Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s Shut The Fuck Up Friday.

I sit there in perfect silence as the two women circle me like vultures sizing up a half-dead meal. I’m on my knees, my joints aching, heavy iron manacles locked around my wrists — the kind you’d expect to see in a medieval movie or behind glass in a museum.

The dungeon—-and there’s no mistaking it for anything else—has a chill that seeps into my bones. It’s dark, damp, and ancient. Stone walls loom around me, held together with wooden beams that don't inspire confidence. Rusted iron bars encircle the room’s heart, each cell a narrow cage of damp, festering misery. 

Somewhere overhead, water drips with maddening persistence, the sound echoing through the hollow, claustrophobic space.

The shock hasn’t exactly worn off—I’m not sure anyone could handle what I’m seeing and come out the other side okay—but I’m too exhausted to do much more than blink. Hours down here gave me all the time I needed to fall apart—screaming, crying, freaking out until my throat was raw and my eyes were so puffy I probably looked like I lost a boxing match. It didn’t fix anything. Didn’t make any of this less real. The despair is still there—thick and heavy, clinging to the inside of my skull like sticky caramel melted all over my hands. No matter how much I want to scrape it off, it’s not going anywhere.

The woman grows impatient with my silence. She steps forward and grabs my wrist, and I wince as the manacles dig into my skin. Her grip is tight, almost painful, and she yanks me toward her, her face twisted with frustration. She says something else, the language she speaks is guttural, rough—like a constant accusatory growl trying to break free from her chest. She’s waiting for me to say something, to respond. But I don’t. Even though she looks like she could snap my neck with a single glance, my lips stay sealed. 

Because when it’s Shut The Fuck Up Friday, you shut the fuck up.

I watch a lot of Law and Order on the weekends, mostly just for background noise, something to zone out to. But there’s one thing that stuck in my mind from it: “Ever get arrested? Shut the fuck up.”

I’m not arrested in a modern courtroom with a lawyer, I doubt I even have human rights in this place, but I’m still strictly following the rule so I don’t get myself in trouble by saying the wrong thing. Weird shit is going on, and I’m not about to open my mouth about it. When in doubt— Shut the fuck up. Don’t tell them a damn thing. 

It’s not like they can understand me, anyway. 

One of them, the main one doing the interrogating, is someone who commands attention without even trying. She has cropped dark hair that only accentuates the sharpness of her features, such as the defined jawline that almost seems screwed too tight—like she forgot how to relax it. Narrow eyebrows arch above intense, walnut hazel eyes, honed in directly on me. 

She wears unfamiliar armour, with a symbol emblazoned across her chestplate. An eye.

I have no idea what the fuck it means.

Never seen anything like it in any history book. So, there goes my brilliant theory that I somehow landed in the distant past. Not that there was ever a point in history with magical green explosions, giant spiders and… Flashes come unbidden—screaming, a green blast ripping the sky apart, a woman’s voice crying out. 

The images melt like frost under sunlight, leaving nothing but a pit in my gut and the lingering stench of fire.

Fuck knows.

Maybe I was high.

Maybe I still am.

Her companion stays quiet, keeping to the background. She wears a deep violet hood that casts her face in dim light, but strands of red hair still show beneath it. Her eyes are sharp and focused, watching everything without a word. She hasn’t said much. Doesn’t need to. She watches like someone trained to find weakness before it even knows it exists.

Her armour is also well-made, with the same eye-shaped symbol worked into the metal.

A cult? I distantly wonder. It’s a cult, isn’t it?

The first one, Mean-Face, grabs my shoulders and yells at me some more. I flinch, more from the volume than anything else—-and the other woman steps in, gently prying her away from me. She doesn’t raise her voice. She barely speaks. Just a quiet hand, calm and firm, guiding the angry one back. Her red hair shifts beneath the hood as she turns, those sharp eyes flicking to mine, unreadable.

They turn from me, and I hear them talk quietly to each other. 

