Chapter Text
The road wound southward like a scar across the land, lined with bare trees that clawed at the sky. The smell of the sea was already beginning to creep into the air—salt and wet stone carried on the wind, mingling with the faint bite of winter.
Six years.
Six years since Bethany Hawke and I had first crossed blades in a practice yard beneath Weisshaupt, the sun sharp on steel and laughter still easy between us. Six years since the Grey Wardens stopped seeing me as the strange outsider—the one who spoke of gods and light in tongues they did not know—and began to see me as one of their own.
Those years had passed like slow-turning seasons: campaigns fought in the Frostbacks and the Free Marches, blight-tainted dens purged in the Wilds, recruitments in remote corners of Thedas where no banner flew. Each year marked by blood and rebuilding, triumph and loss, until the days bled together into habit. Duty became rhythm; rhythm became survival.
And yet, here I was—still walking among them.
Stroud rode at the head of the company, his broad shoulders burdened by more than armor. His dark hair had begun to gray at the temples, and the lines around his eyes were deep enough to cast shadows. Time had not been kind to Loghain either; he carried his years like chainmail, heavy but worn without complaint. Bethany too had changed: she no longer looked like the hesitant mage I had met all those years ago, but a woman tempered by fire and by choice. The light in her eyes was still kind—but harder now, measured.
They had all changed.
But not me.
My braid brushed against my back as I shifted the weight of Shadowbringer over my shoulder, the silver streaks in my dark hair the same as the day I’d first stepped into this world. My face bore no new lines. My eyes—Hydaelyn’s cold, distant blue—reflected the same unbroken stillness. The years that bent their backs and weathered their spirits slid past me like water over stone.
Hydaelyn’s gift—her blessing, her curse—held me outside their time.
The Wardens never spoke of it aloud, but I saw it in their eyes sometimes: the flicker of unease, the pause too long to be casual. They aged. I did not. For them, I was a reminder of the unnatural—of the strange hand of fate that walked beside them and did not falter.
Our company moved like a quiet tide along the road, armor muted under travel cloaks. There were a dozen of us: veterans mostly, worn but sharp, eyes always scanning the horizon. Stroud had called this an assignment of importance, though with Wardens that phrase could mean anything from a Darkspawn nest to a diplomatic errand in hostile lands.
Bethany rode slightly ahead of me, her staff slung across her back, the silver crest of the Wardens marking her cloak. The wind caught her hair, darker now than I remembered. She carried herself with calm, but I knew the signs—tightness in her shoulders, the way her fingers tapped absently against the leather of her reins.
The sound of hooves and boots filled the air, rhythmic and unbroken. I guided my mount closer, letting the silence linger until I caught her glance.
“Have you heard from her?” I asked, my voice low enough that only she would hear.
Bethany’s hands tightened. “Marian?”
I nodded once.
Her lips pressed together. “Not since the letter. Not directly.”
That letter—months ago now—had carried news no one wanted to speak aloud: Leandra Hawke murdered in her own home. The words had been written in a hand that didn’t feel like Marian’s—too stiff, too formal, as though even grief had to be held at arm’s length. Bethany had folded it once, twice, tucked it away—but its weight lingered like lead.
“I thought she would write again,” she murmured after a pause. “Or come north. Or send word through the Wardens. But nothing. Not a word in months.” Her voice hardened. “And now Stroud sends us to Kirkwall.”
The name hung heavy between us.
I studied her profile—the shadow beneath her eyes, the restrained worry in every line of her face. “You’re worried about what you’ll find.”
Bethany gave a brittle laugh. “I already know what I’ll find. Kirkwall’s been a storm for years—mages and templars tearing each other apart, Chantry walls cracking under the strain. And Marian…” Her breath hitched, but she didn’t stop. “She’ll be in the middle of it. She always is.”
The road curved, revealing the dark line of coastline ahead. I could see the faint shimmer of sea through the haze—the glint of distant water, the endless gray stretch toward the south.
“You’ll see her soon,” I said quietly. “You’ll have the chance to ask the questions letters can’t carry.”
Bethany’s mouth twitched, caught between bitterness and hope. “You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t,” I said. “But she’s alive. That’s something worth holding to.”
Bethany turned to look at me, her hazel eyes meeting mine. For a heartbeat, she smiled—not with joy, but with endurance. She nodded, then faced forward again as Stroud raised his hand for the company to slow.
The air grew colder as we descended from the hills, the sea wind cutting sharper. The horizon unfolded below: dark cliffs, the churning waves that battered them, and far to the south, the faint haze of smoke that clung perpetually to the spires of Kirkwall.
After six long years of wandering, the road had brought us back to the city that never slept, never healed, and never forgot.
The city waited.
The road narrowed as it bent toward the northern gates of Kirkwall, stone cliffs looming high above us on either side like a jagged maw. I had forgotten how much the city felt less like it had been built and more like it had been cut into the land. Even from miles away, the black cliffs loomed like a warning, the great statues carved into the stone glaring down in silent judgment.
The Wardens marched with a steady pace, their cloaks pulled tight against the sea wind, their expressions hardened against whatever we might find within the city. Stroud rode at the front, posture sharp, eyes set toward the gates. Loghain trailed just behind him, speaking in low words to one of the veterans, his gravel-edged voice carrying just enough for me to catch the occasional word—“instability,” “Chantry,” “Magisters.” All signs pointed to unrest, but none of us could have predicted what was about to unfold.
