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Chapter Text

The flames of ruin in Lothering reach toward the smoke dark sky like clawed fingers, streaking whirlwinds of flame in the heart of town. Smoke choked the air as the Hawke family gathers what few possessions they can carry, the sounds of battle drawing ever closer. Garret and Carver had burst through the door an hour before, speaking of absolute defeat at Ostagar. The king was dead and a nightmare horde was on the way.

Soon after the town was overrun by darkspawn, despite the sheer number of bear traps set around the fields. Their house was just on the outskirts.

"We need to move now," Garret said, adjusting his shield onto his right arm while his left hand rests on his sword hilt. His warrior's training keeps his voice steady despite the chaos around them. "The darkspawn won't wait for us to finish packing.”

"We've been running since Ostagar!” Carver huffs out as he frantically fills a tiny knapsack, he takes the amulet with Peaches portrait.

Marian clutched her staff in her hands, with her measly bag already prepared and tied around her hips, electricity crackling faintly along the length of polished burned ash in response to her anxiety. "Mother, please. We have to go."

Leandra held a small portrait of Malcolm against her chest—one of the few reminders of her late husband she refuses to leave behind. "This was our home," she whispers.

"And it's gone," Carver said bluntly, "We can grieve later. Right now, we survive."

Bethany emerged quickly from her room, travel gear on and bag of supplies strapped to her back, she placed a gentle hand on their mother's shoulder. "Father would want us to live, Mother, we need to hurry. He'd want us to protect each other." 

Everyone is outside without time for a parting glance to their home for the last 6 years. They ran for the hills, it was impossible to get to the imperial highway, it was completely overrun by monsters.

They'd been walking for nearly an hour when the first darkspawn emerged from the shadows, between the ruined trees blackened from flame and the taint’s corruption. Hurlocks, their monstrous visage barely recognizable as once-human, stride forward with twisted weapons raised. Garret immediately takes point, shield up, sword ready.

"Stay behind me," he commands. "Marian, Bethany—support from range. Carver, watch our flanks."

The battle is chaotic and terrifying. These aren't training dummies or people holding back, these are horrific creatures that want them dead. Marian's hands shake as she channels her first combat spell, frost shards that pierce darkspawn hide with wet, sickening sounds. Bethany fights down nausea as she watches her magic burn through flesh and bone.

But they work together. Garret holds the line while his siblings rain destruction from behind. They move well as a unit, covering each other's weaknesses. By the time the last hurlock falls, they're all breathing hard but uninjured.

"Is that... is that all of them?" Bethany asked, her voice small.

A shriek answers from above—that horrible, ear-splitting wail that gives the darkspawn their name. The creature drops from a jagged ledge above, all claws and speed and malevolent intelligence. This fight is harder, faster, more desperate. The shriek moves like liquid shadow, and only Carver's quick blade work keeps it from breaching the line.

When Marian's lightning finally brings it down, they all stand in the sudden silence.

"Seven," Garret said, wiping blood from a shallow cut on his cheek. "Seven in less than a mile. And there are so many more out there."

That's when the ground begins to shake.

The ogre crashed through the remains of a stone wall like it was made of paper. Twelve feet of twisted muscle and bone, eyes burning with pure loathing. It spots them and roars—a sound that seems to shake their bones.

"Everyone back!" Garret shouted, but there's nowhere to go. The creature is too close, too fast.

It charges with deceptive speed for something so massive. Garret planted his feet, shield braced, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer force of impact. The ogre doesn't charge his shield—it grabs it, massive fingers wrapping around the metal rim, and squeezes.

The sound is indescribable—metal shrieking, bones snapping, Garret's agonized scream was an awful din cutting through the night. The ogre lifts him by the shield, his arm trapped and crushing, then hurls him to the ground like a broken doll.

Garret hits the rubble hard and goes completely limp, unconscious from shock and pain. His shield remains twisted around what's left of his arm.

"GARRET!" Carver roars, raising his sword and charging forward in blind fury.

"NO!" Marian's hand shot out, ice magic freezing her brother in place just in time. Her staff crackled with building energy as more darkspawn poured into the clearing—drawn by the ogre's roar, by the scent of blood and terror.

"GET AWAY BEASTS!"

The lightning bolt that erupts from Marian's staff is unlike anything she's ever channeled before. White-hot and massive, it strikes the ogre center mass and chains outward, arcing to every darkspawn in the vicinity. The night becomes day for one brilliant, terrible moment as electricity dances between targets, and when it fades, nothing moves in the clearing but the Hawke family.

The ogre lies smoking, its massive form still twitching with residual energy. The other darkspawn are reduced to smoking piles of ash and charred bone.

Bethany is already running toward her fallen brother, her hands glowing with healing light. "Stay with us, Garret. Stay with us!"

Marian drops beside them, her face pale with shock. The acrid smell of burned flesh and ozone fills the air as she helps her sister channel healing magic into Garret's shattered form. But even as the magic works to save his life, they can all see the truth—the arm is beyond repair, crushed beyond what any healing can restore.

"I'm sorry," Bethany whispers, tears streaming down her face as she works. "I'm so sorry, but I can't—"

"Save... my life," Garret manages through gritted teeth and on the edge of delirium.

The healing magic flows between the sisters, knitting what can be saved, stopping the bleeding, fighting off potential infection and shock. But when they're finished, Garret's right arm is gone, severed cleanly at the shoulder—a mercy compared to the mangled ruin it had become.

"Oh Maker no, I should have been faster," Marian whispers, her voice breaking. "If I had just cast the lightning bolt a minute sooner—"

"This is your fault." Leandra's voice was like a blade, cold and sharp. Fear-fueled anger. "If you hadn't hesitated—if you had acted when you should have—" Leandra could barely get her words out, it was a furious babble the words crashing into each other.

The sound of the slap echoes across the ruined clearing. Marian's head snaps to the side, a red mark blooming across her cheek. It was a hard strike. Her mother had slapped her once before; because she was being wild at the market and was nearly crushed by a cart at 12, this was much worse.

"Mother!" Bethany gasps, looking up from where she's still tending to Garret.

"Enough!" Carver's voice cracks like a whip as he moves to step between Leandra and Marian. "Marian saved all our lives. That lightning bolt killed the ogre, or have you forgotten?"

"Your brother just lost his right arm because—"

"Because it’s a fucking Blight," Garret said, struggling to sit up with Bethany's help. His voice is weak. "Not because of anything Marian did or didn't do." He looks at his sister, seeing the way she holds herself—shoulders hunched, feeling like she deserved the scorn. "You saved my life. All our lives."

Leandra's face crumbled, grief and fear warring with anger. Tears stream down her cheeks as the reality of their situation crashes over her; one son maimed, everything familiar burning around them and losing herself to madness.

Before she can speak again, the sound of approaching footsteps makes them all freeze. Carver immediately moves to shield the group, his sword still drawn.

"Please," a woman's voice calls out. "We mean no harm."

A figure emerged from the smoky darkness—a tall, red headed woman in light plate armor, supporting a wounded templar whose breathing comes in labored gasps. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she carries herself with the bearing of a soldier.

"I am Aveline Vallen," she said. "This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We're fleeing Ostagar."

“Templar?” Carver spits it out like an insult. Weasley wheezed piteously against Aveline’s side and said, “I’m in no condition to go mage hunting, whelp.”

Bethany immediately moved forward, her hands already glowing with diagnostic magic. After a moment's examination, her face grows grave. "He's been tainted," she said gently.

Wesley manages a weak smile despite the corruption already spreading through his veins. "The darkspawn got closer than I would have liked." His voice is steady, but they can all see the telltale signs—the sweats, the darkening veins, the way his eyes occasionally lose focus.

"We should keep moving," Aveline said, her voice betraying her reluctance to leave her husband behind. "The roads are dangerous, but staying here with so much smoke and noise..."

As if summoned by her words, inhuman growls echo from multiple directions. More darkspawn, drawn by the sounds of battle and the scent of blood. Garret instinctively reaches for his sword with his right hand, grasping with empty air where his arm should be.

"I can't—" he starts, frustration and helplessness warring in his voice.

"You don't have to," Marian said firmly. Lightning crackles along her staff, and her eyes burn with determination. "I've got this."

The battle erupts around them—a desperate fight in the burning ruins of their former home. Marian's magic lights up the night in brilliant displays of ice and lightning. Frost shards pierce darkspawn hide while electrical storms dance deadly patterns through their ranks. Carver fights beside her with reckless courage, his blade singing through the smoky air. Even Bethany adds her offensive spells when healing isn't immediately needed, fire blooming from her fingertips.

But the darkspawn keep coming. For every one they fell, two more seem to emerge from the shadows. Aveline fights valiantly despite her exhaustion, but Wesley can barely stand. Leandra huddles behind an overturned cart, clutching her husband's portrait.

Just when their strength begins to fail and hope seems lost, a roar sounded from the sky and shook the ground. A High Dragon rising out of the smoke, suddenly attacked raining black fire from the sky upon the darkspawn. As it lands in front of the ragged group, it glows and shifts and in its place stands a woman. Her hair shone with dark jewels in purple, black and blood red. It was styled like the horns of the dragon she just was. Her eyes glow amber like a great cat’s, holding depths of knowledge and power that no mortal should possess. When she moves, reality seems to bend slightly around her, like a bit of the Fade.

Marian is in awe. "Who are you?"

"Flemeth," Aveline breathed out, recognition and primal fear mingling in her voice.

The Witch of the Wilds smiled, and it was frightening. "Clever girl. Yes, I am she." Her gaze swept over their ragtag group, lingering on Wesley's tainted form and Garret's missing arm. "You're all rather worse for wear, aren't you?"

"Can you help him?" Aveline asked desperately, indicating her husband. "The taint—surely someone with your power could cure it? Right?"

Flemeth's expression grows…gentle, almost motherly, which somehow makes her more terrifying rather than less. "Child, the song of the Old Gods runs too deep in his veins now. But." She reaches into her robe sleeve and produces a small, ornate amulet that seems to pulse with energy. "I can offer you something else. A chance."

She presses the amulet into Marian's hands. The moment it touches her skin, Marian gasps—she can feel the magic contained within, ancient and powerful beyond measure. "Take this to my daughter in Kirkwall. Keeper Marethari of the Dalish. Tell her it's time."

"Kirkwall?" Leandra steps forward, hope flickering in her eyes for the first time. "But that's where we're heading..."

"Then fortune smiles upon you," Flemeth said, though her tone suggests she doesn't entirely believe in this fortune being kind. "Though the road ahead will test you all in ways you cannot imagine." Her ancient eyes find Garret's, and he feels as though she's seeing straight through to his soul. "Regret is something I know well. Take care not to cling to it, it poisons the soul. You'll learn that lesson well before journey's end."

With a casual gesture that belies the immense power behind it, she opens what looks like a tear in reality itself—a shimmering portal that shows glimpses of distant hills and morning light. "This will take you safely past the worst of the darkspawn hordes. But from there, you walk your own path."

As the family prepare to step through the portal, Wesley caught Aveline's hand with surprising strength. "I love you," he whispered, and his voice is clear as a bell despite the corruption ravaging his body. "Remember that. Whatever comes after, remember that I chose to love you every day we had."

Aveline's tears fall freely now, and she doesn't try to hide them. "I will. I promise. I'll carry it with me always."

Flemeth watches the exchange with ancient eyes, then speaks gently. "You know what must be done."

Aveline's hand moves to her sword hilt, trembling slightly. "I... I can't..."

"You can," Wesley said softly, covering her hand with his own. "You're the strongest person I know. Don't let me become something I'm not."

The Hawke family, understanding that this is a private moment, step through Flemeth's portal one by one—first Leandra, then Bethany helping Garret, then Carver with their few possessions.

Marian pauses at the threshold, looking back at the legendary witch.

"Why are you helping us?" she asks.

Flemeth's smile is enigmatic. "Pragmatism of course, young mage. Or perhaps because the wheel of fate requires a push now and then."

She looks at the amulet still clutched in Marian's hand. "Guard that well. I meant it for your hand. We stand upon the precipice of change. An inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for the moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only then you learn whether you can fly." 

Marian sees Aveline drawing her sword with shaking hands and Wesley's weak smile. She looks away and leaps.

Marian emerged onto a hillside overlooking the coast of the Waking Sea.

"Well," Carver finally said, "I suppose we keep walking."

Garret nods, already learning to balance differently without his right arm. The phantom pain is constant. "What ever it is. Together," he says simply, carrying the weight of an oath.

Marian considers her family—broken in some ways, scarred by loss, but undefeated. Her cheek still stings from her mother's slap, and she wonders if Leandra will ever forgive her for surviving when Garret was maimed. She feels the weight of Flemeth's amulet and it kindles something fierce in her chest. Whatever waits for them in that distant city, whatever trials and tribulations lie ahead, they will face them as Hawkes always have: standing against the storm and living to see the sun.

She imagines what it would be like to become a dragon; to rain down fiery death on her enemies and to simply fly across the sea.

Aveline catches up to them an hour into their journey down the coastal path, her sword sheathed freshly cleaned. Her hands tremble slightly and her eyes are red with grief. She falls into step beside Marian without a word, and their group feels complete now—bonded by circumstance and trauma.

The road to Kirkwall is before them, dangerous and uncertain. But they are alive and sometimes that is victory enough. The morning sun climbs higher, burning away the last wisps of smoke from Lothering, and with each step forward, they leave their old lives further behind.

Whatever they were before, everything they hoped to be—all of that has been stripped away by fire and blood. But from the ashes, something new will rise. The City of Chains no doubt has its own dark welcome waiting for refugees like them.

But they would fly again.

Chapter Text

The merchant ship Siren's Call sits low in the water at a small fishing dock, her holds already packed with desperate refugees. Captain Isabela—a bronze-skinned woman with elaborate braids and gold teeth—examines Garret's sword with a practiced eye.

"Antivan steel," she says, running her thumb along the fuller. "Good balance, well-maintained." She looks up at Garret, taking in his empty sleeve and the way he holds himself. "This is worth passage for all six of you."

Garret nods without hesitation. "Done."

"Brother—" Carver starts, but Garret cuts him off with a look.

"It's just metal now," he says. "Better it serves a purpose."

Marian watches her brother's face as he hands over the blade that's been at his side since he was sixteen. She sees the way he schooled his features, that careful blankness in his eyes, and recognizes the signs. The sword was the last tangible piece of who he used to be and now even that is gone.

Captain Isabela secures the weapon at her hip with obvious satisfaction. "Welcome aboard the Siren's Call . Fair warning—it's not going to be comfortable."

She's right. The ship's hold is a nightmare of human misery—dozens of refugees crammed into a space meant for cargo. The air is thick with unwashed bodies, sweat, and human waste. Children cry constantly while their parents try to comfort them with empty promises.

Marian finds herself pressed against Garret's left side, his good side, and feels how he flinches whenever someone jostles his empty sleeve. He hasn't spoken since they came below decks, just stares at nothing with hollow eyes.

"We'll be in Kirkwall soon," she whispers. "You'll see. Things will get better. I hear the brothel is twice the size of the Pearl," trying to joke.

He turns to look at her, and for a moment his expression is so lost, so broken, that her heart clenches. "Will they?" he asks. "What am I now, Marian? I can't fight. I can't protect anyone. I'm just... useless."

Before she can respond, Leandra appears at Garret's other side, settling down carefully in the limited space. She's been different since they boarded—gentler with Marian, less sharp around the edges. Guilt, perhaps, or simply exhaustion.

"You're a Hawke.” Leandra says firmly. “That's never useless."

Garret just closes his eyes and leans back against the damp wooden wall. Marian falls asleep at his side.

The crossing takes three days but feels like three weeks. The ship rocks constantly, and the smell gets worse as people get seasick with nowhere to relieve themselves except a few large buckets that are emptied overboard when the crew remembers. By the second day, an elderly man near the bow stops breathing, and by the third day, a fever takes two children despite Bethany's exhaustive efforts to heal them.

Marian finds herself holding her breath every time she checks on Garret, terrified that his depression might manifest into illness or he just wouldn’t be there. But he endures, silent and grim, occasionally accepting water or hardtack when Aveline forces it on him.

Leandra sits beside Marian during the worst of the storm on the second night, when the ship pitches so violently that people are thrown against the walls.

"I'm sorry," she says and Marian knows she's not talking about the storm. "What I said... what I did... you didn't deserve that. None of this is your fault."

Marian feels tears prick her eyes. "I should have been faster. I should have—"

"No." Leandra's voice is firm. "You saved us all. I was... I was scared and angry and I needed someone to blame. That wasn't fair to you." She pauses, watching Carver help Bethany tend to a sick child across the hold. "Your father would be proud of you. Of all of you."

It's an acknowledgment and that's enough for Marian for now. The resentment she’s been carrying in her chest loosens slightly, though she suspects it will take time for the wounds to heal.

On the third morning, Captain Isabela appears at the hatch with grim news.

"Kirkwall's harbor is clogged tighter than a virgin's—" She catches sight of Bethany and modifies her language. "It's crowded. We can't get to the main docks. I can drop you at a fishing cove about three miles down the coast, or you can wait aboard while we sit in the bay for Maker knows how long."

The choice is easy. After three days in the fetid hold, even sleeping rough on the beach sounds like paradise. The captain saw their tiny ferry off and slipped a few silver coins into Bethany’s hands. 

“Thanks for treating the crew too, Sunshine.” She said winking.

The small boat that ferries them to shore is crowded but mercifully brief. Marian helps Garret navigate the rocky landing with his altered balance while Carver and Aveline handle their meager possessions. The fresh air hits them after so long below decks, and several refugees immediately fall to their knees to kiss the rocky beach. A burly sailor with red hair rowed back to the ship after unloading the refugees.

"There," Leandra says, pointing to a sea cave carved into the coastal cliffs. "We can shelter there for the night."

The cave is dry and surprisingly spacious, with a narrow opening that faces away from the prevailing winds. As they settle in for the night—their first on solid ground since Lothering—Leandra's voice takes on a wistful quality in the firelight.

"I lived in Kirkwall until I was seventeen," she says, staring into the flames of their fire. "The Amell estate was... magnificent. Gardens that went up forever, servants, parties that lasted until dawn." She smiles sadly. "I was going to marry a lord's son and live the life I was born to. Then I met your father at the market one day and love was all that mattered."

"Tell us about the estate," Bethany asks gently. "What was it like?"

"Enormous. Three stories, with a view of the harbor from the upper floors. There was a library that Marian would have loved—floor to ceiling books on every subject imaginable. The gardens had fountains and rose arbors, and in spring the whole place smelled like jasmine, I would never get you to leave it Bethany." Leandra's eyes grow distant. "Of course, that was twenty years ago. Things may have changed."

"What happened to it?" Carver asks. "When you left?"

"My parents were... displeased with my choice to marry a hedge mage and leave Kirkwall. I suppose they sold it, or gave it to distant relatives. I never asked." She pulls her threadbare cloak tighter around her shoulders. "But the Amell name still means something there. Or it did. It's a start, at least."

Garret speaks for the first time since they landed. "Assuming they don't just throw us in the refugee camps at Lowtown."

His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, but there's an undercurrent of despair that makes Marian want to shake him. Instead, she reaches over and touches his hand.

"We'll figure it out," she says. "We always do."

For the first time in days, he squeezes her fingers back. It's a small gesture, but it feels so hopeful and Marian’s heart soared.

As they settle down to sleep on beds of dry seaweed and driftwood, the sound of waves against stone is so gentle compared to the groans and cries of the ship's hold. The sea air is clean and even the hard ground feels luxurious after three days of being pressed against unwashed bodies.

Marian lies awake longest, listening to her family's breathing gradually even out into sleep. Garret's is still hitched with pain, but it's deeper and more natural. Beside her, Leandra sleeps peacefully for the first time, and even Aveline—who has been wound tight with grief and raw determination—seems to have found a measure of rest.

Tomorrow they'll face the trek to Kirkwall and whatever challenges await them. They'll need to find shelter, work, and some way to rebuild their shattered lives. Garret needs a new identity beyond the sword and shield. Marian will need to learn to still use her magic in a city where mages are imprisoned and feared. Her magic was always on the flashier side, Bethany was much better at doing magic subtly. But they would all need to become people they've never been.

But tonight, they sleep free under the stars, hope, however fragile, still burning in their hearts. And that's enough to build tomorrow on.

Dawn breaks gray and cold over the rocky shore, waves still crashing rhythmically against the cliffs. The Hawke family emerges from their cave shelter with salt-stiff hair and aching bones, but spirits marginally improved by their first real night's sleep since Lothering.

Kirkwall's towers rise in the distance, tantalizingly close across the rolling dunes of the Wounded Coast. What looks like it should be a few hours' walk stretches out before them—a maze of rocky outcroppings, shifting sand, and scrub brush that could hide any number of dangers.

"Stay close," Aveline warns, adjusting Wesley's shield on her arm. She's taken to carrying it always now, the weight of it both a burden and comfort. "The Wounded Coast has a reputation."

They discover why within the first mile.

The attack comes from three directions at once—bandits emerging from behind weathered stone formations with weapons drawn and hungry grins on their faces. These aren't desperate refugees turned to crime; these are professional raiders who've made the coastal approaches their hunting ground. Refugee hunters if you will.

"Well, well," calls their leader, a pale scarred woman with twin daggers. "More lambs for the slaughter. Drop your packs and maybe we'll make it quick."

"Like hell," Carver snarls, his sword already singing from its sheath.

The battle erupts across the sandy ground. There are at least eight of them, maybe more hidden among the rocks. Marian's magic crackles through the air while Bethany supports with healing and barrier spells. Aveline fights with unwavering grit, hollering a rousting battle cry as she cuts down bandits.

But it's Garret who surprises them all. As they advance through the bandit camp afterward, searching for supplies, he spots every trap—the nearly invisible tripwire stretched between two rocks, the pressure plate hidden under scattered sand, the spring-loaded mechanism waiting to fire poisoned darts.

"There," he says, pointing with his left hand at what looks like empty ground. "Pit trap. Step around the darker sand."

With careful, one-handed movements, he disarms each mechanism they encounter. His fingers work with steady precision, feeling for pressure points and release catches that would have taken two hands for most people to manage safely.

"That's amazing," Bethany whispers in awe as he neutralizes a particularly complex snare. "How do you do that with—"

"Don't." Garret's voice is sharp, cutting. He stands abruptly, turning away from the disabled trap. "Don't call it amazing. There's nothing amazing about being a cripple who can only do parlor tricks now."

Carver steps forward, his face flushed with anger. " Stop it! You saved our lives just now. Those traps would have—"

"I can't protect anyone." Garret's voice cracks slightly. "So instead I get to crawl around in the dirt disarming traps like some common thief. Congratulations to me."

The silence that follows is uncomfortable. Marian wants to say something, anything, to reach through her brother's pain, but the words feel inadequate. How do you tell someone that their worth isn't tied to their sword arm when that's all they've ever known how to be? She does ask him during a lull if he would call her a cripple if she lost her arm. He did look horrified at that, but he just grunted at her inquiry.

They press on through the maze of dunes and rocky outcroppings, the sun climbing higher and beating down mercilessly. What had looked like a simple journey from their vantage point on the cliffs reveals itself as a treacherous obstacle course of hidden ravines and false paths. More than once they have to backtrack when a promising route leads to sheer cliff faces or impassable boulder fields.

The hours stretch on. They encounter two more groups of bandits—smaller parties this time, but each fight takes its toll. By afternoon, they're all running on fumes. Bethany's healing magic is barely keeping them upright, and even Marian's formidable power is worn thin.

As the sun begins its descent toward the horizon, they finally crest the last major ridge and see Kirkwall spread out before them—close enough to make out individual buildings, still at least a mile away, across far more open ground. The sight is simultaneously hopeful and daunting; they've made less progress than any of them hoped.

"We should make camp," Aveline says, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Find somewhere defensible for the night."

"No." Leandra's voice carries a note of desperation. "We're so close. Just another hour and we'll be at the gates."

"Mother, we're exhausted," Marian tries gently. "Another fight in this condition and someone's going to get seriously hurt."

But Leandra is already walking again, her pace determined despite her obvious fatigue. "We won't spend another night in the wilderness. Not when sanctuary is so close."

They follow, because what else can they do? Family stays together, even when family makes questionable decisions.

The sun has fully set by the time they reach the final stretch of road leading to Kirkwall's outer settlements. The moon is new, leaving them to navigate by starlight and the distant glow of the city's torches. They're stumbling with exhaustion, barely aware of their surroundings.

Which is why they don't see the slavers until it's too late.

Chapter Text

The attack comes without warning—like lightening from a clear sky. Figures emerging from the darkness on all sides, far too many of them, moving with the precision of a professional squad. These are hardened slavers, and they've certainly been watching this path, waiting for their targets to reach exactly this state of vulnerability.

"Surround them!" The command comes in accented Common, tinged with the distinctive inflection of the Tevinter Imperium. "Take the mages alive—kill the rest if they resist!"

There are sixteen of them, all armed and armored, moving like a well oiled war machine. The Hawkes and Aveline form a desperate circle, but they're outnumbered nearly three to one and completely out of energy.

Garret draws the small fruit knife from his belt—barely four inches, pathetic against armor and sword. But it's all he has, and he moves to protect his family with a grim determination. This was the brink.

A slaver rushes him, sword raised just a bit too high. Garret sidesteps gracefully, his movement barely hampered and drives the little blade up under the man's chin; it slides between his helmet and armor and pierces through his soft throat. The slaver drops, gasping, his blood spilling quickly as he dies right there. But two more take his place.

Across the circle, Aveline fights like a woman possessed. Wesley's shield deflects blow after blow while her sword cuts down a slaver who gets too close. But even her skill and fury can't hold back so many opponents.

Carver tries desperately to protect Bethany, who slumps against a boulder with her magic completely spent. She can barely stand, let alone fight, and Carver's blade work is all that keeps the slavers from simply overwhelming their position.

"I'm out," Bethany gasps. "I'm sorry, I have nothing left."

Marian stands in the center of their formation, lightning crackling around her staff as she gathers power for what might be their last chance. But even as the energy builds, she knows it won't be enough. She's too tired, they're too many, and—

" Venhedis! " The curse comes from one of the slavers as Marian unleashes her now practiced hail Andraste spell.

Lightning Storm.

The lightning bolt that erupts from her staff is nothing short of divine judgement. This is raw power channeled through desperation and righteous anger, a concentrated blast of electrical death that arcs between targets like liquid light. Ten men simply cease to exist, reduced to smoking ruins in the space of a heartbeat. 

Marian thinks this might get to be a habit for her, giving out divine judgement.

The sudden silence is deafening. Of the original sixteen attackers, only four remain —three foot soldiers and their leader.

The leader himself is clearly a mage, dressed in elaborate robes of red and purple silk. A massive feather adorns his jeweled hood, and his eyes shine with something between fear and avarice as he stares at Marian.

"Magnificent," he breathes in his Tevinter-accented Common. "Simply magnificent. I've never seen raw power like that outside the Magisterium itself."

Those starry eyes of pure greed and desire—Marian realizes with a chill that they're locked on her. This is no ordinary mage.

"You will fetch such a price in the slave markets of Minrathous," he continues whistfully, raising his staff. "The Magisters will bid fortunes for a talent like yours."

Marian begins gathering power for another strike, but she's exhausted, running on fumes. The magic comes slowly, reluctantly.

The ostentatious mage smiles and flicks his hand. Force magic wraps around Leandra like invisible chains, yanking her away from her family and into his arms. A wicked dagger appeared at her throat—jagged obsidian with a demon's face carved into the handle, the blade seeming to drink in any light like a void.

"I wouldn't," he says pleasantly as Marian's latest lightning storm builds toward completion. "This blade has tasted the blood of hundreds. It hungers for more."