I look down at the floor below me while I wait for them to work it out, while I try to keep myself calm. 

Beneath me is a stone floor, cracked and worn by time. At the centre, a faded image stretches out in a broken circle—some kind of sunburst or flower motif. The tiles are framed by crumbling steps and thick stone pillars that loom above me. 

It feels like the kind of place meant for ceremonies... or sacrifices.

Yup, cult.  

Suddenly, my hand flares with that same sickly green light. Light pain jolts up my arm, sharp and wrong. I grimace, muscles locking tight, seizing like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

Mean-Face sighs and walks toward me. I lean back, wary. But she doesn’t strike or shout—she just kneels beside me. To my surprise, she starts to undo the chain that links me to the floor, fingers working the clasp at my manacles without a word. Cautiously, I watch her. And slowly, she grips my bicep to pull me up to my feet. A lot more gently than she was being before. 

I eye her suspiciously. 

She makes a silent gesture. 

Follow. 

Reluctantly, without much of a choice or energy for argument, I do. It’s not like I have anything else planned. Might as well get to a better position and lay off the land before deciding to headbutt someone and run.

The hall stretches ahead in eerie silence, lined with more thick stone and wooden arches that bow overhead like ribs in an ancient beast. The floor is fractured and uneven, broken tiles scattered. On either side, statues of robed figures stand guard—hands resting on swords, skeletal faces. Warm light from a hanging brazier flickers overhead, casting shadows that dance across the walls. 

In the distance, pale light filters in through a broken ceiling, revealing rubble and ruin ahead. 

Our footsteps echo. My feet brush over loose stone and hay. We walk up the stairs and eventually the door opens ahead of us, a guard opening it for Mean-Face. It creaks and groans. I’m not surprised by the sight of more stone walls. Neither am I surprised by the fact that this seems like a huge church. The sun motif is everywhere, carved deep into the stone arches overhead, stitched into the faded banners sagging against the walls.

A church. 

I’m in a church. 

Why does a church have a dungeon…? What kind of church…?

Do I want to know?

I decide I don’t want to know.

Figures stand draped in high-collared robes of red and white. A gold medallion hangs from a thick chain around each neck, catching the light with a muted glint. Their headpieces are tall and angular, flaring outward at the top and decorated with patterns of white and gold.

It looks like a uniform. 

The word cult keeps circulating in my mind. 

Yup. Shut the fuck up . 

There’s candles on the floor, not too far from the rugs. 

Isn’t that a fire hazard?  

Not a smart cult, then. 

She pauses as someone approaches and hands her something. Turning back to me, she holds a thick cloak—the skin of some unfamiliar fluffy animal—and a pair of sturdy leather boots. I frown slightly as she steps forward, draping the cloak over my shoulders before kneeling to shove my bare feet into the boots. I'm unbalanced as she works, forced to grab onto her shoulder for support or I’ll fall backward. 

I give her a sheepish glance. She shoots me a glare but doesn't shake me off.

The boots are uncomfortable, the leather is soft, but raw against my bare heels with no socks. 

Once she's finished, she stands and gives me a quick, firm once-over before nodding and dragging me toward a massive set of doors. The exit, I think—

The moment the doors swing open, a blast of freezing air slams into me. I’m already cold, but this is something else entirely. My body seizes up from the shock, and I gasp sharply against the sudden bite. The icy air hits like a slap, slicing through my clothes and sinking straight into my skin.

Holy fucking shit, it’s fucking cold . 

Outside, the world stretches into a small, rustic village surrounded by a blanket of snow.

Wooden buildings with steep, slanted roofs cluster around the clearing, their dark shingles dusted white. Smoke curls steadily from chimneys. Beyond the village, jagged mountains rise like dark teeth into the sky, their peaks lost in thick mist and low-hanging clouds. Tall pines, their branches heavy with frost, pierce the landscape. 

But the thing that catches my attention the most is the massive, swirling vortex of green light dominating the sky. The centre burns brightest, a nearly blinding core of green-white energy, while twisting clouds spiral outward and thin tendrils of light stretch and flicker at the edges, crackling faintly against the cold blue sky. 