The moment came as a shiver down my spine.
I drew Shadowbringer’s weight from my shoulder without thinking, halting mid-step. The echo of something greater rippled through me—not a sound, not a vision, but a resonance, the way light bends through glass before the shatter. My breath caught in my chest.
“Stop.” My voice cut sharper than I intended, carrying across the column of Wardens.
Stroud’s hand shot up at once, halting the line. The others stilled, armor clinking, horses shifting uneasily. Bethany’s eyes snapped toward me, searching.
“What is it?” Stroud demanded.
The Echo hummed in my veins, threading whispers I could not ignore. Something is about to happen. The air tasted of iron and smoke.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, my grip tightening on Shadowbringer’s hilt. “Something’s coming.”
Loghain frowned, his hand resting on the pommel of his blade. “From the city?”
“Yes.” The certainty in my own voice startled me. I could feel it, like the moment before a star collapses inward. “We shouldn’t take another step without—”
And then it came.
The city’s spires cut jagged against the sky, its walls brooding and dark. The gates stood open, the streets visible in streaks of smoke and torchlight. And deeper, far deeper within the city’s heart, the Chantry rose like a solemn sentinel, its great spire glimmering faintly with the sun’s reflection.
For half a heartbeat, all was still.
Then the world erupted.
The Chantry’s spire blossomed in fire and stone, a roar tearing through the air like the wrath of a god. The shockwave rippled outward, shattering glass, shaking the very cliffs where we stood. A plume of flame clawed into the sky, devouring the air with a thunderous crack. I staggered, the Echo screeching in my skull, my vision flashing white from the force of it.
Bethany gasped, her horse rearing against the sudden blast. Stroud barked a command, steadying his men, but his own eyes were wide with disbelief. Even Loghain’s composure cracked—his jaw clenched as he stared at the collapsing ruin of the Chantry.
Smoke poured upward, black and furious, curling across the skyline. The sound of screaming carried even this far, faint but unmistakable. Bells tolled in alarm, one after another, their frantic clamor a dirge.
“No…” Bethany’s voice broke, thin and horrified. “Maker preserve us… the Chantry…”
Stroud’s voice snapped the group back to motion. “We move. Now.”
The Wardens surged forward at his command, feet pounding the earth, hooves kicking up dirt. We descended toward the gates at speed, the weight of the explosion still ringing in my bones.
Inside me, the Echo reverberated with a truth I could not yet name, but it sang of death and blood, of a war about to break its chains.
As we neared the gates, chaos poured outward—citizens fleeing, their faces pale masks of terror, guards shouting over one another as the city reeled from the blow. The heat of fire licked the air even here, acrid smoke burning my throat.
The gates of Kirkwall were already half-broken when we arrived, crowds surging outward like a river that had burst its banks. The guards at the gate tried to hold some semblance of order, shouting themselves hoarse, but the tide of terrified people drowned them out. Smoke billowed down the streets, carrying with it the unmistakable tang of blood and fire.
Stroud wasted no time. He barked orders that cut through the din like a blade. “Wardens—form two groups! Secure entry, and split for the Chantry and the Gallows. Zephyr, Loghain, Bethany—you’re with me. No—” he corrected, quick as thought, “—you three go. Investigate what happened at the Chantry. That is priority. The city guard can see to the wounded.”
I felt Bethany’s eyes on me, searching, but I gave a single nod. Stroud had chosen well; she and her sister were bound to cross paths here, and better it be with me and Loghain at her side than anyone else.
The three of us broke away from the others, forcing ourselves into the crush of the streets. Chaos had already bloomed into violence. Templars, their armor soot-stained and faces twisted with fury, cut down fleeing mages where they stood. Mages retaliated with blasts of raw lightning, fire spilling from their fingertips, setting whole buildings alight in their rage and terror. The cobbles ran with blood, the cries of the wounded and the damned echoing from every alley.
Bethany flinched at each clash, her staff raised but her will divided between intervening and obeying the order Stroud had given. I kept her moving, hand firm at her shoulder. “Eyes forward,” I told her. “We can’t stop this.”
Loghain’s voice growled low at my side. “The spark has already been thrown. This city is lost to fire.”
And yet we pressed on, pushing against the storm of battle, weaving through falling debris, the spires of the Chantry visible in the smoke-streaked sky like a broken spear.
It was there, near the base of the great stair that led to the ruined Chantry, that we found her.
Marian Hawke.
The Champion of Kirkwall stood amid a ring of bloodied templars, her staff-blade slick with ash and ichor. Even through the smoke and chaos, her presence was undeniable—commanding, fierce, tempered by years of battle in this cursed city.
Bethany froze at the sight, the world seeming to fall away from her for just that moment. “Marian!”
Her sister turned, her eyes flashing with disbelief and relief all at once. “Bethany?” The staff nearly slipped from her grip. “By the Maker—how—”
But then her gaze slid past her, and settled on me.
The warmth in her expression iced over.
“You.” Her voice was flat, sharp, carrying all the venom of seven years’ absence. “I should have known.”
