh stalked behind, suspicious eyes scanning the crowds. Ebba walked ahead, head high, making space without saying a word.

Lowtown didn’t feel quite as filthy now. Still stank, but it wasn’t trying to bury him anymore.

Carver glanced at his brother, then away.

“I missed you,” Garreth said quietly.

Carver said nothing.

But he didn’t walk away, either.

He had to admit—begrudgingly—that Hightown wasn’t the worst place he’d seen.

It was quiet. Clean. Well-kept. No sewage in the streets, no children chasing rats for coin, no smell of piss and mold wafting from every alley.

But still. Too much stone.

No trees. No wind. Just polished walls and polished people pretending not to look at the ragged group walking past with a very large wolf.

None of the brothers said a word as they walked. Not Carver. Not Garreth. Not even a snide jab from Varric, who trailed behind with that amused smirk glued to his face.

It was awkward. Stiff. Carver could feel the tension prickling under his skin like ants.

And then they reached it. A massive estate—gates, iron lanterns, the whole deal. One of those noble homes Carver used to imagine as a child, back before he realized what nobles really were. In his head, he wondered if this was the Amell estate—his grandfather’s place. The one his mother never stopped talking about. The one she said they'd reclaim, someday.

Guess someday had come and gone.

Garreth pushed the door open without ceremony and stepped inside. No knocking. No pause. Just walked in like it was his own—which, Carver supposed, it was.

Carver stood outside a moment longer, staring at the threshold. His boots were filthy. There was blood on his shirt, dried in a smear across his ribs. Peach sat at his side, tail still, eyes sharp. Behind them, Carnuh stretched his shoulders, while Ebba cracked her knuckles, looking as bored as ever. Hrogarh just spit on the cobblestones.

Carver took a breath, bracing himself.

Carnuh clapped a hand on his shoulder—firm, grounding.

In the back of his mind, Vandarel said, It will be fine, pup. One way or another.

Carver stepped inside.

The air smelled like polished wood, citrus oil, and faint perfume. Not his world. Not anymore.

He could hear Garreth’s voice ahead—calling softly. “Mother? There’s someone here to see you.”

There was a murmur. Then footsteps.

And there she was.

Leandra.

She looked… older, maybe. A few more lines on her face. But her eyes were just as he remembered them—clear, blue, sharp. She wore a silk dress, cream-colored with gold embroidery. Her hair was pinned up in a neat twist, and she carried herself like a queen, chin lifted high.

No fear in her eyes. Not like the last time he saw her.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then her breath caught, and she gasped his name like it was a prayer. “Carver?”

He didn’t even get a chance to speak. She was already across the room, arms thrown around him, kissing his cheeks, sobbing against his shoulder. Her perfume made his throat tighten. He could feel her trembling.

He held her, and—Spirits forgive him—he cried too.

Not loud. Not shaking. Just… wet eyes and a clenched jaw.

“Mama,” he whispered, hoarse. “I’m here.”

“You’re alive—you’re alive, you’re alive—” she kept saying, over and over, like if she stopped, he might disappear again.

He just nodded. That was all he could manage.

When she finally pulled back, dabbing at her face with a silk handkerchief, she still held his arms like she was afraid to let go.

“What happened?” she asked, voice shaking. “How are you alive? Where have you been? Why didn’t you come to us?”

Carver sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s a long story. One that needs sitting down.”

Garreth brought out chairs from a side room—fancy things, carved and cushioned. Leandra settled onto a chaise, dabbing her eyes again.

Carver gestured behind him. “Before I start—these are my people. My best friends in the world. This is Hrogarh, Ebba, and Carnuh. They’re Chasind.”

Ebba gave a two-fingered salute. Hrogarh just folded his arms. Carnuh offered a polite bow, his face unreadable.

“And the wolf is Peach,” Carver added. “She doesn’t talk. She’s… special.”

Leandra blinked at Peach, then back to Carver, then nodded slowly. “All right.”

Carver sat. Peach curled up beside his chair like she’d done it a thousand times.

“So,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “After you left me for dead—yes, Garreth, I know you thought I was gone, I’m not blaming you—I was… found. Saved. By a spirit. A Chasind spirit, actually.”

Leandra frowned.

“She said her name was Sìdheach. She saved me because I was meant to lead the Chasind. Guide them. Help them survive the Blight.”

“You?” Garreth said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, me,” Carver shot back. “Shut up, I’m not done.”

He went on—telling them everything. How Peach found him in the Wilds. How Vandarel, the ancient weapon, chose him and unlocked his magic.

“Yes, I’m a mage now,” Carver said flatly. “Live with it.”

Leandra gasped, hand over her mouth.

Garreth opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again.

Carver continued—how he trained with the Chasind, how he unified the clans, how he fought darkspawn and made alliances. How Runa and Alistair, the last two Grey Wardens, trusted him. How they’d fought at Denerim, helping end the Blight.

He told them about Rorik going missing. About Tintop. About finding Varric and running into Garreth.

By the time he finished, Leandra was just staring at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

And Garreth?

Garreth looked like he’d just bitten a lemon.

“The Chasind really picked you?” he asked, skeptical. “To lead them?”

Hrogarh stood up so fast the chair scraped.

Carver winced. “Don’t—”

“YES!” Hrogarh bellowed. “Carver is the finest Chieftain and Thane! He brokered a deal with King Alistair and Queen Anora! For our aid at Denerim, the Wilds are ours—free from the crown, forever! He is the Black Dragon of the Siege, the one who helped Loghain bring down the Archdemon!”

Garreth blinked.

“He’s a personal friend of the King and Queen,” Hrogarh went on. “So close they named their daughter Carmen in his honor! Carver the Elf-Layer! Trusted leader of the united Chasind tribes!”

Silence.

Carver coughed. “Thank you, Hrogarh, that was… very subtle.”

“Truth doesn’t need subtlety,” Hrogarh huffed.

Garreth stared at him. “Wait—Elf-Layer?”

“Oh, here we go,” Carver groaned.

“You mean that male elf with the Wardens?” Garreth said, incredulous. “You fucked him?”

Carver glared. “Why the fuck do you care where I stick my dick?”

Garreth blinked. “I—”

“Because, believe me,” Carver cut in, voice rising, “I give less than nothing about where you jab your pathetic little twig, Garreth. You could be poking pigeons and I wouldn’t blink.”

Garreth stood. “You unbelievable—”

“Try me,” Carver snapped.

And just like that, the yelling started again. The brothers squared off, voices rising, hands waving, insults flying.

Then:

“Enough!” Leandra snapped, louder than both of them.

They both froze. Carver flinched. Garreth sat down.

“You are grown men,” she said, glaring at them both. “Not children in the backyard with sticks. Sit. Down.”

Grumbling, Carver folded his arms and leaned back in the chair, sulking.

Garreth shot him a glare but kept quiet.

Then Carver glanced around.

“…Where’s Bethany?” he asked.

Silence.

Chapter Text

The silence stretched. And Carver didn't like it. Garreth had never been the quiet type—not unless he had something to hide. Carver's jaw tensed, the muscles in his face twitching with a growing edge. He asked again, louder this time, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

"Where. Is. Bethany?"

Mother's voice came soft, brittle like parchment. "The Templars took her. She's at the Gallows. She's… she's in the Circle."

Carver froze.

No.

No. Fucking. Way.

His head snapped toward Garreth. His voice came out low, lethal. "What the fuck happened?"

Garreth winced, rubbed the back of his neck. "When we arrived, we had to pay our way into the city. The Viscount demanded a fee, and Gamlen—our useless prick of an uncle—had nothing. So Beth and I joined up with some smugglers to earn our passage."

Carver stared.

Garreth went on. "After our year was up, we scraped together enough coin to fund a Deep Roads expedition. We thought it could restore the family estate, buy our way back into Hightown. Beth stayed behind. I thought it was too dangerous to bring her."

He looked away. "When I came back… she was gone. The Templars took her. Said she was unregistered, a danger. Mother saw it happen."

Leandra nodded slowly, tears gathering in her eyes. "They came to the door with Knight-Captain Cullen. Said she could either come quietly or be declared apostate. It was the only way to keep her alive."

Alive?

Alive?

"So you let them take her?" Carver's voice cracked, and then it rose, louder than before. "You let the fucking Templars take our sister?"

He stood so fast his chair skidded back and slammed into the wall. His fists clenched at his sides. His mouth curled in disgust, his face twisted in something that went beyond rage.

"All my fucking life," he spat, voice shaking, "all I ever heard was protect your sister, Carver. Protect your family. Watch over Bethany. Don't let the Templars get her. That was Dad's dying wish. And now you—you"—he pointed a shaking finger at their mother—"are telling me it was for the best? That she's safer locked in the fucking Gallows, under watch, under threat, in a Circle that would break her?!"

Leandra tried to speak, but he roared over her. "You live here in your pretty stone palace, drinking your wine, gossiping with fucking limp-wristed noble parasites while Beth rots behind bars?"

He turned on Garreth. "And you. You let it happen. You went on some glory-hunt while she stayed behind, unprotected, and then you watched her get taken."

Garreth's eyes flared. "I didn't know!"

"You should have!" Carver bellowed. "You're her big brother! You're supposed to keep her safe!"

Leandra burst into tears, whispering, "That's not fair."

"Not fair?!" Carver slammed his fist into the table, the wood cracking. "You want to talk about fair? She was our heart. And now she's gone. And you sit here wrapped in silk, sobbing on your cushions, acting like you had no choice!"

His face twisted with fury. His voice dropped, low and venomous. "You sacrificed her. For what? A name? A title? So you could prance around Kirkwall pretending you still mattered? You threw her to the Templars so you could play noblewoman again."

Leandra sobbed harder, covering her face. Garreth stepped forward, eyes hard. "Enough. You need to calm the fuck down."

Carver wheeled on him. "Or what, you'll punch me again? Try it. You don't get to tell me shit, Garreth. You lost that right when you let them take her."

Silence. Even Peach had shrunk back a little, her ears low, watching him with wary eyes. Varric, pressed into a corner like a piece of furniture, swallowed hard.

Carver turned to him next.

"You," he growled. "You know Tintop? The name? You know anything?"

Varric cleared his throat. "There's a Coterie contact. Goes by Lilley. Operates out of Darktown. Might be worth talking to."

Carver nodded stiffly. His body was tight, twitching with the urge to do something, to break something, to scream again. Instead, he moved to the door.

"We’re leaving," he muttered to his companions. “Now.”

Ebba and the others fell in behind him without question. As he reached the threshold, his mother called out, voice cracked and small.

"Carver… please stay. We're still a family."

Carver stopped. Slowly, he turned to face her. The fury in his eyes had dulled, but what remained was worse—a bitter, hollow scorn.

"No. My only family is locked in a tower, behind templar blades. The rest of you..."

He let the sentence die.

Then he changed.

Feathers ripped from skin. Talons sprouted from fingers. A massive hawk now stood in the room, and even Garreth recoiled.

"Holy shit," Varric whispered.

Ebba opened the door for him. Carver gave them all one last look.

Then he flew.

The wind was sharp above the Gallows, dragging at Carver’s wings as he flew slow loops over the high stone walls. He'd been at it for hours. Searching. Watching. Thinking.

Trying to make sense of a storm he couldn't outrun.

The sun had gone down, the city lights casting strange, fractured patterns across the water. Carver glided silently from tower to tower, eyes scanning windows, arches, courtyards. He didn’t know what he wanted, not really. A glimpse? A sign? Maybe just proof that Beth was still here, still breathing.

He found her voice first. It reached him through an open window on the upper floor—bright, full of laughter. The sound struck him like a punch to the gut.

Carefully, he angled down, landing light as wind on the sill. His claws scraped gently on the stone as he leaned closer.

Inside, Bethany sat on a rug, a thick book in her lap. A young mage—no more than ten—curled against her side, hanging on every word as she read aloud. Candlelight made her dark hair gleam, her smile wide and easy. She looked older, but she looked… happy.

Carver didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His heart twisted.

He wanted to cry out. Smash the window. Carry her away.

But she was smiling.

She was alive.

And she was trapped.

After a long while, he flew away, wings aching. He didn't know where he was going until he landed in a crumbling husk of a house in Lowtown. Shifting back into human form was always a jolt. Dust rose around him. He pulled his cloak tighter and walked.

Vandarel stirred within the staff on his back.

"You did not go inside."

"No."

"You could have."

"She was smiling."

Silence stretched.

"I am sorry, pup," Vandarel said softly. "This isn't what you hoped for."

"No. It's all shit," Carver muttered, pushing open the door to the Hanged Man. "Everything’s shit."

"That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt."

Carver exhaled hard. "I know."

The tavern was packed, muggy with heat and ale stink. He squinted through the smoke and the din. Peach trotted silently at his side, her great shaggy form earning wary glances.

He spotted Carnuh and Ebba near the stairs. They waved him over.

"We’re hitting the market," Carnuh said. "See if there’s anything good to buy."

Ebba grinned. "Or borrow permanently."

Carver managed half a smile. "Don’t get yourselves arrested. I don’t want to break anyone out of the Keep."

"No promises," Ebba sang, already slipping away.

He ordered something from the bar that smelled only slightly of piss, then found a table in the back corner. Peach flopped at his feet, tail thumping once before she curled into a pile of fur.

Carver was halfway through his first sip when a sultry voice purred beside him.

"Well, well, what’s a strong, handsome man like you doing all alone?"

He looked up. Dark skin, kohl-lined eyes. And spirits above help him, the tits.

He grunted. "I brood better solo."

She leaned in, ignoring the rebuff. "You’ve got that whole rugged hero thing going. The scars. The bun. The arms."

Carver sighed and met her gaze. "Listen, lady. I’m not interested."

She pouted playfully. "Not even a little?"

A familiar voice cut in. "Isabela, unless you want that wolf to take a chunk out of your thigh, maybe give the brooding warrior a little space."

Varric.

The pirate woman—Isabela—laughed, then winked at Carver. "You bite?"

"Only men," Carver said flatly, standing.

Her jaw dropped. Varric howled with laughter.

"And there it is," the dwarf chuckled. "Knew there had to be something under all that scowling."

Carver rolled his eyes but let Varric guide him up the stairs and into the dwarf's suite.

"Nice place," Carver muttered, taking in the warm lamplight and the heavy bookshelves.

Varric pulled a bottle from a side table. "You look like you need a real drink."

Carver didn’t argue.

They sat in silence for a while. Then Varric cleared his throat.

"Hawke said the ogre crushed you."

Carver snorted. "Yeah. Got better."

"You know how to make an entrance, kid. Storming into the estate like a fury. What you said to your mother…" Varric shook his head. "Harsh, but… I get it."

Carver didn’t look at him. "I meant it. Every fucking word."

"Still," Varric said, pouring another glass. "Hawke’s not the enemy. He tried everything to get Beth out. Favors. Bribes. Threats. But Knight-Commander Meredith doesn’t bend."

Carver downed the drink in one gulp. "Then she breaks."

Varric let the threat hang before speaking again.

"So why'd you do it? Say yes to the spirit. Rally the Wilders. What made you fight?"

Carver stared at the amber liquid in his glass.

"The Blight threatened everything. The Chasind deserved more than fear and mud. I wanted to give them land. A future."

He paused, then added, "And I wanted to stop the Blight before it reached here. Before it touched Beth. Garreth. Mother. Even her."

Varric sighed. "So you were still trying to protect them. Just... differently."

"Yeah. Funny how that worked out."

They sat for a moment more.

"You should talk to your brother," Varric said. "Once. Just once."

Carver didn’t answer.

"And Tintop? Why are you really looking for that nug-brained rat?"

Carver leaned back. "Leader of the Cadash carta. Went missing almost a year ago. Either here or in Tantervale. He was a friend. Got us lyrium. My people need him. All we got is a name. Tintop."

Varric arched a brow. "The Chasind trade with the carta?"

Carver shrugged. "Lyrium’s lyrium. Trade laws don’t matter in the Wilds."

The dwarf laughed. "I like you. You're blunt."

Carver grunted. "Not trying to impress anyone."

"Maker knows you don't."

They drank in silence for a while longer, Carver's thoughts drifting back to the Circle tower.

Darktown stank like shit and smoke and too many people packed too tight. Carver tried not to breathe too deeply as he stepped around a puddle that might have once been water. Hrogarh, beside him, didn’t seem to notice or care. He was too busy holding a flailing dwarf by the neck, one hand lifting the squirming man clean off the ground like he weighed nothing.

"Finger or dick first?" Hrogarh asked sweetly, his grin all teeth.

"I don’t know anything!" Javaris Tintop squeaked, legs kicking. "I swear on my ancestors, I don’t know anything about Rorik Cadash!"

"Cut his dick off," Carnuh offered from where he crouched nearby, examining a bloodstained bone talisman. "Could use it in a ritual."

That made Tintop howl. "Alright! Alright! There was a meeting! But someone else paid me to drug him! I don’t know who! I swear! Just some middleman! Said Rorik was to be delivered to a cave on the Wounded Coast! That’s all I know! Please don’t cut off anything!"

"That’s better," Carver said, folding his arms. "Hrogarh. Drop him."

Hrogarh let go, and Tintop collapsed to the ground with a yelp, gasping.

Carver was just about to say something else when a familiar voice behind him spoke.

"I didn’t know dicks could be used in rituals."

Without missing a beat, Carver turned. "Neither did I. But Javaris belived it, so who gives a shit?"

Garreth was standing behind him, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Varric was there too, of course, along with two others. A blond mage in robes covered in what appeared to be feathers, and of course, Isabela from the night before. Peach growled softly at her side.

Garreth stepped forward, hesitating. "Listen. About yesterday—"

Carver crossed his arms and stared at him. They locked eyes.

Minutes passed.

Finally, Garreth cracked first. "I’m sorry. I should’ve done more. For Beth."

Carver narrowed his eyes. Then, reluctantly, sighed. "It wasn’t your fault. It was Kirkwall’s. And Mother’s."

Garreth bristled. "She’s not—"

Carver held up a hand. "Don’t. Just... don’t."

Then Isabela stepped between them, looking from one to the other. "Wait. Wait. Wait. Is Sexy Brooding Manbun your brother?"

Garreth choked.

Carver growled. "Don’t call me that."

Everyone laughed. Even Carnuh.

Isabela grinned. "I see the resemblance, sure. But I’d rather fuck you than him. No offense to Garreth. Kilts and manbuns are kinda my thing."

Carver raised an eyebrow. "I don’t do chicks. So you’re out of luck."

"Even better," Isabela said with a wink.

Before it could spiral into something worse, the blond mage stepped forward. "Anders. Former Grey Warden. Healer in darktown."

Carver shook his hand.

Vandarel’s voice curled in his mind. That one carries another within him. Justice.

Carver frowned. "You possessed, or is it a mutual thing?"