Pain hits like a lightning strike. It shoots up my arm, and I can’t stop the gasp that slips past my lips. It feels like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my veins, digging deeper with every second and unraveling me from the inside out. My muscles tense, my skin burns. 

I scream, and fall to my knees, cradling my hand. 

When the pain finally ebbs, I gasp for breath, my shoulders sagging with the effort. Mean-Face kneels in front of me, her mouth set in a grim line, a flicker of sympathy buried behind her stern gaze. She leans in, careful but firm, and grips my wrist. Then, she points toward the swirling green vortex overhead.

What...?

My mind processes, as I stare at her. 

I don’t know what she wants, what she’s trying to tell me. 

That thing in the sky, then. Is it causing this? Do they expect me to fix it somehow? Is that why she’s pointing at my hand? Is that why I’m still alive? Despite everything seeming ‘medieval’ here, they haven’t hung me for being a "witch" yet, so they can’t think I’m responsible. If they did, I’d already be dead. 

My eyes drift to the sky again. 

Still. If they do, how the fuck am I supposed to fix that?

My hand flickers, but doesn’t strike me with pain again. 

More importantly, what the fuck is this?

She says something, and stands again, grabbing my bicep and pulling me up to her side. She doesn’t untie my hands, but she’s less rough in pulling me along now. 

Fuck, what now?

More people line the path, their gazes hard and unwelcoming as we pass. I shiver violently, the cold biting deep into my skin. I'm still wearing nothing but my pajamas, with only the heavy cloak over my shoulders and a pair of stiff leather boots to shield me from the snow and wind. I silently thank whatever poor furry creature was sacrificed for my comfort, guessing these people don't exactly have organisations fighting to protect wildlife.

Even though I can’t understand a word she says, Mean-Face talks as she escorts me through the town—settlement? Village? I’m not sure what to call it. My eyes dart frantically, searching for anything familiar: a car, a plane, power lines, anything modern. There’s nothing. Just snow, rough timber and stone buildings, and endless nature. I think we’re… in the mountains? 

She leads me across a bridge, the palisade doors groaning open as guards watch from either side. Beyond them, I catch sight of wooden spikes set up as defenses, and a few people sprawled on the ground, being tended to like they’ve just come back from a war. When I glance back at her, I flinch—there's suddenly a dagger in her hand. Before I can bolt, she grabs my wrist and slices through the bindings.

Oh.

I rub at my wrists, eyeing her warily.

She gives me a look, then points toward the end of the bridge. 

Go there? 

My eyes drift to the edge of the bridge, over the short wall. 

I could jump. Maybe get away. 

But it’s a hell of a drop. 

Even if I survived, I’d probably snap both legs—or worse, end up paralysed. It would be easy for them to scrape mee of the floor, or finish me off. Not exactly a winning plan.

Fine then, still following Mean-Face. 

I walk to the end of the bridge, boots crunching over the packed snow. Beyond it stretches a long dirt path, rough but cleared of the worst of the snow, winding straight toward the mountains—and the swirling rift tearing up the sky. 

We move forward, and with every step closer to that impossible rift in the sky—the mark on my hand grows worse. At first, it just burns, an angry throb under my skin, but it quickly sharpens into something uglier. The ache twists up my arm, setting my nerves on fire. Then, without warning, a fresh wave of pain hits me like a hammer. I stumble and trip over my feet with a cry, gritting my teeth, clutching my wrist like that might somehow hold it all in.

Mean-Face crouches beside me, her expression softening as she grips my arm and helps haul me upright. She steadies me with firm hands on my shoulders, speaking in a tone that sounds gentler than anything she’s said before. Wasted, because of the language barrier. It could be manipulative, for all I know. 

She pats my shoulders, and then steps away, nodding for me to continue. 