The memory struck sharp between us: that day in the Deep Roads, when Bethany had lain dying from the Taint, and I had barred Marian from following. When I had told her no, when my presence alone had forced her to lay down her blade and leave her sister behind. A wound like that didn’t heal—not easily.
Bethany stepped forward quickly, voice hurried. “It wasn’t him, Marian—he saved me. If not for the Wardens I’d be—”
But Marian cut her off, her eyes never leaving mine. “You made her one of them. You took her from me.”
I didn’t flinch beneath her fury, though the words cut deep. I had no apology left to give—not one that could bridge that gap. Instead, I said, low and steady, “We don’t have time for this.”
Because beyond us, the Chantry smoldered, fire licking skyward from the cratered ruin of its spire. And in front of its shattered steps, a lone figure stood waiting.
Anders.
The healer’s familiar silhouette bent in the wavering firelight, his expression drawn tight. His eyes met Marian’s, then Bethany’s, then finally mine—and for the first time, I saw them clearly. Two gazes, housed in one body.
“Anders,” Marian breathed, her voice breaking between fury and disbelief. “Maker… what have you done?”
“I did what had to be done.” His voice trembled, but there was steel beneath it. “The Circle, the Templars, the Chantry—they would never stop. Not until every mage was a prisoner, or dead. This… this was the only way to make them hear us.”
And then, for a heartbeat, his voice shifted—lower, colder, resonating as though another presence spoke through him. “Justice demanded it.”
Bethany staggered back as though struck. “What—what are you talking about?”
Anders shook his head, hair clinging damp to his brow. “He’s with me. A spirit. Justice. He sees what I see—that this world is broken, that it cannot be mended without sacrifice.” His gaze lifted to mine, burning. “You knew, didn’t you? You always looked at me like you saw it.”
“I did,” I said quietly. “I knew something was wrong in you. But not this.” My hand clenched tight around Shadowbringer’s hilt.
Marian stepped forward, her staff trembling in her grip. “You… you blew up the Chantry. You murdered the Grand Cleric.”
Anders didn’t flinch. “She had to die. So the world would see. So the truth couldn’t be ignored.”
Silence stretched. Only the crackle of fire and the distant clash of battle filled the void.
Marian’s knuckles whitened against her weapon. I could feel the storm inside her, the war between sister, Champion, and woman who had once called Anders a friend.
“You’ve left me no choice,” she whispered.
Her staff rose.
Anders closed his eyes, bowing his head as though ready to accept it. “Do what you must.”
Bethany’s breath hitched, tears welling in her eyes as she looked between them. “Marian, don’t—please—”
I stood in the firelight, silent, waiting, the Echo throbbing in my veins as the city of Kirkwall began to burn.
Marian’s staff hung in the air like a sword suspended over a man’s neck. The firelight carved sharp shadows across her face, her jaw clenched so tight it seemed it might crack. Anders didn’t move. He didn’t even raise a hand in defense. He stood on the ruin of what he had wrought—the shattered heart of the Chantry—and waited for her to end him.
Bethany’s breath came ragged, caught somewhere between pleading and sobbing. I could feel her trembling through the air between us, her panic pressing against my own skin. Loghain stood silent, watching as though he had seen this moment countless times before—a soldier knowing a commander’s burden, unwilling to speak into it.
For me, there was only stillness. A quiet that pressed heavy in my chest. I had faced gods and emperors, Ascian plots spun across stars, and battles where the fate of worlds hung in the balance. But this—this was one woman, caught between her fury, her grief, and the weight of an entire city on her shoulders. And there was nothing I could do to bear it for her.
Marian’s staff trembled in her grip. Her lips pressed into a thin line, then parted as though words might come—but none did. Only the flicker of flame on her cheek, the reflection of the inferno Anders had unleashed.
At last, she drew a sharp, shaking breath. Slowly, her staff lowered, the tip clattering against the stone at her feet.
“Maker help me,” she whispered. “I won’t kill you. Not here. Not like this.”
Bethany let out a shuddering gasp of relief, covering her face with one hand.
Anders’ eyes opened, a flicker of something—gratitude, sorrow, maybe even shame—passing across them. His voice came low, steady. “Thank you.”
But then the second voice followed, cold and resonant, like metal scraping against stone. “Mercy will cost you, Champion.”
Marian’s eyes hardened. “Then I’ll pay the price myself. But I will not be your executioner today.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any battle. I could almost hear the city’s heartbeat in it—the screams of mages, the roars of templars, the shattering of walls and lives.
I stepped forward then, my boots scraping over stone, and Anders turned his gaze to me. His eyes searched mine, desperate for something—understanding, perhaps, or condemnation.
“You’ve damned them both,” I said quietly, tilting my head toward Marian and Bethany. “Your justice has set this city ablaze. Whatever you meant to prove, it’s already lost to blood.”
He flinched, but did not argue.
Loghain snorted softly at my side, his voice low enough only I caught it. “You sound like Maric.”
I ignored him, turning my attention instead to Bethany, who had finally torn her eyes from her sister and Anders. She looked stricken, pale as chalk, the enormity of what had just happened pressing down on her shoulders. She was no longer simply a Warden who had survived her Joining—she was a mage, tied now to the heart of a war she could not escape.
I rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and inclined my head toward the stair. “We need to move. The Chantry’s fall is only the beginning. Stroud will want to know what we’ve seen.”