Everyone is frozen. The remaining slavers keep their weapons trained on the family, but they're clearly shaken by the display of magical power they've just witnessed.

"Here's what's going to happen," the mage continues, his voice conversational despite the blade at Leandra's throat. "You, my dear lightning witch, are coming with me. You're worth more than all the others combined—a natural-born battle mage with that kind of raw power? The Magisters will empty their treasuries for a chance at an apprentice like you."

Leandra whimpers as the obsidian blade presses closer to her skin. A thin line of blood appears where it touches.

"Surrender to me now, and I'll let your family go free. They can walk right into Kirkwall and live whatever pathetic refugee lives await them. But if you refuse..." He shrugs ineloquently. "Well, I slit the old woman's throat and we take whatever's left of you after my men finish with your brothers."

Marian feels the lightning dying. Save her mother and condemn herself to slavery in the Tevinter Imperium, or watch Leandra die and kill these assholes.

"Marian, don't," Garret says, blood dripping down his busted open lip. "Don't you dare."

It’s not a choice; she's already lowering her staff slightly, the magic dissipating into the air, just harmless sparks. "Let her go."

The Tevinter mage laughs. "Oh, my dear. That's not how negotiations work. You surrender first, then I decide whether your mother lives or dies."

Marian isn't the frightened girl she was just days ago. The fires of Lothering, the horrors of the Blight, the loss of her brother's arm, her mother's blame and her own power—all of it has forged hard inside her. When she speaks, her voice holds absolute conviction.

"No," she says simply. "I know the score here. Your men are decimated. You're outnumbered now, and we're all desperate enough to die fighting." She gestures to her family, weapons still raised despite their fatigue. "You want to survive this encounter? You let my mother go, let my family walk away, and then we'll talk terms."

The mage's eyebrows rise, clearly impressed despite himself. "Bold. Very bold." Those starry eyes study her with renewed interest. "You'd gamble your mother's life on that assessment?" Smile playing on his lips.

"My mother would die either way," Marian replies flatly. "You never intended to honor any bargain."

For a long moment, the night air lives with tension. Then, surprisingly, the mage laughs—a genuine sound of delight.

"Brilliant! Oh, you're going to be such a treasure in Minrathous." He steps back from Leandra, the obsidian blade disappearing into his robes with a flourish. "Very well, lightning witch. You've won this round."

He releases Leandra with a casual push, sending her stumbling toward her family. "Run along, filthy dog lords," he says jovially, as if they're all sharing some amazing joke. "Take your pathetic lives and disappear from my sight."

"Go," Marian says firmly steel in her voice, her eyes never leaving the mage. "Now."

Aveline immediately takes charge, recognizing the tactical situation. She catches Leandra, who seems completely in shock, and begins moving the family up the beach with swift efficiency. Her keen warrior's instincts keep her eyes constantly moving, watching for any sign of treachery. Carver and Bethany grab Leandra’s arms and start moving. Their faces are grim and horror clear but they trust Marian’s judgement in that moment and desperately take their mother to safety. Carver’s back was stiff and his head was on a swivel looking back at the scene every few seconds. Bethany is conflicted; she's thankful the slavers didn’t realize she was also a powerful mage, but at the cost of her sister’s life? She couldn’t stop walking now.

Garret hesitated, his face anguished. "Marian—"

"GO!" she shouts, and the raw command in her voice gets him moving. Aveline grabs his hand and pulls him on very quickly. “Garret..” she says, and nods to Marian once. There was Antivan steel in those eyes, it seemed a righteous promise between Marian and Aveline. The Hawkes will rise with her under their wings.

Marian stands still until her family disappears into the darkness, until even Aveline's footsteps fade beyond hearing. Only then does she let her staff drop to the sand.

The Tevinter mage approaches with obvious satisfaction, producing a golden collar from his robes—delicate metalwork inscribed with runes that seem to move in the starlight.

"A masterwork of Tevinter artifice," he says as he fastens it around her neck. The metal is oddly warm against her skin. "Completely limits your access to magic. And this—" He shows her a matching golden bracelet before securing it to his own wrist. She feels it then, her connection to the Fade begins to dim. "—ensures you can't stray too far from me. Try to run, and you'll find the experience quite... unpleasant."

He raises his staff and speaks a word in ancient Tevinter. She felt the spell like it wrapped around her throat and suddenly Marian can't speak, can't cry out, can't even make a sound. Her lips move but nothing emerges.

"Much better," the mage says pleasantly. "Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Magister Cassius Meridius, and you, my dear, are going to make me very wealthy, indeed." He produces a dark cloth sack. "I'm afraid the route to our ship must remain secret. But don't worry—we'll have plenty of time to get acquainted during the voyage to Minrathous."

The world goes black as the sack covers her head and Marian feels rough hands stripping away her travel-worn clothes and boots, leaving her in only a thin shift that provides little warmth against the coastal night air. Then they're walking, her bare feet finding every sharp stone and piece of broken shell on the rocky path.

The three surviving foot soldiers make crude comments as they walk, but Meridius chatters away as if they're old friends taking a pleasant evening stroll.

"I do hope you appreciate the artistry of that collar," he says. "Fourth Circle work, absolutely exquisite. And the binding ritual—oh, you should have seen it. Took three days and cost me a fortune in components,” he pauses and whispers “and a few slaves worth of blood.” Then continues at normal volume, “but worth every sovereign for a prize like you."

Questions follow, dozens of them, about her training. Her family. Her magical abilities. Of course, she can't answer due to the silencing spell, but that doesn't seem to bother him at all.

"Don't worry about responding just yet," Meridius says cheerfully. "We'll have months to discuss your education once we reach civilization. The voyage is quite lengthy, and I do enjoy good conversation."

Marian stumbles on the uneven ground, her feet already cut and bleeding from the sharp rocks. The cold sea wind and exhaustion makes every step a struggle. 

One thought burns bright in her mind: her family is safe. They're flying free toward the lights of Kirkwall. Whatever happens to her now, at least she succeeded in that.

It has to be enough.

Chapter Text

Marian’s lost track of time and space and feels on the edge of delirium, hours, minutes, it all blended together into mush. The only thing keeping Marian conscious was the blinding pain shooting up her legs. 

She hears it then—strange sounds cutting through the night air. The shuffle of sudden movement, the sharp ring of steel being drawn and a wet gurgling noise from two points in the dark. Meridius's, to that point, ceaseless chatter stops abruptly.

"What—" The magister's voice cuts off in a half-scream that dies as quickly as it began. "UUggg..."

A rich baritone voice speaks from the darkness: "Face your judgment, slaver scum."

The sounds that follow are brief and violent—the wet ripping of flesh, the clatter of a staff hitting stone and the thud of a body falling. Then silence. Blessed silence for a moment.

Marian collapses to her knees as searing, full-body agony rolls over her in waves. The golden collar around her throat feels like it's burning, and every nerve in her body screams in sympathetic torment to whatever has happened to Meridius. Her voice is returning, but her screams can't quite break through the magical silence that still binds her.

"What—?" She hears her rescuer's voice, surprised and concerned. "Oh..."

Her rescuer leaned down and quickly removed the bracelet from the dead magister's wrist and secured it on his own. Immediately the pain stops, leaving her gasping and shaking but mercifully free from the binding's torment.

Gentle hands remove the hood from her head, and Marian finds herself looking up at the most terrifying sight she's ever beheld.

An elf kneels beside her, but this is no Dalish wanderer or city servant. He cuts a very fearsome figure and seems larger than life. He was right out of some dark fairytale. Blood covers his dark skin and it drips off his black spike covered pauldrons and clawed gauntlets. Strange markings glow faintly beneath the gore on the bare skin of his arms and neck—tattoos that seem to pulse with their own inner light; they almost look like lyrium but Marian thinks that impossible. His hair was white despite him looking in his early 30s at the oldest and it was a little wild but not long. His green eyes are fierce and behind him lies carnage that defies description.

All four slavers are dead. But it's not that they're dead—they've been utterly destroyed, cut to pieces or chunks might be more apt. Meridius lies crumpled against a boulder curled like a dead spider, his chest caved in, and beside him... Marian's stomach lurches as she realizes the crushed mass of flesh and blood on the ground is what remains of his heart.

"Are you hurt?" the elf asks, his deep voice gentle despite his ferocious appearance. "I mean, beyond..." He gestures helplessly at her obvious state. "I'll help you. I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner."

Marian tries to speak, but only a hoarse whisper emerges. The silencing spell is fading slowly, her voice returning in painful increments. The shock of rescue, combined with everything that's happened, finally overwhelms her completely.

The tears come all at once—great, wracking sobs that shake her entire frame. All the terror and pain, the desperate hope she's held back hits her like a crashing wave. She's barely aware of the elf's thick arms catching her around the shoulders and pulling her lightly against him, only that someone is holding her, someone safe, someone who isn't going to hurt her.

"It's all right," he murmurs, his voice rough as he cradles her against his armored chest. "You're safe now. They can't hurt you anymore."

For the elf—this is a terrible but familiar sight to behold. He's seen the aftermath of Tevinter slavery too many times, there's something particularly awful about this young woman's broken sobs. About the way she clings to him like he's the only solid thing in a world gone mad. He’s not used to being a port in the storm. He was far more accustomed to being the storm.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asks her gently(gently) when her crying begins to quiet.

"M-Marian," she manages, her voice still barely a whisper. "Marian Hawke."

"Marian Hawke." He says it like he's committing it to memory. "I'm Fenris. You're going to be all right, Marian. I promise you that."

As her sobs finally subside, Marian becomes acutely aware of her pitiful state. She's covered in blood—some her own, some from Fenris's armor where she's been pressed against him. Her legs feel like water, and she's not entirely sure she could stand even if she tried.

"I'm sorry," she croaks, trying to pull away slightly. "I'm usually... I'm usually a lot more fun to talk to. Life of the party, actually." She attempts to wipe her face with her hand, going for light banter despite everything. But her voice is still painfully hoarse, ruining the effect entirely and making her sound more broken than witty.

Fenris's expression softens further, if such a thing is possible for someone who looks like he's just walked out of an abattoir. His gaze drops to her legs, taking in the gore of her feet, the blood still seeping from the worst of the wounds.

"There's a spring nearby where I've been camping," he says matter-of-factly. "You need to get those wounds cleaned before they fester." Without waiting for a response, he slides one arm under her knees and lifts her as if she weighs nothing at all.

"You don't have to keep helping me," Marian protests weakly, though she doesn't actually struggle against his hold, she physically couldn’t if she wanted to. The relief of it is immediate and truly blessed.

"Tell me what happened," Fenris says as he begins walking, his steps careful to avoid jostling her. "How did you end up with those slavers? Where were you trying to go?"

There's something about the way he asks—that sounds genuinely curious. His tone is light, almost conversational.

"It's not a far walk," he continues, glancing down at her quickly with what might be the ghost of a smile. "Nice night for a stroll, don't you think? And I'll tell you about myself in return—fair trade."

Despite everything, Marian finds herself almost wanting to smile back. Here's this terrifying elf warrior, covered in the blood of her captors, carrying her through the night like she's someone precious rather than a random stranger. And he's trying to make small talk to help her feel better.

"We were fleeing the Blight," she begins, her voice growing stronger. "My family and I. The darkspawn came and we lost...we lost everything." She pauses, considering what to divulge. "We were trying to reach Kirkwall when the slavers found us. I made a deal—they wanted me for my power…” she hesitated again and continued, “so I traded myself for my family's freedom."

Fenris tenses a bit in the shoulders. "A noble sacrifice. Your family made it to safety?" His tone is neutral, under control.

"I hope so. They were supposed to head for the city gates." The uncertainty in her voice betrays her worry. What if the slavers had lied? What if there were more of them waiting along the road?

"They did," Fenris says. "I saw them from a distance—five people moving through Kirkwall's outer settlements."

The relief that washes over Marian is immense. "Thank the Maker. Then it was worth it."

"Was it?" The question is pointed as the elf himself, but almost gently chiding, holding her choice of self-sacrifice in stark relief. "Trading your freedom for theirs?"

Marian considers this as they walk. The spring air is cool against her skin, carrying the salt tang of the nearby ocean and the faint sound of waves against stone. Despite the horror of the past few hours. Despite her current state, she finds her answer comes easily.

"Yes," she says simply. "It was."

She pauses for a moment, then adds with a trace of her usual bravado, "Besides, I was positive I could escape. A matter of time, really."

Fenris's laugh is sharp and bitter. "Escape?" His voice holds genuine anger now. "From Tevinter slave chains? You think it's that simple?"

Despite his obvious offense at her flippancy, his clawed gauntlets never so much as graze her skin, and his hands remain gentle as silk against her back and legs. The contrast between his fury and his careful touch is striking.

"I'm an escaped slave," he continues, his voice tight with irritation. "I've been running for years, and those Tevinter bastards still hunt me across continents. You don't just 'escape' from magical bonds forged in the heart of the Imperium."

Marian's attempt at lightness dies completely. "It was my freedom or my mother's life," she says quietly. "How could I watch her be killed before my eyes?"

Fenris remains tense with fury. "Slaver scum like that—they find our weaknesses. They always strike when we're at our most weary and desperate." His grip on her tightens softly like he’s holding her closer. "They're experts at giving us the illusion of choice between impossible options." Marian felt tension leave her body and listened to Fenris’s heartbeat as they went.

It became clear to Marian this was a new night, a tiny sliver of moon was smiling wide and gold. They must have made her walk all night and day. She has a strange energy, her vision feels sharp.

They walk in silence for a moment before Fenris speaks again. "I saw your lightning attack from a distance earlier, that’s what drew me to investigate. Magic like that... it can't be ignored." What he doesn't say is that he had originally planned to kill whatever powerful mage he found at the source of such a display. What he also doesn't mention is his deep-seated hatred of magic. The last thing this traumatized young woman needs is to know her rescuer harbors such thoughts.

"I arrived in the area just a little too late," he continues, regret heavy in his voice. "I saw that collar already glinting around your neck. I watched from the cliffs as they...taunted you." He trails off, upset at the memory of seeing her stripped and forced to walk barefoot over the rocks.

"That slave collar is a magical artifact," he explains. "It can't be removed easily—it's considered a masterwork of Tevinter spellcraft. Very expensive. The bastard who put it on you wasn't some low level magister."

Marian reached up and touched the thin gold chain on her neck. She felt her connection to the fade restored and strong though, she could use her magic she was sure. “You know I’m a mage then? The magister said the collar cut off my connection to the fade but I have it back now that he’s dead.” Marian said. Fenris nodded “It’s because they’re often used on apprentices and magic welding slaves, whose magic they need to use, but must be controlled by their ‘betters’. It only stops the flow of magic if the magister with the leash wills it.”

As they crest a small hill, the spring comes into view and it's genuinely beautiful despite the circumstances. Clear water bubbles up from underground, forming a small pool surrounded by actual trees and green plants—a tiny oasis of life in the harsh coastal landscape.

Fenris carries her to the edge and sets her down carefully on a large, flat stone positioned perfectly for someone to dangle their legs in the water. The moment her damaged feet touch the cool spring, Marian nearly melts with relief. The water is cold but not shockingly so, and it immediately begins to ease the burning pain of her cuts and bruises.

"Oh, Andraste's ass" she breathes, closing her eyes as the sensation washes over her. "That's... that's wonderful."

Fenris retrieves several packs from where he'd carried them on his back and leans them against her stone perch. "The slavers' belongings," he explains. "I thought you might want these back."

Marian opens the first pack to find her light grey robes and fur-lined boots, neatly folded despite everything that's happened. Relief floods through her at the sight of familiar clothes, of dignity restored.

"We also acquired quite a bit of loot from those bastards," Fenris says as he gestures to the other packs. "Enchanted jewelry, some fancy weapons. That dagger—it has an unusual enhancement, it's an anti-magic artifact. Very valuable."

As Marian examines her recovered belongings, she becomes aware of movement beside her. Fenris has begun removing his armor, unbuckling straps and setting aside pieces of blood-soaked metal and leather. Without the fearsome shell, he looks younger, more vulnerable—still dangerous, but more recognizably elven.

"The blood needs to come off," he says simply, noticing her watching. "It draws scavengers."

Marian nods and turns her attention back to the packs, content to leave her legs in the soothing water while she takes inventory of their unexpected windfall. For the first time since the slavers attacked, she allows herself to hope that things might actually turn out all right. 

Fenris cleaned the blood from the leather and metal and lit a fire.

He moved efficiently around their small camp, gathering driftwood and dried grass to build the fire. The flames catch quickly, casting dancing shadows across the spring and providing welcome warmth against the cool night air.

Marian did a simple healing spell on her wounds, not strong enough to repair all the damage but just enough to make it bearable until she had her strength. She drank water from a skin in one of the packs.

Marian closes her eyes and leans forward, elbows on her knees, letting the combination of fire-warmth on her back and cool water on her feet work its own magic on her battered body. For the first time in what feels like days, she allows herself to truly relax.

"Don't look," Fenris says from behind her, his voice casual.

She hears the rustle of fabric, the soft sounds of him removing his tunic and leather leggings. A moment later, there's a splash as he jumps in the spring.

When he resurfaces, Marian is looking up and seeing him swimming in the center of the spring. She forgets how to breathe.

Fenris looks ethereal in the firelight and darkness, water streaming from his white hair as the strange tattoos beneath his skin shine with a soft, otherworldly blue light. The markings trace intricate patterns across his shoulders and chest, visible even beneath the water's surface, casting a mystical glow against his tan skin.

Marian stares, completely captivated. She tries to speak, to look away, to do anything that might preserve some shred of dignity, but no words come. Her face feels burning hot despite the cool night air.

"Marian?" Fenris swims closer, some concern in his voice. "What's wrong?"

He stops directly in front of her, his head coming to stop between her knees. 

The position sends Marian's already scattered thoughts spiraling into completely inappropriate territory. Her inexperienced mind conjures images of him rising from the water, her calves hooked over his shoulders, and the mental picture is so scandalous—and so poorly understood—that she can only sit there breathing fast and shallow.

"Are you having a panic attack?" Fenris asks, worry already clear in his voice.

His hands come up out of the water to gently touch her legs, trying to offer reassurance through contact. His hands slid up the back of her calves and goosebumps raised in their wake. The touch is meant to be comforting, grounding, but it has an entirely different effect. 

The sensation does snap Marian out of her embarrassed spiral, sure, but not in the way Fenris had intended. Instead of calming her, it sent her flying into the sky: she has never wanted anything as much as she wants this moment. Never desired anything as much as this beautiful, dangerous elf who saved her life.

As Fenris's hands move to rest gently on her knees, radiating concern and care, Marian covers them with her own and leans down to kiss him.

The kiss is soft, tentative, born of spontaneity and somewhat innocent desire. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just this—the warmth of his lips, the gentle glow of his mystical markings, the sound of water lapping against stone.  

Then Fenris kisses her back, and the tentative moment transforms into something far more intense. His response is hungry, passionate, as if he wanted more than he realized. The water around them seems to warm as he pulls her down into the spring, her arms falling naturally around his neck as she slides into his embrace.

It’s all amazing and shining and bright. But then he stops, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, his breathing ragged already, maybe from the effort to pull himself away.

"You don't owe me anything," he says. "What happened tonight—saving you—you don't have to do this. You don't have to have sex with me."

Marian's hands tighten around his neck, keeping him close. "I want you," she says with surprising firmness. "This isn't gratitude or obligation. This is purely my own desire." Her voice drops low in a needless attempt at seduction. "I need you."

For a moment, something vulnerable flickers across Fenris's features. Then he gently disengages from her arms, swimming backward just far enough to put himself out of reach, though his eyes never leave hers.

"Do you think I'm a good man, Marian?" The question comes out seriously, as if her answer matters more than anything else.

Marian almost laughs at the absurdity of it. "Yes," she says without hesitation. "Of course I think you're a good man. You saved my life. You've been nothing but kind to me."

Fenris shakes his head slowly, his expression growing darker. “You don’t know me at all.” Then he moves back toward her again, reaching out to pull her back into his arms with clear intent.

"No," he says, his voice like smoke and fire, dangerous and alluring. "I'm not a good man. I'm the worst kind."

And then he kisses her again, deeply this time, with an intensity that sends heat racing through her veins. His sword calloused hands, moving up her thighs to lift off her shift, make her forget the world entirely. There’s just the feel of it and the way his tattoos pulse bright in the darkness. The markings cast ethereal light across Marian's skin making the moment feel otherworldly and sacred.

Afterward, they make their bed a soft patch of moss and flowering plants beneath an ancient gnarled tree, wrapped in a fur blanket from the slavers' packs. The fire has burned down to glowing embers, and the night air is perfumed with the scent of night-blooming jasmine that grows wild near the spring.

As Marian drifts toward sleep against Fenris's warm chest with his arms around her, she thinks drowsily that this feels like something from a storybook or one of mother’s romanticized tales of years past. It was out of a very dark, twisted tale perhaps—with refugee mages, escaping slavery and unending horrors—but still a fairy tale in its own way. 

The mystical elf warrior, the beautiful oasis and the night full of stars.

She falls asleep smiling.

Chapter Text

Fenris wakes just before dawn out of pure habit—years of being hunted have trained his body to never rest too long. But for once, the automatic alertness doesn't bring immediate fear and action. Instead, he finds himself studying the predawn world with something approaching peace.

The light is that soft blue that comes just before sunrise, gentle and forgiving. The sea murmurs against the distant shore, a constant rhythm that mingles with the sound of birdsong beginning in the trees above them. The jasmine scent has deepened overnight, mixing with salt air and the green smell of growing things.

And Marian sleeps against him, her face peaceful in a way he doubts it's been since her home burned. Her dark hair spills across his shoulder, and her breathing is deep and even. She looks so mellow in sleep and startlingly beautiful.

He is always running, always looking over his shoulder, always ready to kill or be killed. Is this what enjoying life feels like? This contentment?

Fenris knows he can't be called a good man. He's always known that. His morality since escaping slavery could be generously described as lax, and honestly called questionable at best. He's killed for coin, stolen when convenient, and felt no particular remorse about either. Before his escape... well, before his escape he'd followed a magister's commands without question, had done things that would have driven him mad if he'd allowed himself to cling to any morality.

He can understand why someone in Marian's position would genuinely believe he was good. Some kind of selfless hero type—a nomadic do-gooder wandering the countryside to help those in need. Helping scared little mages trapped in the Imperium’s web? 

That's absurd.

The idea is almost laughably ridiculous. He'd been tracking the slavers not out of altruism, but because powerful mage hunters like them represented a threat to his own freedom. They could have been coming for him tomorrow. Killing them was simply practical and he enjoyed it.

And yet... watching his lover sleep peacefully in his arms makes him want those romantic ideals to be true. Makes him wonder if perhaps he could be the kind of man who deserves such trust, such easy faith in his goodness. He never desired this in the past or he can't recall if he did.

For now, in this stolen moment between night and day, he allows himself to imagine what it might be like to be worthy of that belief.

The sun begins to rise over the water, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. Soon she'll wake, they'll need to discuss getting her safely to Kirkwall and dealing with the magical collar still around her throat.

Marian feels the sun on her face and it’s beginning to burn a bit. She rises up from the grass bed and stretches. She groans in pleasure mid stretch, hears a resonant laugh and looks up. Fenris is in his armor again, no shoes of course he’s still an elf after all. He was knelt down beside a fresh fire with a bubbling pot suspended above it.

“Feel good?” His smile is beautiful. 

The first thing that strikes them about Kirkwall is how unwelcoming it feels, even from a distance. The city's walls rise like jagged teeth from the harbor, dark stone stained by centuries of sea spray and human misery. As the Hawke family approaches the main gates in the pre-dawn light, exhausted and hollow-eyed from their night of terror. After spending the night huddled in a beanfield with another group of refugees, a few from the Siren's Call. They discover they're far from alone.

Hundreds of Fereldan refugees cluster around the entrance to the city, their faces bearing the same haunted look of people who've lost everything. Makeshift camps sprawl across the approach roads, filled with families huddled around small fires, children crying from hunger and cold, and the general air of desperate people with nowhere else to go.

"Maker's breath," Carver mutters, taking in the scene. "We're not the only ones who had this idea."

A line of city guards blocks the main entrance, their armor gleaming despite the early hour. They're turning people away with mechanical efficiency, their faces set in expressions of tired authority. Beyond them, through the gates, the Hawkes can see their first glimpse of their destination.

The Gallows Courtyard stretches out before the entrance like a deliberate slap to the face of anyone seeking sanctuary. Statues fill every available non-walking space—not heroic monuments or religious iconography, but twisted figures of slaves in various states of torment and despair. Men, women, and children carved from dark stone, their faces frozen in eternal anguish, their bodies contorted in positions of submission and suffering. 

Bethany stops dead at the sight, her face going pale. "Those aren't... they're not memorials, are they?" she whispers.

Leandra shakes her head slowly, she speaks in a tone of resignation. "No, dear one. They're not monuments to remember the slaves' suffering. They're... they're meant to celebrate it. They were erected by the mage lords of old to break the will of the newly enslaved. They've been here since long before I was born."

The courtyard's design becomes clear as they study it more closely. Every inch, every angle has been calculated by magisters centuries ago to break the spirit of newcomers. The statues are positioned to be unavoidable, all along the walkways and up high on pedestals everywhere. To force anyone entering the city to walk among representations of human degradation. The message is clear: this is what happens to those who are powerless in Kirkwall.

"The Circle," Garret said, pointing to the fortress-like structure that dominates the far end of the courtyard. "And the Templar barracks."

Bethany feels sick. Hundreds of mages live in that tower, surrounded every day by images designed to remind them of their place in the world's hierarchy. The cruel irony of it—mages imprisoned in a monument to slavery—makes her stomach turn.

"I can't," she choked out. "I can't live in that place. Not surrounded by... by those things."

Before anyone can comfort her, shouting erupts from the guard checkpoint. A group of ‘deserters’—Fereldan soldiers who abandoned their posts during the darkspawn invasion—are becoming increasingly agitated with the guards' refusal to let them pass.

"We fought for this country!" one of them shouts, his voice cracking with desperation. "We deserve better than sleeping in the dirt!"

Captain Ewald, a middle-aged guard with the bearing of a career soldier, maintains his calm but firm stance. "I understand your situation, but the city is full. We can't accommodate—"

"Like hell you can't!" another interrupts. "You let the nobles through easy enough!"

Leandra stepped forward, drawing on reserves of aristocratic authority she hasn't accessed in decades. "Captain," she says, her voice carrying the precise diction of her noble upbringing. "I am Leandra Amell, formerly of this city. I seek my brother, Gamlen Amell. Perhaps you could send word to him that his sister has returned?" Carver rolled his eyes mightily at his mother's poor timing and foresight.

Ewald's eyebrows rise slightly. The Amell name still carries weight in Kirkwall, it seems. "I could arrange for someone to locate Ser Amell," he says slowly. "But I'm afraid the same restrictions apply to you as to everyone else. The city—"

"You lying bastard!" The lead rabble-rouser's patience finally snaps. "Noble name gets special treatment, but honest soldiers get nothing!"

Steel rings as the refugees draw their weapons. It's clear they've finally reached their breaking point—too much loss, too much humiliation, too much desperation with nowhere to direct it except at the most convenient target.

The fight is brief but vicious. Aveline immediately steps forward, moving Wesley's shield in a simple arc as she deflects the first attacker's wild swing. Her sword work is exceedingly efficient—she disables rather than kills, but there's no mercy in it. She whacks a man’s helmet with the flat of her blade and it rings through the air.

Carver fights beside her with the reckless energy of youth and frustration, his blade hefted through the air as he engages two men at once. His technique isn't as polished as Aveline's, but his anger grants him speed and brute strength. He isn’t half as careful as her either.