Maybe she feels sorry for me. The thought twists bitterly in my chest. But not enough to let me go—or even let me sit here and wallow in my own agony. I bet whatever she's saying translates to something like, "Sorry you're in pain, but no dillydallying."

I force myself to move, dragging one foot in front of the other. 

We make it to the next bridge, and the mark flares again—not as extreme as the other times—

There’s a flash of light. A shockwave hits like a hammer, nearly knocking me off my feet. Then the bridge shudders, splitting straight down the middle. Bricks crack and crumble, debris flying everywhere as gravity tears me down with it.

Oh fu—

I don’t have time to wheeze or cry out. My back slams into something hard and slick—ice. Thick enough not to shatter under my weight. Pain shoots through me as I groan, gasping for breath. Mean-Face is already back on her feet, barely fazed. She shouts something I can’t catch, raises her sword, and charges ahead without hesitation.

I crane my head to get a glimpse of what has her so—

What the fucking fuckity fuck is that— 

Smoke slithers across the ground, laced with a creeping green light. From beneath it, something dark bubbles up, writhing and whispering as it swells and tears open. Without warning, jagged shards burst upward from the glowing fissure, and the voices swell into a rising chorus.

It splits wider, and I scramble to my feet. 

A towering, twisted figure rises from the breach, its skin raw and stretched tight over jutting bones. Long arms end in clawed fingers, and a tattered hood hides most of its face. Green light pulses from its body, warping the snow and air around it. 

Fuck no. Nope. Fuck that. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck— 

It leers at me as I scramble down, fumbling with numb fingers to grab a metal shield off the ice. It’s small, but stupidly heavy. I heft it up and stagger toward a patch of bare ground. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it feels like it might crack them. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, clouding the freezing air in front of me. Every instinct I have screams at me to run—to turn around and bolt for the trees, the hills, anywhere but here. But my legs won't move right. They're shaking too badly, useless and locked in place. My hands are numb around the shield, fingers cramping and slipping. I can’t stop staring at the thing.

It moves like a living nightmare, and every inch it gains feels like the world shrinking, trapping me here with it. My mouth is open, but no sound comes out at first—just a raw, silent breath of terror.

When it lunges again, my body jolts before my brain catches up. I throw the shield up out of instinct more than any real plan, flinching behind it. The impact rattles my bones. Pain explodes through my arms.

It roars—and lunges at me again.

I suck in a breath, bracing for impact—

Steel flashes past my face.

Something slams into the creature—Mean-Face—with a roar of her own, her own shield raised and sword swinging in a clean, brutal arc. She forces it back with sheer, brutal strength, her stance sure and immovable compared to my trembling legs. She barks a command I can’t understand, but it’s clear enough: stay back.

I don’t need to be told twice.

I’m still frozen, still gasping, still barely keeping it together.

She dispatches the creature with brutal efficiency, then whirls on me. Her sword flashes toward my face, and I barely have time to yelp and throw the shield up between us. She barks something sharp, jabbing the sword at me again for emphasis. 

“What the fuck, man?!” I shriek. “What? What do you want? What the fuck is wrong now?!”

She grits her teeth and lowers her sword, then points at the shield.

“What?” I ask stiffly.

She grabs the top of it and tries to yank it out of my hands, almost succeeding, but I shakily clamp down, shaking my head furiously. I jab a finger toward the fucking demon thing still sprawled on the ice—which is also fucking melting — and I have no doubt she could rip the thing out of my grip if she really wanted to.

Her eyes are hard. Calculating. Like she’s weighing if I’m a bigger threat than whatever just tried to murder us both. Her hand twitches—then falters. Another roar echoes in the distance. We both hear it. She scowls, lowers her blade, and growls something under her breath that I’m pretty sure translates to: ‘Fine. But I’m watching you.’

Finally. Some sense. 

Good. I need this shield. This shield is mine . This shield isn’t leaving my fucking sight. 

I just wish it wasn’t so fucking heavy . 