Marian’s staff tapped against the stone as she stepped closer, blocking my path for just a moment. Her eyes met mine—sharp, dark, still carrying that deep reservoir of resentment that had festered since the Deep Roads.
“You protect her,” she said, voice edged like a blade. “If Bethany comes to harm again, if you take her from me again—I won’t forgive it. Not this time.”
I held her gaze, letting her see the weight of my own conviction. “I don’t intend to take anything from you. Not now. Not ever. But some choices are not ours to make.”
The flicker of something—confusion, or maybe bitter understanding—passed through her eyes. Then she stepped aside.
Anders lingered a moment longer at the ruin of the Chantry before following, his shoulders bent as though carrying the whole weight of his decision with him. Marian walked beside him, her head high but her hand trembling where it gripped her staff.
Bethany stayed close to me, her silence louder than any words could be.
The night air outside the Chantry burned with the scent of ash and salt. Smoke curled from the broken dome, rising into the dark like the last prayer of a dying god. Kirkwall was shuddering, the whole city pulsing as though it shared a single, wounded heart.
We emerged into streets lined with chaos—templars marching in squads, mages running for cover, civilians screaming from behind shuttered windows. The cobblestones were slick with soot and blood, the glow of firelight painting the stone red.
Bethany kept close, her breath still uneven. She hadn’t spoken since we left the ruins. Neither had Marian.
Anders walked ahead of us, his shoulders hunched, his expression hollow. Justice—Vengeance—whatever name the spirit had taken—was silent within him for once. I could almost pity him for that quiet. It wasn’t peace. It was the absence that follows a scream.
“Where will he go?” Bethany’s voice cracked the silence at last, faint and raw.
Marian’s answer came without looking back. “It doesn’t matter where he goes. The city will follow his shadow until it burns itself out.”
Her tone was flat, but I could hear the strain beneath it. The Champion of Kirkwall, who had faced qunari and corrupted mages alike, looked like someone carved hollow by the weight of her choices.
I fell into step beside her. “You can still contain this. Rally them, restore order—”
She stopped short, spinning toward me. “Order?” Her eyes flared with fury that wasn’t meant for me alone. “There is no order left to restore. The Chantry’s gone, the Grand Cleric’s ashes are still warm, and every zealot in this city is about to draw their sword in the Maker’s name. The spark’s already caught.”
“Then we put out what we can,” I said. “Stroud’s men are spread through Lowtown and Hightown. We can keep the worst of it from spilling into slaughter.”
Marian gave a short, humorless laugh. “You think this can be stopped? That’s cute.”
Bethany winced at her tone, her eyes flicking between us. “Marian…”
But Marian was already moving again, faster this time, her staff thumping against the stones with each stride. “The Gallows,” she said. “Meredith will make her stand there. She always does.”
She didn’t wait for us to agree. She didn’t need to.
We followed her through the corpse of the city. Flames licked the sky above Hightown; the air itself shimmered with heat. Every street echoed with conflict—steel on stone, the crack of lightning and fire as frightened mages lashed out in panic, templars responding with bloodied precision.
By the time we reached the docks, my armor was blackened with soot. Stroud and a handful of Wardens met us near the bridge to the Gallows, their faces grim.
“She’s already there,” he said before we spoke. “Meredith’s called every templar to arms. Orsino’s gathering the mages to meet her. It’s going to be a slaughter.”
Marian’s expression didn’t change. “Then we stop it.”
Stroud hesitated. “The Wardens do not choose sides in the conflicts of nations.”
“You already did when you came here,” she said. “You stand for life, for what can still be saved. You think this isn’t that?”
Stroud’s jaw tightened. Then, at last, he nodded. “Very well. But once this begins, there will be no walking away.”
“There never was,” I said quietly.
Bethany’s gaze turned toward the Gallows across the dark water. The old fortress loomed like a beast waiting to feed—its towers bristling with torchlight, its bridges crowded with silhouettes moving toward inevitable ruin.
She whispered, more to herself than any of us, “Marian… what if this ends with both sides dead?”
Her sister didn’t answer.
The tide lapped against the stone beneath our feet, the rhythm slow and cold. The fires of the city flickered behind us; before us, the Gallows blazed with torchlight and fury.
Between them, the air was heavy with the weight of choice—of what it means to stand when every path leads through blood.
Marian lifted her staff, her jaw set. “Then we make sure their deaths mean something.”
The Gallows courtyard was alive with shouting when we arrived, the air thick with smoke from burning streets and the salt stink of the sea that lapped against the old stone. Torches sputtered against the gathering night, casting jagged shadows across the crowd that had formed—mages in their robes, eyes wild with fear and defiance, and templars in polished armor, hands tight on hilts and staves.
The Chantry’s fall had been the spark. Here, in this courtyard, the fire was about to consume all.
Meredith stood on the platform as if she were carved into the stone itself, her armor gleaming in the torchlight, the crimson shard of lyrium at her hip pulsing faintly. Her jaw was set, her voice carrying with the command of someone who had spent a lifetime being obeyed.
“This city burns because of weakness,” she declared, her words cutting across the gathered crowd like a blade. “Because mercy was given where there should have been none. Mages—” she spat the word like venom “—have proven they are beyond control. They must be purged.”
A chorus of templar voices shouted their approval, the sound hammering in my ears like a war drum.