Bethany, seeing a man playing at rogue trying to flank them with a drawn dagger, raises her staff and delivers a precise bonk to his head. The man drops like a stone, dazed but alive.

The entire skirmish lasts two minutes. When it's over, six trouble makers lie groaning on the cobblestones while their leader clutches a broken wrist, all fight gone out of him.

Captain Ewald surveys the aftermath with approval. "Well fought," he says simply. "And you showed restraint—could have killed them all, but didn't." He nods to Aveline in particular. "You've got military training."

"Former city guard of Denerim," Aveline replies, wiping her blade clean before putting sheathing it.

"Thought so." Ewald sheathes his own weapon, which he'd drawn but not needed to use. "Tell you what—in exchange for your help with this situation, I'll personally see to it that someone finds Gamlen for you. Might take a day or two, but we'll locate him."

It's a victory of sorts, but nobody feels much like celebrating. The reality of their situation is sinking in—they're refugees now, dependent on the mercy of others, waiting in a courtyard designed to crush hope.

Garret stands apart, he hasn’t gotten used to wielding a sword with his left hand without his right. It does not feel right—even though he had learned to wield with both hands. Garret’s father had told him it was a rare talent when he’d first taken up the shield and blade. Now, without the balance he felt like a babe in the forest with a longsword in his hand, naked and exposed and the swing was…just wrong. He traded Julious as fast as possible, he felt sick when he held it. He thought about his little fruit knife. That felt normal in his hand. Not the kind of weapon for flashy ‘honest’ fights.

This fight has driven home just how useless he felt. He couldn't help when the other Fereldans attacked—couldn't even draw his weapon properly. His sister is gone, possibly dead or worse, and it's his fault for being too weak to protect her. 

"I’m sorry for this," he said quietly when Aveline approached him later. "Marian... she's gone because I couldn't do my job. I couldn't protect anyone. I shouldn’t be sitting here but I can’t—."

Aveline's expression is firm, with the kind of tough love that comes from understanding exactly what he's going through.

"Stop," she said bluntly. "Stop wallowing in self-pity and pull it together."

Garret looked up, startled by her directness.

"You think I don't know what it's like?" Aveline continued, her voice low but fierce. "I watched my husband die. I had to end his suffering with my own hands. You think I don't wake up every morning wondering what I could have done differently?"

She stepped closer, forcing him to meet her eyes. "But feeling sorry for yourself won't bring them back, and it won't help the people who are still here counting on you. Your family needs you, Garret. Not the man you were—the man you are now."

"What man?" Garret's voice was tinged with desperation. "I'm just... broken. It’s too painful to even hold a sword, that’s my life, Aveline!"

"No. You're still alive and unbroken," Aveline said firmly. "And that means you can choose what comes next. You can sit here feeling worthless, or you can figure out how to live in a different way." Her expression softened at tad. "I know you can do it and I’ve known you for three days now so, I would know. You killed a man in full armor with a fruit knife, Garret."

Aveline caught his eyes again then, “I see it there, a fire in your eyes. Prove it to yourself, Garret.”

He can, he could. He wants to! But…

Nearby, Leandra sits on a stone bench, staring at the slave statues with a peculiar expression. She looks like someone caught in a dream—or perhaps a nightmare—unable to quite grasp that this is her reality now. The elegant lady is gone, replaced by a pathetic refugee widow who let her eldest daughter be taken by slavers.

"Mother?" Bethany sat beside her, taking her hand. "Are you all right?"

"I keep thinking I'll wake up," Leandra said distantly. "Back in Lothering, with your father reading by the fire and all of you safe." She blinks, focusing on Bethany's concerned face. "But I won't, will I? This is real."

Bethany squeezed her hand. "We will get through this, Mother, everyone is working so hard. We'll find Marian and we'll build a new life. Father always said Hawkes can’t be grounded."

Leandra nodded but her expression remains fragmented. "Yes," she said, though she doesn't sound convinced. "Yes, of course we will."

The sun climbs higher over Kirkwall, casting long shadows from the grotesque statues across the courtyard. Twisted forms stretched out across the stone, it seemed an intentional design. The tormented shadows changing positions through out the day but never finding any comfort.

The Hawke family bides their time in the shadow of ancient cruelties, just beginning to build a nest in the City of Chains.

Chapter Text

Three days pass in a haze heat and the low roar of overcrowded space. Just waiting and worry. Captain Ewald has been true to his word—messengers have been sent to locate Gamlen Amell—but Kirkwall is a large city, and finding one man among the maze of streets and districts takes time. The family has made camp with the other refugees, sleeping under canvas tarps and eating whatever charity the city provides.

Garret has fallen into a pattern of staring at the grotesque statues for hours at a time, as if their carved anguish could assuage his own internal torment. He couldn’t bring himself to actually practice; but he often had his small knife in his palm, spinning it round and round. Bethany tries to keep busy helping other refugee families, using her healing magic on the sly to tend to the sick and injured. She meets another mage in hiding among the refugees, he tells her not to associate with him and avoid apostates in the future. Carver practices sword forms obsessively, working through his anger and helplessness with repetitive motion, his form may be improving but it’s not likely. Leandra drifts between lucidity and a dreamlike state, still she helped at the large communal fire twice, making the weed-root tea taste semi-edible to the mighty thanks of all the refugees.

And Aveline keeps watch, always keeping watch, scanning the crowds for threats or opportunities. She is still on the battlefield and she hasn’t been letting herself falter. Path forward, eyes always really looking. 

Which is why she's the first to spot the unlikely pair approaching the refugee camps on the third morning.

"Maker's blood," she breathed, standing so quickly she knocks over her water jug.

The figure walking toward them is unmistakably Marian Hawke, though she looks utterly transformed from the desperate girl who sacrificed herself three nights ago. She's clean and well-dressed in leather and silk, a magnificent clearly enchanted glaive strapped across her back that seems to shimmer with its own inner light. Behind her, a miniature donkey pulls a large treasure chest, and beside her walks...

An elf, a scary looking elf.

The elf in question is tall for his kind, bronze-skinned with distinctive white hair and tattoos. He had an aura of barely contained violence. His armor is dark and intimidating, covered in spikes. And even at a distance there's something unsettling about the way he moves—like a predator trying to look laid-back, almost a visible tempering. Aveline can’t help but think he resembles a werewolf in an elf disguise.

But none of that matters because Marian is alive, Marian is free, and she's walking toward them with a smile that could light up the entire courtyard.

"MARIAN!" Bethany's scream of joy echoes off the stone walls.

What follows is chaos. Aveline reaches her first, lifting the younger woman clear off the ground in a bear hug and raising her into the air; cheering loud enough to wake the dead. Bethany and Garret arrive next, both of them crying openly. Garret wrapped his arm around both his sisters, Bethany sobbed into Marian's shoulder.

Even Carver, who usually maintains distance from such emotional displays, throws himself into the family embrace with tears flowing freely. For a moment, he looks less like a hardened warrior and more like the boy who used to follow his siblings around, begging to be included in their games.

"How?" Garret kept saying. "How did you escape? We thought... we thought you were gone forever."

"You ever doubted me?," Marian says jokingly, her voice thick with emotion as she holds her family close. "For shame."

From the edge of the scene, Fenris watches the reunion with a mixture of satisfaction and deep discomfort. He'd hoped to fade into the background, maybe disappear entirely before anyone noticed him, but Marian's family is large and enthusiastic and thoroughly overwhelming. He's genuinely happy to see her welcomed with such obvious love—it confirms his assessment of her character—but he'd really prefer not to be part of this emotional scene.

Unfortunately for his hopes of anonymity, Leandra notices him almost immediately.

The older woman approaches without hesitation or apparent fear, which surprises Fenris considerably. Most people take one look at his armor and his general demeanor and decide to keep their distance.

"You helped my daughter," she says. It's a statement.

Fenris shifts uncomfortably. "I... yes. But please, don't concern yourself with any debt or obligation. I don't require—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence. Leandra reaches out and takes his hands in both of hers, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"I will never forget what you've done for the Hawke family," she says quite intensely. "Never. Whatever you need, whatever we can give you, it's yours."

Fenris stares down at their joined hands, at a complete loss. He's dealt with gratitude before, sure, but it's usually been the perfunctory thanks of someone paying him for services rendered. This feels entirely different—raw and heartfelt and utterly disquieting. He has no idea how to respond to such naked emotion from a stranger.

Fortunately, Marian notices his vaguely horrified expression and takes pity on him.

"Mother," she says gently, extricating herself from the family huddle to embrace Leandra. "Let me introduce everyone properly."

The rest of the family gathers around, their initial joy tempered now by curiosity about Marian's mysterious companion.

"Who is the scary-looking elf?" Carver asks with his usual tact, though his tone suggests he means it more as an observation than an insult.

Marian laughed, still wrapped in her mother's embrace. "This scary looking elf," she said with obvious affection, "is Fenris. He saved my life." She pulled back from Leandra to look at her family properly. 

She took a large breath. “He killed my captors and now he’s my lover. None of you are allowed to say anything or ever doubt a single one of my plans and or schemes again.” Marian sounds very serious. “Because only—”

Bethany stepped in cutting off her sister’s spiel, her healer's instincts overriding any exasperation. "You look better than I expected," she said to Marian, though her eyes caught the faint red mark around her sister's neck. "Are you hurt? I can—"

"I'm fine, Bethany. Really." Marian said with a reassuring smile. “As I was saying my judgement and foresight are—

Garret started awkwardly, "I should have protected you as the oldest," he said. "I'm so sorry—"

"Stop." Marian's voice was firm. "Garret, what happened wasn't my fault or yours or anyone's. That bastard used mother against me. There was nothing any of us could have done differently and you’re only older by about 2 minutes."

Garret smiled in defeat, closing his eyes and comically drooping a little, “Okay, okay, I can’t be dour about your safe return.”

“Let’s just move on! Fenris, this is my family and my friend Aveline.”

Fenris straightens his posture the most minuscule of amounts and clears his throat like a palace steward. “Well met” he says. He does not continue.

“Uhh....” Is the general response from the entire Hawke clan. Bethany studied Marian carefully, taking in the fine silk and leather armored robes that definitely hadn't been part of her traveling clothes. "Speaking of... Those are new robes and that new glaive." Her eyes widened as she noticed the little donkey carrying a treasure chest

"Marian, what exactly happened out there?"

Marian shifted uncomfortably. "The slavers had accumulated quite a bit of…treasure."

"You killed them and took their stuff," Carver said bluntly, looking at Fenris with undisguised fascination. "All of them? Great job, Marian."

Fenris nodded. "They will not trouble anyone again."

Garret looked shocked. “Where did—

Captain Ewald approached their group with another guard in tow. "The Hawkes? Your uncle's here."

They turned to see a man approaching—middle-aged, wearing clothes that might have once been fine but were now worn and stained. His face bore the unmistakable signs of a man who'd spent too many nights drinking away his troubles.

"Leandra?" The man's voice cracked slightly. "Sweet Maker, is that really you?"

"Gamlen." Leandra's voice was barely a whisper. The siblings watched as their mother and uncle embraced, both of them crying.

"I'm so sorry," Gamlen said, his voice muffled against Leandra's shoulder. "I'm so sorry for everything. When I heard about Malcolm, and then the Blight..." He pulled back to look at her properly. "You look just like mother did at your age."

Leandra managed a watery smile. "You look like father after he'd been at the brandy."

Gamlen laughed despite himself, then seemed to remember where they were. He looked around at the assembled family, his eyes lingering on Marian's fine robes and the donkey cart of valuables. "You've done well for yourselves, I see."

"We've survived," Marian said cheerfully.

Gamlen's face fell. "Right. About that." He looked at Leandra with obvious regret. "Lea, I have bad news. The estate... it's gone. Has been for years. I lost it. Gambling debts, bad investments, worse decisions." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "I've been living in a hovel in Lowtown, trying to scrape together enough coin to... well, it doesn't matter now."

The hope that had been building in Leandra's eyes died. "Gone? But Gamlen, that house has been in our family for—"

"I know," he said miserably. "I know what it meant. I know what I've cost us all. I just... after mother and father died, I thought I could make the money back quickly, thought I could invest it, make it grow..." He trailed off. "I'm sorry, Lea. I'm so damned sorry."

The family stood in stunned silence. Their last hope of easy sanctuary in Kirkwall had just evaporated.

Bethany was the first to recover. "It's all right, Uncle Gamlen. We'll figure something out. We always do." 

Garret, however, was staring at his uncle with barely concealed anger. "So that's it? You gambled away our birthright and now we're supposed to just... what? Forgive and forget?"

"Garret," Aveline warned.

"No, I want to know. What exactly are you offering us now, uncle? A place to sleep in the gutter with you?"

Gamlen cringed. "I... I know people. I can help you find work, get settled. It's not much, but—"

"But it's what we have," Marian interrupted, shooting her brother a warning look. "And it's more than we had this morning."

Fenris had been watching this family drama unfold with watchful eyes. It was something he never even imagined for himself.

"Gamlen," Leandra said finally, her voice steady despite her obvious disappointment. "These are my children—Marian, Bethany, Carver, and Garret."

Gamlen nodded to each of them in turn, his eyes fall on Aveline taking in general her bearing. "And you are?"

"Aveline Vallen," she replied formally. "I served with the Hawkes in Ferelden. I've sworn to see them safely settled."

Gamlen nodded respectfully. "A woman of honor. Good. They'll need that here."

"What kind of work?" Marian asked. "What opportunities are there for people like us?"

Gamlen's face grew even more troubled. "Well, that's complicated. Getting into Kirkwall proper requires citizenship papers. Expensive ones. But I know people who can help with that." He glanced around nervously. "There are two groups I know of most likely willing to finance your way into the city. The Red Iron mercenary company, and a smuggling operation that I, uh, am acquainted  with."

The family exchanged glances.

"What's the catch?" Marian asked, though her tone suggested she already knew she wouldn't like the answer.

"A year long contract. The eldest ones at least. The family gets citizenship and entry to the city proper. You just have to fulfill your contract."

Leandra was incensed. "You're talking about indentured servitude, Gamlen."

"I'm talking about survival," Gamlen replied defensively. "It's not ideal, but it's what's available. At least this way you all get into the city and make some coin for yourselves on the side. That’s citizenship and employment, Leandra!"

The Hawke siblings moved slightly apart from their elders, forming their own cluster to discuss the options.

"Mercenaries," Carver said immediately. "At least that's honest work. Fighting for coin, protecting people.” Carver pauses in thoughtful contemplation. “Or just beating people."

"You just want to swing a sword around," Bethany said, but not unkindly. "Think about it, Carver. We have two apostates in this family." She gestured between herself and Marian. "Smugglers would be much safer for us. They're used to keeping secrets, moving quietly. Less chance of templars asking too many questions."

Garret nodded thoughtfully. "And honestly, as a one-armed man, I'd definitely be better at smuggling beneath notice than fighting outright anyway."

"But think about our reputation," Marian countered. "If we want to build a life in Kirkwall, being known as smugglers isn't exactly going to open doors for us. Mercenaries, at least, have a certain respectability."

"What about splitting up?" Carver suggested. "Some of us take the mercenary contract, some take the smuggling. We'd make twice the gold that way, get the debt paid off faster."

"I don’t want that," Marian said firmly. "We should stay together."

While the Hawke siblings debated, Aveline and Fenris found themselves standing beside one another. Neither seeming inclined to join the family discussion.

"I take it you won't be taking either offer?" Aveline asked Fenris.

"No, of course not. Yourself?"

"I have my own plans." She studied him thoroughly. "Aveline Vallen, as I said. Former city guard from Ferelden."

"Fenris." He paused. "Former... sellsword?" It sounds like a question.

Aveline's eyes narrowed. "About what happened to Marian. Four slavers carrying that much treasure? The robes, the glaive, that chest... and where did the donkey come from?"

Despite Aveline’s threatening tone, Fenris actually laughed, surprising even him. "Where did the donkey come from? That may be the funniest question anyone has ever asked me."

"I'm serious," Aveline said, though her mouth curved up slightly. "I've dealt with slavers before. They simply don't travel with that kind of wealth on their person."

Fenris's expression grew contemplative. "You're right, of course. After I killed her captors, Marian and I hunted down their secret cove together. They had a ship there, slave pens..." He shrugged casually. "We destroyed the ship, freed the slaves, took everything of value we could carry."

Aveline stared at him.

Fenris continued. “We didn’t want to take too much, the newly liberated needed supplies and coin for themselves. We took the enchanted weapons and armor that fit in that chest.”

"That's... actually quite remarkable," Aveline said after a moment. "Why didn't you want to tell her family?"

Fenris was quiet a moment. "Because they would have known I let Marian dive back into danger mere hours after being freed from slavery chains. I wouldn’t want it to appear as if I don't care about her safety."

“Let her?”

“Well. Not let her. You could say I directly encouraged it.”

Meanwhile, Leandra observes her children take everything in stride and speaks to her brother again, her expression a mixture of gratitude and frustration. "Gamlen, I do appreciate your help. Truly. And your offer to let us stay in your... home. But you understand what you're suggesting? You're asking me to sell my children into indentured servitude."

Gamlen's shoulders sagged. "Lea, it's the best I can do. The only way I know to get you into the city. I know it's not what you hoped for when you came here, but—"

"What I hoped for was the family estate that's been ours for generations," Leandra said mildly. "What I hoped for was a place where my children could build new lives without having to sell themselves first."

"I know," Gamlen said miserably. "I know I've failed you all. This is just... it's all I have left to offer."

The next morning, the Hawke siblings prepared to meet with their potential employers. The family would split up for the glory. For the gold.

Chapter Text

Gamlen led Marian and Carver through the winding streets of the Lowtown docks to a converted warehouse that served as the Red Iron company's headquarters. The sound of clashing steel rang out from within, punctuated by shouted commands and occasional laughter.

"Meeran's a good man," Gamlen said as they approached the entrance. "Fair, but he expects results. Don't try to oversell yourselves—he can smell bullshit from a mile away." Gamlen practically scurried away as Carver began to open the door.

Inside, the warehouse had been transformed into a training ground. Mercenaries sparred with various weapons while others sat around tables playing cards or maintaining their equipment. The atmosphere was rough but professional.

A weathered man in his forties approached them. He was built like a veteran soldier—scarred and carrying himself with the easy confidence of someone who'd survived more battles than he cared to count. His eyes immediately assessed Marian and Carver with a practiced gaze.

"So, you're the refugees looking for work," Meeran said without preamble. "Gamlen said you Hawkes can fight. That true?"

"Yes, sir," Carver replied immediately, straightening his shoulders. "I've been training since I could hold a sword."

Meeran's eyes flicked to Marian. "And you're the...Lightning specialist?"

"I am." Marian met his gaze steadily.

"Good. We can always use support." He gestured around the warehouse. "This is what we do—we take contracts. Guard duty, escort work, sometimes clearing out problem areas. It's dangerous work, but it pays well and we look after our own."

"What would you expect from us?" Marian asked.

"You'd start with guard rotations, maybe some escort jobs. Prove yourselves, and we'll move you up to the more lucrative contracts. The debt arrangement Ewlad and I worked out means you keep a small portion of your pay, rest goes to citizenship fees until you're clear."

Carver stepped forward eagerly. "When could we start?"

Meeran smiled lightly at the young man's enthusiasm. "Eager. I like that. You'd start tomorrow if you sign on. There's a merchant convoy needs escorting to Sundermount. Three days' work, good pay."

"What about training?" Marian asked. "Working together as a unit?"

"You'd be partnered with experienced mercenaries at first. Learn the ropes, prove you can follow orders." Meeran's expression grew serious. "I'll be straight with you—this isn't a game. People die in this line of work. But if you're competent and you listen, you'll do fine."

Meanwhile, Gamlen had given Bethany and Garret directions to the Hanged Man tavern, where they were to ask for Athenril. The tavern was a dimly lit establishment in the heart of Lowtown, filled with the kind of patrons who preferred not to be looked at too closely.

"You sure about this?" Garret asked Bethany as they approached the bar.

"As sure as I can be," she replied. "Remember, we're just listening for now."

The bartender, a grizzled man named Corff, barely glanced up when Bethany asked for Athenril. He simply nodded toward a back room.

They found themselves in a smaller private area where a woman sat at a corner table. Athenril was perhaps thirty hard to tell with an elf, with sharp features and an alert, calculating gaze. Garret would call her beautiful but not a beauty. She didn't attract attention. Pale and dark eyed, she was well-dressed but in a deliberately understated way— neutral expensive fabric with leather armor underneath. If Garret was a hardboiled detective from a Tethras novel, Athenril would be the first person he talked to at any crime scene. This was a woman with the scoop or the murder weapon. 

"Bethany and Garret Hawke, I presume," she said without looking up from the ledger she was reviewing. "Gamlen said you might be interested in some work."

"We're considering it," Bethany replied carefully.

"Smart. Never commit without knowing what you're getting into." Athenril finally looked up, studying them both. Her eyes lingered on Garret's missing arm. "That recent?"

"Yes," Garret said tersely.

"Hmm. Might actually be an advantage in this line of work. People underestimate a shem with a disability. Makes you nearly invisible. Almost like an elven servant." She turned to Bethany. "And you're the healer, correct?"

Bethany nodded.

"Perfect. Healers are always welcome, and they rarely draw templar attention. Too useful to too many people." Athenril leaned back in her chair. "Here's how this works—I move goods that certain people would prefer not to see moved. Sometimes that's luxury items avoiding taxes, sometimes it's letters that need to reach people quietly, sometimes it's people themselves who need to travel without being noticed."

"Is it dangerous?" Bethany asked.

"Everything worth doing is dangerous, dear. But it's not the kind of danger where you're likely to get a sword through the chest. More the kind where you need to be observant, and very, very discreet." Athenril smiled thinly. "The templars don't bother with smugglers much—we're beneath their notice as long as we don't make waves. I’ll warn you though, we don’t make it a habit of ending up in other people's wars."

 "What would our specific duties be?" Garret asked.

"You'd start as lookouts and messengers. Learn the routes, learn who to trust and who to avoid. Bethany's healing skills would be invaluable—smugglers get hurt, and we can't exactly walk into a Circle for treatment." Athenril studied Garret again. "As for you, I suspect you're more observant than people give you credit for and your good-for-nothing uncle told me you can pick locks. But, we’ll see. Your first job will be as a runner."

Garret considered that. "You got it."

"Good. That's exactly what I need. People who notice things and keep their mouths shut about them."

"The pay?" Bethany asked.

"Most goes to your debt, but you keep enough to live on. We always have work."

Athenril closed her ledger. "Think it over. But don't take too long—opportunity doesn't wait around in Kirkwall."

An hour later, the Hawke siblings reconvened at Gamlen's hovel—a cramped, three-room dwelling that somehow managed to house them all.

"Well?" Marian asked as soon as they were all gathered.

Carver was practically bouncing with excitement. "The Red Irons are everything I hoped. Meeran's a good leader and they've got a job lined up already."

"The smugglers seemed... professional," Bethany said more cautiously. "Athenril is sharp, and the work is steady."

Garret nodded. "And she didn't seem bothered about the arm. Said it might even be an advantage."

Marian looked between her siblings, seeing the hope in their eyes. "You've all made up your minds, haven't you?"

"Have you?" Carver asked.

Marian sighed. "I think so. The Red Irons felt... honorable. Dangerous, but honorable."

"And we still think this is better than sticking together?" she asked one last time.

"Twice the money, Marian," Garret said. "Half the time to earn our freedom."

Leandra, who had been listening from the rickety table. "I don't like any of this. But if you're determined to do this thing, at least you'll be looking after each other in pairs."

Marian nodded. "All right then. Tomorrow, Carver and I join the Red Irons, and Bethany and Garret start working for Athenril."

Garret had a strange dream some nights later. He slept on a cot in the common room, between the ramshackle hearth and the bookshelf. He slept fine the first week, but now...

A disembodied smile floated in a void before Garret's eyes, it told him he should be dead. Garret felt nothing at its words. This thing; it was weak and so he turned away from it.

When he did, he saw an elven woman standing before him then.

She was Dalish, her hair was black and she was naked save for runes painted on her skin in blood. Her eyes were solid black. She sees him. She spoke to him, “Who are you, spirit?”

Her voice was sweeter than he would have imagined. “Uh…Hawke.”

She-elf looked at him confused, “Hawke?”

Garret had woken then.

The evening filtered through the grimy windows of Gamlen's hovel, Leandra was just getting back. She wore her wornthread but well maintained dress in dark purple. Very regal. Despite several months in Kirkwall's undercity, she carried herself with the bearing of nobility—shoulders straight, chin lifted. Her every gesture is deliberate. She knew keeping up appearances was important in this city.

"I’m trying the Viscount's Keep again tomorrow," she announced. "Surely Dumar will see reason. The Amell estate is rightfully mine—at least half of it."

Gamlen nearly choked on his evening ale, the liquid sloshing as his hand trembled slightly. "Sister, you know how busy the Viscount is with... with templars and Qunari tensions. Perhaps you should wait a week or two before—"

"Should what, Gamlen?" Leandra's voice carried that particular edge that had once made servants scurry in the Amell mansion. "Should I simply accept that our family's legacy sits empty while we live in squalor?"

"Of course not," Gamlen said quickly, forcing what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "I'm just saying, patience might serve you better than persistence."

Leandra's eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, the door burst open. Marian stumbled through, her robes singed at the edges and speckled with what looked suspiciously like blood—though whether it was hers or someone else's was unclear. Behind her, Carver followed, his armor dented but his swagger intact.

"Rough job?" Leandra asked, immediately shifting into mother-mode as she began inspecting Marian for injuries.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Marian replied, though she swayed slightly on her feet. "The Red Irons needed someone to... negotiate... with some Carta dwarves who thought they could muscle in on Lowtown territory."

Carver snorted. "Negotiate. That's what we're calling it when you turn three armed thugs into piles of ash?"

"They're still breathing," Marian protested mildly. "Mostly."

"The boys are calling Marian the Saint again," Carver continued, and despite his exasperated tone, there was something almost proud in his voice. "Kell said he'd follow her into the Deep Roads if asked, and Hendrick swears she saved his life twice in one fight."

A faint blush colored Marian's cheeks. "I just do what needs doing."

"What needs doing," Carver muttered, shaking his head. "Listen to yourself. You sound like some sort of... of hero out of those romance novels Beth reads."

"There's nothing heroic about it," Marian said, settling heavily into a chair. "I just can't watch people die. Not when I can prevent it."

Carver's expression softened, and he reached over to squeeze his sister's shoulder. “They're grateful I'm sure and whatever you want to call it, Meeran's practically ready to make you his lieutenant. Half the crew would die for you, and the other half already think they owe you their lives."

"And what about you?" Marian asked, looking over at her younger brother. "How are the others treating you?"

Carver shrugged, but his pleasure was evident. "They think I'm reckless, but they respect the sword work. Jorik said I move like lightning when I get going, and even Benny admits I've got good instincts, even if I am 'too eager to prove myself.'" He paused. "They're not wrong about that last part."

"You don't have anything to prove, Carver."

"Don't I?" He said. "The great Marian Hawke, savior of the Red Irons. Meanwhile, I'm just the hothead who's decent enough with a blade to keep around."

"Carver—"

"It's fine," he said quickly. "I'm... I'm proud of you, you know. Even if it drives me mad sometimes."

The door opened again, this time it was Garret and Bethany. Where Marian and Carver bore the obvious marks of their violent profession, the other pair of twins looked almost respectable—if not for Garret's lockpicks tucked discretely into his belt. And the sheer number of potions and salves Bethany was carrying.

"How did the warehouse job go?" Leandra asked, embracing Bethany, careful to avoid disturbing the supply of flasks secured around her.