Mean-Face watches me closely as I stagger across the ice, arms stretched out for balance. The shield throws me off, making it even harder to stay upright. Every now and then, she catches me with an annoyed huff, and I huff mockingly right back—only daring because, clearly, she needs me alive for something. She seems taken aback, throwing me a sharp glare.

I pointedly ignore her, and we continue down the path. She leads me toward a mountain, and soon enough, we’re climbing. I’m panting within minutes, my legs burning with every step, my lungs straining against the freezing air. My boots feel heavier with each stumble, and the shield drags at my arm like dead weight. Every few steps, I have to pause just to catch my breath, my muscles screaming in protest. I already regret every jog I skipped—and every donut I ever ate. 

Where the fuck are we going?

In the distance, I hear the sounds of fighting, and I freeze.

Mean-Face barks something sharply, but I just shake my head and clutch the shield tighter to my chest, refusing to budge. She snaps again, more insistent this time, and shoves me forward. I dig my heels into the snow and start dragging my feet the other way—only for her to grab my bicep in a bruising grip and yank me along like a stubborn mule.

“Get off me! No!” 

I thrash against her, but she shuts me down fast—pressing a dagger to my throat. I freeze with a sharp gasp, heart hammering. She glares at me, unblinking.

Message received.

She makes sure I move ahead of her, so I can’t run away when she turns her back. 

Bitch . 

We grow closer to the sounds of fighting. We round a corner and I nearly stumble right into another brawl. I see something else too. A swirling mass of green mist churns in the air, with jagged shards of crystal exploding outward like a starburst, their edges sharp and menacing. The whole thing crackles and shifts, pulsing like it’s alive.

Mean-Face jabs a finger at me, then at the ground, then back at me with a hard glare. It’s easy to guess what she’s saying: Stay here. I'll be watching you.

She plants herself firmly between me and the chaos as the others charge into the fray. Steel clashes with screeching, inhuman howls. Soldiers slam into twisted creatures that seem to claw their way out of the green mist, their limbs grotesque and stretched, their mouths gaping wide in silent, endless screams. Blades spark off bone and crystal. Someone shouts—a warning, a battle cry, maybe a name—but it's lost in the roar of combat.

The snow churns into red-muddied slush under their boots. Arrows whistle through the air, some finding marks with wet, meaty thuds. Magic crackles somewhere in the distance, answering the green storm with bolts of lightning and fire.

All the while, Mean-Face stays close to me, sword drawn and muscles tense, ready to strike if anything so much as looks at me wrong.

One of the creatures breaks through the fighting, hurling itself toward us with a screech. She intercepts it without hesitation, meeting it head-on, her sword flashing in brutal arcs. They clash, steel against shrieking, clawed limbs, and I stumble backward out of pure instinct.

But even she can’t cover everything. 

Another one lunges at me from the side.

I barely get the shield up in time—but the hit rattles through my arms like a sledgehammer. I cry out, and the shield is knocked clean out of my frozen fingers, clattering uselessly on the floor. I jump back with a cry when it slashes at me again, terrifying claws narrowly missing my body as I fall backward on my arse and hit the floor. 

It grows closer.

I’m wide open. Panic seizes me.

Just as the creature bears down on me, a crackling bolt of lightning slams into it, throwing it back with a shriek that makes my skin crawl. I jerk my head up in shock and catch sight of a figure striding toward me, staff still humming with leftover energy—bald, robed, an elf who looks way too calm for the madness happening all around us.

He approaches quickly, eyes scanning the area—probably checking for more of those things. His gaze settles on me, registering my huddled form in the snow. Then—without hesitation—he offers me a hand.

I don’t take it.

I launch myself into his middle like a human barnacle.

He stiffens, caught off guard. I think I hear a quiet, startled exhale. He doesn’t pull away, but there’s a split second of stillness—like he’s buffering, unsure if he’s just been hugged or mugged. Then, cautiously, he shifts his weight.

“T-Thank you!” I gasp, voice a shaking mess as I cling to him like he’s a literal lifeline. “Thank you so much!”