Across from her, Orsino stood stiff-backed, his hands clenched at his sides. His face was pale, yet his eyes burned with a desperate fury. “We are not the ones who lit this fire!” he shouted back, his voice carrying with surprising strength. “You bring your chains, your collars, your blades, and you call it justice. Do not pretend the Chantry’s fall was our doing—it was born of your oppression!”
The mages surged with his words, their shouts matching the templars’ roar. Sparks of uncontrolled magic lit the night like fireflies, quickly snuffed out by trembling hands.
Marian moved forward then, her companions at her back—Bethany, pale but resolute, staff clutched in her hands; Varric with Bianca already raised; Fenris grim and silent, the glow of lyrium flickering in the lines of his skin; Merrill trembling but determined, her eyes hard with a strength I hadn’t seen in her before. Aveline was absent—her loyalties too tied to law and order—but the others were here, united.
And behind them stood us—the Wardens who had followed Stroud into Kirkwall. Grey cloaks billowed in the salt air, faces drawn tight as they weighed what side this war would demand of them. Stroud glanced my way only once, his eyes unreadable, before stepping forward to stand beside Marian.
“The Wardens stand with the Champion,” he said, his voice ringing out over the chaos.
A ripple passed through the crowd, a tremor of uncertainty. The Grey Wardens had no stake in this war, no reason to choose a side in the eternal struggle between Circle and Order. And yet, by placing ourselves here, we had tipped the balance.
Meredith’s lips curled into a sneer. “Traitors, then. You would stand with apostates and abominations against the Maker’s will?” Her gauntleted hand tightened on the pommel of her sword. “So be it.”
“Better traitors than butchers,” Marian shot back, stepping up beside Orsino. Her voice was sharp, honed to cut through the roars of both sides. “If you’ll slaughter innocents in the name of the Maker, then you never served Him at all.”
The tension in the courtyard stretched taut, so tight I thought the air itself might shatter.
Then Meredith’s hand dropped to her hip. She drew the idol.
It was smaller than I remembered from Varric’s stories, but the thing radiated power that made my skin crawl. Red lyrium pulsed like a living heart, the stone twisting with veins of fire. As Meredith lifted it, her armor began to glow with the same bloody light, veins of corruption threading through the steel. Her eyes burned red, her skin tightening as the idol’s power consumed her.
“You will not deny me justice!” she screamed, her voice warped and echoing, no longer human. The courtyard trembled as the idol’s power surged outward, filling her veins with living stone, transforming her into something monstrous—armor fused to flesh, her very body a vessel of lyrium.
The templars roared and raised their swords.
Across the platform, Orsino’s face twisted with horror—and then with resolve. He turned to the mages, his voice breaking with desperation. “You see? There is no justice here, no mercy. Only death. If we are to live, we must take power into our own hands!”
Marian’s eyes widened. “Orsino—don’t—!”
But it was too late. His staff clattered to the stone as he raised his hands, muttering words that stank of blood and desperation. The ground split as crimson light poured forth, and he screamed as his body tore itself apart, twisting, warping, remaking itself into a grotesque monster of sinew and bone, magic and flesh.
The mages shrieked, some stumbling back in terror, others frozen in horror.
Two monsters now stood at either side of the courtyard, their transformation complete.
The last moment of silence broke like glass.
Steel clashed with steel. Magic split the air in jagged bolts of fire and ice. Screams rose into the night as templars and mages crashed against one another in a tide of blood.
I drew Shadowbringer in one smooth motion, the obsidian blade humming. My eyes fixed on Meredith—red lyrium veins glowing, her blade trailing sparks of unnatural power.
Meredith’s sword met Shadowbringer with an earth-shaking clang. She was fast—unnaturally fast. The idol’s corruption lent her strength enough to match me blow for blow, her eyes glowing like coals as she forced me back across the platform. Every strike sent vibrations rattling through my bones.
“You cannot win, abomination!” she snarled, her voice layered with inhuman resonance. “You cannot hide from justice!”
I twisted Shadowbringer in a vicious arc that forced her to stumble back a step.
She roared, the sound like steel grinding against stone, and pressed her assault. Sparks rained around us as steel met darksteel, the ground beneath our boots cracking from the force.
I saw Orsino in the corner of my vision—a towering monstrosity now, his form grotesque and inhuman. His voice was gone, replaced by guttural howls as he rampaged across the courtyard, tearing templars apart with claws of bone and sinew. His fury knew no side, striking down any who came near.
I risked a glance—and it cost me. Meredith’s blade slammed against Shadowbringer, driving me back toward the edge of the platform. My boots skidded against the stone, my balance faltering for an instant.
That was when Orsino charged.
The beast barreled forward with impossible speed, its massive bulk crashing across the platform. Meredith twisted aside with inhuman agility, her glowing eyes narrowing as the monster tore toward the templars.
I wasn’t so lucky.
The impact struck me like a battering ram. Pain exploded through my chest as Orsino’s bulk slammed into me, hurling me backward. My grip on Shadowbringer held, but the world tilted, the stone vanishing beneath my feet.
Cold, black water swallowed me whole.
Hawke's Perspective
Bethany’s scream tore across the courtyard the instant Zephyr vanished over the platform’s edge. I saw her hand shoot out as if she could snatch him back by sheer will.
“Zephyr!”