"Smoothly," Garret replied and there was simple satisfaction in his voice. "No alarms, no guards wiser, and Athenril got exactly what she needed—nothing more, nothing less."

“I bet she did.” Carver said. He’s utterly ignored.

"The merchants won't even know anything's missing until their next inventory," Bethany added. "Garret's become something of an artist at this."

"You adapt," he said. "I uhh…like mechanisms and things." Garret was embarrassed how true that was, he felt like was giving up his old self. Some people appreciated his new talent.

"Athenril seems quite... impressed... with your skills," Bethany said, and there was a teasing note in her voice that made Garret's ears redden.

"She's a good employer," Garret replied stiffly.

"Oh, I'm sure she is," Bethany continued innocently. "Very hands-on management style, from what I've observed." Carver was losing it, huffing and snorting with mirth.

"Beth," Garret warned, but his sister just grinned.

"It's sweet! The way she looks at you when she thinks no one's watching. And the way you've been practicing your Antivan..."

"We're keeping things professional," Garret insisted, though the protest lacked conviction.

"Of course you are," Marian said, joining in. "Just like Fenris and I keep things professional."

Garret shot her a look. "That's completely different. You two aren't trying to hide anything."

"Exactly my point."

Leandra watched this familiar sibling banter with a mixture of affection and concern. Her children had found their places in Kirkwall's underworld with frightening ease. Marian, the hardened battle mage, had become a figure of legend among mercenaries. Carver had found respect and purpose in violence. Garret had reinvented himself entirely, turning disability into specialization. And Bethany...

"How many lives did you save this week, sweetheart?" Leandra asked.

Bethany's smile was radiant. "Four, definitely. Maybe five—Tomwise might not have died from that stab wound, but he certainly would have been crippled without proper treatment. And I've been supplying healing potions to half the smuggling rings in Lowtown. Athenril says my work is better than anything the Circle produces."

"Because it's made with love instead of duty," Garret said only half joking. 

Gamlen cleared his throat. "Speaking of... professional advancement... any word on when you might be able to pool resources for, ah, better accommodations?"

The question hung in the air. All four siblings had been steadily earning more coin and reputation, but the elephant in the room was Leandra's increasingly frequent visits to the Viscount's Keep. Might she actually succeed in her quest?

Leandra's eyes lit up. "With determination and proper connections, anything is possible. Just wait, with my visits to the Keep persistence will pay off. I’ll bring us all home!"

Gamlen's face went a little pale, and he took a long, shaky drink from his ale. "Right," he managed. "Persistence."

Later that evening Garret was working on some blueprints Marian brought him from the Red Iron’s dockside office. It was for a dwarven mechanism, an elemental explosive device. It looked very promising. When she joined him at the rickety table in the common room she said, “Garret I had a strange dream last night, there was a naked elf woman covered in runes and she asked who I was and when I told her, she was upset and told me I wasn't Hawke.” She was quite matter of fact. “I bring it up because I had the strangest feeling she was looking for you. I think she’s a real person, Garret. A mage. Some kind of dream walking spell or maybe just a natural talent of this mage girl in particular.” 

Garret stared at Marian for a moment, “I had a dream like that, yes. This was a few weeks ago. There was an evil little mouth and then I saw a naked elf. She asked me what my name was and called me a spirit.” 

“Huh, an evil mouth ay? Yeah, that was probably a demon.” Marian leaned back in her chair. Her brow was furrowed in thought. “Now why would a demon come to you in a dream and at the same time a mage is calling you a spirit?”

“Well, she looks Dalish and we need to go to Sundermount at some point. I know you like that amulet a lot but…” Garret trailed off. Marian let her chair hit the floor, "Brilliant thinking, brother! Let’s track down our spooky elf girl!”

“That’s not exactly what I said!” Marian has already left the room.

Outside, the sounds of Kirkwall life continued as the night deepened. Merchants hawking their wares, children playing in the narrow streets and the constant clang of the foundries. The Hawke family had carved out their first roost in this harsh city, each flying their own path.

But beneath the surface currents were shifting how they always did. The hands of fate shirk all guidance.

Chapter Text

The Red Iron mercenary office was a repurposed warehouse tucked into the docks. It reeked of brine and fish with the subtle undercurrent of sweat and the metallic tang that never quite left places where violent men gathered to discuss their violent work. Marian sat perched on a crate near the window, watching the harbor through salt-stained glass as voices rose and fell around her in the familiar cadence of preparing for danger. It was slow, but she usually had work. Just not right then it seemed.

Personal quest be damned for honest work, no matter how boring it was. First shift was often like this. The sun had barely hit mid-sky; it simply wasn’t the hour most folks hired mercenaries.  

"Redwater Teeth have been cutting throats for three weeks now," Kell was saying, his scarred hands gesturing emphatically. He spoke as he and two others were gearing up for a job. "Finn didn't even make it to his lodgings two nights ago—found him carved up like festival meat in an alley not fifty yards from here."

"And Mattlowkin before that," added Hendrick grimly. "Just gone one night. They're picking us off one by one, making the docks their hunting ground soon as the sun sets."

Marian turned from the window, her expression twisted up. The Redwater Teeth had been a growing problem, but if they were hitting Red Iron mercenaries specifically, that was a declaration.

"They’ve been getting worse for a while. Your job related to those demons?" she asked from her perch.

"Some blonde woman came in last night," Jorik said, checking his dagger holsters. "Fancy clothes and an abundance of coin. Says she wants the Teeth's main compound found and marked. We did some legwork already definitely the Warehouse district somewhere, but they've been clever about staying hidden."

"Brutal bastards," Kell spat. "Word is they torture folks for sport before the killing. Made the whole dock district afraid to walk home after dark. We’ll be finding them in the daylight."

Marian felt a tightness in her chest. The low districts aren't a battlefield with hardened warriors accepting the risks—these are hard working people being terrorized in their own backyard.

"I'm coming with you," she said, jumping down and reaching for her glaive.

The relief that washed over the group was visible. Shoulders relaxed, worried expressions eased, and Hendrick actually smiled for the first time that morning.

"Thank the Maker," Kell sighed. "With the Saint watching our backs, we'll send those butchers running."

"Won't even need to worry about getting out alive," Jorik joked.

"Andraste walks among the dogs of war!" Hendrick mocked cheerily, though his relief was genuine.

"Stop calling me that," Marian protested, her tone was affectionate if annoyed.

Before the group could head out, the upper office door slammed open with enough force to rattle the hinges. Meeran filled the doorway, his expression thunderous as he took in the assembled crew, Marian in tow.

"Absolutely not," he said flatly.

The room went quiet. They could hear the distant sound of gulls and creaking ships.

"Meeran—" Marian began.

"I said no, Hawke." The Red Iron leader's voice brooked no argument. "I won't have my best grunts hiding behind your robes like frightened children every time there's real danger."

"We weren't hiding—" Kell started indignantly.

"You weren't?" Meeran's eyebrows rose. "Then why did you craven lot look ready to soil yourselves until she volunteered? Why is your first instinct to reach for Hawke's protection instead of trusting your own steel?"

The men shifted uncomfortably, but none could deny the accuracy of the accusation.

"They don't deserve to—" Marian said quickly. 

"They're mercenaries," Meeran cut her off.

"They knew the risks when they took the coin. More importantly, you're coming with me. Now. There's a serious assignment that requires your particular skills. A lot of gold on the line."

"But it’s a murder’s lair—"

"They need to remember they were dangerous men before you arrived, and they'll be dangerous men after you're gone." Meeran's tone softened slightly. "You can't save everyone, Hawke. And you shouldn't try."

Marian looked at the faces around her—worry creeping back in, but also a stubborn pride beginning to reassert itself. Kell straightened his shoulders and Hendrick's jaw set with determination. Jorik twirled his dagger still, unchanged

She reached into her pack and pulled out several vials of Bethany's healing potions, pressing them into Kell's hands.

"Bethany made these fresh yesterday," she said. "They'll close wounds and ease pain better than anything you can buy in the market."

"Thank you," Kell said softly, and the genuine gratitude in his voice made her feel guilty. "We'll be careful."

"Watch each other's backs, and remember—you don't have to be heroes. Information gathering pays just as well as corpse-making."

They all nodded in agreement and she could see them drawing strength from somewhere deeper than her protection.

Hendrick ruffled her hair and said, “Don’t worry, whelp.”

After they filed out voices low in tactical discussion, Meeran shook his head.

"They fall at your feet like touch-starved dogs," he said, not without fondness. "I understand it, mind you. I've seen you pull men back from death's door with magic. But Maker's breath, they're shameless about it."

Marian slumped back onto her crate, suddenly feeling the weight of all those expectations. "They deserve to go home to their families."

"They are good," Meeran agreed. "But they were fine before you arrived, mostly. And part of keeping steadfast is to stand on their own feet." He paused, studying her. "Besides, they're not the only ones who need to remember that sometimes."

"Meaning?"

His expression was unreadable. "There are people in this city who don't want mercenaries getting too comfortable. People who prefer their hired swords desperate and disposable."

Marian looked out the window toward the warehouse district again, where her comrades were heading into danger. Part of her wanted to run after them, to wrap them in shields of lightning and healing light until they were safely home. Her bleeding heart will get her killed as Carver often said.

Meeran was right. She couldn't save everyone. And maybe, sometimes, trying to was doing more harm than good.

"What's the assignment?" she asked.

"We're heading to Hightown," Meeran said, shouldering a small pack. "The Chantry, specifically. There's a cleric who needs a lightning specialized for a lot of gold. I think she wants a mage but I didn’t say you were. Don’t worry, just play it cool, kid."

"The Chantry?" Marian's eyebrows rose. "Since when do we take jobs from the faithful?"

"Since the faithful started paying well," Meeran replied. "I'll explain on the way. Come on."

The warehouse district was a maze of shadowy nooks and bizarre turn arounds; half worn cobblestone streets and half salt-rotted wood alleyways where it met the docks. Kell led the team, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt. The three Red Irons picked their way through walkways between towering stone walls that blocked out most of the early hour light. 

"There," Jorik said, pointing to a building that looked abandoned from the outside—boards over windows and doors with weeds growing in front of them. But the look was wrong, the road around it. Too clean, like many walked here and wore a trail through the road dust. And there were too many active rats for a truly empty building. Rats at this hour meant corpses in his experience.

They found the real entrance around back—a cellar door hidden beneath a pile of rotting canvas. Hendrick crouched by the sealed door, running his fingers along the frame. "Fresh oil on these hinges," he murmured. "This door's been used recently."

Jorik's lockpicks made quick work of it, and they descended into darkness that reeked of blood and something fouler.

The building’s basement had been converted into a maze of rooms. Like a labyrinth. They found evidence quickly in the first room they examined closely: bloodstained tables and rusted instruments of dark-magic torture. There was a pile of at least four tightly shrouded corpses sat in a corner. The shrouds were secured with thick rope and they were stained horrendously. At least a measure of the rumors appear to be true. The Redwater Teeth was not an ordinary gang.

The sights made even the hardened warriors' stomachs turn.

"These twisted bastards," Kell whispered, examining what was clearly a torture chamber. "No wonder people are afraid to walk the docks."

"We've got what we came for," Hendrick said quietly. "Location confirmed, evidence of their activities. We should go."

That's when they heard the voice.

"Well, well. What have we here?"

The elf who emerged from the shadows was unremarkable at first glance—average height, receding hairline of brown hair and clothes that had seen better days. But his eyes held a red gleam that made every instinct scream danger, and the air around him thickened with malevolent energy.

"Leech," Jorik whispered. This was Redwater Teeth's leader no doubt, but seeing him in person was a shock. Last time he’d shown his face at the tavern, he had not looked like that. This was a mage lost to darkness.

"Ah ha! Red Iron dog lords, come sniffing around in my territory," Leech said. "How thoughtful of you to deliver yourselves to your doom." He sounded completely psychotic.

Hendrick's sword was out and moving before the blood mage finished speaking, but the blade passed through empty air. Leech had moved—it was like he’d never been there.

"Profane magic," Kell snarled, drawing steel. "Should have brought the Saint after all."

"Oh, you should have," Leech agreed, and his voice was suddenly everywhere at once. "But the lightning bitch isn't here, is she? Just three little pups, so far from home."

The attack came from the wall themselves—the shadows came alive and surrounded them as whispers sang ice into their bones. Beneath it all, the terrible pull of blood magic seeking to turn their own minds against them.

Jorik was fastest, his daggers finding mark after mark—but each wound was harmless and the shadows never ran out. Kell's sword work was precise and deadly, but he was only fighting shades. 

Hendrick’s keen eyes found the mage and he nearly ran him through. Leech's magic was wrapping around him like chains of shadow and pain, he kept fighting. 

“Face me you feckless wizard!” He hollered punching through a shade with his gauntlet. But when the spell completed Hendrick's own blood turned to fire in his veins.

He screamed in agony—a sound that would haunt Kell's dreams for years—and then collapsed dead.

"Run!" Kell roared, grabbing Jorik's arm. "RUN!"

The sun hadn’t set when they busted out of the trapdoor. The light was a shock to the system. Kell and Joric felt locked in that hole for hours, it had been less than half an hour. They ran like the Blight was on their heels. Leech's laughter echoed in their minds, a residual effect of his corrupted magic.

They didn't stop running until they reached their building, exploding through the door near simultaneously, gasping and wild-eyed. The other mercenaries in the office looked up, taking in their expressions and reaching for weapons. No attack was forthright though, there were no pursuers.

"What happened, isn’t Hendrick supposed to be with you?" asked Benny, though his voice suggested he already knew the answer.

Kell shook his head, slumping against the wall as the reality hit him. Hendrick—steady, reliable Hendrick who'd had a young family waiting—was gone.

"Blood mage," Jorik managed between gasping breaths. "The leader...Leech...he's not just some under boss. He's become something else entirely. It’s a slaughter house in that goon’s lair. He caught us and used that disgusting magic on us. Henrick nearly got to him, but Leech was faster."

"We breached the compound," Kell said numbly. "Warehouse district, just like the client wanted. But..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

The room fell quiet except for the sound of their labored breathing and the ever present shrieks of the gulls. Finally, Kell spoke again.

"Where's Meeran?"

"Hightown," Benny said. "Some job at the Chantry."

"We have to tell him," Jorik said. "About Hendrick. About what we found, this is bigger than the job."

“That’s the truth. Okay, you two take a load off. I’m sorry we lost a comrade but you’re safe here. And I’ll get Meeran coming back here faster than a horny dwarf.” Benny said. He patted Kell on the back and left quickly.

Jorik thought a wicked thing as the fear waned: If Hawke had been with them, Hendrick would still be alive. The bird would have protected them, just as she always did for the whole six months she’s been here.

Instead, they'd tried to prove they could stand on their own—or whatever bullshit Meeran was spewing. A decent man was dead because of it and Kirkwall really could have used more of those.

Chapter Text

 Walking through Hightown was like stepping into a different world—even the cobblestones looked pristine. It gave the impression of being at the top of a great tower. The air carried the scent of flowers from private gardens rather than rotting fish and the view was like a painting. This was Kirkwall’s beautiful side.

Marian found herself unconsciously straightening her posture as they walked the luxurious streets. She felt shabby against the backdrop of marble and glint, but she held her head high anyway. She had as much right to walk these streets as anyone.

"Strange, isn't it?" Meeran said, noticing her attention to their surroundings. "How different the same city can look depending on where you're standing."

"I used to dream about living up here," Marian admitted, pausing to admire a fountain carved with Andraste's likeness. "When we first arrived, I thought maybe if we worked hard enough, saved enough coin..."

"And now?"

She looked about at the pristine Orlisan-styled facades. The haughty nobles walking with their noses angled up. The guards whose armor gleamed freshly polished because this was the safest assignment in the city.

"Now that I think about it, the view from Lowtown is nicer. So much more culture on display."

Meeran chuckled. "Spoken like a true mercenary. They barely tolerate our kind here, Hawke. Though I suspect today's job might change our prospects a wee bit."

They passed a group of young nobles clustered around a wine merchant's stall, their laughter bright and careless. One of them—a girl who couldn't be more than sixteen—was wearing a dress that probably cost more than Red Iron mercenaries made in a year.

"Tell me about this job," Marian said, pulling her attention away from the sights. "Since when does the Chantry hire mercenaries? And why the secrecy?"

Meeran's expression grew serious. "It's about lyrium."

That got Marian's full attention. Lyrium was the foundation of both templar strength and Divine authority—a substance so valuable and controlled that even discussing its trade outside official channels could be dangerous.

"The chantry controls the lyrium supply," Meeran continued as they turned onto a street lined with expensive shops. "Every grain of dust that goes to the templars flows through their hands. It's one of their greatest sources of power."

"Right, and someone's trying to change that?"

"A Carta agent named Lorton has been making overtures directly to templar officers," Meeran said. "Offering them a contract for lyrium, no questions, no oversight from the Grand Cleric."

Marian whistled softly. "That's not friendly competition, it sounds like an international incident in the making. It’s striking at the heart of templar loyalty."

"Exactly. If templars can get their lyrium anywhere, what leverage does the Chantry have over them? What stops them from becoming an independent military force answerable to no one?"

They passed the entrance to the Chantry proper, its massive doors flanked by templars whose eyes tracked every passerby. But Meeran led her around to a smaller entrance—a service door used by lay sisters and visiting clerics.

"The meeting is tomorrow night," Meeran continued. "Lorton and two templar officers, in a private room at the Blooming Rose. They think they're being discreet, but there are eyes and ears everywhere."

"So we're supposed to, what? Bust it up? Shouldn’t they be arrested or something?"

"Not arrest," Meeran said. "They want this dragged out into the open. Spectacularly. Word needs to spread."

"They want a lightning storm witnessed by everyone in the Rose tonight. They want the story told and retold until every would-be lyrium smuggler in the Free Marches thinks twice about undercutting Holy authority."

"And the templars involved?"

Meeran's silence was answer enough.

They'd reached the meeting place past the main chamber, in an alcove to the north. A small blonde cleric waited nervously. She glanced around as if expecting templars to emerge from the shadows at any moment.

"Sister Petrice," Meeran said with a slight bow. "Allow me to present The Saint."

The cleric made a face at the title. Her eyes widened as she took in Marian's appearance. Whatever she'd been expecting, it clearly wasn't a young woman.

"You're the lightning mage?" Sister Petrice asked doubtfully.

"No, I’m willing to work with lightning," Marian replied, raising a brow at the sister.

"I was told you could handle this matter with the... appropriate level of visibility."

The whole exchange so far sat poorly in Marian's stomach. She looked up at the Chantry's soaring ceiling, at the symbols of Andraste and the Maker carved on every surface. The promise of mercy and redemption.

"What exactly are you asking me to do, Sister?"

She danced foot to foot with a nervous energy, “I need a lightning storm like the Maker’s own judgement to cast eyes on this heresy."

Marian takes in her manic countenance and wild eyes, “And if someone gets hurt?”

Sister Patrice stilled and smiled. “Then it’s the Maker’s will of course, child.”

Marian looked at Meeran askance, was this a fucking joke?

 Garret was never much of a ladies man. But since coming of age he never lacked for opportunities in finding a lover. Many women found him quite attractive, he was naturally tall and handsome. He had the black hair and blue eyes prominent in his family and was well built from constant martial training. In the past it was that same training that took most of his time as well—he was not someone easily distracted back then.

He felt different now, all he wanted now was to lose himself in distraction.

That was what Garret considered his job to be, breaking into safes locked with complex mechanisms or magic runes and breaking into mansions to steal ill-gotten artifacts, a great distraction. Nothing beats it really.

Except maybe a dark eyed lover.

Garret finds himself on the streets of Hightown to have a little bit of both this fair night. Hightown was not the Kirkwall the Hawkes were accustomed to. The streets here were beautiful and peaceful at night, even the pickpockets and gangs are polite. One could stroll the thoroughfare without being upcosted by bandits dropping from the rooftops every few yards.

The Sage Serpent smoke house sits on a corner just two blocks from the brothel. There were often a few whore criers hawing the wares of the Rose on its stoop. None tonight. 

Its entrance is marked by silk drapery in purple and blue, the colors of smoke and an ornate bronze door decorated with intertwining serpent motifs. A rough looking Rivaini man in traditional headwrap and voluminous silk trousers gathered at the ankle stood beside the door. No shirt, of course, how else would you appreciate his large well-oiled chest?

“Evening, Hari.” Garret says walking up to the door. “How’s the night treating you?”

“A drunk noblewoman tried to grope me, Garret.” Hari replied in his lovely accented voice.

“Oh no, you threw her down the stairs I hope?” Hari just sighed mightily.

Garret patted his shoulder as he ducked inside.

Rivani merchants established this place about 10 years ago, bringing their homeland's waterpipe traditions to Kirkwall's wealthy district. Sweet smoke civilization to the Free Marches’ savage shores.

Inside, the main floor is divided into intimate alcoves draped with silk curtains in deep jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, and rich amber. Low cushioned seating surrounds polished brass tables, each sat with an elaborate water pipe. Some topped with a charcoal burner and some without. The pipes themselves are like art: tall glass and copper bases in all sorts of exotic shapes, filled with scented water and hoses tipped with carved bone mouthpieces. The ornate metal stems continue the intertwined snake motif and gleam in the low lamplight.

The air is thick and hazy with aromatic smoke—smells of sweet apple, honeyed mint, exotic spices that remind patrons of distant lands. Attendants in flowing sheer dress move between the alcoves, tending the coals and refreshing the herb mixtures. They speak in soft, musical accents as they explain the different proprietary blends: "Sundering Sea Breeze" with its hints of salt air and tropical fruit, "Hedge Mage's Dream" heavy with rose and elfroot, or "Rivian Sunset" that tastes of oranges and cinnamon. Some blends could send you into the Fade or so the rumors went. 

But, any made you high and that was a fact.

The clientele is a mix of wealthy merchants, nobles, and the occasional adventurer with coin to spend. Human, dwarf and elf alike. Garret had never seen Qunari here personally, he doubted a people so devout would prefer the debauchery of the smoke house. But many nations were represented here, from Orais to Seheron, from Ferelden to the Anderfels. 

Conversations happen in furtive tones. Business deals are struck over shared pipes and more than one scandalous romance has begun in the lush shadows of the Sage Serpent.

It operates under an understanding by all patrons—what happens in the smoke-filled privacy of the alcoves stays there, so long as nothing too unseemly spills onto the streets. 

It was the perfect establishment for a smuggler to invest in.

Hidden away at the back of the great room at the end of a discrete corridor, behind several thick velvet curtains was Athenril’s suite. Garret knocked softly on the door and entered when he heard her voice invite him in.

A huge circular bed dominates the intimate space, its rich mahogany frame piled high with silk cushions in dark greens and deep browns. Luxurious furs—wolf, bear, and rare white hart—are layered across the bedding, while a gauzy canopy drapes overhead like morning mist.

The canopy itself is a masterwork of Dalish artistry. Gossamer thin embroidery depicted an enchanted forest scene across the translucent fabric—ancient trees in a moonlit glade and graceful halla walking through the flowering meadow, that strange silver coloring on display. The sacred deer of the wild elves was rendered with exquisite detail, the intricate branching antlers seeming to catch the light and glow ghostly white.

A small work desk was tucked in the corner and remained cluttered with open ledgers, evidence of business conducted at any time. She never stops working, even here.

Athenril sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed wearing a dark blue silk robe that fell to her knees. Its sleeves are wide and flowing in the style of Nevarran nobles. The rich blue made her pale skin luminous and turned her dark eyes into pools of midnight.

 Beside her a delicate side table holds a small metal hand pipe, beautifully crafted from Tevinter silver, alongside a collection of rare herbs in silk pouches. The selection of medicinal and recreational plants from across Thedas, each carefully labeled in flowing script. Her long, elegant fingers worked methodically, breaking apart dried herbs and packing them into the pipe.

She looked up as he approached, offering him that quick silver smile that could charm secrets from stone. "Garret. Working overtime tonight?"

Instead of answering immediately, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small halla statuette, holding it out to her. It was an exquisite piece—delicate antlers, graceful neck, every detail of the revered creature lovingly crafted by some long-dead artisan. It hummed softly in his palm, supposedly blessed by an elven god long ago and predating the Chantry by centuries.

Athenril's eyes widened, her pipe forgotten. She rose from the bed crossing to him with her robe flowing around her like dark water.

"Is that...?" She reached out, then hesitated, as if afraid to touch something so precious.

"The one from the foundry overseer's collection. Took some doing." Garret placed it in her outstretched hands.

She cradled the statuette ever so gently, her fingers tracing the ancient curves. The soft magical hum seemed to respond to her touch. She could feel it warm her hand.

"You stupid, reckless shem," she said, but her voice was warm with affection. "Do you have any idea what could have happened if you'd been caught?"

"You wanted it, my dear." He shrugged, as if that explained everything. 

Because it did.

Athenril looked up at him, surprise flickering across her features. Then she smiled—not the quick charmer, but something soft and sweet. She leaned up and kissed him. And it’s like a cool drink on a hot day. Her lithe arms reached to wrap around him and he drew her close in turn.

Garret is lost in the moment until she pulls away. Her face is flushed and he feels a bit prideful.

“Thank you, darling.” She said.

She brought the statue over to a shelf behind the desk and set it beside her many elf related trinkets, in the center position of honor Garret notes to himself. Those trinkets of hers are certainly priceless artifacts. He’s not entirely sure what they are, he’s no expert of elven culture, but they are very old and beautiful things. 

"Take off those awful boots and come here," she said, returning to her plush bed and patting the space beside her. "If you're going to risk your neck for me, the least I can do is share some decent herb with you."

Garret took off his leather boots and coat; joining her on the great bed.

"Now then," she said, striking a match to light the pipe, "tell me exactly how you managed this particular bit of lunacy."

They imbibed the exotic herb and filled the air with sweet smoke. Garret felt it a wondrous thing indeed, like a pleasant dream on a cloudless day. The smoke glittered with colors he couldn’t name and light took on a surreal quality; but he didn’t lose his wits or anything like that. He felt more witty than ever in fact. 

Garret settled comfortably among the cushions and told his tale of adventurous thieving to an enraptured and equally inebriated Athenril. When he got to the part where he had to climb through a dormer window onto roof tiles and ended up dangling three stories up in the rain, she threw her head back and laughed in delight. She climbed on top of him, straddling his lap. 

"You magnificent fool," she murmured leaning down, her dark eyes sparkling with mirth and affection. "Dangling in the rain like a wet cat, all for a piece of carved stone."

Her graceful fingers traced along his jaw, and he could smell the sweet herbs on her mixed with something uniquely her—like fresh growth in spring.

"Worth every sodded moment," Garret said. His hand found the small of her back, fingers spreading across the silk and pulling her close. "Did you feel the way it hummed at your touch? Like it remembered being blessed."

Athenril's face was…pensive for a moment.

"Old magic," she said quietly. "The keeper used to say the halla carried messages between the waking world and the Fade. Pieces carved in their image hold echoes of that sacred duty."

Garret felt a heart ache at the way she trusted him with tiny fragments of herself. Gifts of memory shared. She leaned down to kiss him then, slow and full of heat, he was truly lost.

Garret knew that some distractions were worth any amount of risk as she began to help pull off his clothes.

Kirkwall's dangers could wait. Nightmares could wait—this was better than the golden city ever was. Behind a curtain of smoke in the sanctuary of her bed, surrounded by ghosts of the ancient past. The world felt very far away indeed.

Chapter Text

 The Blooming Rose was Hightown’s classed up brothel, this evening it was alive with laughter and music. Just like every night. All were welcome if they had the gold. Nobles and commoners alike, even merchant princes from two different nations, mingled with the merchandise in the main lounge.

Serving girls and boys in revealing dress carrying trays of wine and pastries to the private chambers. Moving through rooms thick with incense and with whispered promises on the lips of whores.