Anders blinked. "How did you—?"

Carver shrugged. "The Chasind have their ways. Don’t care if you’ve got a hitchhiker, long as you don’t go all murder-murder demons on us."

The stunned silence that followed was worth it.

Anders recovered quickly. "Wait... You’re Carver? The Black Dragon? Thane of the Wilders?"

Carver blinked. "That’s what they call me?"

"The Hero of Ferelden told me about you," Anders said, eyes wide. "Runa recruited me in Amaranthine. She said if the darkspawn ever made it past Vigils keep, she’d send for you."

Carver grinned. "Runa. Now there’s a name I miss. You know where she is now? Neither Alistair nor I’ve heard from her."

"No clue," Anders said, then blinked again. "Wait. Alistair?"

"Yeah," Carver said, looking at Garreth like he was an idiot. "Alistair. Grey Warden. Now King of Ferelden. That Alistair."

Varric looked between them. "So you’re friends with the king of Ferelden?"

Ebba chose that moment to stroll in, cracking her knuckles. "Friends? Chief’s so close with Alistair he named his daughter after him."

Carver rubbed his face. "Can we not? Please?"

Garreth gave him a long look. "Well. Sounds like you’ve been busy."

"You have no idea," Carver muttered.

He turned to go. "We need to find Rorik."

"Wounded Coast’s a bitch to navigate," Garreth said. "We’ll take you."

Carver groaned but nodded. "Fine."

They made their way toward the edge of Darktown, climbing up toward the cliffs beyond Lowtown. As they walked, Anders moved up beside Carver.

"So. Why the dwarf? Rorik, right?"

"He’s my dwarf," Carver said simply. "Just like Varric’s is my brothers."

Carnuh chimed in. "Also, every Chasind alive is scared shitless of Rorik’s mom, Hird. It’s in our best interest to get him back."

Ebba nodded. "And Mika, his daughter, is adorable. She’ll cry if her dad doesn’t come home. No one wants to make Mika cry."

"Especially not her grandmother," Carnuh added. "Hird can skin a man faster than a hungry bear."

Carver grunted. "She has, actually."

Anders looked between them, then muttered, "Maker save me from Ferelden families."

Isabela smiled. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

Carver didn’t answer. His eyes were already on the horizon, mind turning over names, caves, and old debts.

They had a dwarf to save. Before Hird came to Kirkwall herself.

Which, frankly, would be worse than anything Kirkwall had to offer.

The cave had stunk like death and old blood, and Carver had killed more spiders than he cared to count. Hrogarh’s boots were still sticky from the webbing, and Anders had nearly blown the ceiling down trying to clear a path. But in the end, they found Rorik.

Half-starved, bruised from neck to knees, and covered in grime, Rorik Cadash looked like shit. But he was alive. Barely.

Anders was at his side before anyone else, muttering a dozen healing spells under his breath as his hands glowed with soft, warm light. Rorik groaned and blinked against the glow.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Carver said, crouching beside him.

Rorik coughed, then grunted, "Wouldn’t go that far."

"What the fuck happened?" Hrogarh asked, looming behind them.

Rorik took a shaky breath as Anders helped him sit up. "Beraht clan. Bastards ambushed me and the boys. Wanted our routes. Said Cadash was getting too bold with the lyrium coming out of Ferelden. Thought we’d spill."

"You didn’t?" Carver asked.

Rorik glared at him, even through the swelling. "What do you think?"

Carver grinned. "Good."

They made their way back to Kirkwall slowly. Rorik leaned on Carnuh most of the way, while Hrogarh carried a sack of Carta heads like they were cabbages. Peach padded silently at Carver’s side, her fur still clumped with dust from the cave.

Varric took one look at Rorik and promised to get him to a clean bed, some food, and a bottle of something strong. Carver trusted him to handle it.

Which left Garreth.

He sidled up next to Carver as they walked the last stretch toward Hightown. He hesitated. Then:

"Dinner tonight?"

Carver gave him a sideways look. "What, you miss being punched?"

Garreth winced. "Come on. Please? For me?"

"Why would I? I’ve got no interest in talking to Mother."

"It’s not just that," Garreth said quickly. "She’s invited some noble families over. Trying to set me up with one of their daughters."

Carver smirked. "And you want me to take the heat off you."

"Exactly. Distract them. Scare them. I don’t care. Just... help."

"What’s in it for me?"

Garreth folded his hands dramatically. "A favor. A big one. You name it. Pretty pleeeease?"

Carver sighed. "Fine. But I’m not putting on any silk bullshit."

"Would a tunic and pants satisfy your Chasind sensibilities?"

"Grudgingly."

Garreth grinned and clapped him on the back.

Carver handed Vandarel to Carnuh and took Hrogarh’s spare sword instead. Varric chuckled and promised to babysit the rest of Carver’s crew.

"Try not to set anything on fire," Varric said.

Leandra was on him the second he stepped through the door.

"Carver! Oh, my darling boy—"

She wrapped her arms around him, sobbing. He stiffened, then let her hug him.

"I thought. I thought—"

Carver gently took her by the shoulders. "I still mean what I said. About you. About Beth. But I do still love you. That’ll have to be enough."

Her eyes filled again, but she nodded.

Then Garreth pulled him away for a bath and a change of clothes. Carver endured the bath, barely. Refused to shave. Refused to cut his hair. Leandra wrung her hands but eventually let it go.

By the time the guests arrived, Carver looked almost respectable.

Almost.

The noble family was as dull as expected. A polished husband, a smiling wife with too-white teeth, and two daughters who looked at the Hawke brothers like they were fresh meat.

Carver shot Garreth a death glare. "This is your fault."

"Smile and wave, little brother."

Dinner was a drawn-out affair, full of careful conversation and subtle probing. The nobleman eventually turned to Carver.

"And what is it you do, young man? Are you... involved in Ferelden’s affairs?"

Before Carver could respond, Leandra cut in smoothly. "Carver is a minor bann in Ferelden."

Carver nearly choked on his wine. Garreth made a strangled noise.

"A bann?" Carver muttered under his breath. "Really?"

"Better than telling them you live in a swamp and talk to spirits," Garreth replied.

Carver rolled his eyes. Then something brushed his thigh under the table.

He tensed.

Another brush—higher this time.

He glanced across the table and saw the noble wife giving him a slow smile.

Her foot was the culprit.

He nearly knocked his chair over standing up.

Then the front doors opened, and a guard stepped in, resplendent in the Vicount’s livery.

"Letter for Carver Hawke. From His Majesty King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden."

Carver could have kissed him.

Leandra clapped. "Please, do read it aloud!"

The guard opened the letter and read:

Carver,

Since you’re in Kirkwall already, I need a favor.

During the Blight, a lot of Fereldans ended up in the Free Marches. Conditions were shit. You know.

The twins are only a year old, and Anora will personally throttle me if I leave her alone with them for more than a day.

I’ve sent ten ships to Kirkwall. I need someone I trust to oversee the return—someone who won’t let Dumar screw it up or let Meredith breathe on it.

So. Please? For me?

Also, you owe me a visit. The twins miss their Uncle Carver, and Anora has a list of reasons to yell at you.

One last thing: stop fucking my guards.

-Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, etc.

Silence. Again.

Leandra’s eye twitched.

Garreth tried and failed not to laugh.

Carver stood.

"Mother. I’m gay. And I’m leaving. Garreth, you’re coming with me."

He turned to the guard. "I’ll meet with the Vicount tomorrow. Four o’clock. Tell him to gather any Fereldans who want to go home, we sail 5 days from now."

Then he grabbed Garreth by the collar and dragged him out, his brother laughing the entire way down the street.

The Hanged Man was loud even before they reached the top floor. Laughter spilled down the stairwell, accompanied by the muffled thump of boots and the clatter of mugs. Garreth didn’t wait for an invitation, just grabbed Carver by the arm and dragged him up to Varric’s suite.

What met them inside made Carver blink.

Varric, Ebba, a white-haired elf, a red-haired woman in guard uniform, and Vandarel were all seated around a table playing Diamondback. Vandarel had its own chair. In the corner, Carnuh sat on the floor with what looked like a Dalish woman, both of them petting Peach, who was sprawled contentedly across their laps. Anders snored on a nearby couch. Of Hrogarh and Isabela, there was no sign.

"Your staff is a cheating bastard!" Varric yelled as they walked in, throwing down his cards. "It’s ripped us all off!"

"It’s not my fault you all suck at cards," Vandarel replied smugly.

Garreth looked at Carver, eyes wide. "Why the fuck does your staff talk?"

Carver just shrugged. "It holds the soul of the last great Chasind leader. He won’t shut up."

"Hmph. Figures."

Garreth gestured toward the Dalish woman. "That’s Merrill. Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Carver barely had time to prepare before Merrill bounced over to him, beaming.

"Oh! You're Carver! I've heard so much. Is it true you can shapeshift? And that you studied under Asha'bellanar herself? You must tell me everything!"

She fired questions at him like arrows, rapid and relentless.

"Do you still wear Chasind paint when you fly? What’s it like changing form? Does it hurt? Do you talk to spirits, or do they talk to you first? What was Flemeth like?"

"I—uh—"

Carnuh thankfully intercepted her, drawing her attention to a discussion about elven glyphs. Carver nodded his thanks, brushing off some invisible sweat.

Then the red-haired guard stood up, regarding him with arms crossed. Familiar.

"We met, once," she said. "I’m Aveline. We were with your family fleeing the Blight."

Then it hit Carver. "Your husband. The templar. Ser Wesley, wasn’t it?"

She nodded, her expression tight. "He died. You survived the ogre attack. We thought you were dead."

"Most people did," Carver said, offering a hand. "But thank you for sticking with Garreth. Even when he was being a twat."

Aveline barked a laugh and shook his hand. "I work for the Kirkwall guard now."

"Perfect," Carver said, perking up. "I need to meet the Viscount tomorrow, and I have no idea where the hell I'm going."

She raised a brow. "You want me to escort you?"

"I’d owe you."

She smiled. "Then I’d be honored."

Carver looked around the room. "Anyone seen Hrogarh?"

Ebba, already flushed and reeling from drink, snorted. "Him and Isabela are off somewhere screwing like mabari in heat."

Carver made a face. "Better him than me."

That set Varric laughing. Garreth, not to be outdone, stood and launched into a dramatic retelling of the dinner fiasco. He exaggerated Carver’s exasperated sigh, the entrance of the king’s letter, and Carver’s loud proclamation that he was gay—all with wild gestures and theatrical flair.

"And then!" Garreth boomed, pointing to Carver. "Right in front of our dear mother and the stunned nobles, this idiot says: 'Mother, I’m gay. I’m leaving. Garreth, you’re coming with me.'"

The room burst into laughter.

Carver groaned and shoved Vandarel off the chair, ignoring the staff's grumbled protest, and took the seat.

Across the table, the white-haired elf watched him with an inscrutable look. Carver tilted his head.

"Carver Hawke," he said, offering a hand. "Leader of the Chasind. The younger and handsome brother of the idiot over there."

Garreth, now attempting to dance with Ebba, didn’t even notice.

The elf took his hand. His grip was firm. "Fenris."

"You thought I was dead too, huh?"

Fenris gave a curt nod. "Varric told me stories. I assumed they were exaggerated."

Carver grinned, all teeth. "Death’s overrated."

That made Fenris laugh—a soft, surprised sound. Varric shouted, pointing.

"Junior made the broody elf laugh! Maker save us, it’s the end of days!"

Anders stirred from the couch, blinking blearily. He saw Fenris, saw Carver, and groaned.

"Watch yourself, Carver," he muttered. "Fenris hates mages. Hates them. Can rip your heart out with his bare hands."

Carver raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

Varric nodded. "Former Tevinter slave. They did things to him. Made him a weapon. He doesn’t take kindly to anything with magic."

Fenris stiffened, eyes on the table.

Carver frowned. That wouldn’t do.

"Well," he said, looking from Anders to Fenris. "You two are more alike than you think."

Anders blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You both hate your former masters. Both spent years being owned. Anders by the Circle and Templars. Fenris by magisters. You just took different roads out."

Anders looked ready to argue, but Carver raised a hand.

"And if Fenris can rip hearts out with his bare hands? Honestly, that’s kind of impressive. I bet it comes in handy."

Fenris blinked at him. Anders, fuming, stood up.

"You’re impossible," he snapped. "You defend him?"

"I’m not choosing sides," Carver said. "I just think maybe not everything is black and white."

Anders stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Carver accepted the drink Varric handed him, exhaling slowly.

The noise rose again. Laughter. Cards. A drunken Ebba yelling at Garreth for stepping on her foot.

After a while, Carver glanced up to find Fenris watching him again.

"Thank you," Fenris said quietly.

"For what?"

"You didn’t have to say anything."

Carver shrugged. "Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t. Just because you can defend yourself, doesn’t mean you should always have to."

Fenris looked down, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Carver winked.

Fenris flushed slightly, and for once didn’t look away.

Carver took a sip of his drink.

Maybe the next four days in Kirkwall wouldn’t be as shitty as he’d thought.

Chapter Text

Carver woke with his face mashed into the pillow and what felt like a blacksmith’s anvil pounding behind his eyes. His mouth tasted like old socks soaked in beer. With a groan, he rolled over, immediately regretting the motion as the world spun like a drunken bard.

"Vandarel, are you trying to split my skull open from the inside?" he mumbled, voice hoarse.

The staff made an unimpressed noise from its spot leaned against the wall. "I warned you not to go drink for drink with a dwarf."

Carver squinted toward the window. Sunlight stabbed into the room like knives. The bastard sun had no mercy. His memory of the previous night was a blur, but there were pieces—talking with Fenris, learning far more than he'd ever expected from the normally closed-off elf. And drinking. Shit, so much drinking.

He remembered Fenris telling him about the lyrium tattoos. How they were seared into his skin in a desperate bid to save his mother and sister from being sold. How his master turned him into a weapon, how he was tortured, controlled, used. The way Fenris described his escape, it was a miracle he was alive at all.

Carver had listened for hours, shocked into silence more than once. By the time the sky started to pale with dawn, they were the only ones still awake. Varric snored from a nearby chair, one leg thrown over the armrest.

Carver had no memory of stumbling back to his room, but he did remember the wake-up call.

The door burst open and Hrogarh's voice followed, louder than a warhorn. "Carver! Wake up, you miserable toad!"

Carver let out something between a groan and a curse. Hrogarh strolled in, shirtless and beaming.

"Last night! I swear by my beard, that minx Isabela has ruined me for any other woman. I've never—"

Carver raised a hand. "Stop. I don't want to hear what you did with your… whatever."

Hrogarh ignored him. "—never been ridden like that. She bent like a—"

"Hrogarh!"

The warrior finally paused, grinning like a man who’d won every prize in Thedas. Carver sat up slowly, clutching his head.

Then he noticed something was off.

"Where’s Carnuh? And Ebba? And Peach?"

The silence that followed was too long. Carver's heart stuttered. "Don’t tell me—"

Vandarel interrupted, his voice dry. "The little mage wandered off with that rambling Dalish girl. They seemed… occupied."

Carver narrowed his eyes. "Occupied?"

"Tongues down each other’s throats. Gods above, you people are always so messy with your affections."

Hrogarh barked a laugh. "So the boy became a man! Ha! Took him long enough."

Carver rubbed his temples. "What about Ebba?"

Vandarel was quiet.

Hrogarh shrugged. "Maybe she got bored and picked a fight with a noble. Or a Templar. Or both."

"Shit."

Carver stood, slowly, swaying slightly. "Hrogarh. Go find Carnuh. Drag him back if you have to. Meet me at the estate. If Ebba’s not there, we’ll track her from there."

"Aye, Chief," Hrogarh said, throwing a mock salute.

Carver transformed in a flash of feathers, talons scraping the floor as he took off through the window.

He flew over Lowtown, wings aching from the effort. It didn’t take long to reach Hightown. The Amell estate was nestled among polished stone and pompous fountains. Carver circled once, then again, scanning for an open window. Just one. Lucky.

He dove through it, transformed back midair—and landed on the plush carpet beside his brother’s bed.

Garreth was dead asleep. And completely naked.

"Are you serious?" Carver muttered.

He picked up Vandarel, who’d clattered beside him, and smacked his brother squarely on the ass.

"Get up, you prick. Ebba’s missing."

Garreth didn’t even flinch. He groaned, then threw a pillow blindly in Carver’s direction. "Piss off."

Carver narrowed his eyes and sent a quick jolt of lightning straight to Garreth’s exposed rear.

"FUCK!" Garreth shot up, clutching a pillow to his groin. "You lunatic!"

"Cover yourself you fucker. No one wants to see your bits."

Something shifted beneath the covers.

Carver froze. "Oh no. Don’t you—"

Ebba sat up, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "Can you keep it down? You sound like Hird."

Carver’s jaw dropped. "You—he—what?!"

Garreth stammered. Ebba, utterly unfazed, stood and stretched, clearly naked under the oversized shirt she pulled on.

"You slept with my brother?"

Ebba raised a brow. "Last night, yes. Possibly again this morning. Haven’t decided yet."

Carver waved his arms. "Why?!"

She pointed a finger at him. "Because your brother’s hot. And very, very good in bed. Don’t get pissy just because someone in your family has a decent lay."

Garreth, still holding the pillow like a lifeline, gave Carver a sheepish shrug.

"I’m surrounded by lunatics," Carver muttered.

"Hey," Ebba said sharply. "Who I bed is none of your business. You don’t own me."

"That’s not— I’m not—!" Carver stammered, then threw up his hands. "Fine! Sleep with whoever you want! Just don’t make it him!"

Ebba folded her arms. "Too late. And there will be repeat performances."

Garreth nodded, trying and failing not to look smug.

Then the door opened.

Leandra Amell stood in the doorway, lips pressed tight, Peach seated politely beside her. She surveyed the room: her two sons, one nude, one seething; Ebba half-dressed; the smell of alcohol and sex in the air.

She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then said, "Hrogarh and Carnuh are waiting in the library. Breakfast will be served in ten minutes. Garreth, Ebba, get dressed. Carver... compose yourself."

Then she shut the door.

Silence reigned.

And then all three of them burst into laughter.

Garreth doubled over, pillow forgotten. Ebba cackled, leaning against the bedframe. Even Carver, still flushed with irritation and horror, couldn’t help but laugh.

"This family is cursed," he muttered.

"You love me," Garreth said, wiping his eyes.

"I regret everything."

"You still want breakfast?"

Carver rubbed his face. "Yes. I want breakfast. I want so much breakfast."

Peach barked once.

Carver turned. "And where the hell were you?!"

She trotted over, tail wagging, tongue out, and licked his hand.

"Traitor," he muttered.

Ebba grinned. "I love this place already."

Carver sighed. "Spirits preserve me."