The black water below churned where his body had disappeared. Then only ripples remained, swallowed in the chaos of battle. My gut twisted, but there was no time to think—Meredith’s red-tinged blade came down toward my skull, and I barely caught it on the blade of my staff. Sparks scattered like embers between us.
“Focus!” Stroud’s voice thundered over the din, his grey cloak flaring as he parried another templar who had thrown himself into the fray. “He’s not dead until you see the body! Fight!”
Bethany’s eyes lingered on the water, wide and frantic, before she wrenched them back to the battle. Her knuckles were white on her staff as she raised a barrier spell in time to intercept a templar’s strike.
Loghain was beside her in an instant, his blade sliding past the opening her shield had made, cutting the templar down with the efficiency of a man who had lived half his life in wars. His eyes, though, flicked once to the sea, grim and calculating. “A fall like that would kill most men,” he said under his breath. “But him… perhaps not.”
I clenched my jaw. Maker help me, I didn’t like him—Zephyr had taken Bethany from me once, to the Wardens, without giving me the chance to stop it—but he had also fought at her side for years. And I had seen his blade, his strength. If anyone could crawl out of that water alive, it was him.
But we couldn’t wait.
Meredith’s laughter—hollow, grating, full of that red lyrium’s corruption—split the air as she came for us again. She moved like no human should, her strikes so heavy that every impact rattled through my bones. I ducked under one swing, countered with my blade, and barely scraped her armor. It was fused to her now—stone, steel, and flesh one and the same.
And Orsino—Maker preserve us—what he had become was worse. The thing he had turned into loomed across the courtyard, a grotesque mass of bone and muscle, his claws raking stone and flesh alike. He had no sides left, no reason, only rage. A templar screamed as he was lifted and torn apart like cloth. Blood slicked the stone.
“Hawke!” Varric shouted from the rear, loosing another bolt into Orsino’s bulk. “We’re in a shit storm here—pick one before we’re all paste!”
“I don’t have the luxury of choosing,” I shouted back, forcing Meredith’s blade aside with a grunt. “Keep him busy!”
Fenris answered without words. With a roar, he leapt onto Orsino’s mutated back, lyrium flaring in his markings as his greatsword carved deep. The monster bellowed, thrashing, swiping at him with claws as big as a man’s torso. Merrill was already chanting, her voice trembling but her hands steady as fire seared across the creature’s limbs.
The courtyard was chaos—screams, steel, magic, blood.
I met Meredith’s eyes—red, burning, unholy—and forced myself to hold that gaze. She was a monster now, but she was still the fulcrum of this madness. If she fell, the templars might break.
“You damn yourself with every breath,” she snarled, forcing me back step by step. Her strength was relentless, her blade sparking against mine. “You would throw away the Maker’s law for this—for mages, for filth?”
“For my sister,” I hissed through clenched teeth, driving my sword upward to lock her blade above us. “For this city. For everyone you would burn to ash in your madness.”
She shoved me back with inhuman force, my boots skidding across the platform. I nearly lost my grip. Bethany was at my side in an instant, her hand flaring as she cast a ward that slowed Meredith’s next strike.
“Marian—” her voice cracked, desperate. “She’s stronger than you. You can’t—”
“I don’t have a choice,” I cut her off. My staff trembled with the strain of holding against Meredith’s power, but I forced my stance to steady. “If she wins, we’re all dead. All of us.”
Behind us, Orsino roared again, his claws swiping wide. Stroud darted in, his movements disciplined, his blade cutting with precision even against a foe that dwarfed him. Loghain was there too, fighting with brutal efficiency, his strikes aimed to cripple rather than kill—though against a creature like this, the difference was meaningless.
The Wardens were holding their line, but barely. Every moment we spent split between two nightmares dragged us closer to ruin.
Meredith’s laughter rang in my ears again, louder, harsher, as if the idol’s corruption itself was mocking me.
“You are nothing, Champion,” she spat, her blade glowing with red heat. “You will break.”
“Not today,” I growled, and struck back.
The courtyard blazed with chaos, two monsters tearing at the world, and all I could do was fight until my arms gave out—or until one of us fell.
Minutes Earlier – Zephyr’s Perspective
The water hit me like stone. The shock of it stole the air from my chest, drove me down into the black beneath the Gallows. My body slammed against the pilings, current dragging me further.
For a moment, I let it. My lungs burned, my limbs heavy, the roar of battle above fading into nothing but water rushing in my ears. Maybe this was the end. Another world, another war, dying nameless in someone else’s story.
But then I heard it—my own voice, but not, sharp as a blade.
Get up. You’re not finished.
Umbriel.
The darkness inside me stirred, that familiar weight like a second heartbeat. Rage, cold and clarifying, spread through my veins. I opened my eyes, saw nothing but black water—and saw through it. My aether coiled, shuddered, flared to life.
I thrust my hand upward. Shadows erupted from my palm, clawing through the sea as though the water itself bent to me. My feet found purchase where there was none, the current snapping away under the press of my will. I launched myself upward, shadows carrying me up.
The surface shattered around me. I landed on stone, half-collapsed, coughing salt from my lungs. And then I heard it—the screams, the clash, the roar of monsters. The Gallows courtyard was chaos, fire and blood and steel. Meredith, her body half-lyrium, bearing down on Marian and Bethany. Orsino’s abomination thrashing against the Wardens.