This was the place. Marian had sent word to Garret through one of Athenril's runners, and her twin had arrived at the brothel's back entrance with a satchel full of unusual supplies.

"A lightning trap?" he'd asked when she explained what she needed to build and for what. "Marian, that's... that's not standard mercenary work."

"I know." She helped him spread components across a small table in an unused storage room—crystals that hummed with energy, wire so fine it was nearly invisible.

"This could kill everyone in the room if we make it according to the original blueprint," Garret said as he worked steadily despite the magnitude of what they were constructing. 

"Well, do you think it can be modified?" Marian asked.

Garret's hand stilled on the delicate mechanism. “Maybe, this is a little short notice Mari”

“I know, I know. I have some ideas for that actually. I couldn’t let that insane Sister Petrice try to get someone else to take the job, Garret. I had to jump on the bomb, so to speak.”

She sighed in exasperation, “This woman was a piece of work. She was adamant that a mage put on a show to expose the templars. I have a feeling I know why. I’m not doing that. We need a lightshow in a bottle.”

He did not love this situation. "The Chantry could have sent more templars to arrest them. They could be tried and imprisoned for this but sister what’s-her-face wants them caught in public with magic in the middle of it all?"

"She claimed the Templar Order is involved and they want a ‘clean’ investigation. She didn’t care if the templars got hurt, she was cold as ice. I think she wants them dead outright. And she expected me to just walk in there and Zap!” 

"And you're willing to do this?"

Marian closed her eyes, “Meeran didn’t give me much choice and it’s worth my whole contract in souvenirs at least. You should have seen this sack of gold, I’ve never seen so much in one place. That gold came straight from the Chantry’s great vault in Val Royeaux, mark my words.”

Garret couldn't help but laugh, “Marian, the grand game isn’t coming for us.”

“Yeah, sure it’s not.”

Marian began to work with the bomb components alongside him. “Okay, I have a crystal charged with a very small amount of electricity and we can change this Force rune into its third lesser form, it should just cause a tiny blast. Their hair will stand on end at the worst.” 

They worked through the new design and where to make the changes. It was fun. Garret thought it would work perfectly though he would prefer they start with a prototype and not a trial by fire.

“Okay. It should be a lightshow and everyone will be looking at their covert little meeting. Good luck, Marian.” Garret said goodbye and slipped out a side door into the alleyway.

The device was simple in a way—a small crystal formation held within a glass rune etched case. It was no larger than a tankard and was on a proximity trigger under a specific energy signature. It would detonate when one of them lifted it. Once activated, it would release a bit of stored lightning energy inside and light up the room and at the same time cut the lights in the other rooms with a surge, if it’s powerful enough.

Marian stalked the Rose in disguise, donning a green wig and borrowing a serving girl's outfit that was barely there—but still cost an arm and leg no doubt. It was a nice brothel and it really was twice the size of the Pearl.

The hallway outside room seven had lanterns, light dim. Through the thin door she could hear a gravelly voice explaining shipping routes and a younger sounding man asking questions about purity.

They were discussing poison, she knew. Templars relied on the volatile element to use their magic canceling abilities but lyrium was dangerous stuff, highly addictive and caused mental decline after long term use. She’d seen washed up templars lost to addiction living on the streets, willing to do anything for the dust. They became destitute beggars and roustabouts willing to steal and kill. All honor lost for a speck of lyrium dust.

"Compliments of the house," she said brightly, setting the tray on the table's center where it would have maximum effect. "The proprietor wanted to thank you for choosing the Rose for your... business meeting."

Lorton barely glanced at her. He looked like a traditional dwarven roughneck with a long gray beard and a spiral tattoo prominent on his cheek. One of the templars actually sneered like he wanted to call her slur as a matter of course. But the other one—a young man who couldn't be older than Carver—smiled gratefully. "That's very kind. We appreciate the discretion."

"Of course, sera," Marian replied, already backing toward the door. "Enjoy your evening."

She closed the door behind her and walked quickly down the hallway. No running—that would attract attention. Just a serving girl finishing her duties and moving on to the next task having done nothing wrong.

She'd made it to the main staircase when things went sideways. 

There was a huge boom then rumble and tendrils of lightning danced through the walls and into the air around the whole establishment. All the electric lanterns flickered and sizzled out dramatically. Then the screams started.

The lightning that erupted within the room was catastrophic. The door was blown clean off and embedded in the wall across the way. The Rose’s entire dwarven wiring system was decimated beyond repair. When the echoes faded and everyone fled the surrounding rooms, they found room seven transformed into something from a nightmare. The walls were blackened, covered in violent zigzag patterns. The furniture was gone—not even rubble, simply absent, as if it had never existed.

And burned onto the walls in reverse shadow, were the outlines of two humans and one dwarf. Perfect silhouettes that showed exactly where each person had been when the lightning obliterated them, leaving behind only their shapes pressed into the wall in white ash like a final wicked testament.

Marian stood outside in the crowd of gawkers and witnesses, green wig clutched in her hand.  And she looked upon what she had wrought.

That was not supposed to happen! 

The blast from the Hawkes’ semi-improvised explosive ended up much greater than even the original schematics. That shouldn’t even be possible. The whispers started immediately, spreading through the crowd like wildfire.

"Lightning, everywhere! Did you see—"

"Never seen anything like it—"

"The Maker's wrath on—"

By morning, the story would be all over Kirkwall. By the end of the week, it would reach every one in the Free Marches.

Marian was horror stricken by this turn of events. She and Garret were 99% sure the modification would work as expected. How did this go so wrong?

Marian hardly slept. Every time she'd closed her eyes, she saw that young templar's face. He'd smiled at her when she brought the ale. Smiled at his own killer, grateful for what he thought was simple kindness.

It wasn't a benefit for a mage to empathize with a templar. She'd killed templars before, of course. In the heat of battle but this was different. This was cold-blooded murder she’d never intended to commit. She shouldn’t have taken the Maker forsaken job! 

Garret and her would get to the bottom of the malfunctioning bomb as soon as possible but they couldn't exactly investigate the scene. Garret had the thought that an outside influence enhanced the explosive’s effect, maybe even the shape of the room or some existing property of the components they weren’t aware of. He would not assume anything without examining the scene himself, making leaps in logic was how they got into this mess. Marian knew it was that demonic clergywoman's doing but she didn’t know how it was done.

First, Marian had to confront the boss, this was obviously a set up and she’d told him then. The moment Sister what’s-her-face pulled out that sack of gold Meeran had lost his wits completely. That gold came directly from Val Royadux and this was a part of some sick political game, Marian was sure of it still. She resolved to never take a Chantry job again.

The morning sun was far too bright as she made her way to the Red Iron office, her steps heavy with exhaustion. Marian opened the door and everyone in the warehouse looked at her. The atmosphere in the room was thick—she could feel it like a weight pressing down on her shoulders. Several mercenaries sat slumped over tables, staring into tankards as if they held benediction. Dom was cleaning his great axe obsessively, the kind of busy work that kept hands occupied when minds couldn't settle. Gillerou was sweeping the floor for fuck sake, someone must be dead.

“Um…Morning all.” She said, “I’m sure the Rose will re-open in no time at all, no reason to be depressed.” No one smiled.

She could hear muffled shouting from Meeran’s tiny office.

"—above our pay grade, Meeran! Blood magic is templar business, not mercenary work!"

Kell's voice carried through the ramshackle door, angrier than she'd ever heard him. There was fear there too.

"You think the templars give a damn about dock workers?" Meeran's reply was no less heated. "You think they'll lift a finger to stop the Teeth from carving up every man who walks home alone?"

"I think calling in the fucking templars is better than losing any more innocent people!" Kell's shouts continued.

Marian decided to wait a moment and see what the score was.

Jorik sat alone near the window, turning a dagger over and over in his hands. When he saw her, relief flickered across his face.

"How did the mission go?" she asked, sitting in the chair across from him.

Jorik's hands stilled on the blade.

"We found the hideout," he said. "Warehouse district, as we thought, under an old fish cannery on the border of the docks. Got what the client wanted and good intelligence on their operation."

"That's good." Marian studied his face, noting the dark circles under his eyes much like her own. "What happened?"

"The leader of the Redwater Teeth, Leech" Jorik continued meeting her eyes. "He's a blood mage."

Blood magic was dangerous enough when wielded by desperate apostates hiding in sewers. In the hands of someone with a group of operators on his side?

"He real tough?" she asked.

"Powerful enough," Jorik said quietly. "It felt like a waking nightmare in that fetid pit. Whispers that got inside your head. And when we saw him; when he saw us..." He shuddered. "I've never seen anything like it."

Marian waited for him to continue, but Jorik seemed to be wrestling with something. His knuckles were white where they gripped the dagger and he glanced toward Meeran's office where the argument had resumed in more furtive tones.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, "Jorik," she said gently. "What aren't you telling me?" 

For a moment, she thought he might cry right there. His mouth opened, then she saw him make a visible decision to swallow whatever words had been trying to escape.

"Just... it was bad, Mari. Really bad. The kind of magic that makes you really understand why people fear mages." The pain in his eyes was clear. "I'm glad you weren't there. Whatever that Chantry shit was, I'm glad it kept you away."

The irony of that. She'd been serving as the Chantry's instrument in a shadow play. And the people who genuinely looked to her for protection had been fighting for their lives. Alone.

"Everyone made it back safely?" she asked, hoping against hope.

The silence went on. Around the room, conversations quieted as other mercenaries heard everything said in their tiny warehouse. Even the argument in Meeran's office seemed to pause.

She really knew. Jorik wouldn’t be so broken up otherwise, he’s no weak person. He and Kell are alive so…

“Hendrick.” Marian said and whistled softly. 

Of course it was Hendrick. Who had a wife, a daughter and a big dog too. 

Hendrick who'd called her the Saint of Lightning first and meant it as a fun little joke. The Maker was mocking her personally.

"He'd want you to know it wasn't your fault," Jorik said suddenly, like he had no control over his mouth. "Whatever you're thinking right now, whatever you're blaming yourself for—he'd hate that. We all would."

But Marian was already in it—plummeting down under the weight of choices made. Of choosing the wrong place at the wrong time. Has she become someone who killed for gold while better people died?

That's who their saint was, apparently. 

Something shifted in Marian's expression then—a subtle change. The tension left her shoulders and her face relaxed into a smile. Her mind was made up.

It deeply unsettled Jorik. He worried his hastily spilled words were an over correction and had the opposite effect.

"Don't worry about the blood mage, Jorik" she said, her voice oddly neutral. "Or the Redwater Teeth for that matter. They’re done. Gone by nightfall."

There was something in her tone that was adjacent to madness.

"Hawke—" Jorik started, but she was already standing, moving toward Meeran's door with purpose.

She didn't knock. Simply walked in, both Meeran and Kell turned to look as she stepped inside like she owned the place.

"I'm out, Meeran" she said without preamble. "No longer a Red Iron, effective immediately."

His eyebrows shot up. "Hawke, you've got six months left on your contract."

"How much did you just make from my job?" Her voice calm. "The Chantry contract. Was it three hundred sovereigns? More than three hundred?"

Meeran sputtered, caught out.

"It was... it was over three hundred and we need to talk about that shit show," he said.

"Three hundred sovereigns for one night's work, that fully covers my debt to be sure. I made you a lot of blood money; you knew I was being set up didn’t you?" Marian asked. "And Hendrick is dead because you needed to prove a vapid point about self-reliance."

"Now wait just a—"

"Kell," Marian interrupted, turning to the other mercenary. "You don't need to worry about the Redwater Teeth anymore. Your own backyard is about to become considerably safer."

"Hawke, please," Kell said, his hands raised in a placating manner. "Stay with us. We need you. After what happened to Hendrick—"

"What happened is exactly why I can't stay," she replied. "He called me Andraste among the dogs of war, remember? Well, perhaps it's time I started acting like her. Where’s the hideout?"

Kell's face paled, it looked quite unhealthy on his brown skin. He could imagine what Marian’s intent was. He’d seen how she carved through her enemies. He stopped fighting the tide of her then, just giving in. He told her the location.

"Thanks, Hawke. I’m serious" Kell said, "You saved my life a few times and your nickname is no joke, okay? You don’t have to do anymore."

"I made the wrong decision, Kell. I had a bad feeling about your job but I simply fell into line because the boss said ‘gold’," Marian said. “Of course it was all a joke. I’m not a saint.”

She walked back out through the common room, past the other mercenaries who watched her with a measure of unease. At the door, she paused and looked back one last time.

"When he gets in, tell Carver I've gone to clean up a serious mess," she said. "I'll be home for dinner."

Chapter Text

Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford, Knight-Captain. Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford. Knight-Captain…Just a wayward soul tossed around by the more powerful. That’s what he tells himself when he feels overwhelmed. It felt quite a silly thought given his high rank. Cullen felt overwhelmed the moment he arrived in this accursed city.

The City in Chains, he had not thought that the chains would bind him. He was a fool.

Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander had promoted Cullen to Knight-Captain barely a year after his arrival from Lake Calenhad, citing his exceptional vigilance and keen eye as well as his experience with blood magic. What she saw as an asset, Cullen knew to be a fractured mind in truth. The nightmares plagued him still and every moment of quiet turned into an opportunity for his mind to replay Uldred's tortures. Any shadow could hide a blood mage; an unexplained noise might herald demonic incursion. He could not allow himself to falter. Meredith called it stalwart dedication, Ser Thrask said he needed a ten year vacation.

Kirkwall was a cesspit of corruption. Every new day brought new horrors: blood magic rituals discovered in Darktown's deepest warrens, demons summoned in Lowtown, abominations practicing forbidden arts in plain sight on the coast. The black stone it was carved from was cursed and it only got worse as more blood was spilled all over it. Kirkwall’s own Circle mages were always restless, and beyond the walls, wild mages multiply like vermin in the shadows.

Two entire days had passed before anyone at the Gallows realized that Ser Marcus and Ser Willom were among the victims at the Blooming Rose. The Gallows received an invoice for one thousand sovereigns from Madam Lusine, the Rose’s fair proprietor, for the damages incurred during the two templars' disastrous clandestine dealings. That's how they found out.

Endless reports were already piling up on Cullen's desk. And now this, whatever this was. The victims had been identified by the guard. The wayward templars and a known Carta smuggler named Lorton, killed in the middle of what was clearly an elicit lyrium deal. 

Already the rumors were spreading through the city: that the Templar Order itself had sanctioned the arrangement, that the lightning was ‘divine’ judgment against corruption within their ranks. Knight-Commander Meredith had been clear—the lightning incident took precedence over everything else. The city guard hasn't made much progress, of course not.

The Blooming Rose looked less luxurious in the harsh light of morning. What had been warm and inviting in the night now appeared garish and cheap. Knight-Captain Cullen stood in the lobby, reviewing the hastily scrawled reports in his hands.

"Do you think this incident is apostate, ser?" Templar recruit Keran asked, adjusting his armor nervously. This was his first investigation assignment and he was acting as second lead.

"That's what we're here to determine," Cullen replied, though privately he suspected Meredith had already made up her mind. Three dead in a blast of lightning—of course it was a mage.

Footsteps echoed across the floor as a tall, red-haired woman in guard regalia approached them. She moved with a confident stride, a seasoned warrior by her stance but Cullen didn't recognize her.

"Knight-Captain? I'm Aveline Vallen, city guard." She extended a gauntleted hand. "I've been assigned to assist with your investigation."

Cullen shook her hand, noting her firm grip. "Greetings, and this is Recruit Keran,” They shook hands and Keran winced slightly at Aveline’s grip. “I was told the guard would be sending a detective."

"Detective? They told you that?" She shook her head. "The real detectives are apparently busy with more important crimes. I'm here because I have what guard captain Jeven called, a propensity for crime solving." 

"And what exactly does that mean?"

Aveline actually scoffed. "I used basic observational skills to find the perpetrator of a stabbing last week. Followed a trail of blood to a drunk dwarf who still had the dagger in his hand. Apparently that qualifies me as the city's finest investigative mind."

Keran coughed to cover his laugh. Cullen simply accepted the situation. "Well then, Vallen, shall we examine the scene?"

They went to the second floor by way of the grand staircase. Room seven's door—or what remained of it—was embedded in the opposite wall, splintered beyond recognition. The hallway still reeked of burnt ozone and charred wood.

Cullen immediately understood why Meredith had assumed magic was involved. The destruction was horrific, it was hard to believe anything other than magic could cause this. The walls were blackened with violent zigzag patterns that could only have come from lightning and everything in the room was destroyed utterly. But as he studied the scene more carefully, doubt began to creep in.

"Maker's breath," Keran whispered. "What could do this?"

Cullen moved to examine the walls. This didn’t look right.

"Not a mage," he said, studying the pattern burned into the stone. "Look at these burns. When a mage casts lightning it's wild and chaotic just like true lightning. It follows whatever path it wants through the air. Branching where it pleases. Irregular marks always, some burns deep, some that barely scorch the surface as the energy's already spent itself elsewhere. And the pattern is unique." Cullen moved along the wall. "But these, every burn is the same. Look," he gestured broadly at the zigzag patterns "they radiate outward in perfect arcs. Perfect. The burn pattern is uniform. That's not how lightning works when it comes from nature, this was a mechanism. A bomb. Has to be."

While Cullen examined the silhouettes, Aveline and Keran were investigating the floor. "An elemental bomb. An incredibly sophisticated artificer's work. Something this powerful? This would have required a fortune in components. Rare crystals, refined lyrium..." Cullen continued.

Aveline crouched near the center of the room, brushing soot ash away from the floor. "There are impressions here," she said. "Keran, come look at this.” 

"Are those letters?" Keran squinted at the floor.

He traced it with a finger. "Runes I think. It’s similar to markings on Tranquil enchanted weapons."

"Knight-Captain," Keran called out. "You need to see this."

Cullen crossed to where they knelt. In the charred floorboards around where the table had stood, shallow impressions formed a circle. They weren’t visible to the eye but when you ran a hand over it the groves became clear.

"This circle was made with lyrium dust, not spellcraft, if a mage casts a sigil it leaves nothing behind. We'll need someone to decipher these.”

"I'll check with the Chantry for a scholar," Keran said.

"No." The word came harsher than Cullen intended. "We'll get a Circle mage to look at the runes." Keran nodded, not even thinking to question the order.

“Let’s take some etchings!” Keran said with the enthusiasm of a half-witted boy. Aveline and Cullen joined him with parchment and charcoal making short work of it. They record the full rune circle for a mage or Tranquil to look over.

“Did the guard find any witnesses willing to help?" Cullen asked gathering the papers.

Aveline straightened up and brushed her hands together to loose the ash. Her expression grew somewhat pained. "Yes...after a fashion."

Cullen decided against asking what she meant by that and simply said, "Let's speak with them."

Two people waited in the main lounge. One was clearly noble—a young man in expensive Orlesian clothing with a half mask of dark blue metal as is their style. The other was an elf woman with chestnut hair in the revealing attire of a serving girl, her hands fidgeting nervously.

"This is Gratien, a frequent patron who was there," Aveline said, gesturing to the nobleman. "And Leira works at the Rose."

Leira started first.  "I was off that night but someone took one of my costumes," she said. "The pink silk livery—the sheer one with the," She gestured at her torso. "The band was like this and the shorts had ruffles. The thief left this in exchange."  She held up her wrist, showing off a delicate silver bracelet. "It looks expensive. Can I keep it?"

Cullen examined the jewelry. It was well-made, certainly expensive. "There's an engraving here," he said, squinting at the clasp before handing it to Aveline.

Aveline held it up to the light, her eyes catching the script. "P. Durand," she read aloud. "Very elegant work. Likely belonging to a noble lady."

Aveline handed Leira the bracelet back. "You can keep it for now but don’t lose it, we may need it as evidence." Cullen said.

Leira beamed, securing it back onto her wrist.

Gratien stepped forward like he was eager to be the center of attention. "Ah, messieurs, I believe I can provide some insight into ze matter." His Orlesian accent was thick. "I noticed a serving girl acting strangely in ze very outfit!"

"Strangely how?" Cullen asked.

"She moved wrong, you see. She stalked like ze wolf, not slinked like ze fox. I know brothels, mon ami—I know ze walk of servants in such establishments." Gratien puffed out his chest proudly.

Cullen raised an eyebrow skeptically. "And this suspension is based on her walk?"

"Mais oui! She had the gait of a hunter, you see? And I noticed 'er because," Gratien gave a lecherous smile. "Because of 'er disproportionately large derrière. Ze disguise, it fit well enough, but zat lovely rump—"

Keran was studying the floor with sudden intense interest. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and interrupted. "So you saw a serving girl who walked strangely and didn't fit her costume properly. Anything else?"

Aveline made a sound of disgust.

But Gratien continued, apparently oblivious to their discomfort. "Non, non, c'était parfait! You must understand ze significance! Ze posterior, it was magnifique, like two per—"

"That's enough!" Cullen snapped, flushing, while Aveline stepped forward like she would strike him with her gauntlet. Liera skirted away from him, not wanting anything to do with it.

Gratien finally seemed to grasp that he was treading on dangerous ground and held up his hands placatingly. "Forgive me, I merely wished to provide ze complete picture for your investigation."

"She was carrying a tray of ale to ze second floor." He said.

Now that was useful information. Cullen exchanged a glance with Aveline. "Did you see anything else on the tray?"

"Non, I was...distracted by other matters at ze time."

"Of course you were," Aveline muttered.

"Anything else?" Cullen asked. "Hair color, height, any distinguishing features besides..."

"Green 'air," Gratien said immediately. "A wig, mal ajusté. But ‘er blue eyes were very striking—like sapphires, you know? Beautiful woman, even in zat terrible disguise. Maybe half a head taller than this lovely fille." He gestured to Liera. 

“My costume had a wig I always paired with it, green and curly, very fashionable.” She said, sounding mildly defensive.

“That will be all. You’ve both been a huge help. Thank you, kindly.” Cullen said, fully fed up with the fop. Cullen watched Gratien saunter away with supreme confidence and Liera hurry away, clearly eager to avoid further questioning and get far from Gratien.

"Well," Aveline said dryly, "that was enlightening."

"A lead is a lead," Cullen replied, though he shared her distaste for their source. "We have a name, the bracelet is probably stolen though. A blue eyed woman who moves like an operator and is skilled enough to deploy a sophisticated magical explosive. Probably a hireling."

"That doesn't narrow it down much in a city full of mercenaries and smugglers…" Aveline trailed off furrowing her brow and started to look a little green around the gills.

"No, but it's a start." Cullen said, not noticing Aveline’s change in demeanor. "I need to get these etchings analyzed and file a report with the Knight-Commander. Thank you for your assistance, Aveline. If you discover anything else—"

"I'll send word to the Gallows immediately," she assured him hastily.

As Cullen and Keran made their way toward the exit, the young templar asked, "You really think it wasn't a mage, ser?"

"Well, a mage wouldn’t rely on a bomb like that. Not when magic would be faster, easier and safer. There would be no point in walking into the danger zone during the meeting to deploy a crude imitation of magic. Why bother? This level of planning, the sophisticated bomb...this was a professional job. The question is who hired them and why did they target this deal.” Cullen wanted to keep his own theory of political machinations to himself. 

But he would get justice for his oath-breaking brethren even if he had to yank it from the Grand Cleric’s talons himself.

Marian scaled a crumbling wall on the first level of Hightown proper, right beside the great stairs that went all the way down through Lowtown and to the shore. This had been one of the old family’s finer estates in its heyday. At its height, the Hightown elite prospered beyond wild dreams of avarice. This was now a monument to Kirkwall's ruin—dilapidated and abandoned for years, possibly generations. Every great window broken, some haphazardly boarded, some not, and ivy clotting up every surface. A decrepit haven for someone who wanted to be left alone.

Just the someone she wanted to see.

Fenris had staked this blighted manor as his own not long after arriving. He’d been to Kirkwall before, a great while ago with his former ‘employer’. The wicked magister owned the estate next door and he wanted to keep eyes on it. He was sure that one day the magister would return to acquire his ‘property’. Namely, the elf himself. He said he enjoyed the irony of an escaped slave living in a mansion built for the wealthiest slavers in history.

He had power. Fenris was no mage but had magic power because of those bonds of slavery forged in the heart of the Imperium. The chains designed for him were strange and cruel beyond measure. Lyrium had been branded into his flesh, the procedure so painful it wiped his memories clean. He said his first memory was the searing pain of it and it gave him his unnatural ability. He could phase through solid objects, walls, weapons, people and magic couldn’t touch him. It can be used as an offensive ability, phasing through someone and solidifying. He could snatch the heart from a man’s chest or even make someone explode in a red mist. Marian had an idea how the brands might work, the unusual properties of the lyrium kept Fenris with one foot in the Fade. The material world didn’t bind him as tightly because of it.

Fenris also has a…strong distaste for mages. He thinks them despotic by their nature and calls magic a curse. He never said those exact words to Marian but she can read between the lines. She would rather not have the clarity. And there are certainly mages she shares a hatred for, specifically the blood mage murderers.

There was a fear when she met with him; the knowledge that he already gave her so much, the worry that she only came to him with her hand out for more.

More help. More love. More power. Just like every other mage in Thedas. 

He'd saved her. He'd asked for nothing in return. He gives and she takes. Marian doesn’t know how to ask for anything. Fenris was like a denizen of the Fade or a vision in her mind, untouchable, ungraspable lest he evaporate like mist. 

She made her way through the lovely overgrown paths. The garden here has gone to the wild. Flowering vines cascaded over broken statuary whose faces had been worn beyond recognition by weather and time. Plants pushed up through the broken marble pathways, even a few young trees were growing healthy through the stone. The palace was left to rot in the heart of town but the greenery thrived in its neglect.

Marian reached the courtyard and there, as she'd hoped, she found Fenris sitting on the edge of the central fountain. The basin was full of new soil now, sprouting with wildflowers and trailing vines that had transformed it into a vivarium. She considered it more beautiful than a fountain. Better overflowing with life.

He has a book in his hands—worn leather binding, pages yellow with age. She recognized the Tevinter compendium of myths and fables he’d shown her last time she was here. He looked peaceful in a way he rarely did. The golden sun and growing things around him had softened some of the edges he carried always.

As she approached, he looked up with those striking eyes that had haunted her dreams since their first meeting. They made her feel silly and trite, as if her worries were all ephemeral nonsense. A strange feeling for love, she thought, but it felt good. Like she was flying; a tiny taste of the dragon life she dreamed of.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of a daytime visit from Miss Marian Hawke?" he asked, his voice wry. "I thought you were busy at this hour playing saint to the city's sad sack mercenaries?"

"A blood mage is killing my comrades," she said, deciding that directness was far better than dancing around the topic. Lest she lose her nerve for a smooth delivery. "I thought it might make for a nice day out—killing him and his gang together, as a fun date?" She started strong but it became a hesitant question by the end. As smooth as an Antivan Crow’s blade? Yeah, right.

For a moment, Fenris simply stared at her. Then the smile started, a slow build—it made her heart pick up the pace.

"You want my help hunting a blood mage?" he asked, setting the book aside.

"I want your company," she corrected. "The help is appreciated but I wanted to bring you an offering. Uh a shared hunt, like the Dalish do?…Maker, this is embarrassing." Marian’s face was going red. “It’s meant to be romantic.”

Fenris's mystical talents were invaluable against blood magic and they’d gone out at night plenty of times—but she hoped he’d appreciate the gesture and knew he’d appreciate the activity. The thought of facing Leech alone had felt cold and empty; she needed his savage joy on her side, lest the grim job depress her. There’s no one else she’d want.

Fenris stood from the fountain’s edge and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her fiercely. She could feel the curve of his wicked grin on her own lips and it made her knees feel weak. When they broke apart, Marian saw the beastly smile with her own eyes. 