Breakfast went surprisingly well, really.

Carver was busy shoveling food into his mouth while his mother was breathing down his neck about the way he ate. He didn’t care. The food was so good—eggs, roasted ham, something with cheese that probably cost more than his entire set of armor—and he wasn’t about to let manners get in the way of stuffing himself stupid.

“Carver,” Leandra said in that clipped tone she reserved for when she was pretending to be genteel, “you eat like you were raised by wolves.”

He gestured with his fork, mouth full. “Lived with wolves, actually. In a swamp. Close enough.”

She sighed. “You’re incorrigible.”

Across the table, Hrogarh was grinning like he’d just discovered his favorite mead had a twin brother. He jabbed a meaty elbow into Carnuh’s side, nearly knocking over the gravy boat.

“Go on, tell them,” he said. “Tell them how many times you went at it last night.”

Carnuh turned red so fast it was like someone lit a fire under his skin. “We didn’t—it wasn’t like that! I mean—shut up!”

“So like that,” Hrogarh laughed, pounding the table. “That’s the blush of a man who woke up sore and smiling.”

Carnuh buried his face in his hands.

Carver was halfway through a third helping when he noticed something strange.

Ebba was unusually quiet.

Which, for Ebba, meant something was definitely going on.

He followed her line of sight to Garreth, who was doing his best impression of a noble statue—rigid posture, eyes on his plate, chewing far too deliberately. His cheeks were flushed a suspicious shade of pink.

Carver frowned. Wait.

He squinted.

Ebba had one arm resting casually under the table. Her shoulder moved… ever so slightly.

Garreth’s spine stiffened.

Carver raised his eyebrows. “Are you serious? Right now?”

Ebba smirked and took a long sip of tea.

Garreth made a sound like a dying goat.

“And you,” Carver said, pointing his fork at Peach. “Where the fuck did you wander off to last night?”

Peach stood, padded over, and without a word, lay herself at Leandra’s feet like she was some pampered Fereldan lapdog. Carver blinked.

Leandra reached down and scratched her behind the ears. “Bogdhan heard something scratching at the front door just past midnight. Opened it to find Peach sitting there patiently.”

“She just wandered in,” Leandra added, petting the enormous wolf’s head like it was a kitten. “Curled up by the fire, kept me company. Even scared off some ruffian who was trying to break in through the parlor window.”

Carver stared. “She what?”

“Chased him off like he was made of twigs and piss,” Leandra said with fond amusement. “Didn’t even leave a mark on the carpet. She’s a good girl.”

Peach yawned and thumped her tail once.

Carver blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I get glared at for putting my feet on the table and she gets praise for attempted murder?”

“Peach has never tracked mud across a Hightown rug,” Leandra said smoothly. “And she doesn’t sulk like a twelve-year-old.”

“Ouch.”

“I speak only the truth,” Leandra said, then fixed him with a sharper look. “Now. Are you ready to meet with the Viscount later today?”

There it was. No mention of last night’s impromptu shouting of his sexuality into the ceiling, or his dramatic exit. Just a calmly delivered question, like nothing had happened.

Carver shrugged. “Aveline’s picking me up. After that? I’ll just wing it.”

Leandra narrowed her eyes.

“I know that look,” he muttered.

“If you’re going to be an emissary for King Alistair,” she declared, sitting up straighter, “then you will look the part.”

“No.”

“Bogdhan!” Leandra called.

The butler appeared like a summoned shade, silent and poised.

“Yes, madam?”

“Fetch every formal piece of clothing Garreth owns. We need something appropriate for Carver.”

Garreth immediately bolted from his chair like someone had shouted “Fire!” behind him. “Be right back!”

“Now, Bogdhan,” Leandra said sweetly.

The butler bowed and vanished.

Garreth returned five minutes later, wearing a completely different pair of pants and looking like someone who had fought and lost a duel with his wardrobe.

Ebba looked very pleased.

Carver sighed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Fine. Let’s get it over with. You want me dressed like a noble fop? Be my guest. Just don’t expect me to curtsy.”

Leandra looked positively triumphant.

Carver turned to the others. “I’m going alone with Aveline. You lot can spend the day however you want.”

Ebba’s hand crept toward Garreth’s thigh again.

“Within reason!” Carver snapped.

“No murdering nobles,” Leandra added without looking up.

“No seducing them either,” Carver said, narrowing his eyes at Ebba.

She gave him a wink.

Peach let out a low, satisfied burp.

“Absolutely not,” Carver muttered.

Vandarel, who had been silent so far, finally chimed in from his usual place leaning against the far wall. “I hope you realize you’ve become the shepherd of a particularly horny, bloodthirsty flock of sheep.”

“Shut up.”

“They’d follow you into battle,” Vandarel went on. “They’d also rob the battlefield, loot the corpses, and then shag each other in the mud.”

Carver pointed his fork at the staff. “One more word and I’m letting mother decorate you with silk ribbons.”

Vandarel fell silent.

Carver stood, stretching. His stomach was full. His head was mostly clear. He still wasn’t sure what the day would bring, but at least he wasn’t facing it on an empty stomach.

Leandra looked at him, lips pursed, evaluating.

“I’m not going to spill wine on my shirt,” he told her.

“You will bow to the Viscount,” she replied.

“I’ll nod at him. Firmly.”

“Carver.”

He grinned. “I’ll be good.”

Behind him, Garreth made a choking sound. Ebba just laughed.

Peach snored.

It was shaping up to be one damned interesting day.

The office of Viscount Dumar smelled like old paper and expensive ink. Carver stepped inside, nodded to Aveline, and gave her a quick, heartfelt thanks for the help.

She just clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Try not to punch anyone."

No promises.

He turned to face the room. Two men stood by the tall windows: one older, hunched, wearing a thin iron circlet that looked more like a funeral ornament than a crown, and the other younger, sharp-featured, with a head of rust-colored hair and a gaze like a hawk sizing up prey.

Carver didn’t care for ceremony. Best to get this over with.

"Carver Hawke. Emissary of King Alistair Theirin and Queen Anora of Ferelden," he said, stepping forward. "I’m here to oversee the return of Fereldens who fled to Kirkwall during the Blight. I have full authority to negotiate in the King’s name."

The older man blinked, visibly startled. The redhead arched a brow, folding his arms.

"Well," the redhead said. "That’s direct. I’m Seneschal Bran."

"Viscount Marlowe Dumar," the older man added, recovering. He gestured to a chair. "Please, sit."

Carver did. The chair was stiff and unnecessarily regal.

Dumar cleared his throat. "We received the King’s letter. He’s offering safe passage for every refugee wishing to return. I’m pleased to help. Truly. The people of Kirkwall... well, they’ve had their struggles, but compassion has never been absent."

Carver bit back a laugh.

"There’s only one matter," Dumar continued. "The cost. Kirkwall has provided food and housing for these people for nearly two years. We must ask for compensation."

Carver let out a loud snort. "Yeah, no. Not happening."

Dumar blinked. Bran stiffened.

Carver leaned forward, fingers steepled. "I’ve seen how the refugees live. In filth. Packed into alleys like rats. Their kids go hungry. You call that housing?"

Bran opened his mouth to protest, but Carver cut him off with a raised hand.

"I also know that every single one of those refugees had to pay to even enter the city. And not to the city treasury. Into the hands of guards. Into the pockets of nobles. Maybe even into yours."

Dumar paled.

"So no," Carver went on. "You got your payment. In bribes. In labor. In what little coin they scraped together. You’re not getting a copper more."

The silence that followed was thick. Bran looked like he’d bitten down on something bitter. Dumar sat straighter, trying to maintain dignity, but the way his fingers twitched gave him away.

Then, the door opened.

Boots on stone. The sound sharp and practiced.

A woman entered in gleaming silver-and-crimson armor, templar crests shining like blood in the morning light. Her blonde hair was drawn tight, her face carved from stone.

Carver had no doubt.

Knight-Commander Meredith.

She surveyed the room like a queen surveying a court that had already disappointed her. Her gaze settled on Carver.

"I heard the King of Ferelden sent someone," she said. Her voice was as cold as her armor.

Carver stood. "He did. Me."

She raised a brow. "And who are you to speak for a king?"

"Carver Hawke."

Dumar coughed. "Yes, ah... this is Carver Hawke. Emissary of King Alistair."

Meredith narrowed her eyes. "Hawke? As in Garreth Hawke?"

Carver smiled. "That’s my brother. Our mother is Leandra Amell. Of the Amells of Kirkwall."

Dumar made a soft, startled noise. Meredith's lips thinned.

Carver let the moment hang.

He could see the gears turning in their heads. He wasn’t just some Fereldan stray. He had ties. Family. Influence. Nobility, even if he didn’t act like it, or liked it really.

He shrugged. "Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have actual work to do."

He turned to Dumar. "Tell the city: four days. That’s when the ships leave. If I hear one word about anyone trying to shake down the refugees for coin or favors, the King will hear of it. And so will I."

Bran stiffened again. Dumar nodded slowly, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow.

Meredith hadn’t moved.

Carver glanced at her. "Unless the Chantry or the Templars plan to offer a blessing when the ships arrive, I’m not sure why you’re here."

"I take an interest in matters that affect the city," she said coldly.

"Right. Well, I take an interest in getting my people home. So if we’re done here, I have better places to be."

He turned on his heel and left the office without another word.

Out in the hallway, he let out a long breath.

"Fuck this," he muttered. "Alistair owe me big for this."

He started walking, eager to get out into the open air again. Maybe he’d find Varric and bribe him with a drink to start writing this all down.

Because no way in hell was anyone going to believe he’d just insulted the Knight-Commander to her face and walked away intact.

Carver was still fuming.

He stomped down the Hightown steps, hands clenched into fists and teeth grinding together. Dumar wanted Alistair to pay for the refugees? Pay for what? For being extorted? For being packed into hovels and left to rot while the guards skimmed coin from every entrance pass and food ration? The smug look on that fork-tongued noble's face—it made Carver's blood boil all over again.

No, not everyone would hear about the ships. Not with Dumar involved.

So he was going to make damn sure they did.

He made his way toward Lowtown, coat flapping behind him. Four grubby kids darted past him in the alley, and he snapped his fingers.

"Oi! You lot—come here."

They skidded to a halt, wide-eyed. One had no shoes, another was missing a few teeth. They eyed him with the caution of kids who knew exactly how to vanish when needed.

Carver reached into his pouch and pulled out four silvers apiece. Their eyes grew wide.

"Five silvers each. You run through Lowtown and Darktown and tell every Ferelden you find: Four days. Docks. Ships to take 'em home, no coin needed. Got it?"

They all nodded vigorously, eyes glued to the silver.

"Repeat it back."

"Four days," said the smallest.

"Ships at the docks," said another.

"Free ride home to Ferelden," the last one chimed in.

"Good," Carver grunted and handed over the coin. "Go. Fast."

They were gone before the money even hit their palms. Carver watched them disappear into the night with a tight smile. Word would spread now—quick and loud, like only street kids could manage.

He made his way back to the Hanged Man, grumbling under his breath. His boots were already filthy, his back ached, and the only thing he wanted was a stiff drink and his staff.

But when he entered their room, it was empty.

No Carnuh. No Hrogarh. No Ebba. Not even Peach.

More importantly—no Vandaral.

Carver froze.

"Where the fuck is my staff?!"

He bolted into Varric's suite without knocking. Varric didn't even flinch.

The dwarf was hunched over a pile of documents, scribbling furiously. Without looking up, he jerked his thumb toward the staff, lying casually across the table.

"Fawn's off with Daisy. Bear's busy with Rivaini. Stabby and Hawke are both MIA. Staff’s fine."

Carver groaned and snatched Vandaral up, inspecting it for scratches. "And you just let them leave with my staff unguarded?"

Varric raised an eyebrow. "You left it here, Buttercup. That’s on you."

Carver rubbed his temples. "I hate you sometimes."

"Love you too."

Right. So everyone was off being... whatever they were. Fine. Whatever. He could still go see Mother.

And Peach. The giant spirit wolf had apparently adopted Leandra, and vice versa. The thought of the two of them curled up together in the drawing room was bizarrely heartwarming.

He left the Hanged Man just as night fell over the city. The streets of Hightown were quiet, the air heavy with the scent of oil lamps and freshly watered stone. Carver frowned.

And now, of course, he realized with dawning horror—he had no idea where the Amell estate actually was.

"Fuck."

He wandered for a while, trying to pretend he wasn’t lost. But every house looked the same. White stone, iron gates, dark windows. Elegant and empty.

And then, without warning, figures dropped from the rooftops.

He didn’t think. He moved.

Blade flashed in one hand, Vandaral in the other. Magic surged through his veins. One attacker lunged—he met them with a burst of force that sent the body flying.

Another swung a dagger—Carver twisted, his staff knocking the blade away before he rammed his elbow into the thug’s ribs.

They kept coming. One after another. Too many.

Blood sprayed the walls. His coat was already soaked. His arms ached.

And then—

Light.

A blur of silver-white and green flame tore through the attackers like parchment. Blade and fury. And then the last body hit the cobblestones with a wet crunch.

Carver staggered, breath heaving. He turned—and found himself face to face with Fenris.

The elf was spattered with blood, his lyrium tattoos glowing faintly beneath the surface of his skin.

"Thanks," Carver managed, panting.

Fenris gave a curt nod.

"You’re covered in it," he said flatly.

Carver looked down. He was. Completely drenched.

Fenris tilted his head. "My place is nearby. Come."

Too tired to argue, Carver followed. They crossed a few streets before the elf opened the gate of a quiet estate. The mansion loomed above them, cold and dark.

Inside, it smelled of dust and old wood. And something else.

Carver wrinkled his nose. In the corner, barely lit by a candle, was a pile of rotting corpses.

He pointed. "What the fuck?"

"My former master's men," Fenris said evenly. "They keep coming."

"You ever think of, I don’t know, disposing of them?"

"They make a point."

Carver raised an eyebrow. "A stinking one. Want me to get rid of them?"

Fenris looked at him for a moment. Then he nodded.

Carver raised his staff. A pulse of heat, a flick of flame—and the bodies were ash.

"You’re welcome," he said dryly.

Fenris gave the barest hint of a smirk.

"Do you have a bath?" Carver asked. "And a fire? And... something to change into? If I go to Mother’s like this, she’ll flay me."

"Upstairs. Second door."

Carver grinned, half mad with exhaustion. "Thanks."

Fenris led him to the room and gestured silently before leaving. Carver stepped into the bathing chamber, peeled off his ruined clothes, and sank into the hot water like a man reborn.

The blood washed away slowly, pink tendrils curling through the water.

He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, and let out a long sigh.

He’d been attacked. Again. He’d incinerated corpses. Again. He was staying at a brooding elf’s haunted mansion.

"Alistair owes me so fucking much," he muttered.

Vandaral, propped against the tub, gave no reply.

But Carver swore it was smug.

Carver dried off and wrapped a towel around his waist. The air was still warm from the bath, his skin flushed and tingling. He stepped into the hallway, feet silent on the stone floor as he followed the flicker of lamplight coming from a nearby room.

He knocked once—more out of politeness than need—then pushed the door open.

Fenris was inside, standing stiffly with a bundle of clothes in his hands.

When he turned and saw Carver—bare-chested, damp curls loose and clinging to his shoulders, only a towel slung low on his hips—the elf visibly froze.

His eyes widened. Then, astonishingly, he blushed.

Carver blinked. Then smirked.

Fenris shoved the clothes at him, mumbling something about finding him in the library when he was dressed. Then he all but fled the room.

Carver chuckled under his breath.

He tugged on the trousers first—dark, simple, a bit tight in the thighs but manageable. The shirts, however, were another story. Too short, too narrow in the shoulders. He tossed them aside with a grunt. Fine. Pants it was.

When he stepped into the library, Fenris was already seated at a long oak table, a bottle of wine between them. He glanced up as Carver approached, and if he noticed the lack of shirt, he said nothing. But the blush was still faint on his cheeks.

"Thanks again," Carver said, settling into the chair beside him. "For the help. And, y’know. Not letting me die in the street."

Fenris nodded once. "You handled yourself well."

Carver poured himself a glass of wine. "Still got ambushed. Still lost in the nicest part of the city. Real smooth, I know."

Fenris gave a faint smile, lifting his own glass. "Hightown is a maze if you don't belong."

Carver took a sip. It was good. Rich and smooth, nothing like the bitter piss they served at the Hanged Man.

They drank in silence for a moment.

Then Carver leaned back and said, "Met with Dumar today."

Fenris looked up, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

"He wants Alistair to pay for the Ferelden refugees," Carver muttered, scowling. "Like it’s our fault the Blight pushed us out. Like they’re not already squeezing coin from them wherever they can."

Fenris’s jaw tightened. "That is... unsurprising."

"It’s bullshit," Carver snapped. "So I did something about it. Paid street kids to spread the word. Ships in four days. If they wanna go home, they can. Free."

The elf tilted his head, studying him. "You care."

"Of course I do.."

Another silence.

Then Fenris asked, almost carefully, "What of the magic you used tonight?"

Carver shrugged. "It worked. I stopped thinking about it. Vandarel did most of the guiding."

"You trust him."

"More than most people." Carver chuckled. "Though he’s a smug bastard."

Fenris frowned. "He's a spirit."

"Yeah. Still a smug bastard."

That got a faint exhale from Fenris—possibly a laugh. Carver counted it as a win.

They fell into easier conversation after that. Wine made it flow more freely. Talk of Kirkwall, of blood magic, of the old battles in the Wilds. Carver told a story about Peach scaring off a would-be burglar from his mother’s doorstep, and Fenris actually smiled.

Carver tilted his glass toward him. "Not bad for a wolf, huh?"

"A useful companion," Fenris agreed.

Carver leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. "So... you always live alone?"

Fenris hesitated. "I prefer solitude."

"You ever get lonely?"

The elf's eyes flicked to him, unreadable.

Carver smirked, swirling his wine. "I mean, no judgment. Just wondering."

"Sometimes," Fenris said quietly.

Another pause. Carver watched him, then added, softer, "Must be hard."

That earned a glance. A long one.

Carver let the silence sit for a beat. Then, bold and maybe just a bit wine-dumb, he added, "You ever think about what it’d be like? Not being alone, I mean. Having someone who doesn’t flinch when you talk. Or glow. Or bleed."

Fenris didn’t answer. He just looked down at his glass.

Carver leaned back again, giving him space.

"You’re not what I expected," Fenris interrupted.

Carver raised an eyebrow. "What’d you expect? Another angry Hawke?"

Fenris allowed himself a faint smile. "Something like that."

They sat in silence again, but it wasn’t stiff. The tension had eased, softened by firelight and wine. Carver could still hear the faint drip of water from the bath down the hall, the slow crackle of wood in the hearth.