My vision narrowed to a point. Rage coiled tight in my chest, Umbriel’s laughter echoing inside me.
No more holding back. Not this time.
I rose to my feet. My hands shook, not from weakness but from power. Black aether spilled from my skin like smoke. I called Shadowbringer to me, It slammed into my palm, heavy, perfect, alive with darkness.
I didn’t climb back to the platform—I rose. The shadows surged beneath me, lifting me in a rush of black smoke and violet fire, carrying me skyward until my boots slammed onto the stone with a crack.
Every head turned.
Bethany’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open. “Maker…”
Marian staggered back, her staff clutched to her chest. “What—”
Meredith hissed, the red glow of the idol in her chest flaring brighter. “Abomination!”
Her blade came down toward me in an instant, faster than thought. I raised my hand, and a barrier of shadow bloomed into being—the Blackest Night, a wall of darkness harder than steel. Her sword struck, sparks cascading, but the shield held.
And as it cracked, as her strength pressed against mine, power surged through me, flooding into my veins, into Shadowbringer.
Umbriel’s voice in my head was a snarl of triumph. Yes. Take it. Show them.
I stepped forward, shoving her blade aside with a sweep of my shield, then swung Shadowbringer in a wide arc. Darkness exploded outward, a tide of void made flesh, it slammed into Meredith, forcing her back across the stone.
The courtyard froze for a heartbeat.
Orsino roared behind me, his mutated form lurching toward the templars. Stroud and Loghain scrambled aside, trying to keep him from tearing through their lines.
But Meredith only laughed, red light searing from her eyes. She raised her sword again, cracked and glowing like molten stone. “So. You bare your true nature at last. Good. It will make your execution all the sweeter.”
I didn’t wait for her to come. I surged forward, shadows trailing from my blade like flame. Each strike rattled the stone, each clash of our blades spraying sparks and lyrium shards. She was strong—unnaturally so—but now I wasn’t holding back.
Bethany’s voice rang out behind me, a shield spell slamming into place over my back as another templar tried to rush me. Marian’s fire lit the night, streaking toward Orsino’s hulking mass. The Wardens regrouped, falling into rhythm around me.
But all I could see was Meredith.
Every strike, every block, every swing of Shadowbringer was Umbriel and I as one—my fury, his hunger, melded together.
The battle was far from over. Orsino was still a monster tearing the Gallows apart. Meredith was a juggernaut of lyrium and madness. The city itself was burning.
The clash rang like thunder. Shadowbringer sang in my hands, its edge cutting air itself as I brought it down with all the fury Umbriel and I could muster. Meredith raised her lyrium-forged blade to meet it—arrogant, defiant—but the impact shattered her weapon like glass struck by a hammer. Shards of glowing red lyrium spun outward, searing the air, clattering across the courtyard.
The force of the blow hurled her backward. She staggered, the molten veins in her flesh blazing brighter, her breath tearing from her throat in a ragged scream. I lifted my free hand, shadows coiling thick around my arm, and unleashed a torrent of raw aether. The blast struck her square in the chest, throwing her across the platform and slamming her into the cracked stone wall beyond.
Behind me, I felt it: the swell of magic gathering like a storm. I glanced back—Marian with her staff raised high, Bethany bracing at her side, and Merrill’s lips moving in Elvhen as she traced sigils of fire and lightning in the air. Their combined power twisted the night into a furnace of light and sound, their robes whipped by the force of their spellwork. They were ready to bring the Champion’s judgment down upon Meredith.
I left her to them.
Because Orsino still raged unchecked.
The abomination roared, swinging one of its grotesque limbs toward Loghain. My friend was too slow to evade, his blade still buried in another strike. Without thought, I moved. Shadowbringer blurred as I interposed myself, the abomination’s claws shrieking against my blade as sparks of void and Fade-fire cascaded between us.
The force rattled my bones, but I held.
“Zephyr!” Loghain barked, surprise cracking through the iron in his voice.
“On your feet!” I snarled back, driving the abomination’s limb upward with a surge of shadow.
Stroud appeared at Loghain’s other side, his greatsword biting deep into Orsino’s warped flesh. The creature shrieked, flailing, its twisted body contorting in unnatural angles. Together, the three of us pressed forward—Loghain hammering his shield into its abdomen, Stroud cleaving with precise, brutal strokes, and me driving Shadowbringer through each opening they created.
The abomination howled one last time, a sound that rattled the very marrow of my bones. Then Stroud found its heart—or what passed for one in that hideous shell—and drove his blade through. The monster convulsed, black ichor spraying across the stone, then crumpled into itself with a wet crash.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then light consumed the courtyard.
I turned to see Marian, Bethany, and Merrill’s combined spell finally released. Fire, lightning, and raw force converged in a torrent upon Meredith. The explosion of magic engulfed her, swallowing her scream, tearing the air apart with a shockwave that sent dust and stone flying.
When the light faded, Meredith was still standing.
But not as she had been.
Her flesh was gone, replaced entirely by jagged plates of red lyrium. Every vein, every muscle, every bone encased in crystalline corruption. She moved, but not as a woman anymore—more like a statue dragged by unseen hands. Her hollow eyes glowed with a terrible light, the idol’s curse finally consuming her whole.