"A mage killed your friends," he said. "That alone would be enough. But this is very sweet, amor. I can’t say a lover has ever offered me a blood mage hunt as a romantic overture."

"I don't want you to think I only come to you when I need something," she said.

His smile was still beautiful. "Marian, don’t be so hard on your ideas, it’s perfect. I have blood on my hands and ghosts at my heels. Vir venatus sum, I am a hunted man. That you rely on me at all is more than I deserve."

"That's not true—"

"It is," he stated firmly. "And that you trust me with this favor? To invite me to help you paint the town red with mage blood?" His markings flickered blue light faintly in anticipation. "You know me well. I'll get my greatsword," he said.

She wanted to argue with his self-assessment right then; to tell him all the ways he was wrong about what he deserved. Instead, she kissed him again, not fiercely. 

Just a tender kiss.

"Then let's go make the docks a little safer," she said.

Fenris could barely contain his delight. She'd come to him with a fine gift today.

Chapter Text

Deep in the maze of the warehouse district Marian and Fenris approach the Bloodwater Teeth’s hideout.

The gang’s lair was a small complex of interconnected rooms beneath an abandoned fishery warehouse. The entrance was a hidden trapdoor just as Kell described. Fenris pulled the locking mechanism right out of the door and they descended in. The air was thick with a malevolent miasma of blood magic.

It was arranged like a tiny labyrinth, eight rooms four on each side, and the corridor curved around the inner sanctum. Bodies lay scattered through out the rooms—some dock workers, some she couldn't identify through the torture. She didn’t see Hendrick but many corpses looked to be shroud wrapped and prepared for disposal.

"We kill them all." Marian said as they swept the first room, lightning crackling along her glaive as she drew it.

They moved together easily in violence, they have some practice in this regard. Fenris's lyrium brands blazed as he phased through their enemies and cut them to pieces with his greatsword. Marian's lightning lit up the dark—arcing especially well between foes in the tight corridor and small rooms. Her glaive blade found the hearts of the wicked one after another. The gang fell like wheat before the scythe, they were no match for the fury of them.

The majority of the forces were shades, only ten henchmen were real people in the end and only one other mage. Some of the shades were strong; they had magic and draining abilities. A normal warrior could fall quickly to lesser demons such as these. But they all went up in smoke faced with magic and a lyrium wraith. 

The final room held their prize.

Leech cowered behind a bone altar stained black with sacrificial blood. His pale face was slick with sweat and his glowing magic shield was flickering in and out. He had used every drop of power trying to stop the incursion into the inner sanctum. Didn't look like he had much blood left and a pile of vials was on the floor beside him. Lyrium draughts no doubt. Even summoning weak demons takes a lot of power.

The room was decorated with the tools of the trade—bone knives, ritual circles, jars of various body parts floating in preservative fluid, a dwarf’s body on a table missing a leg. This was an addiction for mages, it was as dark as this. First, it’s dappling in lyrium potion to expand mana pools and then the hunger for power sets in. Demons in the Fade see it like a beacon, a lighthouse of desperation, and these spirits come to visit in dreams. Then the blood letting starts. Soon, they were collecting body parts and killing innocent people for the power of their blood.

“Really, that’s all you have, mage? No last stand of demonic proportion?” Fenris laughed at the elf’s pathetic cowering, still ready for trickery. 

Marian was less jovial. She grasped onto Leech with magic and dragged him out. It was like a great hand grabbed him into the air. Then she slammed him to the ground. Repeatedly. He groaned in pain as he was beaten by the great hand. Spitting what scant blood he had left across the floor as it finally came to an end.

"Please," he gasped as they strolled toward him, barely able to move. "Please, I can pay you. Uhhh…Gold! Lyrium! whatever you want. Let me live!” He wheezed and coughed up more blood. “I have connections—"

Marian's laughter was sharp as a sword to the gut. "How many people did you spare when they begged you?" Electricity crackled around her, anger manifested. "How many times did you show mercy?"

Leech's mouth worked soundlessly, he was gaping like a fish on the shore. She scoffed. “Maybe I’d consider it, if you spared even one person.” Marian put him on his feet, not gently.

Fenris stepped forward, tattoos shimmering blue fire beneath his skin. His hand passed through the blood mage's chest as if it were water, and when he pulled back, Leech's still-beating heart came with it. The mage's eyes went wide with shock before the life faded and his dead body crumpled to the gore-stained floor.

Fenris let the heart fall beside its owner, blue light dimming as he turned to Marian. "Leech, huh? He’s the last I believe."

She nodded, "It’s over. No more Redwater. The templars will have to clean up the leftovers, can’t risk a fire spreading through the low districts." 

Marian searched the lair’s heart for a certain trinket and she found it. Amassed in a large chest was a pile of all sorts of personal effects that had belonged to victims. Collected because they looked like they were worth at least a pittance. Hendrick’s amulet, which held a portrait of his wife, was tangled near the top. It was her grim token to pass on to his widow. Fenris took the gold and left the effects of the dead where they lay.

Marian felt a certain futility. There would always be another comrade falling. Another powerful monstrosity waiting in the shadows. She could not defeat them all.

Fenris seemed to read her thoughts. He came to embrace her, pulling her back against him. He kissed her shoulder and said, "You cannot save everyone, Marian. But you saved many today."

In the blood-soaked warehouse pit surrounded by the corpses of their enemies, it felt like absolution.

Fenris offered his hand to Marian as they rose from the abominable underground, like a gentleman helping a noble lady from a carriage. It made her smile. They walked arm in arm to Lowtown’s main thoroughfare, she leaned her head on his shoulder. City smoke and forge fires mixed with the foundry smog, created a perpetual haze. It turned the sky, that should be the orange of sunset, a sickly green and gray-purple. 

But the streets were alive with locals and refugees alike. Returning home from work or working then hawking Hightown trash and snake oil potions as the sun went down. Marian watched an old elven couple set up a tiny stall selling fish hand-pies—Lowtown’s finest no doubt. This was a peak romantic stroll, if you asked her.

“Was this a successful date?” Fenris did ask.

“I’m not sure. I had fun, you?”

“Definitely.”

“Success then.”

They walk by a group of beggars on a short stair and all fall silent as they pass, clearly disturbed. Some children playing with a street dog stop to stare. Marian’s white robes and brown leather armor are splattered in blood, the intricate nature of it almost artistic. She would dare say fashionable. Not many agree with her. Fenris gore spattered countenance was down right savage, he really didn’t look all too different than usual—by his own estimation.

"Garret and I are planning a trip up the mountain. We need to deliver a message to the Dalish Clan up on Sundermount, it's a three day trip at least." Marain said as they neared her block. "Would you like to come with us?" Fenris considered the idea, thoughtfully. Marian and her brother would surely run into trouble, they were Hawkes, it was inevitable. He would rather not be involved in those shenanigans. But what he says is, "That sounds nice, tell me when and I'm yours." Marian laughed gently and gave his arm a squeeze. He’s accepted his fate seeing no reason to fight it.

Former templar and current destitute beggar, Samon, was writhing in the street in the center of Gamlen’s block. His auburn hair was caked in mud. He wasn’t so much convulsing as vibrating and keeled over. Still a worrying state to behold, Marian called out to him.

“Hey, Samson, you alright there chum?” 

He looked all around like the origin of the voice was a profound mystery. When he finally turned to her, his oily sweat drenched face and blown pupils came into view. The iris was gone, Samson clearly got a hold of some dust. He took in the couple’s gruesome appearance and began to scream in abject horror. As if his nightmares had come alive. He crawled backward through the dirt and grim of the street, shrieking in terror the whole way. 

“Stay back, please! Maker, why? What have I done?” He asked. 

“Oh sorry, Sam,” Marian said, putting her hand up to her mouth, part amused and part guilty. 

Samson peaked out from his hiding place behind a stoop and quickly drew back into the shadow. “Begone! I’m not fit to tangle with the likes of you,” he hollered from the dark, voice shrill and cracking. Fenris sighed, “Leave him to his stupor; he seems fine.”

They stopped at the Hawke’s steps.

“Do you want to have dinner with my family?” Marian asked, out of time and distractions. She hoped it wasn’t too awkward, bringing up the Sundermount trip was just the buffer for this dozey.

“I’d like that, tesoro,” he said. “We’ll have to wash our hands first.”

Marian led the way inside. Carver and Leandra were cutting up vegetables at the cramped table as Garret stirred a bubbling pot over the fire. The hovel smelled of onions and goat. Bethany and Gamlen didn’t appear to be in.

"There she is," Carver said happily as Marian and Fenris stepped through the door. 

"According to the boys, half the city should be on fire or already burned down by now," he continued, standing to bring some sliced carrots to the pot. "They're saying you went absolutely mad and were about to rip Meeran’s head from his shoulders. Then you went to hunt down a blood mage abomination and his gang?"

Leandra rushed over to Marian. "Sweet Maker, are you alright? You're covered in blood!" Her hands fluttered around, not quite touching but clearly wanting to check for injuries.

“I’m fine, Mother, dear.” Marian laughed lightly patting her shoulder in lieu of an embrace, not wanting to dirty her mother’s dress.

Garret looked over from the hearth pot, eyes concerned but amused. "What happened to you? Is it true what Carver said about you quitting the Red Iron and going solo after some cult of murderous blood mages? Aren’t we in enough trouble?"

"That's a comical exaggeration of what actually happened. But, basically, yes. It certainly wasn’t solo."

Fenris stood beside her in the entryway, awkward. He gave a short nod. "Good evening, Hawkes."

“Good evening, Fenris,” Leandra returned along with Garret’s nod and Carver’s grunt.

Marian took Fenris's hand. "Come on."

She led him to the largest room in the hovel—'largest' was a misleading term—that she shared with her mother and Bethany. Behind a worn silk privacy screen sat a large wash basin and pitcher. She filled both with water using elemental magic.

"Sorry," Marian said as Fenris began removing his bloody pauldrons and chestplate, "Carver loves drama almost as much as an elf hates shoes."

"Your family is...well disposed," Fenris said, taking his gauntlets off and setting them aside. "It's been a long time since I've been welcomed for a meal with the family." He said family with an odd inflection. He was not accustomed to anything Hawke adjacent, he could admit that to himself. He hoped they didn’t begin to hate him for his boorish nature.

He washed the blood from his hands and arms…and hair.

"Wait until Bethany gets home. She will probably bombard you with questions about magical theory. She has no tact when she gets curious." Marian said. She was nervous again, worried her overbearing and uncouth family would offend.

Marian changed her bloody clothes and they joined the others around the table. Bethany had arrived and greeted Marian and Fenris merrily. The family settled around with their wooden bowls of goat stew, content with the warmth and comfort of a hearty meal. Carver was the first to break the silence.

"So," he said, tearing off a piece of brown bread to dip in his stew, "word on the street is the Coterie's getting nervous about someone moving in on their territory. Big weapon shipment went missing last week and somebody got thrown in the drink for letting it happen."

"You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would ya?" Marian asked, looking at Garret.

"Oh definitely not," Garret denied with a wink. "But the Coterie's got bigger problems than missing cargo. There's talk in the Alienage that one of them has been trying to recruit elves. Promising them work and then they just disappear. That old story."

"Slavers?" Fenris asked sounding tired and taking a bite of stew.

"That's what I think, that’s what Athenril thinks. City guard won't investigate, of course. They don't care what happens to a few knife-ears, they just take the pay-off." Garret's voice was disgusted. “I’m investigating. As a layman, of course.”

“Tomwise said he saw some well armed men in Darktown yesterday, they had expensive armor too,” Bethany said worriedly not eating her stew any longer.

"The undercity always has its horrors," Marian said. "What about Hightown? Surely they have more refined problems up there?" Marian looked to Fenris hopefully. She wanted to move Beth’s thoughts away from the usual horrors of Kirkwall.

Fenris smiled at that. "Oh, you have no idea. Lady Harriman is convinced her rival is poisoning her roses. She's hired three different investigators. So far. They’re making a killing off her substandard gardening."

"Dying roses?" Carver laughed. "That's the scandal keeping Hightown awake at night?"

“You think it’s a wild goose chase?” Bethany asked, getting invested in the flower mystery immediately.

"Yes and speaking of goose chases, there was the great peacock incident," Fenris said. "Viscount Dumar's wife brought in exotic birds for her garden party. They escaped and terrorized the district for a week. Lord Elegant was trapped on the roof of his own gazebo for twelve hours by an aggressive male. When I say ‘great’ peacock I do mean they’re gigantic, roughly Alfonse’ size." Alfonse, the miniature donkey Marian freed from slavers some months back—Bethany had named him after her favorite character in a novel—was over four hundred pounds.

Leandra couldn't contain her laughter at that. "Truly? They invent such fascinating problems up there. I recall that kind of thing happening often back in the day. No giant peacocks though."

"The best part was the bounty for anyone who could recapture them. Twenty sovereigns per beast."

"Twenty sovereigns?" Carver's eyes lit up. "How many escaped?"

"Six. Don’t get your hopes up. They’ve all been caught by now, I got three. The guard only paid me for one because the third was dead. Ripped to shreds by feral dogs, quite brutal."

"That would have been more than I made in six months with the Red Iron. By a lot" Marian said, in disbelief.

"The apathy of Hightown toward the rest of Kirkwall is extreme. While people in the low districts worry about avoiding blood mages and slavers, they fret over roses and wayward birds."

Lowtown’s own wayward birds had survived another day, but as for tomorrow? Who could say.

Chapter Text

Aggressive pounding on the door shattered the dawn quiet like a nug in a porcelain shop. Garret jolted awake on his cot, his absent arm ached with phantom pain as he sat up quickly, mind immediately racing from the rousing knocks. This was the worst way to wake up.

BANG BANG BANG

The sound would wake the entire household—well, everyone except Gamlen, who could sleep through a dragon attack when he was deep in his cups. Garret stumbled to his feet, running his hand through his disheveled hair and over his beard. He was shocked the flimsy door could handle such a beating.

"Andraste's ass," he muttered, going barefoot to the door. Through the holes in the dilapidated wood, he could make out the distinctive silhouette of plate armor. Not good, he would assume.

He opened the door to reveal Knight-Captain Cullen standing alone on their threshold, his pale red hair catching the first pale rays of dawn. The templar's expression was neutral, professional. His presence alone was enough for Garret's stomach roil, this was the second highest ranking templar in the city.

"Knight-Captain," Garret said, his voice only slightly strained. "Please, come in." What else can I do? Slam the door in his face? He already had a small idea why the officer would be here. He’s honestly impressed at the speed of the investigation, it had been less than a week.

Cullen stepped inside and surveyed the shabby interior. "Thank you. I apologize for the early hour, Mr. Hawke, but I'm investigating a serious incident. A deadly incident in Hightown a few nights ago. A pair of templars and one other were killed in an explosion of arcane lightning."

Garret tried to control his face, school his features into neutrality. Quite the feat.

”Oh, I had heard something about that.”

Behind them, Leandra and Bethany emerged from their shared room. They exchanged a quick glance before they both smoothed their expressions into placid concern, trying to swim with the current crisis.

"Knight-Captain," Leandra said warmly, as if finding a templar in her home at dawn was perfectly natural. "How lovely to see you. Would you care for some tea?"

"Mrs. Hawke, Miss Hawke." Cullen inclined his head respectfully. "It's wonderful to see fellow Fereldans become such assets to the community."

The words were spoken with apparent sincerity, but the underlying message was crystal clear: We're watching. We know who you are and what you do. Garret has never felt anxiety this powerful in his life. 

"You're very kind," Bethany replied, her polite smile perfect. 

Cullen continued. "Thank you, but I must decline the tea. I'm looking for Hawke."

"Which one?" Garret asked . "We're all Hawkes here."

"The one with the Red Iron."

The door banged open in the back of the hovel and Carver stumbled out completely naked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Looking up he says, "What the fuck is there a templar in the house for—"

"CARVER!" Leandra and Bethany shrieked in unison, Bethany shielding her eyes in horror and mortification painting both their faces scarlet.

Garret closed his eyes and pinched his brow, he wondered if the Maker had a sense of humor. "Put some bloody clothes on!" He shouted.

Cullen's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as he took in the sight of Carver’s mabari tattoo, but his expression remained remarkably composed. 

"Not that one either," he said mildly. "I'm looking to speak with Marian Hawke. The Lightning Saint."

Of course the templars knew about that nickname. Of course they'd connected the lightning at the Blooming Rose to Marian. Garret is glad she was quitting the Red Iron but she would have made a lousy smuggler, of that he’s sure.

"She's not home," he said truthfully.

"Where might she be?"

"Probably at work," Leandra interjected smoothly, shooting a murderous glare toward the back room where Carver was finding pants. "Meeran keeps his people busy."

Cullen nodded, apparently satisfied. "Of course. Thank you for your time." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Give her my regards if you see her first."

The door closed behind him with a soft thud that sounded as final as a tomb sealing.

For a long moment, the Hawkes stood in place, barely daring to breathe. Garret sagged against the door frame.

"That could have gone worse,” he said.

"How?" Bethany asked.

“Well, he could come with a whole squad." Garrett said.

From the back room came Carver's muffled voice: "Why did no one mention there was a templar here?"

Leandra sank into the nearest chair and put her head in her arms on the rickety table. "Maker preserve us all."

The morning found Marian and Fenris in the crowded marketplace of Lowtown. They’d spent the night together at the mansion after family dinner. Marian didn’t have to go to work and she decided to spend the day with him. Finally a whole day of relaxation and fun. Absolutely nothing to worry about.

"There," she said, tugging Fenris toward a weathered cart where an elderly dwarf was arranging what looked like actual fresh apples. Unwaxed and everything. Not a brown spot in sight even. 

The fruit vendor looked up as they approached, his eyes taking in Fenris's exotic armor and Marian's well-maintained gear. His expression shifted to cautious optimism, thinking, rightly, they’d have a bit to spend.

"Morning, sera. Fine apples, these. Fresh from the Hinterlands, they are. Only three days from the orchard!"

Marian picked up one of the red fruits, turning it in her palm. The skin was taut and shiny, without the usual dents and soft spots that plagued Lowtown produce. It wasn’t the sour malformed crabapple that one would usually see here. She bit into it experimentally, it was juicy and so sweet!

"Maker's tits," she said through the mouthful, eyes widening. "Fenris, try this."

He accepted the apple with what looked like mild skepticism, but his expression transformed after the first bite. His eyes actually closed for a moment, savoring the taste. "These are perfect."

Marian noted his reaction. She'd never seen him look quite so blissful over food. "How much for all of them?" she asked the dwarf, gesturing at the entire cart.

The vendor's eyebrows shot up. "All of them? That's near three bushels, sera. Thirty silver."

"Deal." Marian counted out the coins without hesitation. The old Dwarf smiled a gummy grin and thanked her profusely. “I could tell you two were of refined taste!”

Fenris looked stunned. "All of them?"

"We'll take one bushel for the trip, and you can have one for your mansion. The third goes to my family." She helped the dwarf separate the apples into three cloth sacks. "When was the last time any of us had proper fruit? Besides, I saw your face—you were practically glowing. Not the mystical glowing, you looked happy!" Marian laughed.

Fenris took two of the sacks and hefted them over his shoulder. "It’s been a long time…” Fenris trailed for a small moment, “thank you."

They made their way toward the steps leading up to Hightown. Marian had made this journey countless times to visit Fenris, though today felt different. More domestic and less clandestine. A delightful change of pace.

"So what exactly constitutes 'the good stuff' in Hightown?" Marian asked as they crested the steps, leaving behind Lowtown's perpetual haze for the cleaner air above.

"Reliable rope that won't snap, dried meat that won't poison you. Blankets that actually keep you warm. The basics, but they’re actually good. Avoid the overpriced and overly ornate things, scams every time."

Marian paused at a weapons vendor's stall, seeing a set of solid looking throwing knives and picking one up to feel the weight. “Well-balanced,” she said. The merchant, a human woman named Marta—the stall was called Marta’s Steelworks—watched her examine the blades with sharp hazel eyes.

"Good eye. These are Dwarven steel. They don’t make them like this anymore, knowledge lost to the Blights a lot time ago."

"How much?"

"Fifteen silver for the set."

“For Garret?” Fenris asked.

“Yes,” she counted out the coins. "We'll take them."

Their next stop was a leather goods vendor, where Fenris found a new waterskin and a coil of climbing rope. Marian found herself drawn to a beautifully crafted leather satchel, perfect for carrying the small supplies.

At the provisions stall, they selected dried meat, hard cheese, and travel bread—food that would keep well on the mountain. The vendor, a portly dark haired man with flour-dusted hands, eyed their growing pile of supplies with interest.

"Long journey ahead?" he asked conversationally with a bit of an Orlesian accent.

"Just a few days in the mountains," Marian replied. "Need to maintain our strength." She paid the man for the food. 

"I think we're ready for anything Sundermount can throw at us," Marian said, as they walked away.

"Except bears," Fenris pointed out. "We're not ready for bears."

"Well, no. But we have great food selection."

"A comfort, I'm sure, when we're being mauled."

Marian smiled. "Your faith in my abilities is touching."

"My faith in your ability to find trouble is absolute."

They began the walk to the mansion to drop off the apples meant for Fenris and the trip. In the afternoon sun, Kirkwall almost looked beautiful. Peaceful. For the moment.

"I can't remember a time I saw you that happy about food," Marian observed as they walked through the half broken iron gate into the ruinous estate. 

“Do you like apples?” She wondered about that, were apples his favorite food? He was quite partial to wine, maybe he liked most fruits. Marian thinks of showing Fenris apple cider, a traditional holiday drink in Ferelden.

"Yes, but it’s not that. It’s hard to explain," Fenris said. "In Tevinter, before...it brings back..." He paused seeming to search for words. "Bonum tempora? That taste, I can remember the taste from before I lost my memories."

Marian felt her heart clench at the rare glimpse into his past. "Well then, I'm glad I bought them all."

"When do we leave?" Fenris asked in the foyer, setting the sacks on the floor by the door.

"In two days, we’ll leave around dawn. Garret wants to get an early start, thinks the first day's climb will be the hardest."

"Of course it is." But there was no real complaint in his voice, just fond resignation. "I suppose I’ll pack light."

"Yup," Marian said. "Bring one bushel of apples, remember."

"How could I forget? I admit, the prospect of fresh fruit for three days makes the climb more appealing."

Marian felt some giddy anticipation. Three days in the mountains with Fenris and Garret and his girlfriend, away from templars and blood mages and all the complications of city life. Just the open air, good company, and great fruit.

It almost sounded like a vacation.

Marian put the travel supplies and the throwing knives in her new leather satchel and started for home. Fenris accompanied her and carried her apples, of course.

The Red Iron’s dockside office reeked of fish, obviously. Cullen finds it near empty. Two people, a dark skinned man of short stature and very thick armed, and a tall heavily scarred man with pale eyes, play cards on an overturned crate in the corner. It is surprisingly empty even for such an early hour. Meeran was hunched over ledgers at a sturdy wooden desk, office door open. 

"Knight-Captain," Meeran said politely as he got up, setting down his quill. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Cullen's expression was stoney. "I'm investigating the incident at the Blooming Rose. Two templars are dead, along with one other, killed in an explosion of lightning." He stood in the doorway of the cramped office, his presence making the space feel claustrophobic. "I understand the Red Iron took a job to... disrupt a meeting between agents of the Carta and supposed agents of the Templar Order." 

"We don’t discuss private contracts, sera." Meeran replied, attempting not to show fear. Templars could smell it like blood in the water.

"A clergywoman hired you to break up what she claimed was corruption in our ranks. But the templars in question had no ties to the Order, just two desperate addicts," Cullen continued. "Someone used you to murder my men and frame a mage for it. They expected the lightning to point us toward an apostate. But a bomb was used instead."

"What?" Meeran said, confusion genuine in his weathered features.

"A device killed them. If a mage had cast magic in that room they would be dead." Cullen's eyes swept the main room. He let his voice carry and said, "Which brings me to my question: why do your people call Marian Hawke the Lightning Saint?"

The mercenaries exchanged a look and Cullen caught the subtle communication passing between them—a brotherhood of soldiers closing rank. He was quite familiar with it himself.

"She's our medic," a card player said, the short one. "Never lost a man under her care. Won't let a comrade die on her watch and she welds a polearm. A glaive with a powerful lightning enchantment."

“Hence the name, a dead man thought it the height of wit.” The other added.

Meeran leaned back in his desk, his expression grim. "Knight-Captain, if you're looking to blame someone for this, blame me. Hawke quit the company because of that job. Said it stank from the start—she was right, apparently. I'm the one who took the coin despite her warnings."

"She quit?" Cullen's eyebrows rose.

"Yesterday morning. Said she knew I was setting her up." Meeran's disquiet was apparent. "The bird shouldn't be blamed for my poor judgment."

"Where is she? I was at her home this morning first, her mother said she should be here."

Meeran shook his head at the mercenaries frowning, trying to be subtle about it.

"Oh sod off ya wank! We think she went after Leech," said the short card player. "Blood mage with a gang who's been picking people off. Killed a man a few days back, one of ours."

"What?" Cullen practically shouted, flabbergasted by this information. "There's a blood mage operating in the city and you didn't alert the Templars?"

"We were going to!" Meeran protested. "Soon as our client paid us for finding the bastard's hideout. Had to eat, Knight-Captain—bounties don't pay themselves."

“That's why we’re the only ones here! We are on strike until we can report that trash!”

"People are already dead! Innocent bystanders and your own men." He turned on his heel to leave. "I'm gathering a force to raid this hideout. Where is it?"

"Warehouse district border, under the old fish cannery, the one with the crab on it," the lanky one called out. "But Knight-Captain if Hawke went after him—"

"Then pray she's still breathing when we get there," Cullen said, striding out the door. "I’m holding you responsible for failing to report a blood mage when you had the chance."

The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.

“I was going to say he’s probably dead already.” Jorik said to the room at large. He laughed, “I actually just saw our girl this morning, she had an absurd amount of apples.”

"You think he bought it?" Kell asked.

Meeran rubbed his face wearily. "About Hawke not being a mage? Probably. About me being an idiot who put profit over safety?" He half groaned and half chuckled. "He didn't need to buy that—we gave it to him for free."

Chapter Text

Knight-Captain Cullen led a squad of ten templars to the abandoned cannery. The first floor was empty and then they descended into the depths of the building. The basement lair reeked of death and dark magic, the stench so foul it had even seasoned templars nauseous. Not a good smelling day for Cullen. Not at all. He stepped through the carnage, his boots squelching on blood-soaked floorboards as he surveyed a massacre.

Every member of the Bloodwater Teeth lay dead—butchered. Bodies sprawled in doorways and crumpled behind overturned tables, their wounds telling the story of fighters who'd been hunted through their own stronghold like vermin. Stab wounds and electrical burns abound, and a fair few cut to pieces.

"Maker's ass," said Keran crassly. He was still acting as Cullen’s second, they stood at the entrance of the inner sanctum. "Who could do this? It must have been an army."

“Well…” Cullen said, stepping into the chamber. The ritual chamber at the heart of the compound, evidence of months—perhaps years—of blood magic lay exposed. Bone altars stained black with sacrifice. Jars of organs. Ritual circles carved into the stone floor and filled with what looked like liquid lyrium mixed with blood. The structure of this sanctum was discovered by Leech, not built, it was too old. Just another dark ritual site in the ancient City of Chains, not at all uncommon. Was this place part of the corruption that took over the mage’s mind? Cullen thought so.

In the center of it all was the mage’s corpse, Leech. The elf was sprawled beside his defiled altar, eyes still wide with shock, a gaping hole where his heart should have been.

"Sir?" Keran prompted, clearly disturbed by the scene.