Finally, Fenris rose.

"There’s a spare room. You can sleep there tonight, if you wish."

Carver stood too. "Thanks. For everything."

Fenris met his gaze, eyes unreadable but not cold.

"Goodnight, Carver."

Carver smiled, just a little. "Goodnight, Fenris."

As he turned to head down the hall, he caught the elf watching him go.

And that made his grin widen just a bit more.

Chapter Text

Sunlight hit Carver square in the face. He groaned and rolled onto his side, pulling the covers up in a half-hearted attempt to keep the light out. The sheets were softer than anything at the Hanged Man, and the air didn't reek of stale ale. It took him a second to remember where he was.

Fenris' mansion.

Right. The ambush. The thugs. The bloodbath. The wine. The elf.

Carver sat up slowly, the unfamiliar room swimming into view. Guest room, it looked like. Sparsely furnished, but clean. His clothes were draped over the back of a chair, now dry. He got up, stretched, and made a face at his wrinkled shirt. It would have to do.

He scratched his jaw, then found a piece of parchment and scribbled out a note:

Thanks again for the save. And the bed. And the wine. You ever need help burning more bodies, let me know.

—Carver

He left the note on the table and quietly made his way out. The mansion was quiet, save for the distant creak of floorboards upstairs. He didn’t see Fenris, but the door was unlocked, and he slipped out into the crisp morning air.

Getting back to the Amell estate was easier in daylight. He knew the way by now, though his feet ached by the time he reached the front gate. The second he stepped inside, he was met with a shriek.

"Carver! Where have you been?" Leandra rushed toward him, her hands fluttering to his face, his shoulders, as if to make sure he was whole.

Garreth was right behind her, arms folded, mouth tight. “You disappeared. No word. Varric said you took your staff and vanished."

Carver blinked. "I left a note."

"You most certainly did not," Leandra snapped.

"Alright, alright," Carver said, waving her off. "I’m fine. I went to see the Viscount, like I said I would. Then I ran into Meredith, insulted her—which, honestly, felt good—and after that, well... everyone was gone."

He gave Garreth a pointed look.

"I was handling something," Garreth muttered.

"Was that something Ebba?," Carver shot back.

Leandra stepped between them. "Language. Both of you."

Carver crossed his arms. "I was going to visit you last night, Mother. I really was. But I got ambushed by a pack of thugs in Hightown."

Leandra gasped. "Maker!"

"I handled it," Carver said. "Fenris helped. Then I cleaned up and stayed the night at his place."

Garreth raised an eyebrow. "Fenris helped?"

Carver shrugged. "Weirdly enough, yeah. The brooding elf has a soft spot for gutting mercenaries."

Leandra looked like she wanted to sit down. "Why are people attacking you in Hightown?"

"Because apparently I can’t go five steps in this city without someone trying to test me," Carver muttered. "It’s fine. They’re dead."

Garreth made a face. "That’s a bit dramatic."

"Effective," Carver said flatly. "Also, you’re one to talk about drama."

Leandra pinched the bridge of her nose. "You two are going to drive me to drink."

"Too late," Carver said, walking toward the kitchen. "Already had wine last night."

Leandra followed him. "You’re not injured?"

"Not a scratch."

She reached up and cupped his cheek anyway, inspecting him with that worried mother look that made Carver feel both twelve and oddly warmed.

"You really must be more careful."

"I had Vandarel. And Fenris. I’m not exactly helpless."

She sighed, brushing a curl from his face. "I know. But you’re still my son."

He gave her a small smile. "I know."

They settled in the parlor, and Bogdhan brought tea without needing to be asked. Carver was halfway through his second cup when Peach trotted in, tail wagging. She went straight for Leandra, pressing her head into her lap.

"There she is," Leandra cooed, scratching her ears. "She was beside herself last night."

"Bet she was," Carver said, smirking. "Probably mad I didn’t bring her wine."

Peach snorted, then padded over to flop beside him.

Leandra gave him a pointed look. "You do understand that, whatever else you're doing, you're a public figure now. As the King’s emissary."

Carver groaned. "Don’t remind me."

"You represent Ferelden," she continued. "You can’t just disappear into the night."

"I was ambushed."

"And next time, write a note."

Carver raised a hand in surrender. "Noted."

Garreth reappeared, looking less angry now. "We were worried. That’s all."

"I get it," Carver said. "But seriously. I can handle myself."

Garreth hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. You can."

Leandra gave them both a long look, then stood. "Alright. I have dresses to sort through. Maker knows what I’ll wear if we get invited to the Keep."

Carver watched her go, then glanced at Garreth. "You actually worried? Or was that just Mother yelling at you until you found your way back here?"

Garreth rolled his eyes. "Both."

Carver snorted. "You need a drink."

"You smell like you already had several."

"Not untrue."

Garreth shook his head. "You going to tell me what actually happened with Fenris?"

Carver raised an eyebrow. "What do you think happened?"

"Knowing you? Anything from sharing war stories to setting the mansion on fire."

Carver grinned. "Somewhere in between."

"Do you have any plans today?" Garreth asked, too casually. Carver narrowed his eyes. Nothing about Garreth ever sounded that casual unless he was hiding something.

"Why? What did you do?" Carver asked suspiciously.

Garreth smiled, which was never a good sign. "I didn’t do anything. But Dumar asked me to speak with the Arishok this afternoon. I could use a second pair of eyes."

Carver blinked. Then blinked again. "Come again?"

"The Arishok," Garreth said evenly. "Leader of the Qunari who’ve taken up residence in the compound near the docks."

Carver stared at him. "The Qunari? In Kirkwall?"

Garreth nodded.

"What the fuck are Qunari doing in fucking Kirkwall of all places? Did no one tell them the Deep Roads are more welcoming than this sewer?"

There was a sharp smack to the back of his head. Leandra.

"Language," she scolded.

Carver rubbed the spot and grumbled, "You heard what he said. Qunari. Here."

Leandra sighed. "Yes, I heard. Believe me, I’m just as thrilled."

Garreth continued, ignoring them both. "Apparently, their ship crashed during a storm, and they’ve been stranded ever since. But that’s not the only issue. The Arishok is waiting for something—or searching for it. No one knows what, and that’s making people twitchy."

Carver groaned and flopped into a chair. "Of course it is. Because we didn’t already have enough going on, right? Fereldan refugees who still haven’t left, a Dalish clan camped outside the walls, and now Qunari brooding by the docks like overgrown statues."

He rubbed his face. "I miss the Wilds. I miss roots. I miss bugs."

Leandra made a sympathetic noise. "You could always go sleep in the garden."

Carver shot her a look. "Don’t tempt me."

"So?" Garreth prompted. "Will you come with me?"

Carver sighed. "Yeah, alright. Who’s coming with us?"

Garreth hesitated just long enough to raise alarms. Then he said, far too smoothly, "Fenris and Anders."

Carver dropped his head onto the table. "Oh good. The broody anti-magic elf and the apostate housing a Fade spirit. What a delightful day this is shaping up to be."

Peach, ever helpful, whined softly at his feet.

Carver looked down at her. "Even you’re not enough of a comfort right now."

Garreth smirked. "Could be worse. Could’ve sent you with the Viscount’s guards."

Carver sat up. "At least they only smell like sweaty velvet and disappointment."

Garreth didn’t argue. Instead, he handed Carver a sealed note. "Meeting at noon. I suggest you try to look presentable."

Carver glared. "Define presentable."

"Less like you slept in a dog pile and more like the King’s emissary."

Carver looked down at his clothes. Wrinkled. Blood on the hem. Still smelled faintly of sweat and wine. Fair.

"Fine," he muttered. "But if Anders and Fenris start trying to kill each other, I’m not stopping them."

The Qunari compound loomed like a grey block of grim metal and stone. Its heavy gates were flanked by warriors built like statues, their horns casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Carver had met a Qunari before, Sten who was with the warden but only talked to a few times.

"You sure this isn’t a trap?" he muttered to Garreth as they approached.

"No more than usual," Garreth said.

Fenris was already waiting by the gate, arms crossed and eyes sharp. Anders stood beside him, arms also crossed, but for very different reasons. Their mutual scowls made the air feel tighter.

Carver sighed. "Right. Let’s get this over with."

The guards let them in without a word. Inside, the compound was... austere. Sandstone floors, towering walls, and very little decoration. Qunari warriors trained in silence, blades slicing the air with rhythmic precision. No shouting. No laughter. Just steel and focus.

They were led to a wide chamber where the Arishok sat on a raised dais, flanked by two more soldiers. He was massive—even seated, he radiated authority like heat. His horns curled back in an arc, his expression unreadable.

"Arishok," Garreth said, bowing slightly. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."

"You bring more people," the Arishok said. Not a question.

Garreth didn’t flinch. "These are my companions."

Carver fought the urge to say something stupid. Mostly.

The Arishok's gaze swept over each of them in turn. When it landed on Anders, his eyes narrowed. "You carry a spirit."

Anders tensed. "That’s not your concern."

The Arishok leaned forward slightly. "It is my concern when spirits dwell inside men. That is a corruption."

Fenris shifted his weight. "You would know."

"Not now," Carver muttered, stepping between them before it spiraled.

Garreth cleared his throat. "We’ve heard rumors that your people are searching for something. We’d like to avoid misunderstandings."

The Arishok didn’t respond right away. Then he said, "We search because we must. Not for your comfort."

Carver squinted. "So, what, you lost your keys?"

Fenris made a sound suspiciously like a stifled laugh.

The Arishok did not laugh. "What we seek is not trivial."

"Right," Carver said. "That clears it up."

Garreth shot him a look. Carver raised his hands. "I’m just saying, if you’re going to squat in someone else’s city, maybe toss them a clue."

"We do not squat. We endure."

Carver had to admit—that was a solid line.

The conversation went downhill from there. The Arishok answered questions with riddles, refused to explain the Qunari’s purpose, and made it very clear that they would not leave until they accomplished whatever mission they were here for.

By the time they stepped out of the compound, Carver’s head throbbed.

"That went well," Anders muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Better than expected," Fenris said. "No one was executed."

"Always a good day," Carver agreed. He turned to Garreth. "So now what? We just let them sit there and brood until Kirkwall explodes?"

Garreth sighed. "I’ll speak to Dumar. Maybe he can put more pressure on them."

Carver snorted. "Right. Good luck with that."

Anders, for once, said nothing. Just stared at the horizon, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Fenris spoke up quietly. "They won’t leave. Not until they have what they came for. And when they don’t get it, they’ll take something else instead."

Carver glanced at him. "You say that like you’ve seen it before."

Fenris didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away.

Anders followed shortly after, muttering something about needing a drink.

Carver sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"So," he said to Garreth, "how much trouble are we in now?"

Garreth looked at the compound behind them. "I think we’re about to find out."

Carver muttered, "Should’ve stayed in the Wilds."

Peach barked in agreement.

The walk to the Hanged Man was...tense. Not the kind of tension that came from Garreth and Carver sniping at each other like usual. No, this was different. It clung to the air, thick and uncomfortable. The source? Anders and Fenris.

Carver kept pace just behind them, one brow raised as Anders’s voice grew sharper with each sentence. Fenris walked in silence, jaw tight, arms folded, looking ahead like he’d rather chew glass than acknowledge Anders existed.

"Oh, come off it," Anders was saying, his tone sharp and dripping with scorn. "You think your pain, your slave brand and your tortured brooding makes you special? You think you have it worse than every mage locked in a Circle since the Towers were built?"

Fenris didn’t even look at him. He gave a single grunt and kept walking.

Carver stared at the back of Anders’ head. Really? Of all the days for Anders to be in a mood...

Anders kept going. "You think you understand injustice? You were a warrior. A tool. Fine. But you still had your body. You had your strength. Mages are prisoners the second we draw breath!"

Carver narrowed his eyes, his fingers flexing at his sides. He could feel the heat building in his chest, rising behind his ribs.

Then Anders dropped the hammer. "Carver, you understand, don’t you? You’re a mage. You’re bound to see it my way. Especially with that staff of yours—Vandarel, wasn’t it? The spirit of a legendary Chasind leader? If anyone should understand the suffering of mages, it’s you."

Carver stopped walking. The others took a few more steps before realizing he wasn’t with them.

Slowly, Carver turned. His voice was low, clipped. "Don’t you ever compare me to you."

Anders blinked. "What—?"

"Don’t." Carver stepped forward, pointing at him with a sharp jab of his finger. "I never let Vandarel possess me. We’re not two minds in one skull. We are one. One soul, one purpose. We’re not roommates sharing a body—we’re the same fucking person."

Garreth cleared his throat, but Carver didn’t stop.

"You think what you did with Justice is noble? You corrupted him. You took a pure spirit and twisted him because of your own pain. Maybe it wasn’t intentional—but it still happened."

Anders’s jaw tensed. "You think I don’t know that?"

Carver ignored him. "Spirits have purpose. They are their purpose. Justice is about fairness—for everyone. You think he’s just there to fight for mages? That he gives a shit about only your suffering? Justice belongs to the child whose family was killed in the war. The merchant robbed by a noble. The servant girl beaten for speaking out. Fenris deserves justice for what was done to him."

Fenris looked at him now. Just stared. Quiet. Watching.

"You don’t get to monopolize justice, Anders," Carver went on. "And you sure as fuck don’t get to say you’re better than the templars when you’re walking the same damn road. You want to talk about balance? Look at yourself. Look at what you’ve become. You’re not a beacon for freedom—you’re a fucking warning sign."

Silence stretched.

Garreth looked like he was rethinking every decision that led him here. Fenris hadn’t moved. And Anders… Anders looked stunned. And then angry.

"So what do the Chasind do, then?" Anders snapped. "You say your people understand spirits, that you know balance. What happens if a Chasind mage consorts with demons?"

Carver smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. "They’re killed."

Anders’s face twisted. "How is that any better than what the templars do?"

"Because everyone follows the same rules," Carver snapped back. "Mage or not. You kill someone without cause, you die. You corrupt a spirit, you die. No cages. No towers. No templars breathing down your neck. You’re free—but freedom doesn’t mean immunity."

"That’s barbaric," Anders said. "You’re no better than—"

Carver moved.

Before Anders could finish the sentence, Carver had him shoved up against a nearby wall. Garreth flinched. Fenris didn’t. In fact, his eyes gleamed with something suspiciously close to admiration.

Carver leaned in, voice low and shaking with restrained fury. "The Chasind took in every Circle mage who fled after the Blight. We welcomed them. We trained them. We burned every last phylactery we found in Ferelden’s Circle tower so no one could ever track them again. So don’t you dare fucking compare us to the templars."

Anders struggled, but Carver didn’t move. Not yet.

"You want to be angry? Fine. You want to fight for mage rights? Fine. But don’t stand there and pretend like you’re the only one who’s ever suffered. Don’t use Justice as your excuse to hurt people who don’t agree with you. Because if you keep going like this, it’s not justice that drives you anymore. It’s vengeance."

Anders’s eyes flared. Not blue. Not human.

Carver shoved off him and stepped back. He didn’t want to look at what he saw flickering there.

He turned to Garreth. "You need to be careful. Some of your companions are walking time bombs."

Garreth opened his mouth, but Carver didn’t wait.

He turned on his heel and stalked off. Peach scrambled after him, sensing his fury even if she didn’t understand it.

Carver didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t anywhere near Anders.

Because if he stayed... he might not be able to stop himself from finishing what he started.

Muttering to himself, still seething, Carver stomped down the uneven streets of Kirkwall. His boots scuffed pebbles and puddles, and more than once he nearly bowled over a merchant or some poor soul trying to get through their day. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even glance back. His blood was still boiling, and if he didn’t keep moving, he was sure he’d explode.

He didn’t even know where he was going.

And before he realized it, he was utterly lost. Again. Fucking Kirkwall.

A rusted bucket sat beside a pile of crates. Carver kicked it, hard. It clattered across the cobblestones and smacked into a wall with a loud, metallic clang. He let out a guttural yell, fists clenched, eyes burning.

Then, from behind him, a quiet cough.

Carver froze. Turned.

Fenris.

The elf was leaning against the alley wall, one hand covering his mouth, and his eyes were crinkled in amusement. If Carver didn’t know better, he’d say the bastard was trying not to laugh.

“Enjoy the show?” Carver said gruffly, crossing his arms.

Fenris raised a brow. “It was a convincing display of rage. And footwork.”

Carver opened his mouth to fire back some clever retort—and promptly failed.

“I, uh... just needed to vent,” he muttered.

“So I gathered,” Fenris said. Then, voice more serious, he added, “I wanted to thank you.”

Carver blinked. “For what?”

“For earlier. For standing up to Anders.” Fenris glanced away. “Lately, his attacks have been more frequent. Sharper. And most of the time, Garreth just deflects. Or tells a joke.”

Carver snorted. “That’s Garreth for you. He looks like he’s got his shit together, but inside? He hates confrontation unless it’s with a sword. He’d rather laugh it off than tell someone to fuck off. That’s... always been him.”

Fenris nodded slowly.

Carver continued, “But you don’t owe him blind loyalty just because he helped you. You can walk away any time. You should speak up when you’re treated like shit. Tell people your terms. Set your limits.”

Fenris looked down, considering that. Then, briefly, he smiled.

It wasn’t one of those grim little smirks he usually wore. It was warm. Bright. Gone in a blink.

Then, with a sudden frown, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me where you went this morning?”

Carver blinked. “I left a note.”

Fenris looked away.

Carver paused. He saw it now—the way Fenris stiffened, the slight flush in his cheeks. Realization struck him.

The elf couldn’t read.

Carver made a mental note to scream into a pillow later. Idiot.

But instead of pointing it out, he gave Fenris a crooked grin. “Yeah, well. My handwriting’s shit anyway. Even Peach can’t read it, and she’s a very discerning wolf.”

Fenris huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Carver said solemnly. “One time she stared at a letter I wrote for an hour and then peed on it. I think it was a review.”

Fenris’ mouth twitched. He was still blushing, but the tension had drained from his shoulders.

“Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat, “I have wine.”

Carver arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Several bottles, actually. From Starkhaven. Thought you might want to help me judge their quality.”

Carver tilted his head, trying not to smile too hard. “Well, I’m always happy to help a friend with such noble tasks.”

Fenris rolled his eyes but turned and gestured for Carver to follow.

As they walked side by side through the alleyways of Lowtown, Carver felt the fire in his chest cool. Not completely. But enough.

The streets were still grimy, the city still stank, and Anders was still somewhere out there fuming. But here, walking next to Fenris, the world felt a little less heavy.

Maybe he wouldn’t kill Anders after all.

At least, not today.

The wine was good. Surprisingly good, actually. But the company?

Even better.