The courtyard was silent at last. No screams, no clash of steel, no roar of magic. Just the ragged sound of our breathing and the faint crackle of fires still burning in the wreckage of Kirkwall’s heart.
Meredith stood motionless in the center of it all, her eyes fixed on nothing, her lips parted as though still in the midst of some tirade. The glow of lyrium pulsed through her like veins of molten stone. I took a step toward her, Shadowbringer still heavy in my grip, half-expecting her to lunge again. But she didn’t.
The light in her eyes dimmed, her body convulsed once—then the last flickers of humanity were consumed. Red lyrium overtook her completely, hardening until not even the illusion of breath remained. Her final scream, twisted and wordless, froze in crystal silence. What had once been Knight-Commander Meredith was now only a statue, jagged and terrible, a monument to her madness.
For a long moment, none of us spoke. Marian’s staff slipped slightly in her hand, the adrenaline finally breaking. Bethany leaned against her, silent tears streaking her face. Merrill clasped her hands together and whispered something in Elvhen I could not hear.
Stroud exhaled slowly and sheathed his blade. Loghain wiped his gauntlet across his brow, though the blood and ichor staining him were far too thick to clean away so easily.
It was over.
The days that followed blurred together.
Kirkwall was in ruin—physically, politically, spiritually. The Chantry’s rubble still smoldered, and the streets seethed with unrest. Some cursed the mages for destruction, others the Templars for tyranny. No one seemed to know what the city would become now.
For my part, I spent most of those days in stillness. Resting, they called it, though for me it was more a matter of endurance—enduring silence, enduring boredom. Shadowbringer lay propped against the wall of the chamber the Wardens had secured, its obsidian blade humming faintly in my dreams.
Bethany visited often, sometimes alone, sometimes with Marian. I said little, but her presence steadied me. Seeing the sisters reunited—seeing Marian brush the hair back from Bethany’s face, or Bethany smile despite everything—was a small balm against the weight of blood still clinging to my hands.
But respite could never last. Not for Wardens.
Stroud summoned us at dawn, three days after the battle.
The chamber he chose was one of the few still intact in the Gallows—bare stone, no windows, only the faint torchlight that made the shadows seem thicker than they were. He stood waiting, stern as ever, his hair plastered from the morning mist.
Loghain was already there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes flicked toward me in silent acknowledgment when I entered.
Bethany arrived next, walking close beside Marian, who carried herself with the same sharp confidence she always had, though I could see the fatigue etched in her shoulders. Behind them came Anders, bound at the wrists, his face pale but set with a kind of quiet defiance. Merrill trailed last, hesitant, while Varric lingered in the doorway as though unwilling to step fully inside.
Stroud wasted no time.
“It is done,” he said. His voice carried the weight of command, firm and measured. “The Knight-Commander has fallen. The Circle here is no more. Kirkwall will either find its own way forward, or it will crumble. That is no longer our concern.”
Marian bristled at his tone. “Not our concern? After all we’ve bled for this city, you'd just turn your backs?”
Stroud’s gaze flicked to her, cold but not unkind. “You’ve bled, yes. And you’ve survived. That is enough. What remains is for you and your people to decide.”
I could feel the tension coil in the room. Marian’s fingers twitched near her staff; Bethany reached to steady her sister before anger took hold.
Stroud continued, voice sharpening. “Our concern is with the Wardens. With our duty. And with one who has long shirked it.”
His eyes fell upon Anders.
Anders didn’t flinch. “Here it comes,” he muttered.
“You are still a Grey Warden,” Stroud said, each word deliberate. “For eight years, you’ve evaded that duty. Fled from it. Hidden from your brothers and sisters. That ends now.”
Marian stepped forward, fire sparking in her eyes. “He fought with us. He helped bring down Meredith. Without him—”
“Without him,” Stroud cut her off, “the Chantry would still stand. Hundreds would still live. Whatever else he has done, he murdered Grand Cleric Elthina and countless innocents besides. That is not a crime I—or any Warden—can excuse.”
Bethany shook her head, her voice trembling. “He was our friend. He saved us more than once. He doesn’t deserve—”
Stroud raised a hand, silencing her. “It is not for me to decide his fate. Nor for you. The First Warden will hear his case. He alone will render judgment.”
The weight of his words settled like stone.
Marian clenched her jaw. “And if the First Warden decides to execute him? After all he’s done for us? For Thedas?”
“Then that will be his sentence,” Stroud said simply.
Silence followed. Even Loghain, so quick to cut with words, held his tongue.
Anders drew in a slow breath, then let it out in a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “So after all this… I’m just back in chains.” His gaze flicked to Marian, then Bethany, then me. “Figures.”
Marian’s hands curled into fists. I saw the fire in her eyes—the same fire that had led her through every battle, that had carried Kirkwall through its darkest hours. But for once, there was no enemy she could strike, no foe to put down.
Stroud’s decision was final.
“We march soon,” he said. “To Weisshaupt. To the First Warden. Zephyr, Loghain, Bethany—you will come with me. The rest of you may go where you will. But Anders belongs to the Wardens now.”
The torches guttered in a sudden draft, their flames snapping shadows across the stone. In that silence, I felt the shape of what came next—an ending for some, a reckoning for others, and another road set before me, whether I wished to walk it or not.