"A woman," Cullen said, sounding mild, as he approached the mangled corpse in the center of the room. He crouched down beside the blood mage's remains. "The Red Iron claimed one woman came here alone to face this monster." He pointed to the hole in Leech's chest and the bloody organ on the ground. "Someone ripped his heart out."

How was that even possible? Marian Hawke was young, barely twenty by his estimation. Yet the evidence suggested she'd torn through a gang of cutthroats and torturer-mages like a force of nature or a mage. The heart-ripping was particularly disturbing—it spoke of either incredible bestial strength or...another mysterious method? This didn’t look like magic as he knew it.

"This blood mage had been operating under our noses for months," Cullen said, standing. "Look at the number of defiled corpses and the layers of new rites. We failed, Keran. We failed completely." He sighed, “And we better get to work cleansing this place, it will take some effort.”

Hours of clean up and ritual cleansing later. Cullen climbed the great stairs toward Hightown, the walk to the Chantry felt longer than usual, weighted with the knowledge of how thoroughly he'd been blind to the horror festering in this city. But he was intent on having words with the grand cleric about the Rose incident, no matter Meredith’s directive or his own exhaustion. He was truly shocked at the gall of the grand cleric to send the letter she did to the Gallows. 

An investigation isn’t needed, a misguided young cleric took it upon herself to hire a prominent local mercenary company to root out heretical Templars and discover an apostate at the same time. Her heart was in the right place, I trust you understand, Meredith, my child. 

That was it. An anonymous clergywoman hired a mercenary to kill templars and a carta dwarf. And she planned to kill the mercenary too! And this wasn’t worthy of punishment or even for an identity? Cullen asked the Knight-Commander how the Chantry could get away with this and if they should pursue the killer's identity. Meredith said there’s no point, if they learn the cleric's name or not; she was out of their reach. She told him to drop it, the Chantry is basically untouchable. But, he’d decided to continue alone today just to see it through, he'd been forced on the case only two days ago! He didn’t find Marian Hawke…he certainly found something but it only complicated things further.

The sun was nearly set, painting the great stairs in shades of red-gold, when he saw them descending from Hightown into Lowtown as he rose. Two well armed people walking side by side—one unmistakably the woman he'd been seeking all day, the other...

Cullen's steps slowed as he took in Marian Hawke's companion. A strange elf that moved with hunched posture and an air of violence. His tattoos and white hair were distinctive enough, but it was the way he carried himself that set Cullen's nerves on edge—like a beast in an elf mask. The resemblance to the werewolves he'd seen in Ferelden was unsettling. The clawed gauntlets did not help.

Marian herself looked radiant. Her face was bright with joy, a beautiful smile as she spoke animatedly to her companion. “We need to bring some of these to Alphonse, let’s go now!”

“We shouldn’t bother the donkey at work.”

“It’s sundown. They aren’t still working him now are they?”

She looked nothing like someone who'd spent the day wading through blood and dark magic. That wicked looking glaive on her back though…

"Good evening, sera," Cullen called out as the intersect approached.

Marian's expression shifted to diplomatically blank, her smile becoming polite. 

"Greetings, Knight-Captain, have a good night," she said in reply, nodding her head in acknowledgment.

The elf didn't acknowledge him at all. His green eyes simply looked through him with mild disgust. Not overtly hostile, Cullen supposed, but certainly not what anyone would call polite.

They passed by without further conversation, continuing their descent toward Lowtown. Cullen watched them go, his mind already turning over the inevitable confrontation to come. He'd need to question her about the Blooming Rose and about Leech. Two very different matters but both stark examples of his organization’s shortcomings. 

He found himself hoping the spiky elf wouldn't be involved when that conversation finally happened. He did look like someone who could possibly rip a heart out though, his presence definitely explained some of the violence in her wake.

The shabby door of Gamlen's hovel creaked as Marian stepped through, she’d bid Fenris farewell at the stoop with a kiss. They had a great day—much better than work—gathering supplies for the trip. She set the apple sack and her satchel on the table.

"Garret, Bethany," she greeted softly, spotting her siblings sitting around the sooty fireplace. 

"Marian! Are you all right? Are you hurt?" Garret leaped to his feet, quickly going to the doorway, his arm reaching to hug her. 

"Mother! She's back!" Bethany called out, relief flooding her voice.

Marian blinked in confusion, her good mood wavering. "I'm fine. What are you so worried about anyway? I’m not even late." Garret pulled her closer to the fire and Bethany hugged her as well, both her siblings looked awful.

"The Knight-Captain came here this morning," Garret said, running his hand through his beard in a gesture she recognized his barely controlled panic. "He asked to speak with the Lightning Saint and left for Meeran’s office when you weren’t here."

"What? I just saw him on the way home. He barely said two words!" She stopped, this was bad.

"I never should have helped you modify that bomb," Garret muttered, sinking into the only good chair beside the fire. "I knew it would come back to haunt us. Maybe you were right about Val Royeaux, I went to see Aveline today it went…fine. She said the guard barely investigated the explosion, bribed or ordered by some official. Probably both."

Leandra emerged from their room and swept her into a fierce hug. For a moment, Marian relaxed into her mother's embrace—until Leandra pulled back and the relief in her eyes was transformed into blazing anger.

"How could you bring such misfortune on this family?" Leandra's voice cracked with fury and fear. "Templars, Marian! In our home!"

"Mother, please—" Bethany tried to intervene immediately, moving toward them with placating hands raised.

"Don't you 'please' me!" Leandra said, whirling on her younger daughter. "You could be on your way to the Circle right now! The Maker-forsaken Knight-Captain was in our home, looking at you, knowing your name!"

"Mother, that's not our fault—" Garret started. But she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Come on now!" Carver said as he joined the party. He hadn’t been worried, as if Marian would be captured by the templars, that was laughable.

"I don't want to hear it!" Leandra shrieked, her voice rose to near-hysteria. "I've lost everything—my husband, my home, my station—and now my daughter's recklessness will cost me my other children too!" She pointed a shaking finger at Marian. "Get out. Get out of this house before you destroy what little we have left!"

Marian didn’t get the chance to form any sort of rebuttal or even start graveling.

"Now hold on just one bloody minute."

The gravelly voice came from the corner where Gamlen had apparently roused himself from his stupor. He stood unsteadily.

"This is my filthy little Lowtown hovel," he started, his voice gaining strength and irritation. "And I decide who stays here, not you, Leandra."

Leandra looked shocked. "Gamlen, you don't understand—"

"Oh! I understand plenty." He strode forward, indigent. "You need to get off your noble high horse and realize how hard your children are working in these miserable streets to take care of you!” He was really going now, gesturing emphatically with a pointed finger.

“Out there risking their necks with mercenaries and running smuggling jobs with cutthroats! Doing whatever pays coin. While you sit here mourning a life that's gone and won't come back. Pull yourself together and stop blaming others for your shortcomings!"

The Hawke clan was collectively stunned by Gamlan’s defense. Leandra's face went white, then red, then white again.

"I'm sorry," Marian said quickly, taking advantage of the lull in Leandra’s bluster. "Mother, I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I was just trying to—to protect everyone, but I made everything worse instead." She looked around the room at each of her family members. "I'm sorry to all of you. This is my fault. I’ve learned a very valuable lesson today." Marian intoned solemnly, her hands clasped together and head slightly inclined in respectful supplication; way overselling it.

Carver almost laughed at the last bit, but he held it in, this was a serious thing. Garret rolled his eyes involuntarily at Marian over the top apology, how could such a powerful person be so deeply unserious?

Leandra's anger seemed to crumble all at once, leaving her looking fragile and lost. "No, I... Marian, it's not your fault! I'm the one who should apologize. You're just trying to survive in this awful place, and I blamed you again...I’m sorry." She pressed a hand to her mouth, suddenly looking sick. "I need to lie down."

She fled toward her room, leaving them staring after her in the firelight.

"We're not angry with you, templars die everyday, Mari," Bethany said, reaching for Marian's hand and giving it a squeeze. “Please don’t feel bad!”

“Exactly right, I knew you were fine. You’re unstoppable, mother really is too much with that nonsense. You do great things and that means risks.” Carver said as he took a seat at the table. He was wise beyond his years. He was immediately rummaging through the apple sack.

"You can’t always beat the set up." Garret added, though he looked ragged. "Come on, you should eat something. We saved you some food."

"The boys were already crying like babies in your absence. Dom said he'd buy you a pony if you came back in one piece." Carver said with a snorted laugh.

Marian gave a small smile. "A pony? In Lowtown? Where exactly would I keep it? I don’t even have room for a tiny donkey."

"That's what I asked him."

Marian sat down next to Carver—who was already three apples deep—to eat her cold porridge. She looked over at Gamlen, who had settled back into his corner chair with a self satisfied grunt. She had suspected he actually enjoyed having family around despite his constant griping and his intervention just now was proof of that.

"You know what, Gamlen? You are my favorite uncle."

Gamlen snorted. "I'm your only uncle."

"You're still the favorite," Marian said with a smile. 

"And possibly the best one in the Free Marches."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, girl," Gamlen muttered, closing his eyes again.

As she sat with her siblings, Marian considered the Knight-Captain as she’d seen him on the stair. He greeted her and let her walk away. It must not be too bad, he didn’t throw her against the wall, put her in manacles and drag her to the Gallows. That was after he’d visited the family and the Red Iron looking for her, strange but surely calculated in some way. Or maybe he was just tired? 

Chapter Text

The letter had arrived at dawn, bearing the official seal of the Kirkwall Templars. Marian read the formal request for her presence at the Gallows at her earliest convenience, followed by a polite thank-you note for addressing a ‘problem’ that had long plagued the city.

Now, walking the path toward the fortress that loomed over Kirkwall's harbor like a stone vulture, Marian was joined by the two men she trusted most in the world—though she wasn't entirely sure bringing them had been wise even if they were involved. But they’d definitely help her fight her way out if need be.

"Remind me again why an apostate like my lady love is voluntarily walking into the templars' stronghold?" Fenris was tense. His eyes swept over the grotesque statuary that lined their path—slaves in chains and magisters in triumph, suffering preserved for eternity, it was sick. "And why do Andrastians feel the need to surround themselves with monuments to the ancient Imperium?"

"The statues are supposed to be cautionary or some such nonsense," Garret said, his hand unconsciously touching the hilt of his concealed dagger from muscle memory. "The true intended effect is closer to the original purpose, I believe; breaking the spirits of the imprisoned."

Marian appraised the carved figures, their faces twisted in silent agony. She hadn’t spent a lot of time here. "It's like they want visitors to feel afraid before they even reach the gates."

"As they should feel," Fenris said. "So explain to me again what this summons is about? Is this about the blood mage?"

Marian sighed, lowering her voice as they approached the outer courtyard where other visitors and petitioners milled about. "There was a job for the Red Iron. Garret helped me craft a lightning bomb. We used it to kill some templars. Accidentally I...didn’t intend to kill them."

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Garret added quickly, seeing Fenris's eyebrows climb higher and higher. "The Chantry ordered the hit."

Fenris stares at them both with an expression of profound disbelief. "Can you hear yourselves right now? Because that sounds fucking crazy."

"Welcome to Kirkwall," Marian said with humor. "Where clergy kill their own templars while blood mages rule the street."

They reached the main courtyard, where a templar stood watch near the entrance. His graying red hair and lined face suggested experience, his posture was more relaxed than the rigid stance Marian had come to expect from templars.

"Excuse me, ser," Marian approached, exuding politeness. "I have an appointment with Knight-Captain Cullen. I'm Marian Hawke."

The templar's eyes shown with interest. "Ah, Hawke, you must be the bird I've heard so much about." His gaze swept over her appraisingly, and she caught a hint of amusement in his weathered features. "You're much cuter than I imagined, based on all the carnage."

Heat flooded Marian's cheeks. "I... thank you?"

"Ser Thrask," the templar introduced himself with a smile. "I'll retrieve the Knight-Captain for you. Please wait here."

As Thrask disappeared into the fortress, the three companions found themselves standing in the shadow of the Gallows' tower. The weight of the place seemed to press down on them like a physical thing.

"It's like a prison," Garret observed, his voice subdued as he gazed up at the high walls and the narrow windows. The general atmosphere of confinement was intense.

"That's because it is," Fenris replied flatly. "A prison for mages, built on the bones of slaves. The irony would be poetic if it weren't so revolting."

Marian frowned, studying the imposing structure. "Circles aren't usually so... overtly prison-like. The tower in Ferelden had a library that was open to the public. Mages could leave as long as they got permission and came back by curfew." She shook her head. "This feels different. Much worse in fact."

"Kirkwall's Circle has always been harsher, Father spoke about it a little, this could turn anyone apostate." Garret said.

"Well, stories we've heard since arriving... the Right of Annulment gets invoked here more often than anywhere else in the Free Marches."

Fenris's expression twisted up. "And yet here you are, willingly walking into their stronghold. If they suspect you..."

"They don't," Marian said with more confidence than she felt. "The Red Iron covered for me no doubt and a mage would never use an arcane bomb when magic would suffice. Besides, if I didn’t show up they’d be back at Gamlen’s door."

"Using a bomb, that still makes you guilty," Fenris pointed out.

"Details," Marian muttered, then straightened as she saw a familiar figure in plate armor approaching across the courtyard. "Here he comes."

Knight-Captain Cullen approached, "Miss Hawke. Gentlemen. Follow me."

The interior of the Gallows was even more oppressive than its exterior suggested. Dark, narrow hallways stretched on, lit by flickering magical lanterns that cast dancing shadows on stone walls. Marian couldn't help but notice the massive locks on many of the doors they passed, each one a reminder of what this place truly was.

Cullen's office was a stark contrast to the fortress's grim corridors, it had a much warmer atmosphere. A stone fireplace crackled in one corner, casting orange light across a substantial stone desk covered with neat stacks of parchment. Maps of Kirkwall and the Free Marches adorned the walls, marked with various pins and notations. A size accurate and life-like mabari statue stood beside the doorway.

Cullen moved to stand before the fireplace, his posture straight and formal, hands clasped behind him. He turned toward them and asked them to sit. When he spoke his attention was directed to Marian.

"Marian Hawke," he began, his voice calm. "I know you took a job from a clergywomen to break up an elicit meeting between templars and a criminal. I know you built the device that killed these three men in the Blooming Rose." He paused, letting the words sink in a moment, these are facts he knows to be true.

"I didn't—" Marian started, but he cut her off with a raised hand.

"My investigation found a runic circle burned into the floor. Lyrium dust, precisely placed to amplify magical effects." His voice began to rise, losing some professional composure. "The Sister expected a mage to cast a spell in that room. She wanted them to die alongside the targets. You were meant to be a weapon that destroyed itself." Garret filed that bit of information away, the mystery of the malfunctioning bomb was solved before he even got a chance to ask Aveline about getting into the scene to investigate. He was mildly disappointed.

Marian was horrified as her suspicions were confirmed, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I didn't want—"

"You didn't want what?" Cullen said sharply. "You built a bomb and walked it into a room full of people! What did you think would happen?" He slammed his metal plated palm on the desk loudly. "One of those templars was nineteen years old! Barely older than your younger brother!"

"You're right," she said, her voice ashamed. "I should have walked away the moment I met that mad woman. I should have refused the job entirely."

"Why didn’t you?" Cullen asked. "You took Chantry gold to commit murder."

She looked at him unwilling to be cowed, but her eyes were bright with tears.

"No, I built that device to be non-lethal, Knight-Captain. I calculated every component. It should have been nothing more than a lightshow. I was set up."

"You didn’t plan for everything." Cullen continued harshly. “To use a weapon like that…it’s as dangerous as magic.”

Beside her, Fenris was feeling quite upset. The sight of Marian being forced to submit to this verbal lashing was testing every ounce of his patience. She was under contract and set up for Maker’s sake! Only Garret catching his attention and giving a subtle shake of the head kept the elf from lashing out. She could handle this, Garret knew.

"I didn’t plan for everything," she agreed. "And three people are dead because I was arrogant enough to think I could outsmart a schemer on their own turf. I just didn’t want them to send in another fool if I refused!" 

Her voice broke slightly asking, "That young templar you mentioned—what’s his name?"

Cullen was caught off-guard by the question. "Marus Vlen," he told her.

"Marus Vlen," Marian repeated. "I'll remember that."

Some of the fire went out of Cullen then, replaced by weariness. He sank down into his chair. "Remembering doesn't bring them back."

"No," Marian agreed. "But that's all I can do now. That and make sure nothing like this happens again. Fuck Chantry politics, excuse my language. Please tell me you arrested the wench that set this up?”

Cullen wiped a hand down his face and shook his head no, “I don’t think justice will be served here, Hawke. I’m not even supposed to be continuing this case. I just wanted some answer to all this.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Finally, Cullen spoke again

"The device you built—it was sophisticated. Arcane components integrated with alchemical triggers. I can admit it's an amazing device, elemental bombs are usually expensive and rare."

"Garret helped me build it," Marian said. "We worked off some blueprints I found in the back of the Red Iron's armory. Very old, Dwarven origin, of course."

Garret nodded in agreement. "No one else would touch them. They were sure it would be too dangerous to build. Which, well…”  

"The ingredients we used are like dangerous trash all around Kirkwall, really, no one understands the value," Marian said. "Fade-touched crystal shards that are plentiful. Most people avoid them, but they're perfect."

“But really we’re just riding the wings of the dwarven artificers. We’re not such amazing innovators or anything like that." Garrett said

Cullen nodded as they explained the device in rough detail, writing it down in his notes.

“Knight-Captain can you explain this runic circle, this wasn’t a sigil then it was made of lyrium? What did the runes do, an amplifier for lightning?” Garret asked. 

Cullen explained that it was made of lyrium dust and based on the symbols it was meant to amplify lightning by an absurd 10 times. That was disturbing, if the bomb had been made according to the original blueprint the entire building could have been destroyed. 

Now that would have been an international incident. As in Exalted March level shit.

Garret voices his concerns, “Captain, you should burn those notes of yours, on the device, on the whole sordid affair. This knowledge about arcane bombs and rune enhancement isn’t known or it’s not common at all if it is and it won’t be used for any good. As I’m sure you’re well aware. Your superior was right about this being fruitless. It is actually dangerous.”

Cullen set down the quill and folded his hands, he looked at Garret considering for a moment. He must have found what he was looking for, because he gathered all the notes that he just wrote and threw them in the fire. He watched the parchment burn and is looking for a way to broach the next topic. This was another matter entirely. He turned back to the three and addressed Marian once again.

"Now, I have to ask about something else…About what happened with the blood mage. Why did you and I assume—" he gestured to Fenris "— your companion here, take it upon yourselves to eliminate the entire Redwater Teeth?"

Garret looked ready to hear this tale himself, one of his own runners mentioned the docks being extra dangerous lately because of that lot.

Marian's expression was somber as she told the Knight-captain the truth. "I felt responsible for my comrade's death. When I learned about a job to track down the gang’s lair, I asked Meeran to let me go with the others. He refused.” 

She shook her head and closed her eyes briefly. 

“Instead, he brought me to the Chantry to meet Sister Petrice, that’s her name if the Grand Cleric doesn’t want you to know I don't care. It was my choice really, I can’t blame Meeran for most of this.” 

“When I learned what happened to Hendrick and that a blood mage was responsible. I quit the Red Iron right then. But I told the boys not to worry about the Bloodwater anymore. I needed to fix my mistake, Knight-Captain."

Cullen listened, his face completely unreadable as she spoke.

"Fenris here has a special interest in stopping evil blood mage cultists, you might say, so he kindly assisted me."

Cullen closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, pausing for a long moment. When he opened them again, his demeanor had shifted—he looked younger in his weariness.

"Maker forgive me," he said, voice thick with self-recrimination. "I owe you an apology—specifically for the blood mage that myself and my templars were too incompetent to even detect."

His hand found his temple, metal fingers pressing for a moment, trying to hold it together. "I came here from Ferelden a year ago. It was..." He paused to wrestle with words. "Let's just say it wasn't a good time for me. But this disaster of a Circle, this bleeding wound of a city—it gave me something to focus on besides my own pains."

He grew more professional again. "They brought me here for my experience with blood mage mental domination. But trying to root out every apostate in Kirkwall is like trying to hold back the tide with a spoon."

"I'm grateful you two stopped those monsters, but please—never do that again. It is not your responsibility to hunt down blood mages. Report it to the Gallows."

When Fenris replies his voice is…friendly, though his face is not. "I will kill any blood mage—or anyone that crosses me, for that matter—anytime I’m so inclined. I'll be sure to tell you when I kill any templars in the future though, since they’re yours. You can put it in a spreadsheet for me."

Cullen's mouth popped open in shock. He recovered composure quickly and simply moved on as if Fenris hadn't spoken, turning his attention to Garret. "Please. Help your sister understand that heroics will get her killed in this city." Garret shrugged and held his arm up in what can you do gesture.

Taking his seat again with a defeated sigh, he says, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Hawke, and your brother, and your...beastly elf. Now please, kindly, kindly get the fuck out of my office."

Marian practically levitated from her chair. 

"Absolutely! Thank you so much for not arresting me!" The words tumbled out as she backed toward the door with unseemly haste. Moving with the frantic energy of a humming bird. "The pleasure was all mine!" she called over her shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.

Fenris followed lazily, pausing to pick up Cullen's water cup from the desk and drain it completely. "Have a great day," he said pleasantly, setting the empty cup back down with a big smile.

Garret lingered at the threshold just long enough to give a curt nod. "Thank you, if you need to reach me just ask for Hawke."

After they were gone, Cullen slumped back in his chair and then returned to his pile of paperwork, muttering under his breath about birds and werewolves.

Chapter Text

The fresh light of dawn made Kirkwall a gold hued beige as our humble heroes gathered outside Gamlen's hovel. Marian had her new satchel of supplies and glaive slung at her back. Flemeth's amulet was around her neck as usual. She’d taken to wearing it most days, it made her feel more powerful—it may actually do that—but it was time to return it. Garret stood beside her with his own travel gear, looking more alert than usual for this early hour, he wasn’t much of a morning person. Fenris arrived moments after they stepped outside, his greatsword across his back and bag of apples in hand. He was a morning person but it didn't make him too cheerful regardless.

“Morning,” he said to the Hawkes and started handing out apples for them to put in their packs.

“Good morning, thank you!” Marian said. Garret gave an, “Uh,” and put eight apples in his bag.

Athenril shows last—she dressed for mountain trails and looking fresh eyed. She appraised the group as she approached. She was nervous returning to the People with a human lover, she wouldn't normally agree to this but… Garret wanted her to come. 

No one was like Garret Hawke and Athenril felt overwhelmed by her attachment to the gold hearted rogue. She worried she would do anything he asked of her.

"Ready for a pleasant stroll in the countryside?" Garret asked.

"Pleasant mountain climb more like, I am looking forward to it in all honesty." Athenril said, smile in her dry tone. She'd dressed practically for the journey—worn brown leather armor and sturdy boots that she hated having to wear. Her long dark hair was bound back, three loose braids in a looped knot, a simplified Dalish style she favored.

“Athenril, this is my sister Marian and her boyfriend Fenris, I’m sure a measure of their reputation precedes them.”

“The Lightning Saint, yes I’ve heard of her, uh I don’t recognize the…elf.” Is that an elf?

“Good,” Fenris said with a short chuckle.

“It’s all lies! Everything you've heard. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, Athenril. Garret has kept all your, I assume numerous, smuggler secrets to himself.” Marian said, giving her a little bow.

“The pleasure is mine,” Athenril nodded to them respectfully.

They made their way through Lowtown's waking streets toward the small Western road gate. The stables were beside it and they were coming alive with the sounds of morning bustle, the workers preparing for the day's labor. Alphonse stood in his stall and his ears perked forward at their approach.

"There's my boy," Marian said, grabbing another apple from the sack. The donkey took it delicately from her palm, his soft muzzle tickling her hand, he had great manners; four hundred pounds of red-furred regal grace. He was a local fixture now and highly valued in the community—hauling fish carts and mine carts for his keep. Beloved by all.

“This is Marian’s son, Alphonse,” Garret joked, coming up to the gentle sorrel beast and offered his own apple. "Looking prosperous, my friend. Honest work suits you."

Athenril stepped closer, her expression soft. "Aneth ara, little one." She ran her hand down Alphonse's neck, then surprised them all by wrapping her arms around the donkey in a full embrace. Alphonse accepted this with the dignity of royalty, rubbing his head against Athenril and snuffling.

Fenris caught Garret's eye, both men sharing a look of amusement as the women continued fawning over the donkey. 

“Women love this donkey,” Fenris said, shaking his head.

“Seems like it.” Garret smiled. He also loved this donkey. It was nice seeing Athenril be so unguarded.

"He's perfect," Athenril declared, giving Alphonse a final pat. "Better company than most people in this cursed city."

“You have me there,” Fenris admitted.

"Most people don't have such magnificent ears," Marian agreed solemnly, giving the massive silken things one more stroke.

They left through the gate, Kirkwall's oppressive walls falling away behind them as the sun climbed higher. The Wounded Coast was a harsh landscape of rock and scrub brush, where the Waking Sea's salt spray killed anything delicate. The hardy sea grasses that survived here bent in the constant wind. The coastal pines grew twisted, their branches reaching inland trying to escape the ocean's assault, looking more like brambles than proper trees.

"I'd forgotten what clean air smells like," Garret said, breathing deep. "No forge smoke, no rotting fish, no—"

"Despair?" Marian offered.

"I was going to say sewage, but yours works too."

The path followed the coastline before turning inland toward Sundermount's steeper incline. The soil changed gradually from sandy earth to more rocky and darker. Volcanic stone mixed with iron-rich red dirt. The plant life started to become more full and green, even in this harsh soil.

"Your father really traded with the Dalish?" Athenril asked, directing the question at both twins. Trading with humans was very frowned upon—if not outright forbidden—in the clan she grew up with. It did happen on occasion, but only out of absolute necessity.

"Quite often," Marian said. "He was always looking for magical supplies and artifacts. The Dalish had access to things the Circle and Chantry would never touch."

"He respected their knowledge," Garret said. "Treated them as equals, which apparently wasn't common. Some of my earliest memories are of Dalish mages visiting our home. Mother would make tea and Father would disappear into his study with them, talking for hours and trading for staves, amulets, magic tools and all that mystical stuff. Trading with humans is pretty much a necessity for Dalish clans but making true friends? That is unusual, I'm aware. He was a real personable guy! Malcom Hawke, our dear old dad."

"They were willing to deal with a human mage living among the shemlen?" Athenril sounded surprised.

"They were willing to deal with him; I'm sure he went on some whimsical and dangerous quest for a Clan or two. He showed the proper respect and paid fair. And we, uh, didn't exactly live in town." Marian said. "I remember a Keeper or maybe they were the First—I was about five at the time—who refused to let Father buy a particular amulet. She said it was too dangerous for anyone outside the People to possess. He just thanked her for her wisdom and bought something else instead."

"That's more respect than most humans show." Athenril said.

Fenris offered his own thoughts, "I encountered Dalish clans a few times, once during my enslavement and then again after my escape. They were...not welcoming either time."

"Can you blame them?" Athenril's voice had a little edge.

"No," Fenris said simply. "I was the enemy and then a liability. They don’t avoid utter annihilation by being friendly to Tevinter living weapons, autonomous or not."

"That's not fair," Marian said, furrowing her brow, but Fenris shook his head.

"They benefit from their insular nature. I wouldn’t argue their logic. Hopefully it’s different this time." He said with a crooked little smile.

Garret pulled one of his new throwing knives from its sheath at his belt. The blade was perfectly weighted and they felt just right in the hand. He’d been practicing for a few days and his accuracy had increased already.