Carver leaned back against the worn cushions of Fenris' sparse but strangely cozy sitting room, a bottle resting loosely in one hand. They were halfway into their third—no, fourth?—bottle, and the edge of Carver's earlier fury had been dulled into a warm hum beneath his skin.

Fenris sat opposite him, legs crossed, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Their talk had been easy, the way it only ever got when the world outside wasn’t pressing down on them. They’d touched on Carver’s part in the Blight, the nightmare that was Ostagar, and the far stranger story of how he’d come to lead a group of Wilders with a talking staff. Fenris had chuckled at that, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it—but without mockery. Just a quiet kind of interest.

Then Fenris had shared his own tales: not of glory, but vengeance. Of Magisters tracked and slain, of scars that wouldn’t fade no matter how many slavers he gutted. His voice had stayed low and calm through it all, like he was reading from someone else’s story.

Carver had just started making a sarcastic comment about the absurdity of their lives when Fenris cut him off.

"Are you truly gay?"

Carver choked on his wine, coughing and sputtering like an idiot. "What?"

Fenris didn’t flinch. He just looked at him, expression serious. "And if you are," he continued, evenly, "do you want to sleep with me?"

Carver stared, jaw slightly ajar, before setting down his bottle. "Are you drunk?"

"A little," Fenris admitted, then shrugged. "But not enough to be joking. I’ve been thinking about it since I met you at the Hanged Man."

Carver blinked, brain catching up with his ears. “Okay... okay. Uh. That’s... wow.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You really don’t waste time, do you?”

"I don’t mean to offend," Fenris said quietly, his gaze lowering to the table. "Sex was never something I had a say in. My master—he used me. Gave me to others, to gain favor. I did not choose, and it was never... kind."

Carver’s stomach twisted. “Shit.”

"It left a mark. Not just the lyrium.” Fenris met his eyes again. “But when I’m with you, I feel safe. You are kind. You don’t judge. And you’re... not unattractive."

Carver snorted, half to cover the heat creeping up his neck. “High praise.”

“I want to know if it can be different,” Fenris said, voice low but firm. “If sex can be... mine. If my body can feel something other than fear or pain. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want promises. Just... help me understand what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Carver exhaled, long and slow, and studied him. Not as the brooding, dangerous elf most people saw. But as a man who had been broken down to the bones and was slowly, painfully, trying to rebuild something for himself.

And he’d chosen Carver to help him do it.

“I’m... honored,” Carver said honestly. “But you need to promise me something.”

Fenris tilted his head.

“You tell me if it gets to be too much. If something hurts, if you want to stop, we stop. No questions. No shame. You’re in control, every second.”

Fenris nodded. “I understand.”

Carver reached out, gently cupping Fenris’ jaw, tilting his face up. He leaned in and kissed him.

Slowly. Tenderly.

Fenris froze at first, lips stiff beneath his, but then he eased into it. A little clumsy, but eager. When they broke apart, Fenris was breathing harder, eyes a little wide.

“Okay?” Carver asked softly.

Fenris nodded. “Yes. More.”

Carver stood, offering his hand. Fenris took it.

He led him to the bed in the corner of the room, the sheets simple but clean. There was a tremble in Fenris’ fingers as he sat down, and Carver kept his movements slow. Careful.

He slid off his own shirt, then reached for Fenris’. The elf hesitated, then lifted his arms, letting Carver tug it over his head. Silver lines pulsed faintly along his chest and arms, beautiful and terrible. Carver pressed a kiss to one shoulder, just above a lyrium mark, and felt Fenris shiver.

“Still good?”

“Yes.”

He kissed down Fenris’ neck, his jaw, gently brushing his lips along sensitive skin. Then, with soft fingers, he traced the lines of Fenris’ thigh, just above the waistband of his trousers.

Fenris gasped.

Carver leaned up, whispered, “Do you want me to stop?”

A pause. Then a whisper. “No. Please.”

He took his time. Every touch, every kiss was slow and careful, meant to soothe rather than ignite. Carver wasn’t trying to seduce him—he was trying to show him that it could be safe. That pleasure didn’t have to come with a price.

Fenris moaned softly, his body trembling under Carver’s hands, but not with fear. There was a sweetness to it, a newness that made every breath feel sacred.

Carver’s hand rested lightly on Fenris’s thigh, a gesture of reassurance, of connection. He knew the elf’s history—the scars, both visible and invisible, that marked his body and soul. Carver’s touch was deliberate, gentle, a promise of safety in a world that had given Fenris little.

“Fenris,” Carver began, his voice low and steady, “you don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just want you to feel good. To feel safe.” His ice-blue eyes met Fenris’s briefly before dropping to the elf’s lap.

Slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence, Carver moved his hand to Fenris’s cock. The elf flinched, his breath catching, but Carver paused, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of Fenris’s trousers. “Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm.

Fenris nodded, his jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away. Carver took that as permission, his fingers deftly unfastening the elf’s trousers. The fabric fell away, revealing Fenris’s cock, already half-hard and throbbing with anticipation.

Carver’s hand closed around it gently, his touch firm but mindful of the fragility of the moment. He began to stroke slowly, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head, his other hand reaching up to trace the lines of the lyrium tattoos that marred Fenris’s skin.

“Easy,” Carver whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the side of Fenris’s neck. His lips lingered there, his breath warm against the elf’s skin, as his hand continued its slow, rhythmic motion.

Fenris shuddered, a soft moan escaping his lips, his head tilting back to grant Carver better access. The sound was music to Carver’s ears, a sign that Fenris was beginning to let go, if only for a moment.

Carver’s lips trailed down Fenris’s neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of the elf’s skin. His hand moved in time with his mouth, each stroke designed to build pleasure without overwhelming.

Fenris’s moans grew louder, his body arching slightly into Carver’s touch. But even as the elf’s arousal grew, Carver could sense the tension in his muscles, the fear that lingered just beneath the surface.

“Fenris,” Carver said, his voice thick with desire but still gentle, “I’m going to take my mouth to you now. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Fenris’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Carver’s gaze with a mixture of longing and apprehension. He nodded, his breath coming in short gasps. Carver smiled softly, a promise of devotion in his eyes, before lowering his head. His lips closed around the head of Fenris’s cock, his tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles. The elf’s hips jerked involuntarily, a sharp cry escaping his lips as pleasure flooded his senses.

Carver took his time, savoring the taste of Fenris, the feel of him on his tongue. He sucked gently, his hand working in tandem with his mouth, his other hand moving to stroke the elf’s thigh. Fenris’s moans grew louder, his body trembling as he teetered on the edge of release. But Carver’s movements were deliberate, his focus on prolonging the pleasure rather than rushing to the end.

As he continued, Carver reached for the oil on the bedside table, his fingers dipping into the cool liquid.

He paused, his lips brushing against Fenris’s cock as he looked up at the elf. “I want to prepare you,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Fenris nodded, his eyes half-lidded with desire, his trust in Carver evident in the way he relaxed into the bed. Carver’s finger, slick with oil, traced the entrance to Fenris’s body, his touch feather-light. Slowly, with infinite care, he pressed inside, his movements painstakingly gentle.

Fenris hissed, his body tensing, but Carver’s mouth never left his cock, his sucking and licking a constant source of pleasure.

“Relax for me,” Carver murmured, his voice a soothing hum against Fenris’s skin. “Let me take care of you.”

Fenris’s breath came in ragged gasps as Carver’s finger moved deeper, stretching him slowly, his other hand still stroking his cock. The elf’s moans were a mix of pleasure and discomfort, but Carver could see the desire in his eyes, the need to be filled, to be claimed. He added a second finger, his movements careful, his focus entirely on Fenris’s reactions.

Suddenly, Fenris pushed Carver away, his body arching off the bed. Carver froze, his hands hovering in midair as he searched the elf’s face for any sign of distress. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice tight with concern. “Should I stop?”

Fenris shook his head, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “No,” he gasped, his green eyes locking onto Carver’s. “I want… more.”

Carver’s heart swelled at the raw vulnerability in Fenris’s voice. He nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Then take it,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. 

Wanting to give Fenris control, Carver lay back on the bed, his arms spread wide in invitation. Fenris hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking over Carver’s muscular frame, before straddling him, his legs bracketing Carver’s hips. Carver reached up, his hands resting on Fenris’s hips, guiding him slowly. “Take it slow,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over the elf’s skin. 

Fenris nodded, his breath trembling as he positioned himself over Carver’s cock. Slowly, with a careful deliberation that spoke of his fear and desire, he lowered himself, his body swallowing Carver inch by inch. Carver groaned, his head tipping back as Fenris’s tight heat enveloped him. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hands tightening on Fenris’s hips. “You feel incredible.”

Fenris paused, his eyes closing as he adjusted to the sensation. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he began to ride Carver, his hips moving in a steady rhythm. Carver’s hands guided him, his thumbs pressing into the small of Fenris’s back as he urged the elf to move faster. But Fenris shook his head, his breath coming in short gasps as he maintained his slow, torturous pace.

“Like this,” Fenris murmured, his voice a rough whisper. “I want to feel every inch of you.”

Carver bit back a groan, his control slipping as Fenris’s body moved up and down his cock. The elf’s moans filled the room, his head thrown back as pleasure overwhelmed him. Carver’s hands moved to Fenris’s thighs, his fingers digging into the elf’s skin as he urged him to take more. “That’s it,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. 

Fenris’s movements grew more urgent, his body trembling as he neared the edge. Carver could feel the elf’s muscles clenching around him, his cock throbbing with each thrust. “Carver,” Fenris gasped, his voice a desperate plea. “I’m close.”

“Let go,” Carver urged, his hands moving to Fenris’s hips, guiding him faster. “Come for me.”

Fenris’s eyes snapped open, meeting Carver’s gaze as his body shook with the force of his orgasm. His cock pulsed, spilling his seed over Carver’s chest and face, his cries echoing through the chamber. Carver groaned, his own release building as he watched Fenris come apart in his arms. “Fuck, Fenris,” he muttered, his hands gripping the elf’s hips tightly. “You’re beautiful.”

As Fenris’s body stilled, Carver pulled him down, cradling him against his chest. The elf’s breath came in ragged gasps, his face buried in Carver’s neck as he sought comfort in the aftermath of his release. Carver stroked his hair, his lips pressing soft kisses to the top of Fenris’s head. 

Fenris nodded, his arms wrapping around Carver’s waist as he held him tightly. For a moment, the world outside the chamber ceased to exist. Carver’s hand moved to Fenris’s back, his fingers tracing the lines of the lyrium tattoos

Carver woke slowly, blinking into the faint morning light that slipped through the slats in the shutters. His first thought was that the mattress was far too comfortable to be the one at the inn. The second was that something warm and soft was brushing against his nose.

He looked down.

Fenris.

The elf was tucked against him, one leg slung over Carver's hip, one arm draped lazily across his chest. His silver hair was a mess, tickling Carver’s face. He looked peaceful. Not like the tense, guarded man Carver had first met—but something softer. Vulnerable, even.

Carver smiled faintly. That had been... unexpected. Good, though. Really good.

Different.

He was used to something rougher. Faster. Nights that blurred into sweat and bruises, full of teeth and nails and gritted moans. But last night—he’d been careful. Unusually careful. Because it wasn’t just about getting off. Not with Fenris. It was about making sure he felt safe. Respected. Seen.

And, spirits help him, Carver didn’t mind the change. Tender had its perks. Especially when it meant waking up like this.

Fenris stirred, his brow furrowing. When his eyes fluttered open and he realized how closely he was wrapped around Carver, he tensed. Then, without a word, began to scoot back.

"Hey," Carver said gently, reaching out to catch his arm. "You’re okay. It’s just me."

Fenris froze. Then looked up at him, searching his face.

Carver offered a small smile. "You're not in trouble. And I'm not running off screaming. You're fine."

A breath left Fenris’ lips—almost a laugh, but quieter. "Sorry. Old habits."

"No need to apologize," Carver murmured. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

Fenris nodded, then hesitated. "Last night... thank you."

Carver tilted his head. "For what?"

"For being patient. For letting me... try."

Carver’s grin widened. "You did more than try. And if you ever want to do it again, well... you just have to ask."

A faint smirk played at Fenris’ lips. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Carver swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stretched, wincing as his back cracked. "As tempting as it is to spend the entire day here, I should probably go find my people before they burn Kirkwall down. Or worse, Ebba gets herself pregnant somehow."

Fenris chuckled. "That would be... unfortunate."

"You have no idea."

He leaned down, brushing a kiss over Fenris’ lips—soft, lingering for just a second longer than needed.

Then he winked. "See you later."

He dressed quickly, strapped on his gear, and left Fenris’ mansion with a spring in his step. The sun was barely up, the streets still quiet. For once, Lowtown didn’t feel entirely grim. Carver felt oddly light. Refreshed. Maybe even hopeful.

He didn’t quite skip to the Hanged Man, but it was a close thing.

Inside, the usual smell of stale ale and smoke clung to the air. At their usual table sat Ebba, Carnuh, and Hrogarh, all of them hunched over drinks that looked far too strong for this early in the day.

Ebba was the first to spot him. "There he is! Look who finally dragged himself out of whatever bed he crawled into."

Carver raised a brow. "Good morning to you too."

"Where’ve you been?" Carnuh asked, eyeing him with suspicion—and maybe a bit of amusement.

"Out," Carver said, flopping into a chair. "I was busy."

"Uh huh," Hrogarh muttered. "Bet he was busy all night. You’re glowing."

Carver rolled his eyes. "Enough. We've got work to do. We need to prepare for the trip back to Ferelden. Food, clothes, anything that’ll help the refugees survive the trip and resettle."

That sobered them.

He turned to Carnuh. "I want you to stock up on healing supplies. Spirits only know what diseases they’ve picked up in this city. We’re going to need salves, potions, herbs, bandages. Whatever you can get your hands on."

Carnuh nodded. "I know a guy in Darktown. He’ll give me a good deal."

"Good. Ebba, I want you and Hrogarh to handle food. Get preserved stuff—jerky, dried fruit, hardtack, cheese. Enough for at least a month’s travel."

Ebba gave a mock salute. "Aye, Chief."

Hrogarh stood, grinning. "Finally, something that’s not politics."

They all rose, pushing back their chairs. Carver reached for his belt pouch, already sorting through his mental checklist.

And then Garreth was there.

He stood just inside the doorway, looking like he'd stepped out of a storm. His face was grim, jaw tight, eyes locked on Carver.

"We need to talk. Now."

The room seemed to quiet around them.

Carver blinked. "Can it wait? We’re kind of in the middle—"

"Now."

There was no room for argument in that tone.

Carver exhaled and turned to the others. "You’ve got your orders. Go."

They hesitated only a moment before heading out.

Carver faced Garreth, already bracing himself.

"All right," he muttered. "Let’s talk."

Chapter Text

Garreth didn’t say a word as he marched Carver through Lowtown, past grimy alleyways and sleeping beggars, until they reached a narrow hovel tucked between two crumbling walls. He shoved open the door, dragged Carver inside, and slammed it behind them with a bang that rattled the frame.

Then he turned.

“What the fuck was that yesterday?” Garreth exploded, face red, eyes blazing. “What the fuck gives you the right to talk to Anders like that?”

Carver blinked. “You dragged me here to lecture me about Anders?”

“Yes! Do you have any idea what he’s been through? How much he’s suffered? And then you just—you strut around acting like you’re better than him?”

Carver laughed. Cold. Sharp. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare throw that at me.”

“Carver—”

“No,” Carver snapped, stepping forward until they were nearly chest to chest. “Anders is a coward. A hypocrite. He ran from the Circle, then from the Wardens, and he still acts like he’s the only one who's ever known pain.”

Garreth flinched.

Carver didn’t stop. “He merged with a spirit, twisted it into something it was never meant to be. And he struts around with his righteous fury like it won’t eventually tear him apart. But it will. And when it does, whatever damage he causes? That blood will be on your hands too if you keep letting him do as he pleases.”

Garreth's mouth opened. No words came.

Carver pressed on. “You think I’m being unfair? You think I’m cruel? Tell me, what about the way Anders treats your so-called friends? Merrill? That sweet Dalish girl who does her best and gets nothing but scorn from him because she uses blood magic. Magic he barely understands! He lectures her about demons while he’s possessed himself!”

“That’s different—”

“Is it? And what about Fenris?”

That stopped Garreth. Carver saw it. The hesitation. The guilt.

“What did Fenris ever do to him?” Carver hissed. “He spoke his mind. That’s it. And Anders never let him forget it. He spewed hate at him. In public. In front of the whole group.”

Garreth looked away.

“Do you even know what that does to someone? To feel like they don’t belong? Like every time they open their mouth they’re going to be scolded like a child? Do you have any idea how lonely Fenris is in your little band of freedom fighters?”

“I invited him!” Garreth snapped. “I sent him notes. I asked him to join us!”

Carver gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “You wrote to him? Spirits, you blind idiot.”

Garreth scowled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Fenris can’t read.”

Silence.

Carver stared at him, disgusted. “Do you really think his slaver master taught him how to read in between torture sessions?”

Garreth’s face paled. “I didn’t know.”

“No,” Carver said. “You didn’t. Because you never bothered to learn. You were too busy playing hero. Too busy looking important. And you let Anders tear into your companions, again and again. What do you think happens if you keep doing that?”

Garreth shook his head. “They won’t leave.”

“They will. They already are. And then what? All you’ll have left is Anders. And if you ever go against his beliefs, he’ll turn on you too.”

Carver stared at him, the air between them humming with heat. Then his voice dropped.

“Tell me something, Garreth. Have you fucked him?”

Garreth recoiled. “What?”

“You heard me. Is that why he gets away with everything? Are you in love with him?”

Garreth opened his mouth, closed it. His silence was all the answer Carver needed.

“Then why the fuck are you with Ebba?” Carver snarled. He grabbed Garreth by the front of his shirt and yanked him close. “There’s a reason you don’t shit where you eat. It always ends in a mess. And if you hurt her? If you don’t tell her the truth?”

He leaned in, voice like gravel. “I will geld you myself. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”

Garreth looked stunned. Hurt. Lost.

Carver released him with a shove. “You’re so wrapped up in your martyr fantasy that you forgot the people around you. You forgot Fenris. You forgot Merrill. And now? Now he’s got a Hawke in his corner too. Just like your precious abomination.”

Garreth’s mouth opened again. “Wait… did you—did you sleep with Fenris?”

Carver stared at him flatly. “That is none of your fucking business.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a voice said from the corner.

Both brothers spun around.

An older man stood there, arms crossed, mouth twitching somewhere between annoyance and disbelief.

“I thought the two of you forgot your poor old uncle existed. But no. Turns out you just broke into my house for a screaming match.”

Carver blinked. “Gamlen?”

Gamlen marched forward and wrapped Carver in a rough hug. “You little shit! Leandra said you were dead!”