He tilts his head, his gaze—a deep grey—narrowing ever so slightly. Not unkind, but contemplative. A quiet puzzle behind his eyes.

I’m probably babbling nonsense to him.

Another creature lunges from the mist. 

I scream and duck behind him without thinking. He reacts instantly. No flinch, no hesitation. He steps forward like a tide rolling in, staff sweeping upward in a precise arc—fire explodes from its tip with terrifying grace. The creature dissolves in flames and smoke. I gasp and gape, half in awe, half in terror, feeling the heat brush against my skin even from behind him.

It’s anarchy everywhere—shouts, clashing steel, monsters shrieking. 

The elf turns back to me and with surprising gentleness (at least compared to Mean-Face) and an impressive composure, takes my wrist. I don’t flinch, just stare at him, wide-eyed and unsure, as he lifts my arm and aims it toward the swirling crystal-rift like I’m some kind of living magic wand. The mark on my hand flares to life, burning hot under my skin. It pulses once, twice—and then, with a sharp pop, the rift snaps shut, vanishing like it had never been there.

He releases my wrist with deliberate slowness, almost as if trying not to frighten or break me. I stumble a half-step back, staring down at my hand in shock. The skin still tingles, the mark glowing faintly like a dying ember. I flex my fingers, clumsy and trembling, but they move.

When I glance up, he’s already watching me closely, his brow lightly furrowed in thought. His expression is mild, even kind—tilting his head slightly, offering the faintest trace of a smile. But there’s a sharpness in his eyes, buried beneath the calm exterior, like I’m some strange phenomenon he hasn’t fully decided how to feel about yet.

Still, he’s a hell of a lot nicer than everyone else has been. 

Witch! Some of them probably have cried. Throw me to the dungeon. Drown me. Hang me. Kill me.

This…rift just confirmed one thing; I’m connected to whatever is going on. Or somehow it’s connected to me. 

Either way, I think I’m fucked.

Mean-Face stomps up with all the subtlety of an earthquake. Her expression is carved from stone, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. I flinch and duck again, practically fusing myself to the elf’s side. To my surprise, he lifts a hand—not aggressive, just… firm. 

She stops mid-step, chest rising with an unspoken argument. She glares between us—me clinging like a leech, the elf standing calmly with a protective tilt to his frame—and throws her hands up in visible frustration. She turns slightly, pacing, muttering under her breath like she needs to let out pressure before she explodes.

Their voices clash quietly—Mean-Face’s low growl of frustration met with the elf’s even, almost dispassionate tone.

I shuffle closer to the elf’s side without shame, clutching onto his arm like he’s some kind of lifeline. The elf doesn't react. Like he’s already accepted that I'm not going anywhere.

I don’t let go.

And no one tries to make me.

Protect me, Baldie.

Chapter Text

I’m still clinging to the elf’s arm when I meet the dwarf.

He’s a broad-shouldered, beardless dwarf with slicked-back blond hair, a cocky smirk, and sharp eyes full of mischief, wearing an earring and carrying a massive crossbow like it’s an old friend. No beard, which feels deeply wrong for reasons I can’t explain, but he more than makes up for it with a glorious display of chest hair and the kind of cocky swagger that suggests he’d sass a god to their face. 

He catches sight of me latched onto the elf like a sloth and immediately smirks. Says something in their language—light, teasing—and I don’t need a translator to know it’s at the elf’s expense. The elf replies calmly, but there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. I’d bet money that’s irritation. 

I gently loosen my grip on the elf for his sake and gradually let go.

The dwarf turns to me, says something with a wink and places a hand over his chest in a flourish that’s almost theatrical. Then he extends his other hand in what’s clearly meant to be a handshake. I hesitate—because what the hell else can I do in this situation—but manners win out in the end. 

I reach forward and clasp his hand, wary.