"These are nice knives, have a real good balance," he said. "Watch this." He spotted a gnarled tree trunk about thirty feet away and let the knife fly. It sank into the wood with a satisfying thunk, dead center of a natural knot he'd been aiming for.

"Not bad for a gentleman thief," Athenril said, with a big smile, the real deal.

"I practiced all day yesterday, I’m getting the hang of it!" Garret retrieved the knife.

They climbed higher with the sun. The coastal pines gave way to less twisted oaks and dense thickets of thorny bushes. Thick patches of elfroot grew in the shadier spots—Garret made note of their locations for Bethany, who was always after more herbs for work.

Marian stayed close to Fenris, their hands together as they walked the narrow path. Athenril noticed; the Hawkes liked their elves it seemed. Though this Fenris character was pretty unusual, from the outside he looked more animal than elf, too large and brutal. Like a magical beast of some kind. But he spoke very erudite for having that look. Athenril was assessing, filing away information; she had heard about the Lightning Saint, savior of dog lord mercenaries. Marian wasn’t what she expected but she was like her brother. Different.

They were passing an outcropping of dark basaltic rock and an entrance to a cave system barely visible in the mountainside.

A fade-touched spider emerged from the shadows—a massive thing the size of a mabari, its multiple eyes glinting in the darkness of the crevice. Then two more, and another behind them.

Marian's scream was immediate and visceral. "Maker's balls, gross!"

But even as she shrieked, she was drawing her glaive. Lightning crackled along it to the blade as the wood met her palm. Garret threw two knives in rapid succession—both finding a spider’s eye, the creatures convulsed and collapsed.

"Two down!" Garret cheered, drawing another knife.

Marian cast chain lightning, it arced between the remaining spiders, their bodies jerking and smoking as electricity coursed through them. She hit them again for good measure, her face twisted in disgust and terror even as she fried every last one.

Fenris had his sword in hand but the fight was over before he could close the distance. He sheathed it and went to Marian's side as she stood there blade still crackling with electrical energy.

"You did well," he said, pulling her into a hug, “It’s all right now they’re dead”. His lips twitched with barely suppressed laughter. "You were very fierce. Those spiders never stood a chance."

"Shut up," Marian muttered against his chest. "They're disgusting. All those legs and the eyes." She shuddered.

"You're one of the most powerful mages in, I don’t even know, anywhere? " Fenris said. "You face demons without flinching. I've seen you slice a man’s head clean off and turn someone to ash in a second! But spiders, big stupid bugs? You have no reason to fear."

"Who's scared?! I killed them didn’t I? They're just wrong. Look at those horrid legs. So unnatural."

"They're actually quite natural," Garret said, retrieving his knives from the spider's curled carcasses. "These are Sundermount natives. We're in their territory."

"I don't care. I hate them. And I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be giant, brother.”

Garret shrugged at that, “Can we really say if they were meant to be giant? That’s an existential question.”

Athenril watched this exchange—was this really the Lightning Saint, terror of Kirkwall's gangs? It was deeply funny. She was definitely a Hawke.

They continued climbing, leaving the spider corpses for the mountain scavengers. The air grew thinner and cooler. By midday they could see Kirkwall behind them, the city looking small against the murky blue of the Waking Sea and the black of the cliffs.

"I never get tired of this view," Athenril said to Marian as they stood beside each other. They'd all stopped for water and a brief rest on a rocky outcrop. "Up here, you can almost forget what that place really is."

"The City of Chains, still ugly from a distance but less so." Marian said.

"Yeah, among other names." Athenril took a long drink from her waterskin. "My sister and I arrived there fifteen years ago. We thought...well, it doesn't matter what we thought. We were stupid and desperate. No other options at all."

"She was a mage, she still is." Athenril added after a pause.

"She turned herself in to the templars after a year living in the city. She said it was better than living in fear in the Alienage and far better than becoming an abomination. She thought they'd protect her." Athenril laughed bitterly. "Maybe they are. I don't know. They won't let me see her. They won't even tell me which Circle she's in."

Marian felt a chill down her back thinking about Bethany being locked away and not knowing if she was alive or dead, "I'm sorry, Athenril, that’s horrid."

"Don't be. You didn't write the laws. You shouldn’t have to be there. But you are a mage walking free in Kirkwall. That's either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."

"Well, it’s certainly both," Marian admitted. "My father was an apostate and he taught us to hide and be careful. Kirkwall was my only option. No one comes to our humble city out of desire it seems. I can't live in a cage and Beth will be free as long as I live, at least."

"Good," Athenril said fiercely, meeting her eye. "The Circles are a slow death over a fast one. At least out here you have a chance." She wishes her sister had been different like the Hawkes.

The party reached the Dalish camp in the late afternoon. It sat in a natural bowl on the mountainside, protected from the worst winds, with a clear spring bubbling up from the volcanic rock. They could see a waterfall leading to the spring from up the mountain. Aravels—the elves homes, wagons with intricate roofs; decorative peaks, finials, and carved wooden ornaments along the roof ridges—formed a loose circle around their great halla herd grazing on the mountain grasses. The grass was lush and far softer up the mountain slope than on the coast. Elves moved about their business, several stopping to watch the approaching group with wary eyes.

An elder stood at the camp's edge, clearly expecting them. Her very complex Vallaslin face tattoo marked her as Keeper, the patterns telling stories Marian couldn't read. She only recognized a few of the Elven gods’ symbols. She knew Mythal and few others.

"Aneth ara," Athenril said. "We seek words with the Keeper Marethari."

"Then ye have found her," the elder said, her eyes moving over each of them in turn. 

"Greetings, I’m Marian Hawke, this is my brother Garret and we bring a message," Marian said. She held Flemeth's amulet up from her neck. "From the uh, Witch of the Wilds, of the Brecilian forest?"

"Ay, I’ve been expecting ye for a week now. Ye had best come along. This will require some tea, I think. And a longer conversation." Marethari pointed toward the largest aravel. 

As they followed her the mountain wind whispered through the camp, carrying something old—the deep magic that lived in Sundermount's volcanic bones was on the air. The feeling made Fenris frown and Marian felt it too, the veil was sundering around the mountain. Appropriate given the name.

Marethari's aravel smelled of herbs and old magic; it had lovely historical scenes painted on the walls and so many cushions. The Keeper served them tea in clay cups, her weathered hands steady as she poured. Fenris stayed outside. It had made him feel claustrophobic.

"The amulet must go to the summit," Marethari explained, her brogue thick as mountain fog. "There's an altar there, old as the Dales themselves. Older, maybe. Place it there and ye'll have done what Asha'bellanar asked of ye."

"Just place it on an altar?" Marian asked. "That seems…simple." Her skepticism was obvious.

"Simple and easy are different things." Marethari's eyes were grave. "The veil is thin up the mountain, very thin as of late in fact, that’s why I was expecting ye. Spirits are roaming and demons too. I've forbidden my people from venturin' too far from camp, but..." She trailed off, her expression troubled.

"But?" Garret prompted.

"My First, Merrill. She goes up there often for her research. Against my wishes." The Keeper's voice was worry and frustration in equal measure. "Ye'll likely find her on the path. She can guide ye the rest of the way."

"What kind of research would that be?" Garret asked.

"The kind that concerns a Keeper greatly. I'll say no more on it."

The vagueness was clearly intentional. Marian exchanged a quick glance with Garret—both thinking of the dreams, the naked elf.

"Ye'r welcome to trade and speak with the clan as you go about yer business," Marethari continued, "but don't expect a warm welcome from all. These are hard times, and trust doesn't come easy to the People."

"We understand," Athenril said. It was the first time she'd spoken since entering the aravel. Being under a Keeper’s gaze was like it always was. So comforting; how was that? It shouldn't be.

Marethari's gaze softened slightly as she looked at the smuggler. "Do ye, da'len? Ye've been too long in the city. Long enough to forget some things, perhaps. But not long enough to stop bein' one of us, no matter what anyone says."

Athenril just nodded. It was cold comfort, she had been disowned for over a decade. By her own choice technically. There wasn’t a choice at all. What was she supposed to do? Abandon the last of her family, her little sister, to the elements and the humans? Her people had taught her loyalty and pride. There was no choice. The Keepers just sit in their arrogant wisdom and apathy.

“Well, thank you for your time and assistance, Keeper,” Garret said as they all moved to leave the aravel. 

Marethari looked at them for a long moment as they stood just outside and said, “I knew yer father, this clan was once a different one before I became Keeper and I was in the Brecilian Forest for many years of my youth. He was good for a shemlan, a good man and an amazing mage. The last time I saw him, his wife had just given birth to their second set of twins. He was holding them, one in each arm and the two older ones were hanging onto his neck. Demanding attention and strangling the life out of him. That’d be ye two, ay?”

Garret grinned and Marian laughed. “Yes, that would be us.”

“Ir abelas, da’lan. My condolences on his passing, I heard about it a long time ago. I recall his smile when he had all his children around him. He chose a good life.” Both Hawkes thanked her with a short bow, “Ma serannas.” It almost sounded right.

As they stepped away from Marethari's aravel, the twins spoke to each other in a furtive tone, "The First is our dream girl, don’t you think?" Garret said.

"Seems likely," Marian agreed. "We'll find out tomorrow when we see her on the mountain."

"I wonder if that research is why she was dreamwalking on us. She called me a spirit. That is curious."

"That is weird. We'll ask her about it." Marian looked toward the camp. "Let's check out what they have for supplies first, then we can scout the lower path. See how bad it is down here before we commit to climbing higher."

"Sounds good. Let’s meet back here in a bit?"

"Yes."

They ventured into the camp proper. The aravels formed a loose circle, their painted sides telling stories in images and ancient script; scenes from Dalish myth—the fall of Arlathan and life in the Dales, halla running through ancient forests. The paint had faded with age and travel, giving everything a dreamlike quality and most had ornate tapestries draped over the doors. Halla grazed peacefully within the circle, their great antlers looking stark white. Children played near the spring while adults went about their work—tanning hides, fletching arrows, preparing food over small fires, the necessary work of late day.

Some elves greeted Athenril in Elvhen with warm voices; clear recognition of one of the People. She responded somewhat haltingly, she worried her city accent would mangle some words. One older woman clasped her hand and spoke rapidly, smiling despite Athenril's obvious discomfort with the attention. Garret didn’t understand a word of it, it was way too fast for his ear, even if he understood more than three words every twenty.

“What did she say?” Garret asked when the woman was out of earshot. 

“Um, she asked if you were for sale.” Athenril said, her cheeks a little pink. Garret laughed heartily hearing that. Some elves gave them a wide berth, their faces set hard with suspicion. A few looked like they wanted to spit. Garret attempted an Elvhen greeting to some folks that appeared friendly. It was one he'd learned from his father years ago—a phrase of respect for entering another's home. His pronunciation wasn’t terrible and the effort earned him a few approving nods from those who'd been speaking kindly to his lover. One elf, however, made a disgusted sound and turned his back pointedly at Garret’s hello.

"You're doing fine," Athenril murmured to Garret and held his hand boldly. She felt proud of him.

Marian found the master craftsman working at a table covered in partially finished jewelry and amulets. The ornaments on the roof of his aravel were incredible, there was a huge set of halla horns made of white wood, carved into so many delicate branches. And on the opposite side a large wolf’s head was carved in dark wood, ebony black. His hands moved with the precision of decades of practice as he set a small gem into silver filigree without any kind of magnifying glass.

"Aneth ara," Marian said respectfully. "Your work is beautiful."

He looked up, his vallaslin marking him as one devoted to June, the god of crafts, she knew that one. "Ilen, master craftsman,” he introduced himself, “ye have an eye for quality, mage. These are not trinkets for humans to collect and forget in dusty boxes."

"I’m Hawke and I'm not looking for any trinkets," Marian said. "I need a proper amulet. One with a real purpose. And power."

That got his attention. He studied her. "What purpose?"

"Enhancement of magic, if possible. I'm giving up an old amulet soon and I'd like a replacement."

Ilen gestured to his table. "These ain’t cheap, shem."

"I wouldn't expect them to be, being lovely as they are."

"Tell ye what," Ilen said, leaning back in his chair. "There's a tree further up the mountain—Vallasdahlen, we call it. Sacred grove. Its bark has powerful properties when properly prepared. Bring me three good pieces of bark, and ye can have any amulet ye fancy."

Marian tried to repeat the word. "Val...vallas..."

"Vallasdahlen," Fenris said smoothly, the Elvhen rolling off his tongue with perfect inflection.

Marian's face went red. "Right. That."

Ilen's eyebrows rose as he regarded Fenris. "That was well spoken, for a lost son."

"Most languages come to me easily," Fenris said. "Not just the elf tongue." There was a shrug in his tone. A gentle rejection of elf-ness.

"He's amazing!" Marian said, then seemed to realize how enthusiastic she sounded and blushed harder. “We’ll get the bark for you no problem, we're already going up there anyway, so it's no trouble."

Ilen's stern face had cracked into a small smile. "Bring me the bark and the amulet is yers.”

"Thank you," Marian said, practically glowing with excitement as she examined the amulets again.

They reconvened near the edge of camp as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. The plan was to rest with the Dalish for the night, then head up at first light. But first, they decided to explore the immediate area and scout the beginning of the upper path.

Just beyond the camp's informal boundary, they found a patch of the healing herbs Athenril recognized—delicate purple flowers with silvery leaves.

"Bethany would kill for these," Garret said, harvesting several stems. "They'll be twice as lush as what she usually gets in Lowtown."

"Hey, look over there," Fenris pointed to a grove of trees with distinctive white bark marked with natural spiraling patterns. "That must be the Vallasdahlen."

"Wow, it's beautiful and so close, watch out for demons I guess." Marian said, as she started walking over.

The grove was peaceful and empty save for some wildlife. Athenril murmured a prayer in Elvhen before Marian began carefully stripped three good pieces of bark from a tree that had loose sections. The wood was flexible and hard to break.

“Did you thank the tree?” Marian was genuinely curious, she knew the words as something like, 'thanks to a friend'. Trees are elves, her father used to say. She wasn’t sure why he said that, it’s a Dalish saying was all Malcolm told her.

Athenril smiled. “You know that phrase then? Yes, I was thanking the tree’s spirit and the gods for the gift.” 

"Spirit huh? They are definitely magical," Marian said, holding the white tree bark. "I can feel it."

They were heading back toward camp, packs full of herbs and the bark, when three Dalish stepped into their path.

Two men and a woman, all young—early twenties at most. The leader stood in front, his vallaslin fresh enough that the edges were still sharp and dark. His stance radiated barely contained aggression.

"Well, well," he said, his brogue thick and full of contempt. "What do we have here? Some flat-ears whorin' themselves to shemlen?"

The woman beside him—one of his followers—looked uncomfortable but said nothing. The other man kept stone-faced, he had a good face for a goon.

"We're just passing through," Garret said, trying to sound good natured.

"Passin' through?" The leader spat. "That one," he jabbed a finger at Athenril, she almost flinched. Fuck, this was what she was worried about, some punk trying to get a rise of them and having a fight with the People on her conscience. "She's one of the People. Should know better than to spread her legs for a shem. And ye—" his attention shifted to Fenris, "—at least have the decency to look ashamed of it. Being some mage wench’s bitch."

"Calm down, pup," Fenris said flatly. "Enough playing at being dangerous, keep your nose out of my business and step aside. We’re busy."

The leader's face flushed with anger and Marian laughed at him.

"Oh, they are pretty adorable," she said. "It’s like watching puppies growl. They even braved the mountain and passed the Keeper’s boundary. Just so we’d notice them."

"Truly precious," Fenris agreed, his smile looking vicious. The leader's expression stuttered momently, he leaned back and away. Fenris clearly frightened them and mocking indifference was harder to work with than fear or anger. That redirected the leader's fury to the party at large.

“Ye think it’s funny treatin’ an elf like a toy?” He all but shrieked, he was losing his cool very quickly.

"If anyone's a toy in my relationship, it's me," Garret said, trying to win the crowd. "I'm a dog lord, after all. She keeps me well-trained." He topped it off with a wink. The two sidekicks actually laughed. The woman covered her mouth, eyes crinkling with amusement. And the stone-faced goon snorted a laugh.

"Shut up!" The leader snapped at them, whirling around. "Shut your fucking mouths!"

They fell silent immediately, but the damage was done. His authority had cracked. He turned back around red faced and maybe his eyes were watering? This kid was upset. Athenril got it next, he was singling her out—the only one of them actually looking upset. His eyes locked with hers, a sneer on his face. She stared at the fresh lines on the Vallaslin on that angry face, she couldn’t look away from them. Still raised and reddish, recent obviously, they were in honor of Mythal. The All-Mother. That was quite ironic.

"Ye know what they call elves like ye here? It’s not flat-ear, no, yer worse than the ignorant," he said, his voice was dripping poison. "Traitors to the People. Ye’d choose that, them. Bet ye get on yer knees real pretty for yer human master, don't ye? Bet ye forget ye even have elven blood when he's fuckin' ye—"

A knife was sticking out of his chest just then and it was like the wind was knocked out of him when it hit, cutting off his perverse diatribe.

Right through the heart, a small dwarven blade sunk deep, its bound hilt nearly flush against his leather armor. It got great distance and maintained the force of the throw perfectly. They really were excellent.

The elf looked down at the knife, like he was confused, then up at Garret with wide, shocked eyes.

Garret looked at his own hand—the one that had thrown the knife, of course. His face had gone white and he appeared as shocked as the elf he stabbed. "Who did that?" He said. "I didn't—" he whispered.

The elf crumpled to his knees, “Aaahh, uh,” he got out and then fell forward onto the ground, actually catching himself on his hands. Blood was flowing fast and he was dying.

Athenril screamed, her hands flying to cover her mouth. It was a sound like pure horror. This was a fucking nightmare.

"Oh shit," Marian gasped. "Oh fuck, Garret, oh no! Andraste’s fucking balls!"

The two sidekicks stood frozen watching—in shock, staring at their leader laying on the ground, like they never considered that violence would actually erupt. The elf had managed to push himself over and land on his side. Blood was spreading across the dirt.

"Wait! Wait! Wait!" Marian shouted in rapid succession, racing forward. "Everyone stop and don't move!"

She dropped to her knees beside the fallen elf and rolled him fully onto his back, her hands aglow with healing light. The golden-white light enveloped the knife and stemmed the blood flow.

"Get Marethari!" she yelled to the sidekicks. "I can’t save him alone. Now! Run!"

They didn't move, too shocked.

"Go!" Marian barked out.

That broke through. They ran for it, the woman's sob carrying back across the clearing as they sprinted toward camp.

Marian's face was already slick with sweat, her jaw clenched with concentration. The healing magic pulsed brightly around the wound, keeping the elf's heart beating, keeping blood flowing. It was incredibly complex magic—she had to maintain the wound's stasis while preventing shock and the real challenge was doing that while keeping his heart beating at the same time. She wasn’t the healer of the family, Bethany was the one with the natural talent. Marian did have a lot of field experience though.

The elf's eyes were open wide. "Am I..." his voice was a wet rasp. "Am I goin’ to die?"

Marian met his gaze, her own eyes fierce. "Not if I can help it." She said it like a challenge thrown at death itself.

Athenril dropped to the ground on the elf's other side; her hands were shaking as she took his hand. "It’s okay," she said. "You're going to be okay." This was like her worst nightmare, from start to finish. And she really was having a nice time up until this.

"I'm so sorry," he gasped, tears streaming down his face. "So sorry. I wish I hadn't—I didn't mean that—"

"Shh," Athenril said. "Save your strength."

Across from that scene, Fenris approached Garret cautiously. The younger Hawke hadn't moved much at all, he was looking at his hand oddly. Fenris didn’t want to spook him.

"Are you alright?" Fenris asked, stopping beside him.

"Who threw that knife?" Garret asked, shaking his head. "I didn't. I wouldn't. I didn't decide to, my hand just—uh." He put his hand on the back of his neck and put his head back with a groan.

Fenris scoffed. "Why the fuck not? That stupid bastard had it coming."

Garret turned to look at him, shock on his face. "He was just talking! He didn’t even take a step closer! I should have used words, I should have-"

"Should have let him finish describing all the ways he fantasized about your lover?" Fenris's voice was angry. "That worm was hunting for a reaction. He found one. I wanted him dead too and I just met your girl today."

"I’m not here to kill elves and burn bridges. I’m sure she didn’t want me to do that, Fenris." Garret sounded melancholy.

Fenris smiled and he had no control of it. The Hawkes were too much. All this bleeding-heart morality, even after throwing a knife through someone’s heart easy as pie. He hoped they never changed, truly. He gave Garret a pat on the back. “Don’t worry too much. It’ll all work out, it usually does for you.”

The sidekicks came running back, Stone-face carrying Marethari in his arms, moving faster than the old Keeper could have managed alone. The other ran alongside them, her face streaked with tears.

Marethari began manifesting her magic before she even reached the elf. She knelt beside Marian, and their magic synchronized immediately—two healers working in perfect concert. Magic like water and lightning, swirling up a storm but all in pale gold light.

"On three," Marian said, meeting the Keeper’s eye and hand poised to grab the knife. "One, two, three!"

Marian pulled the blade free as their magic surged into the wound. The elf gasped, his back trying to arch along with the blade’s path, but Marethari's hands kept him flat and it came free. The torn heart muscle began to knit instantly, the vessels sealing and tissue regenerated.

It took seconds and it felt like it would never be done. Finally, the healing light faded away in a gentle shimmer. Not a trace of all the power they'd just used remaining. Marethari sat back with a heavy breath and Marian sighed mightily, running a hand through her sweaty hair and shaking it out a bit.

"He'll live," Marian said, she felt it needed announcing.

The elf was sobbing, his hand still clutching Athenril's. When he looked up at Marian he tried to reach for her and grabbed the hem of her sleeve, pulling at it weakly.

"Yer the greatest human I've ever met," he choked out. "Like a goddess. Thank ye, thank ye."

Marian pulled the fabric from his hands—her face showing disgust—standing quickly. "Watch your fucking mouth in the future if you want to live, the goddess won’t be so merciful and forgiving in the future," she said sharply, resisting the urge to kick the elf in the head. She walked away on unsteady legs, magic completely drained and rejoined Fenris and Garret.

She gave Garret the knife back, no energy to even wipe it clean. "I'm tired," she said flatly. "Give me an apple."

Fenris handed her one. Then he picked her up.

"I can walk," Marian protested, but she was already getting comfortable and biting into the apple.

"You can also be carried," Fenris said. "Stop arguing. You’re wiped out. I don’t want you to fall over, tesoro." He was feeling a measure of exasperation but also fondness. He gave her a kiss on the top of the head.

Garret watched them for a moment, as he cleaned the little blade on his belt rag and put it away. “Thanks, Mari," he said.

She hummed around the apple. “No problem, brother. It’s nice, not being the fuck up for a change.” 

Marethari was helping the young idiot sit up and rubbing his back. The sidekicks hovered nearby, still upset and teary eyed. Garret had to address his actions.

"Keeper," Garret said, walking over. "I need to apologize for my actions. I never intended to do violence to your people."

"I heard what happened from the Slerus’ friends," Marethari said, stopping his spiel, her voice firm. "Ye're not to blame, Garret Hawke. This one—" she jerked her chin at the young elf, "—he went huntin' for blood and found his own. We have enough trouble with shemlen without lookin’ fer it."

The elf, Slerus, looked up at him, his face pale and anguished. He’s probably the same age as Garret, but he looks like a child in that moment—even with the stubble. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen. I was just so angry and trying to—"

"Water under the bridge and I’m not the one who deserves an apology." Garret said interrupting, he really didn’t want to hear it. He was looking at Athenril, who was still kneeling on the ground with her shoulders shaking. She wouldn't meet his eyes. Garret fucked up. At least the fool had survived.

Marethari looked thoughtful. "I should apologize for the behavior of my clan. Ye came here in peace, and were met with poison."

"Oh no, you can’t control all the wild youth, Keeper." Garret said. "Tensions are high with humans being here and the veil trouble up the mountain. We all say things we regret." Though as he said that last part, he looked down at his hand again—that was going to haunt him for a while.

That wasn’t words.

He went to Athenril's side and spoke to her quietly. "I'm sorry, darling." She didn't look over but she tried talking to him, she actually couldn't speak yet.

Marethari directed the sidekicks to help their friend back to camp. As they limped away, she turned her attention to Marian, still in Fenris's arms and nearly falling asleep.

"That was remarkable healing, ye did," the Keeper said. "To keep a heart beating while mending it... Ye have a rare gift. Few healers could have done what ye did."

Marian took a deep breath and blinked to focus on Marethari's face. She was struggling to keep her eyes open. "Thank you, Keeper. I've had a fair bit of practice with field medicine but that really took a lot out of me… I’m sorry I needed your help. No way I had the strength to manage on my own. How are you holding up?"

“I’ll be fin’ but yes that wasn’t easy.”

Marethari's expression grew more somber as she turned to Athenril, who had finally risen to her feet and joined them with Garret.

"Da’lan, Athenril," the Keeper said gently. "I'm sorry for what was said to ye today. Ye deserved better from us. Ye're still one of the People, no matter how long ye've been away. What happened to ye here." She shook her head. "It shames me that ye were treated so in a place that should have welcomed ye."

Athenril's eyes were bright with tears too. "Thank you, Keeper."

"Ye'll stay in my second aravel tonight, I offer it to the diplomats of other clans," Marethari continued. "All of ye. It's the least I can offer after all this. Ye came here in peace with a message from Asha'bellanar, and were met with poison and violence."

"That's very kind," Garret said quietly.

"It's what should have been offered from the start," Marethari said. "There's room enough for the four of ye, and privacy besides. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow ye can continue up the mountain."

"Understood," Garret said.

As they walked back toward the edge of the Dalish camp, Athenril finally spoke.

"I'm sorry," she said, so quietly they almost didn't hear.

"For what?" Garret asked.

"For..." She gestured helplessly. "All of it. For him saying those things. If I hadn’t let it get to me, none of this would have happened."

"Please, no," Garret said gently, stopping to face her and take her hand. "You didn't make him say any of that and you didn't make me throw that knife. None of this is your fault."

"He called me a traitor," she said, her black eyes looking hollow. " And maybe he's right. Maybe I am. Did I forget who I was?"

"He is not right!" Marian said angrily, roused to full attention. "He's a frightened bigot who lashed out because he can't control anything in his life except his own words. He learned a valuable lesson today about lashing out at heavily armed dangerous looking folks."

"I just wanted to come home. Just for a day. I wanted to remember what it felt like. It’s as awful now as it was then.” How could I be such a fool?

"Home is wherever you make it and whoever you make it with," Garret said, he knew it was far from settled. She looked at him for a long moment then nodded. Her eyes were a storm.

Not much more was said as they entered their sleeping quarters for the night.

The aravel's interior was spacious, the curved wooden walls rising to form a barrel-vaulted ceiling. Small carved wooden hooks held oil lamps and storage bags. Everything smelled of herbs, wood smoke, and the faint sweet musk of halla—the scent of Dalish life on the road. Fine woven fabric hung along the walls, with branching geometric patterns in earth tones—symbols of their gods. The floor was covered entirely in cushions and folded blankets, creating a soft surface to walk or sleep on. A thick tapestry divided the space in two—it depicts a moonlit grove with halla grazing beneath ancient trees. The weaving was fine enough to let some lamplight filter through but heavy enough for privacy. The tapestry and the whole atmosphere instantly brought Athenril’s Sage Serpent suite to Garret's mind.

Darkness fell over Sundermount, the nocturnal sounds blanketing the land as they settled into the aravel. Marian was fully asleep by the time they arrived. When Athenril finally lay down to sleep, Garret's arm came around her and she embraced him in turn, just as tightly as the last night they slept side by side.

Tomorrow they would fly higher and face whatever waited at the summit.