Carver patted his back awkwardly. “Yeah. Not quite.”

Gamlen stepped back and gave him a look. “Damn good to see you, boy. You look... taller.”

Carver grinned. “Thanks. I guess.”

He turned back to Garreth and jabbed a finger in his direction. “You fix things with Ebba. Or I will.”

Garreth looked miserable.

Carver sighed and reached into his coin pouch. He handed Gamlen four sovereigns. “Buy yourself something that isn’t moldy. Maybe clean this place.”

Gamlen looked at the coin, then at him. “Thanks, kid. You’re all right.”

Carver gave him a nod, then slipped out the door, boots thudding on the wooden steps.

The rest of the day went... fine. Not great. Not bad. Just... tolerable. They ordered the supplies they needed, arranged for the wagons and food, and started preparing for the departure. Two days. Just two more days and Carver could leave this suffocating mess of a city behind. He kept telling himself that, like a prayer. Two days. Then home.

The Wilds. His people. Life that made sense.

But still—under his skin, everything itched. Rage crawled through him like fire ants. Every time he thought about Garreth and his whole self-righteous posture, it made his jaw clench. He knew what kind of thing Ebba had with him. No strings, no promises. They'd agreed. But screwing her while mooning over that smug, walking-tinderbox mage? That was just low.

Carver needed out. From this city, from his brother, from all of it.

So, when the sun dipped down and the shadows stretched across Kirkwall’s crooked buildings, he made his way to the Hanged Man.

Inside, the stench of ale and sweat hit him like an old friend. Familiar, almost comforting. He wove through the crowd and up the stairs to Varric’s suite. He knocked once, then pushed open the door.

Varric looked up from a stack of papers. "Well, if it isn’t our favorite brooding bird-man."

Carver ignored the jab. "I need a favor."

Varric raised an eyebrow. "You usually lead with insults or sarcasm. This is new."

Carver rolled his eyes. "Books. Easy ones. For beginners. But not ones made for kids."

That got Varric’s attention. He sat up straighter. "Books? For you? Or someone else?"

"Someone else." He crossed his arms. "Does it matter? Can you get them or not?"

Varric studied him a moment, then shrugged. "Sure. I know a few titles. I’ll have them by tomorrow."

"Thanks."

The dwarf leaned back, fingers drumming on his desk. "You planning on teaching someone to read?"

Carver didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, "Anything else I should know before I get the hell out of this place?"

Varric’s expression darkened slightly. "Actually, yeah. Word is, Dumar and some of the city guard are planning to interfere when the refugees try to reach the Gallows."

Carver’s hands clenched into fists. "Fucking what?"

Varric nodded. "It’s not official, but the talk’s loud enough to make me believe it."

Carver paced the room, boots thudding against the wood. "Is there another dock? One that’s not crawling with guards and Templars?"

"Lothown’s dock. Used mostly for merchant runs and smugglers, but it’s real enough. With the right bribes, it could be cleared out."

Carver turned to him, eyes sharp. "Can you do it?"

Varric smirked. "Thought you’d never ask. I’ll talk to the right people. Spread the word quietly to the refugees. Tomorrow night, Lowtown dock."

Carver gave him the best pleading look he could manage. Varric groaned.

"Fine, fine. I’ll make sure it happens. But you have to find a way to tell the ships."

Carver grinned. "Already have a plan."

He left the Hanged Man and gathered Carnuh. It took them four hours, but they finally located the ships bound for the Free Marches.

Luckily, Varric had left his window open.

Carver landed in the suite, Carnuh a few wingbeats behind. They shifted quickly, their feet hitting the floorboards with soft thuds. Then they heard voices.

"Great," Carver muttered.

Garreth and his companions were all gathered in Varric’s suite. Not that it stopped Carver. He looked around the room with open disdain, ignoring the startled looks as he straightened his tunic.

And then he saw it. A perfect, blooming bruise on Garreth’s left eye.

Carver grinned. “Huh.”

He hoped it had been Ebba. Would’ve been fitting.

Garreth spotted him, of course. "Carver? What the hell are you—"

But Carver had already turned away. He nodded to Carnuh, who stayed silent, and strode toward the door.

Anders stood in his path.

Carver bared his teeth. A low growl escaped him—not quite words, but loud enough to make Anders step back.

Garreth called out, "Where are you going?"

Carver didn’t even pause. “To say goodbye to Mother. My people and I leave tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He winked at Fenris—who smirked in return—and walked straight out the door.

He could feel Garreth’s stare boring into his back.

He didn’t care.

It wasn’t easy saying goodbye to Mother.

She held his hand so tightly, Carver thought she might never let go. Her fingers trembled against his as she wept, pleading with him to stay just a little longer. One more day. One more evening. One more meal together. She begged with the kind of sorrow that carved itself into the bones, deep and aching.

Carver didn’t look away. He squeezed her hands gently and smiled, just a little. “I’ve already stayed longer than I should have,” he said softly. “They need me back in the Wilds. I can’t lead them from here. I don’t want to lead from here.”

She shook her head, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “But... it feels like I just got you back. I closed my eyes and you were a boy, and when I opened them, you were this...” She gave him a watery smile. “This man. Leader of the Chasind. Personal friend of the king and queen of Ferelden.”

He chuckled softly. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“It is ridiculous!” she said, laughing through her tears. “How is that my Carver?”

“In private,” he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead, “I don’t mind being your little boy. Just don’t say it in front of Hrogarh. He’ll never let me live it down.”

She laughed again and hugged him tight, her arms strong despite her age. Carver returned the embrace, burying his face in her shoulder. She smelled like home. Tea leaves, old linen, and the faintest hint of rosewater.

He pulled back gently. “I’ll write to you. I promise.”

“Will you?” she asked, voice thick. “Do you even know how long letters take to reach the Wilds?”

He smiled. “You don’t need to send them to the Wilds. Just address them to the palace in Denerim. Alistair or Anora will make sure I get them. I’ll do the same in return.”

She dabbed her eyes again. “Letters. Hm. I suppose it’s better than nothing.”

“I’ll visit too,” he said. “When I can.”

“And you’ll be careful?”

He nodded. “Always.”

She sighed, and her hands trembled as she brushed the hair from his face. “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t.”

The door creaked open behind them. Carver stiffened.

Garreth stepped into the room.

Carver gently slipped out of Mother’s embrace and rose to his feet. His jaw clenched as he turned toward the door.

“Boys,” Mother said quickly, looking between them. “Please. I know things have been tense, but can’t we just have a moment of peace? Be good to each other. Please. For me.”

Neither of them spoke.

Then Garreth crossed his arms. “It just seems to me that Carver doesn’t have loyalty to anyone anymore. Not even family.”

Carver let out a snort. “I owe you nothing.”

Garreth flinched.

“You want loyalty?” Carver continued. “Earn it. You think just because we’re brothers I’m supposed to ignore the way you treat people? The way you look the other way when someone you like does something awful, but throw stones the second someone else slips up?”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t get to lecture me,” Carver snapped. “And you sure as shit don’t get to act like I abandoned anything. I walked away from you. That was the smartest thing I ever did.”

Garreth’s face twisted, but he said nothing.

Carver took a breath and turned toward the door. Then he paused.

“Be careful tomorrow,” Garreth said, voice low. “The Qunari... something feels off. Their compound feels like it could blow apart any minute.”

Carver glanced over his shoulder, eyes hard. “Maybe that’s what Kirkwall needs.”

Garreth frowned. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

He stepped through the doorway, then stopped one last time.

“If shit does go south,” Carver said quietly, “you make sure she stays safe. Figure out how to do that.”

Garreth opened his mouth, but Carver didn’t wait.

He walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Tomorrow, he would leave. And whatever happened in this city, it would not be his burden to carry.

It was becoming a habit, apparently—finding himself outside Fenris' mansion, staring up at the wrought-iron gate and wondering why he was there. This time, it wasn't for sex. Not really. Carver had a small stack of books tucked under one arm, easy reads with sturdy bindings. The kind someone could take their time with. He told himself he was just here to give them to Fenris. To say goodbye.

He knocked.

The door opened a few moments later. Fenris, shirtless and barefoot, tilted his head just slightly when he saw him.

"Carver."

"Hey," Carver said.

Fenris stepped aside. "Come in."

The library was dimly lit, the scent of parchment and dust soft in the air. It had become a strange sort of safe space between them, neutral ground. Fenris pulled out a bottle of wine. He poured two glasses, gesturing for Carver to sit.

Carver took the glass and leaned back in one of the old armchairs. They didn’t speak for a long time. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It just... was.

Eventually, Fenris cleared his throat. "You don’t have to ruin your relationship with your brother because of me."

Carver blinked at him. "You think that’s what this is?"

Fenris looked mildly uncomfortable. "I... just. And now, with you... I just thought it might complicate things."

Carver gave a bitter little smile. "Garreth and I have always been complicated. He was always the leader. The golden boy. I was the one meant to follow. Loyal little brother, always in line. But that doesn’t work anymore."

He took a sip of wine. "I'm not in his shadow. Not anymore. I'm the one who makes the calls now. I have people who follow me. Not because I share a name with Garreth Hawke, but because they believe in me. That’s not something he knows how to deal with."

Fenris looked at him for a long moment, searching his face. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find it, because he nodded.

"So no," Carver added. "This has nothing to do with you. If we’d never fucked, I still would’ve said what I said. And meant it."

A quiet beat passed between them.

Then Fenris said, "Garreth laid down some rules. After you left Varric's suite. He told everyone that if there were problems between them, they should deal with it themselves, or bring it to him. No more infighting. No insults."

Carver blinked. "Seriously?"

"Quite."

He smirked. "Anders must've loved that."

Fenris chuckled. "He didn't get to say anything. You and Carnuh glew in, you growled at him, then left. He stormed out not long after."

Carver laughed. For a moment, the tension drained out of him. Fenris joined in, his low, rare laughter filling the space. And for a few heartbeats, it felt like they were just two men, not warriors, not mages, not legends. Just people.

And then, out of nowhere, Fenris leaned in. His lips brushed against Carver's with the softest pressure. His breath was warm.

"I know you’re leaving," Fenris whispered against his mouth. "But if you wanted... I wouldn’t object to sharing a bed again. Now that I know it can be something pleasurable."

Carver’s heart gave a little stutter. And then he was kissing Fenris back, slow and deep, tasting the wine still on his tongue. There was no hesitation in his hands this time, no awkwardness. They moved together like they already knew the steps.

Clothes were shed quietly, carelessly. Fenris pulled him down to the floor, onto the thick rug near the fire. The light from the hearth danced over his skin, tracing the glowing lines like moonlight over water.

They made love slowly, deliberately. There was no rush, no shame. Just the quiet exploration of mouths and hands, of warmth and soft groans. Carver had never felt so... wanted. Fenris touched him like he meant it. Like it was okay to take his time. Like Carver was more than just a body.

Hours passed, lost in the haze of breathless murmurs and skin sliding against skin. When they finally collapsed together, Fenris curled against his side, one arm draped over Carver's chest. His breathing slowed. He fell asleep.

Carver lay there for a while, staring at the flickering fire. He reached up and brushed Fenris’ hair back, just to see his face. Peaceful. Untroubled.

He kissed his forehead.

Then, gently, he got up. He dressed in silence, pulling on each layer slowly, as if moving too fast might break the moment. Before leaving, he arranged the books neatly on the table where Fenris would see them.

No note. No goodbye.

Just the books. And the memory.

Outside, the city was still quiet. Carver exhaled and glanced up at the dark sky. The stars overhead looked different than the ones back home.

Two days had turned to one.

It was time to get the show on the road.

The sun was only just cresting over the masts when Carver arrived at the Lowtown docks. Seabirds circled overhead, screeching as the first light painted the sea a molten gold.

He stood tall and watchful, as Carnuh and Hrogarh barked orders down the dock. Ten ships. Just like Alistair said. The decks were already beginning to fill, with men and women hauling packs, shepherding children, helping the elderly board. A few called Carver's name when they saw him. Some whispered Black Dragon, as though they were invoking a blessing. Others simply pressed their hands over their hearts.

Ebba stood beside him, her dark braids damp from the morning mist. She looked drawn, lips pressed tight. Carver glanced sideways at her, then took her hand without a word. She didn’t pull away.

"I told your brother it was just sex," she said after a moment.

Carver turned his head. "That sounds like something he'd agree to."

She gave a short, mirthless laugh. "It worked. For a while. But... no woman with even a scrap of self-respect wants to feel like a replacement. Not when she can tell exactly who he’s thinking about when he’s inside her."

Carver winced. "Yeah. That tracks."

Ebba looked away, scanning the harbor. "So, I told him to fuck off."

Carver squeezed her hand. "Good. I think you made the right choice. He has no clue what he’s doing. He thinks everything's just supposed to work out because he wants it to."

"That's why I picked you," she said with a faint smirk. "The normal brother."

Carver snorted. "Normal is a very low bar. But thanks, I guess."

Most of the refugees had boarded now. Carver could see Carnuh raising his arms and shouting to the captains, gesturing to pull anchor. Hrogarh, already sweat-drenched, hoisted a small child up a ramp like a sack of potatoes. The mother followed, shouting thanks over her shoulder.

Carver stood there a while longer, watching the last ship get ready. Part of him was waiting. Hoping, maybe. Not that he expected anything. But still... it stung.

"He’s not coming," he muttered.

Ebba didn't answer.

But then—he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Four figures walking with purpose across the square, straight into the Qunari compound. Carver recognized them instantly. Garreth. Aveline. Varric. Anders.

Garreth met his eyes for a fleeting moment as he passed, but said nothing.

Carver turned away. "Get on the ship," he said.

Ebba frowned. "What?"

"Now. Signal the others to sail. We're done here."

She nodded and moved, fast and without complaint. Horns blew from the lead ship. Sailcloth unfurled, catching the breeze.

Carver waited until the last line was cut. Until the last plank creaked. He was just turning toward the boarding ramp when he heard the first screams.

A blast of sound echoed from the direction of the compound. Carver spun around.

And then the Qunari were there.

Dozens of them poured into the square, blades drawn, their faces hidden behind impassive masks. Clouds of something green and acrid billowed out from behind them—some kind of gas. Within seconds, people were coughing, stumbling, dying.

Carver swore. He turned toward the nearest ship. "GO! NOW! SAIL!"

Then he turned back, Vandarel already in hand, and charged.

He ripped through the first three Qunari like parchment, his force magic tearing limbs and bones apart. The fourth tried to parry; Carver ducked under the strike and plunged Vandarel into its side, feeling the spirit within the blade laughing, alive with battle.

Ahead, he saw them—Garreth and the others, running from the compound.

"GARRETH!"

Carver cut down another Qunari in his path and reached them just as they burst out of the archway. Garreth looked stunned, eyes wide, taking in the carnage. He glanced back toward the ships, now far out at sea.

"What are you doing here?!" Garreth shouted.

Carver spat blood from his lip. "What the fuck do you think?! I'm trying to stop this city from burning!"

Garreth actually smiled, just for a second, as if surprised and impressed all at once.

"What happened?!" Carver demanded.

Aveline answered, shouting over the screams. "The Qunari were looking for something—an artifact. They said it was sacred. Turns out Isabela stole it. And then ran."

Carver blinked. "She what?!"

Anders stumbled past them, trying to cast through the thick smoke. Varric was dragging a coughing elven boy by the arm.

Aveline gritted her teeth. "The Arishok took it as a sign that Kirkwall was beyond saving. He’s calling it a cleansing. He wants the Viscount and the nobles dead. He thinks the whole place is corrupt."

"Charming," Carver muttered.

More Qunari rounded the corner. Carver turned, Vandarel slashing through the nearest, then reached down to grab Varric’s arm. "To the Keep! Now!"

They moved fast, ducking through alleys and cutting across burning streets. Carver fought without thinking, his magic pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. They had to get to the Viscount—had to try.

Garreth ran beside him. He didn’t speak, but he kept pace. Kept his blade ready.

They had fought and run for what felt like an eternity. Carver’s lungs burned. His leg throbbed with every step. His kilt was stained with blood—some of it his own, most of it not. They were so close now. Hightown was just ahead, the white stone of the Keep towering through the smoke.

Varric slammed against the wall beside him, panting. "Please tell me we’re not going to have to climb the damn stairs."

Carver managed a grunt. "If we live through this, I’ll carry you."

Aveline rounded the next corner, barking, "Let’s move!"

They sprinted the last stretch. But as they reached the upper courtyard, they nearly collided with a small cluster of robed figures. A blast of lightning arced overhead.

"Holy shit," Carver muttered, raising his staff—then froze.

First Enchanter Orsino stood at the center of the mages, his staff ablaze with energy. His expression was grim, fierce. Blood streaked his face, and his robes were scorched.

"Hawke!" Orsino called. "You picked a fine time to visit."

Garreth blinked. "You’re fighting with the Templars?"

Orsino gave a bitter smile. "Knight-Commander Meredith has bigger problems than me right now. She let us out. Ordered us to help defend the Keep."

Carver whistled low. "Shit really must be bad."

Then Garreth shouted, voice ragged, "Beth!"

Carver spun. He knew that voice. Knew that name. His stomach dropped.

And then she was there.

Bethany.

His twin stood in the clearing behind them, flanked by two mages. Her hair was longer now, pulled back in a loose braid. Her robes marked her as Circle-trained, but her face was unmistakable. And those eyes—still wide and full of fire.

She ran to Garreth, throwing her arms around him. He held her tightly, breathing her name over and over.

Carver couldn’t move. He just stared, heart hammering.

Then Garreth turned, arm still around Bethany’s shoulder, and led her forward.

"Beth," he said softly. "There’s someone you need to see."

She followed his gaze. And her eyes landed on Carver.

She froze.

Carver didn’t know what to say. What could he say? He looked like a stranger now—longer hair tied back, the kilt, the scar across his jaw. And he had died. She’d watched him die.

Bethany took one step forward. Then another.

Tears welled in her eyes. "Carver?"

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

And then she tackled him.

He stumbled back with a grunt as she hugged him fiercely, arms tight around his neck.

"You stupid bastard!" she shouted into his shoulder. "You died! And now you didn’t! And what the hell is this outfit?! Is that a kilt?! And your hair! And a beard?! What happened?!"

Carver laughed, helpless. "I missed you too, Beth."

She pulled back just enough to punch him in the chest. "You asshole!"

"Okay, I deserved that."

Bethany wiped at her eyes. "How are you even alive? How long have you been back? Why didn’t you come find me?!"

"It’s... a long story."

"You have a staff! Are you a mage now?!"

Orsino cleared his throat, cutting through the reunion. "As moving as this is, we don’t have time."

All three Hawkes turned.

Orsino gestured up the road toward the Keep. "They took Meredith. And Cullen. Some nobles, too. They’re being held inside."