To my surprise, his grip is gentle. Warm. Like he’s worried I’ll shatter if he squeezes too hard. His smile is disarming, softening the sharp angles of his otherwise cocky face, and for the first time since all this madness started, I feel like maybe not everyone is an asshole. Still, there’s something about him—the easy grin, the glint in his eye, the way he carries himself like he’s already got you figured out—that gives off serious “car salesman” vibes. Friendly, sure, but maybe a little too smooth.

I retreat. Not dramatically, just a quiet shuffle back behind the elf like a cat rethinking its decision to come out from under the couch. The elf doesn't acknowledge it, but I see the returning teasing grin on the dwarf’s face.

They fall into conversation—quick, fluid, and completely indecipherable to me. But the part that grates? The way they keep glancing at me. Not subtle glances, either. Full-on, lingering yep-we’re-totally-talking-about-you looks. Every now and then, one of them tilts their head in my direction or makes some vague gesture that I know is about me.

I stand there, arms crossed tight, jaw clenched. It feels exactly like being the weird kid at school—hearing the whispers, catching the sideways glances. The frustration prickles under my skin. 

Probably discussing what to do with me. 

My eyes drift to the elf again. I actually take a moment to look this time, really look. 

He’s… sharp. 

That’s the word that comes to mind first. Narrow angles in his features, like someone whittled him out of stone and forgot to sand down the edges. Pale skin, no hair on his head at all—which is strange to me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bald elf before in any fantasy movies. His scalp is smooth and exposed to the cold like he doesn’t even notice it. 

His clothes look layered and practical, the green vest standing out just enough, dusted with bits of snow that he doesn’t bother brushing off, like he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He carries himself with a quiet kind of calm, and I get the impression he’s the type who thinks a lot more than he speaks. 

My eyes flicker to the necklace hanging around his neck—black, curved, almost claw-like. It sways gently with his movements, stark against the pale fabric of his tunic. I wonder what it is—some kind of charm? A cultural thing? A trophy? 

But before I can examine further, I catch his gaze on me. Heat crawls into my cheeks. Fantastic. Caught staring. Great, April. Way to be a little freak.

But when he gently smiles, my stomach twists. I can’t help but smile back.

Mean-Face says something else, points, and starts trudging through the snow path. The dwarf looks at me and gives a shrug as if saying ‘what can you do’ and starts to follow her. I look to the elf, half-expecting him to follow too—but instead, he keeps my gaze. There's a pause. 

Then, without a word, he quietly offers me his arm again.

What a gentleman. 

I spend the majority of our little trek clutching to the elf’s arm. Not even just for comfort—-it’s fucking cold, and he’s warm. 

He doesn’t complain, so I take that as permission.

If I’d known I was going to end up in a goddamn blizzard, I wouldn’t have worn thin cotton pajamas. My nose probably looks like a cherry right now, and I can’t stop sniffling or shuddering. At some point, after I’ve been practically vibrating with cold beside him, the elf reaches over and gently adjusts my cloak, pulling it tighter around my shoulders without a word. The gesture is simple, quiet—but it makes my heart do this ridiculous little flutter. I glance up at him and offer a soft, grateful smile. He gives the tiniest nod in return, like it was nothing. But to me, it kind of isn’t.

After slogging through what feels like an endless sea of snow, one thing becomes painfully clear: I haven’t just been yanked through time—I’ve been dropped straight into some kind of nightmare. There are demons everywhere, and I mean fucking everywhere . It’s like every bend in the path, every shadow behind a boulder, every suspicious crevice is hiding something with claws and too many teeth. 

When a fight breaks out, I do what any reasonable, underprepared pajama-clad woman would: I bolt behind the nearest tree and shake like a leaf.

Eventually, curiosity overrides terror, and I creep out just enough to glimpse the elf in motion—and I nearly forget to breathe.

The elf doesn’t fight so much as compose, like the battlefield is a page and he’s writing in fire. His staff arcs through the air, unleashing blasts of energy that ripple and twist like they’ve been waiting for his command. There’s a kind of quiet confidence in the way he moves—nothing wasted, nothing frantic. He isn’t reacting. He’s orchestrating. It’s dangerous, and destructive, like a thunderstorm—-but it’s beautiful to watch as long as you’re in the distance. 