Carver stepped forward, his voice cold. "Who took them?"

The First Enchanter pointed.

Down the hill, through the haze of smoke and debris, they could see them: a veritable army of Qunari. Dozens upon dozens of warriors. Carver squinted.

No.

Not dozens.

Hundreds.

Bethany whispered, "Where did they all come from? There weren’t that many in the compound."

"The Arishok must have had them hidden outside the city," Aveline muttered. "Waiting."

"There’s no way we can take that many," Varric said. "Even with the mages, we’re maybe fifteen people."

Carver glanced at Garreth. Then at Orsino.

Predictably, they were arguing.

"We need to flank them," Garreth said. "Hit from two sides."

"We don’t have the numbers for that," Orsino snapped. "We should wait. Regroup."

"There is no time!"

Bethany gripped Carver’s hand. It was trembling.

"Carver," she said softly. "What do we do?"

He looked at her.

At Garreth, still shouting.

At Orsino, red-faced with anger.

At the Keep, where Meredith and Cullen were being dragged inside.

At the mass of armored Qunari preparing for gods-knew-what.

He was exhausted. His leg was bleeding. His arms ached. He had nothing left to give.

And still, somehow, he found the words.

"I’ll handle it."

Garreth turned. "What? No, Carver, we—"

"Don’t. Just… don’t. I need you to trust me."

Orsino scoffed. "You can’t be serious. There are two hundred of them."

Carver ignored him. He reached behind his back, unhooked Vandarel, and held it out to Bethany.

She blinked. "Carver?"

He met her eyes. "Watch over this for me. Please."

Bethany reached for the staff, her hand brushing against the smooth bone. A pulse of magic shivered up her arm.

"Vandarel," Carver said quietly. "Protect her."

The staff hummed.

Bethany stared at it. Then back at him. "What are you doing?!"

Carver smiled faintly. "A trick I learned in Denerim."

He stepped away before she could stop him.

Garreth shouted. "Carver! Come back! Don’t be stupid!"

"Already am," Carver called over his shoulder.

He winked.

Then he closed his eyes.

He remembered the feel of his blood turning to fire. The rush of air beneath wings that weren’t really his. The way the earth had shaken beneath him as he roared.

He opened himself to the wild.

To the magic.

To the power curled deep in his bones.

Heat exploded outward. His vision tunneled, then stretched. Limbs snapped and reformed. His spine arched. Scales rippled across his skin. He could feel it—the shift. The power.

And then he was not a man.

He was the Black Dragon.

The Qunari looked up, confused. And then they screamed.

Carver opened his jaws and loosed a torrent of flame, sweeping across the street. He saw them scatter. Useless. He crushed them beneath clawed feet, his tail lashing through a dozen at once.

He tore through them like paper, snapping pikes in half, ripping through armor. They tried to run. There was nowhere to go.

Four minutes.

That’s all it took.

And then the last Qunari fell.

Carver staggered back, his form shrinking. Scales gave way to skin. Wings vanished. He dropped to one knee, panting.

Footsteps rushed toward him.

Garreth.

Bethany.

Varric. Aveline. Anders. Orsino.

All of them, staring at him like he was something else entirely.

"What the FUCK was that?!" Anders shouted.

Aveline was gaping. Varric looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Orsino just said, "Impossible."

Bethany reached for him, kneeling beside him. "Carver? Are you—what was that?!"

Garreth crouched down, face pale. "You really can turn into a fucking dragon."

Carver wiped blood from his mouth. He looked up at them, smirked, and said:

"Told you."

Chapter Text

The doors of the Keep thundered open before them, a burst of noise and steel as Carver, Garreth, Bethany, and their allies surged inside. The entrance hall was thick with the scent of blood and smoke. Shouts echoed from somewhere deeper in the keep, but the entrance was guarded only by a handful of Qunari soldiers.

Only a handful.

Carver didn’t even raise his staff. With a flick of his fingers, he sent a ripple of power through the air. The nearest Qunari dropped as if struck by a giant's fist, armor crumpling inward. The others fell to steel and flame, Aveline's blade flashing, Anders shouting spells beside her.

Then the room fell silent.

"That was too easy," Varric muttered, crossbow still raised. "Where's the real party?"

They didn’t have to wait long to find out.

The main hall loomed ahead, and as they moved through the corridor, the noise grew louder. Steel clashing. Yelling. Chanting. And then, at the top of the stairs overlooking the grand chamber—

The Arishok.

He stood tall, towering above the nobles and guards clustered below, and in his hand—gripped like a discarded sack of meat—was the severed head of Viscount Dumar.

Carver exhaled through his nose. "Well. That's one way to start a meeting."

He glanced at the head rolling across the marble floor. Dumar had been a pompous, simpering wretch of a man, more interested in politics and bribes than people. The bastard had tried to extort Alistair, tried to block refugees from crossing into Ferelden, and made life miserable for anyone not rich and rotting in Hightown.

Still. Carver would have preferred to be the one to take the smug bastard out.

The Arishok lifted his voice, deep and thunderous. "The city is broken. Its leaders corrupt. Its people weak. Submit. Or fall."

Several of the nobles actually bowed. Cowards.

Carver was already scanning the crowd. His heart clenched when he saw her.

"Mother," he whispered.

Leandra stood near the front, close to a line of armored Qunari. She was pale but upright, shoulders drawn back, chin lifted. Fierce, even now.

He looked to his left and saw Garreth's face go tight. Bethany, beside him, reached for his arm.

"She’s here," she said quietly. "Maker, she’s right there."

Then Garreth took a step forward, calling out to the Arishok.

"What is this? What are you trying to accomplish?"

The Arishok's gaze fell on him. "The Tome of Koslun has been stolen. The thief fled. The rot of this city festers unchecked. If I cannot reclaim wisdom, I will carve away corruption."

Bethany murmured, "He thinks this is justice."

"He doesn't care what it is," Carver said. "He just wants blood."

And then, as if the Maker had staged it, Isabela stepped from behind one of the massive columns. All heads turned. Her chin was high, her boots echoing across the marble as she approached.

She held the Tome of Koslun in both hands.

"Looking for this, horn-head?"

Gasps rippled through the nobles. Carver saw Garreth exhale in disbelief.

"Isabela," he muttered.

She walked right up to Garreth and handed him the tome.

"Do what you want with it," she said. "But I'm not going anywhere."

Garreth handed the book to the nearest Qunari, his movements slow and deliberate. "Here. Take it. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Now leave."

The Arishok's expression did not change.

"The tome will return with me. As will the thief."

Carver stepped forward. "You want her? No chance."

Garreth echoed him. "Isabela stays. You have the tome. Take your warriors and go."

There was a heavy pause.

Then the Arishok nodded—not in agreement, but as if making a decision.

"No."

He stepped down a few stairs, his blade gleaming.

"Then the duel is accepted."

Carver blinked. "Duel?"

The Arishok pointed at Garreth. "You speak for the city. You refuse to give what is owed. I will take it in combat. To the death."

"You want to fight my brother?" Carver asked, eyebrows raised.

Garreth didn't flinch. "I accept."

But the Arishok raised one massive hand. Four Qunari soldiers stepped forward—Stens, the largest and strongest of their warriors. Carver tensed.

"You send your dogs before you now?" Garreth spat. "I thought Qunari had honor."

Carver moved without thinking.

He shoved Garreth aside. "Enough."

The Arishok's eyes narrowed. "You interfere. Who are you to speak now?"

Carver stepped forward, raising his voice.

"I am Carver Hawke. Leader of the Chasind. The Black Dragon of the Wilds. Son of Malcolm Hawke and Leandra Amell. Brother to the one you challenge. And you just made the mistake of threatening my family."

Gasps erupted through the room. Nobles turned, whispering his name. Meredith's eyes locked on him, full of loathing.

The Arishok tilted his head. "Then you will fight in their place."

"No," Carver said. "I'll kill your lapdogs. Then my brother will finish you."

The Stens charged.

Carver didn't even blink.

His magic flared. With a single motion, he raised a hand and the four Stens halted mid-stride, lifted off the ground by unseen force. Their weapons clattered to the floor.

Carver met the Arishok’s gaze. "Your blades will be broken. Your souls unmoored. I will see to it they never find rest."

And then he crushed them.

A sickening crunch rang out. The bodies dropped, armor warped, blood pooling on the floor. Silence followed.

Carver pointed at the corpses. "That’s your honor."

He turned to Garreth. "Your turn."

Garreth stepped forward, his sword in hand. The Arishok roared and descended the last of the stairs.

They met with a clash of steel and will, blades flashing. Carver stepped back, moving toward Bethany and their mother, shielding them with his body.

Leandra reached for him. "Carver—"

"I’ve got you," he said. "Just stay close."

The sound of battle filled the hall again, but now it was focused, fierce. Garreth and the Arishok fought like titans, each blow sending shockwaves through the stone floor.

Carver didn’t look away.

The Arishok fell to one knee, blood pooling beneath him. His breaths came harsh and ragged, chest rising and falling like a bellows. Garreth stood before him, sword dripping with dark red, expression hard. One more blow, and it would be over.

But Carver stepped forward.

Bethany moved with him, mirroring his steps until the three siblings stood in a triangle around the dying Qunari. Carver squatted down beside the horned giant, resting his forearms on his thighs, eyes locked with the Arishok's.

"You failed," Carver said, voice low. "You came here thinking you could bring your order, your truth. But you didn’t just lose. You lost everything. Your soul and your life are forfeit."

The Arishok's eyes narrowed. He tried to speak, but blood bubbled at his lips.

"And the worst part?" Carver continued. "You won't be honored. Not in Par Vollen. Not wherever it is your kind go when the lights go out. You won’t be remembered as a warrior. Only as a man who tried and fell."

He turned his head, looking at Bethany.

She nodded.

With a snap of her fingers, the Arishok's massive blade, lying in a broken heap beside him, burst into flame. The steel hissed and glowed, then slowly began to melt, warping in the heat of her spell until it was nothing but a puddle of slag.

The Arishok reached for it. Even in his final moments, he tried to touch the weapon that had defined him. His fingers grazed the molten edge.

And then he stilled.

Gone.

Silence swept the chamber.

No victory cheers. No cries of triumph. Just the hollow echo of breathless onlookers staring at what remained of a legend brought low.

Then Garreth collapsed.

"Shit!" Carver hissed, catching him before he hit the floor.

Bethany was already moving, hands glowing with magic. Anders barreled in behind her, muttering a spell under his breath, pushing Carver aside with his shoulder.

"He’s bleeding out!"

"No, he isn’t," Bethany snapped, already knitting bone and flesh beneath her fingers.

Anders pressed his hands to Garreth's side. "You wanna do this, do it right. He needs a salve first, otherwise it’ll swell. Aveline!"

The guardswoman jogged over, her eyes wide with worry.

"Get him to the Amell estate," Anders barked. "Now. We’ll follow."

Aveline didn't argue. She lifted Garreth with surprising gentleness and carried him out the side door, shouting for any guards still alive to clear the way.

Carver stood to follow, but a sharp voice stopped him.

"You. Stop."

He turned.

Knight-Commander Meredith.

Her armor shone with recent repair, her face pale with exhaustion and something like fury. Around her, several Templars gathered, weapons still drawn.

Carver sighed, already regretting not just flying away earlier.

"You will come with me to the Gallows," Meredith said, stepping forward. "You will be turned over to the Circle."

He stared at her.

Then, slowly, he spat at her feet.

She flinched.

"You have no power over me," Carver said. "Not a drop. I'm not your prisoner. I’m not one of your mages. And I'm not afraid of you."

She raised her chin. "You defy the authority of the Order?"

"I don’t answer to the Order."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a razor's edge. "I’m here as a guest. A emissary to King Alistair of Ferelden. That means I have protections. I’m also the Chasind's leader. You remember them? The Wilders? Nine thousand strong, give or take a hundred?"

Meredith said nothing, but the nobles in the room were listening now, some edging closer.

Carver smiled without warmth. "If anything happens to me—anything at all—Kirkwall won’t just have angry Wilders at its gates. It’ll have Ferelden marching from the south. Maybe even some Dalish clans, depending on how much they feel like holding a grudge. And let’s not forget Orzammar. The dwarves owe me."

He turned slightly, addressing the crowd now.

"What do you think the other Free Marches cities will do when Kirkwall starts a war with Ferelden and a bunch of angry barbarians? You think they'll send troops? Or maybe they’ll just let you burn and figure it out later."

Whispers spread. A few of the nobles were nodding.

Carver narrowed his eyes at Meredith. "Is that really a game you want to play? Because I'm game."

Her jaw tightened. "You’re bluffing."

"Try me."

The air went taut. Meredith looked ready to order her men, to press the matter, when a new voice cut through the tension.

"Knight-Commander."

It was soft. Measured.

And yet it silenced the room.

Everyone turned.

Grand Cleric Elthina stood at the edge of the crowd, robes pristine despite the soot that clung to the others. Her expression was serene, but there was steel beneath it.

"Even if this young man’s words were... uncouth," she said, "they are not wrong. You have no authority to detain the Champion's brother. Especially not one who risked his life to defend a city that is not even his own."

Carver blinked, stunned.

Elthina looked at him, nodding once. "You have my thanks, Carver Hawke."

He inclined his head. "You’re welcome."

Meredith opened her mouth to argue, but several nobles were already murmuring agreement with the Grand Cleric. The tide had turned.

Carver stepped back, exhaled slowly, then spotted his mother near the edge of the hall. Leandra stood pale and shaken, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

He walked to her and offered his arm.

"Let’s go see Garreth," he said.

She nodded, slipping her arm into his.

Together, they stepped out of the keep and into the shattered remains of Hightown. The fires still burned, but the Qunari were gone. The worst had passed.

Carver sat by Garreth's bedside in what felt like forever. In truth, it had only been a day. The Arishok had managed one final blow before going down, a deep slash across Garreth's torso that Anders swore would scar. A nasty wound. But then, scars were a sign of survival. Carver had plenty himself.

Bethany had gotten permission to stay and help Anders. Orsino had approved it personally. For now, the Hawkes were together again. It was... nice. Strange, too. Nice and strange, like breathing in after holding your breath too long.

Garreth grumbled every hour on the hour.

"I’m fine. This is absurd," he muttered, shifting beneath the blanket.

Carver rolled his eyes. "Oh, poor baby. Bedridden because a giant horned warlord nearly gutted you. Real tragedy."

"You’re a bastard, brother."

"No, Mother was married when she had me," Carver said sweetly, before raising his voice. "Mother! Garreth isn’t lying still!"

Leandra stormed in a second later, skirts swishing with purpose. "Garreth Hawke! You are going to follow Anders' instructions, or so help me, I will tie you down myself!"

"Now see what you’ve done?" Garreth groaned, shooting Carver a glare.

"Snitch," he muttered.

Carver stuck out his tongue. "Crybaby."

Bethany sighed from across the room, but she was smiling. She looked older somehow. Wiser. But that same warmth lingered in her eyes.

Carver had told her everything. From the ogre that nearly killed him to Sìdheach, Vandarel, and his life among the Chasind. She listened quietly, no interruptions, no judgment. She was in awe.

For all of two seconds.

Then she punched him in the arm. Hard.

"You idiot! What were you thinking? Going off into the Wilds, getting possessed—"

"I wasn’t possessed," Carver protested.

"You let a spirit into your body. That’s possession."

"It’s different. Vandarel is—never mind. You wouldn’t get it."

"Try me."

He did. They talked for hours, even after Garreth fell asleep. When the house grew quiet and the streets outside began to calm, Carver slipped out to Fenris' mansion.

Those nights were something else entirely.

Fenris had changed since they started fucking. Less guarded. More open. He let Carver in, and not just to his bed. The confidence Fenris had now—in himself, in what they shared—was magnetic. And Carver wasn’t one to turn down a challenge.

They had tried everything. Fenris riding him, bent over a table, sex in the bath, against the wall, on the floor. It was a blur of hands, mouths, and sounds that still echoed in Carver's ears the next morning.

Leandra and Bethany said nothing when he came home late, hair tousled and tunic wrinkled. Just soft smiles and knowing glances. Leandra even winked once.

Then came the announcement.

Garreth, they said, was to be named Champion of Kirkwall.

Carver almost choked on his tea.

"They’re giving him a statue," Bethany confirmed, sipping calmly.

"Of course they are," Carver grumbled. "Man can’t even piss on his own, but let’s immortalize him in stone."

Garreth was back on his feet within days. Anders deemed him healed enough, and that was all the excuse the nobles needed to start sending invitations.

There was a formal ceremony at the keep. A new sword, some kind of ceremonial title, and yes, a bloody statue. The likeness wasn’t even good. The jaw was too sharp, the stance too heroic.

Carver tried not to gag.

The banquet afterward was worse. A swirl of velvet and perfume, false smiles, and calculated offers. Some wanted trade deals. Others offered land or coin.

One particularly bold woman leaned in and whispered, "I hear Wilders are quite... vigorous."

Carver blinked. Then bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"I hear nobles are quite desperate."

She backed off.

Most of them did. The tattoos, the furs, the scowl—they worked better than armor. Still, Carver stuck close to the wine table, occasionally checking in on Garreth, who was drinking with a few guardsmen, and Bethany, who floated through the crowd like she belonged.

Leandra, meanwhile, basked in it. Her daughter, a gifted healer. Her youngest son, leader of the Chasind. Her eldest, the Champion of Kirkwall. All eyes on them.

It should have annoyed Carver.

Instead, it warmed something in his chest.

Later that night, in the quiet before dawn, Carver hugged Bethany goodbye.

"If you ever leave the Circle," he whispered into her hair, "come find me in the Wilds. I’ll protect you."

She pulled back, eyes bright. "I know you will."

He kissed Leandra on the cheek. She cupped his face like she used to when he was small.

"Be safe."

"Always."

He gave Garreth a tight embrace.

"Don’t let this go to your head," Carver muttered. "Keep an eye on Mother. And Beth."

Garreth smirked. "You’re such a softie."

"Shut up."

Then he stepped outside, exhaled, and let the shift take him.

Feathers. Wind. Sky.

He rose over the city, over the towers and walls, soaring higher until the sprawl of Kirkwall shrank beneath him. The coast glittered below, and far in the distance, a ship cut through the sea.

Ebba, Carnuh, and Hrogarh were probably ready to flay him for leaving them to manage the refugees alone.

He winced mid-flight.

"Shit."

They were going to kill him.

But he was going home. To the Wilds. To his people.

And they would understand.

Eventually.

Chapter Text

It was fucking hard flying over the Waking Sea. Either Carver was out of shape, or the wind was stronger than it had any right to be, or—and this seemed most likely—he had severely misjudged the distance between Kirkwall and Denerim. Every wingbeat was a struggle, and by the time he reached land again, sweat clung to his body and his feathers itched with fatigue.

He crash-landed—well, stumbled—onto the first balcony he could find on the upper levels of the royal palace. The stone was slick with morning dew, and he nearly slipped as he threw off his werewolf cloak, letting it fall in a heap. Without ceremony or shame, he shoved open the glass doors and stepped inside.

Directly into what looked like a council meeting.

Ten pairs of eyes turned toward him in unison. Advisors, nobles, and military officials stared at him as if a legendary beast had just burst in to devour them whole. To be fair, he probably looked the part: bare-chested, windswept, with the lingering scent of sea salt and wet feathers.

"Well," Carver said, glancing around. "Am I interrupting something important, or can I speak?"

Teagan, sitting near the head of the table, snorted and slid a goblet toward the empty chair beside him. "You might as well sit. You've already killed the mood."

Carver dropped into the chair, propped his muddy boots on the edge of the ornate table, and drained the goblet in one long swallow. He handed it back without a word. Teagan refilled it, still smirking.

King Alistair and Queen Anora were both seated at the far end. Alistair looked like he was trying not to laugh; Anora had discreetly covered her face with a napkin.

"So," Carver said, holding his goblet lazily. "If you're done talking about whatever dull Fereldan shit this is, I've got news."

"Please," Anora said, her voice dry but amused. "Do enlighten us."

Carver pointed directly at Alistair. "First of all, you—you royal asshole—you owe me."

A few gasps rang out from the stuffier members of the council, but Arl Bryland chuckled behind a hand, and Teyrn Fergus Cousland outright laughed.

Alistair raised a hand to his heart in mock innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don’t give me that." Carver leaned forward. "That letter you sent? Asking me to 'represent Ferelden' and 'manage the refugee situation' in Kirkwall? You know when it arrived? In the middle of a dinner with my mother, my brother, and some stuck-up noble family. And the last line? 'Stop fucking your guards'?"

Teagan nearly choked on his wine.

Carver grinned. "You basically outed me at the table, you bastard. So thanks for that. And now? It's my personal mission to fuck every one of your guards who wants a ride with the Chasind leader."

Alistair flipped him off without missing a beat. Laughter echoed around the table. Anora's mouth twitched, but she didn't scold them.

The more proper advisors looked like they were about to faint.

"Anyway," Carver continued, stretching, "I told Dumar to go fuck a goat. He wanted Ferelden to pay Kirkwall for housing the refugees. Said it was only fair, given the resources. I told him not a single copper would come from Ferelden."

"You told him what?" one of the nobles gasped.

"Pretty much exactly that," Carver said. "Maybe more colorful."

Teagan laughed harder. Even Anora looked faintly pleased.

"Also," Carver added, leaning back, "I heard rumors the Vicount and his guards were planning to keep the refugees from reaching the Gallows. So I slipped a few bribes into the right hands, cleared Lowtown Dock, and made sure every Fereldan who wanted out made it on board. They're sailing home now."

Fergus leaned forward. "You did all that on your own?"

"More or less," Carver replied. "Had help, but yeah."

"Dumar won't like that," one of the advisors said. "We should send a letter. Protest, perhaps."

"Or boycott Kirkwall goods," another offered.

Carver waved a hand. "No need. He's dead."

Silence.

Alistair blinked. "Dumar’s dead?"

Carver nodded. "Courtesy of the Arishok. The Qunari staged a full attack on the city. Killed Dumar, tried to slaughter every noble they could find. My mother included."

Murmurs exploded around the room. Anora raised a hand for silence.

"Did you kill him?" Alistair asked, his voice cautious.

"Wish I had," Carver muttered. "No. The Arishok nearly gutted Garreth. My brother took him down."

"Wait," Fergus said, brows raised. "your brother killed the Arishok?"

Carver nodded again. "And now he’s Champion of Kirkwall."

Another pause.

Alistair coughed. "Well. Sounds like you had an eventful trip."

"And yet," Carver said, raising his goblet again, "you still haven’t answered my question. Why the fuck did you ask me to represent Ferelden? I’m not your vassal. I’m not even technically Fereldan anymore. I’m your—what? Friendly neighbor?"

Anora smiled. "You’re the only person with enough muscle and recklessness to get the job done."

"Compliment accepted," Carver said, tipping his goblet to her.

Alistair sighed and pushed back his chair. "Well, this has been enlightening. Council dismissed. Anyone who objects can write a very strongly worded letter."

The room began to clear out. Fergus clapped Carver on the shoulder as he passed.

Teagan remained behind, watching Carver with amusement. "You need a bath. Badly."

"No shit."

"Come on," Teagan said, motioning him toward the hallway. "We’ll get you set up. Might even find you a guard or two to seduce."

Carver smirked. "You’re a true friend."

"And you," Teagan said, leading him down the corridor, "are the most exciting thing to happen to this palace in weeks."

Carver followed, grinning to himself.

Denerim wasn’t home. But it wasn’t half bad, either.

The bath had been magnificent. That was the only word Carver could think of for it—hot water, scented oils, and not a single person demanding something of him. He scrubbed off the road grime, soot, blood, and what might’ve been another bird, and when he finally emerged, his skin was pink and clean and his hair actually soft for once.

He dressed quickly: a loose tunic the color of wet sand, and trousers that actually fit him. It felt strange not wearing armor, or carrying Vandarel at his side, but the staff was safely placed in a corner of the guest suite. No one was going to attack the Fereldan palace. Hopefully.

He ran a hand through his damp hair and stepped into the hallway.

It wasn’t hard to find Alistair. All he had to do was follow the howling.

Crying children echoed down the corridor like some kind of siege alarm. Carver paused outside a door slightly ajar, and peered inside.

There stood King Alistair Theirin, Hero of the Fifth Blight, Warden, warrior, and savior of Ferelden—barefoot, red-faced, and holding two wailing toddlers who were thrashing like beached fish.

Carver leaned against the doorframe and burst out laughing.

Alistair looked up, utterly miserable. "Oh, thank the Maker. Take one. Take both. Take me, I don’t care anymore."

"You’re doing great," Carver said between snorts. "Really royal."

Alistair turned and practically shoved one of the children into Carver’s arms. The boy was red and shrieking at a pitch that could shatter glass.

"Duncan," Alistair said over the noise. "The loud one."

"Aptly named," Carver muttered.

He bounced the boy once, twice. Duncan screamed louder. Carver winced, but then, instinct took over. He began humming, soft and low—a tune his mother used to sing when he’d skinned his knee or had nightmares about templars under his bed. A lullaby from the past, old and familiar.

Duncan blinked. The screaming turned into sniffles. Then silence. The toddler blinked at him with wet lashes and stuck a grubby hand into Carver’s tunic, gripping tight. His head drooped to Carver’s shoulder.

"Huh," Alistair said. "Okay, what the fuck."

Feeling smug, Carver extended his other arm. "Hand over Carmen."

Alistair hesitated. "If she starts crying again, I’m throwing you out the window."

"Noted."

He took Carmen, still humming the lullaby. She fussed for a moment, kicked her heels, and then stilled. A little sigh escaped her lips as she nuzzled into his chest.

Carver looked over at Alistair with a slow, smug grin. The king stared at him like he’d just conjured a miracle.

"See?" Carver mouthed. "Not that hard."

Alistair collapsed into a padded chair near the crib, arms limp. "Maker’s hairy ass. How did you do that?"

Carver gently placed the twins into their crib. They snuggled together, sharing the same blanket, Duncan’s hand still clutching a fold of Carver’s tunic until the last possible moment.

Once the room had quieted, Carver turned, folding his arms.

"I had practice," he said simply. "My brother may be older, but emotionally? Still has tantrums like them. I got used to calming people down."

Alistair barked a laugh. "That explains so much."

They stepped out into the hall, quietly closing the nursery door behind them.

"You ever consider becoming a nanny?" Alistair asked. "Because I would pay. Well."

Carver smirked. "You called me Uncle Carver in your letter. I take that role seriously. I’ll be the one to give them their first beer, show them how to throw a punch, maybe even sneak them into a brothel."

Alistair made a strangled sound. "Absolutely not."

Carver shrugged. "You started this."

Then, with all the maturity of a ten-year-old, Alistair shoved him. Not hard, but enough to make Carver stumble.

Carver grinned. "You really want to start this?"

And then they were wrestling.

Not serious combat—nothing like dueling on a battlefield. No, this was the kind of grappling two farmboys might do behind the barn: messy, elbowy, full of undignified snorts and muffled laughter.

Alistair got him in a headlock. Carver bit his arm. Alistair yelped and tried to sit on his chest. Carver twisted and upended them both.

They were laughing, breathless, tangled on the floor when a shadow fell across them.

"What in the Maker’s name is this."

Both men froze.

Queen Anora Theirin, in full court dress, stood with her hands on her hips, looking at them like a disapproving schoolmistress.

"Alistair," she said, voice sharp. "You are the King of Ferelden. And you—Carver—are a guest. Both of you are rolling around like stableboys."

"Hi, sweetheart," Alistair said, trying to smile.

Anora didn’t smile back. She reached down, grabbed both of them by the ears, and tugged.

"Ow, ow, okay!" Carver yelped.

"Not the ears! I need those for royal listening!" Alistair protested.

Anora ignored them both and dragged them into the nearest chamber like a scolding mother.

Once inside, she released them with a sigh. "Honestly. I leave you alone for twenty minutes, and you regress to adolescence."

Alistair rubbed his ear. "It was just a little fun."

"You’re lucky the children stayed asleep. And lucky the court didn’t see that spectacle."

Carver straightened his tunic, trying not to grin. "We’ll be on our best behavior."

Anora gave him a look. "I’ve heard that before."

Then she surprised him. Her face softened, just slightly.

"But," she added, her voice low, "thank you. For settling them. Duncan hasn’t stopped crying all morning. I don’t know what you did, but it worked."

Carver ducked his head, a little embarrassed. "Just a song. One my mother used to sing."

Anora nodded once, then turned to Alistair. "Your meeting with the Nevarran envoy is in an hour. Try to look like a monarch by then. And both of you—no more wrestling in the halls."

She swept from the room like a storm cloud, elegant even when irritated.

Alistair exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "She’s terrifying."

"You married her."

"You forced me."

They sat for a moment in comfortable silence.

Carver leaned back against the plush armchair and closed his eyes. He still smelled like lavender from the bath. His muscles ached, but it was the good kind of ache.

"So," Alistair said. "Think you’ll stay long?"

Carver opened one eye. "Depends on when the ships are here. I need to go back home"

Dinner with royalty wasn’t nearly as stuffy as Carver feared. The long, candlelit table gleamed with polished silver and crystal goblets, but the company was unexpectedly warm. Alistair and Anora were seated at the head, and across from Carver sat Teagan, all smiles and kind eyes, his wife Lady Katelynn beside him—a woman with soft curls and a gentle laugh that matched her husband’s easy charm. Carver liked her immediately.

Next to them sat Teyrn Fergus Cousland, proud and solid, with the steady bearing of a man who’d survived everything the world could throw at him. But what caught Carver’s attention was the young man at Fergus’ right—not a servant, not a knight. Just someone with the same blue eyes and square jaw. He had to do a double-take.

“Carver,” Alistair said, gesturing. “This is Aiden Cousland. Fergus’ younger brother.”

Carver blinked. “Wasn’t he…? I thought he was killed during the attack on Highever.”

Aiden grinned. “So did everyone else.”

Fergus chuckled. “He vanished during the Howe assault. Took my son Owen with him and disappeared into the Wending Wood.”

Carver raised his brows. “You survived in the woods? With a kid?”

Aiden gave a crooked smile. “Owen was barely ten. But we managed. Trapped game, found water, avoided darkspawn. The usual.”

Carver was impressed. He glanced at the boy now seated beside him—probably twelve now, with shaggy dark hair and a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“You really lead the Chasind?” Owen asked breathlessly. “Can you really turn into a dragon?”

Carver blinked, then snorted. “What? Yes. Sometimes.”

“Are you a werewolf?”

He choked on his wine. “Definitely not.”

Owen looked disappointed. Aiden leaned over. “Told you.”

But the boy brightened again. “Is your staff really alive? Does it talk?”

Carver grinned. “Oh, he never shuts up.”

Owen beamed, asking rapid-fire questions about the Wilds, about Vandarel, about spirits and spells and whether you could really eat darkspawn if you were starving. Carver answered what he could and made up the rest. It felt good, talking to someone who saw wonder in the world instead of suspicion.

And Aiden—well, Aiden had a smart mouth, a sharp smile, and a relaxed slouch that reminded Carver just enough of Garreth to make him feel almost at home. They traded barbs across the table, laughing like old friends by the time dessert arrived. Apparently, Aiden was just as prolific with women as Carver was with men.

“Fergus hates it,” Aiden confided. “Says I’m going to bring scandal to the family.”

“You?” Carver raised a brow. “Try being the rebel mage brother who dies, then vanishes into the Wilds and comes back with a talking weapon and a bunch of tattoos.”

Aiden grinned. “Touché.”

Then Teagan spoke, looking toward the king. “Alistair. What are your plans for the Alienage? With the Kendall line gone, it leaves the bannorn seat vacant.”

The table quieted.

Carver let out a short laugh. “Putting another noble in charge. That’s your solution?”

Anora gave him a measured look. “Do you have a better idea?”

He leaned forward. “Actually, yeah. Put an elf in charge. Someone from the Alienage. Someone who knows what it’s like to live there, to survive in that filth. Not some pampered noble with a title and zero clue about what it means to be hungry and afraid and powerless.”

The room held its breath.

“Do you know,” Carver continued, “they can’t even carry weapons? They can’t defend themselves in their own homes. That shit has to change. You want to fix Ferelden? Start by treating the elves like people.”

Fergus nodded slowly. “In Highever, our Alienage has an elven mayor. They’re allowed arms. It hasn’t been an issue.”

Anora studied Carver a moment longer. “We will discuss it further.”

“Good,” he said, and picked up his wine.

The mood shifted back to something easier, and soon enough, the nobles were laughing again. After dinner, Carver and Aiden slipped away and headed for the nearest tavern. They drank, played cards with strangers, flirted shamelessly, and told progressively more exaggerated stories about survival, sex, and heroism. Aiden kissed a waitress; Carver kissed a bard. Then the night got blurry.

He woke up in a lumpy bed with sunlight stabbing him in the eyes.

Not palace sheets.

Not palace walls.

Not his boots.

He turned his head. Beside him, a man snored softly.

“Shit,” Carver muttered, easing out of bed.

He found his clothes, pulled them on, and slunk out the tavern door, only to nearly barrel into Fergus Cousland outside, arms crossed and glaring down at Aiden, who was getting a lecture worthy of the Chantry.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Fergus was saying. “What if you hadn’t come back? What if someone got pregnent?”

Carver stifled a laugh and began to back away.

Then something slammed into him.

Or rather—someone.

“YOU ASSHOLE!”

Carver groaned. “Oh, no.”

Ebba punched him. Hard. In the groin.

He dropped like a stone.

“What the—Ebba?!”

Behind her stood Carnuh, Rorik, and Hrogarh, all with crossed arms and matching expressions.

“You ran off to fight Qunari,” Ebba snapped. “Without us. We on the fucking ships, and you just disappeared!”

“Sorry,” Carver wheezed.

“Sorry?”

“We’re supposed to be a pack, you arse,” Carnuh growled.

“You are the worst leader,” Hrogarh grunted.

Carver groaned and rolled onto his back. “I didn’t mean to leave you behind. Things got complicated.”

“Damn right they did,” Ebba said, standing over him. “Next time you sneak off, I’ll aim higher.”

She offered him a hand.

He took it.

They pulled him to his feet, and despite everything, despite the ache in his balls and the throbbing in his head, Carver couldn’t help but grin.

Carver didn’t even change out of his tavern-wrinkled shirt. Back at the palace, he marched straight into the council chamber, hair still damp from snowmelt and his left eye half-bruised from Ebba’s very enthusiastic reunion.

"They’re here," he told Alistair and Anora. "So I'm leaving."

Anora arched an eyebrow. "You just returned."

"My people came for me. Its time."

He kissed her cheek before she could respond, soft and brief. Then he found the nursery, kissed each twin on the forehead—Carmen still had jam on her cheek—and slapped Alistair on the shoulder hard enough to make the king grunt.

"Thanks for the horses."

Alistair smirked. "You’ll be back, then?"

Carver grinned. "You have cheese."

They rode out before noon, fresh mounts kicking up snow and mud as the gates of Denerim vanished behind them. The wind tasted wilder with every league they rode, and Carver's shoulders relaxed with each mile. Ebba rode on his left, still fuming a little, and Carnuh on the right, already complaining about saddle sores. Hrogarh grunted and chewed jerky, Rorik hummed some wordless sea-shanty, and the Wilds were calling.

"So," Carver said, leaning back in his saddle, "who wants to hear about my brilliant solo assault on the Qunari?"

Carnuh threw a snowball at him.

Ebba sniffed. "Tell us why you went without us. That part seems important."

"Would you believe it was a noble mission of strategy and sacrifice?"

"No."

"Didn’t think so."

He told them anyway—the fight on the docks, the Qunari viddathari, the way he and Vandarel had torn through them like wildfire. He tried to make it sound heroic, but Hrogarh only grunted in mild approval, and Ebba kept squinting at him like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hug him or stab him again.

"We had refugees to protect," she said, voice taut. "On the sea. Scared people. Hungry people."

"I know."

She stared at him a while longer before nodding. "We handled it."

Carver raised a brow. "All of it?"

Carnuh laughed. "Well, most of it."

Ebba cleared her throat. "There were... issues."

"What kind of issues?"

Rorik leaned forward on his horse, grin wide. "We had some stowaways."

"From Kirkwall," Carnuh added. "Templars."

Carver felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. "Templars? Meredith’s?"

"Yep," Hrogarh said. "Claimed they were there to protect the refugees. More like trying to stir things up."

"And you just let that happen?"

Hrogarh’s grin was shark-sharp. "I threw them overboard."

Carver blinked. "All of them?"

"Yep."

Ebba shrugged. "We gave them a chance to stop being pricks. They didn’t take it."

"Damn," Carver said, impressed. "That sounds... kind of noble."

"Don’t tell anyone," Carnuh muttered. "We’ve got reputations to uphold."

They made camp that night on the edge of the Brecilian forest, where the trees grew thick and close, and the air had that familiar damp bite of the Wilds. Carver sat by the fire, watching the shadows dance across his companions' faces, and felt something settle deep in his chest.

Belonging.

It wasn’t easy, this life. Hadn’t been from the start. But this?

This was right.

Rorik passed around a skin of wine he'd smuggled from the palace cellars, and Carnuh retold the tale of how Ebba nearly punched a Chantry sister after being asked if she "feared for her soul."