And it’s not aimed at me, so I can admire all I want. 

I feel goosebumps crawl along my arms. 

And then the fight is over. 

Mean-Face barks something sharp, and the dwarf gestures toward me. She looks over—eyes scanning, lips tight—and for a flicker of a second, I swear I see relief cross her face. Right. Can’t lose the walking rift-sealer. I’m not a person to her; I’m an asset. 

The elf turns back and meets my gaze. He offers a hand and a quiet, reassuring smile. I take it without hesitation—eager, maybe even a little desperate, to stay close to the gentleman who can point a magical nuke at anyone who looks at me funny. 

Mean-Face has a sword, but Mean-Face is also kind of a cunt. 

Down by the ice, something glints near a half-buried body. I almost trip over it—some poor bastard frozen in place, face twisted in a final moment of fear. Tucked into his satchel, I find a small, carved figurine. I put it back in there and take the satchel, as everyone is distracted. No one says anything. 

To the west, a narrow set of stairs winds up the hillside. Mean-Face turns toward him, so I trudge toward after her, shield still pulling at my arm, legs aching like I’ve run a marathon in molasses. Halfway up, more of those shrieking things appear—demons bursting from thin air like bad dreams. I hide, and at the top of the hill, another rift tears reality apart, green and crackling like a wound in the world. The mark on my hand flares hot again—burning, alive. 

My stomach flips. 

The elf comes to my side when the coast is clear. He takes my wrist again—his touch light, almost cautious. I know what to do this time, but I let him guide me anyway. It makes me feel more secure, somehow. 

And then, with a final surge of heat and light, the rift snaps closed.

I let out a breath. 

The others seem satisfied. They exchange a few words I don’t understand, then start leading me down another path again. 

I want to go home.

We cross the bridge, and there she is—Quiet Red. The sharp-eyed woman who'd interrogated me with Mean-Face back at the start. She hasn’t said much, but something about her makes me feel like she could snap my neck with a ribbon and not blink twice. I just get bad vibes.

She’s standing with some smug-looking man who keeps eyeing me like I’m something nasty he just stepped in. He’s dressed in those red-and-white robes with the sun symbol—exactly the kind of guy who’d scream burn the witch without hesitation. He keeps pointing at me, saying things I can’t understand, but I don’t need a translation to know it’s not friendly. 

I’m already clinging to the elf’s arm, but I shift in closer, tucking behind him like maybe—just maybe—he’ll protect me. Deep down, I know he probably won’t be allowed to. Doesn’t stop me from hoping.

So I go for universal language instead.

I lift my hand and flip the robed asshole my middle finger over the elf’s shoulder.

The ‘Car Salesman’ dwarf snorts and laughs. The man in the robes? He starts shouting, red-faced and furious. Mean-Face sighs like she’s already regretting every decision that brought her here and stands between us, to cut off the Robed man’s line of sight from me. 

I can’t see the elf’s expression, shielded by his back. Maybe that’s for the best.

But then the thing in the sky shifts—pulsing, twitching, wrong. Tendrils of green spiral downward, jittery and bright like lightning caught in a blender. My arm flares with sudden pain—sharp, molten—and I gasp. It feels like I’ve plunged my hand into scalding tar. I cry out, clutching it to my chest, eyes stinging.

Not again!

I force a breath, limbs trembling from the shock—and then he’s there. Baldie. His hand settles lightly on my shoulder. His face is composed, but his eyes flicker—watching me closely, calculating.

Make it stop. I try to plead with him with my eyes, breath hitching, vision blurring. 

I don’t know if he understands me—really understands—but his gaze sharpens. He says something low, quiet, and I think it’s meant to soothe. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just trying to keep me calm enough not to pass out.

Either way, he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t look away. 

I like to imagine he’s telling me: it’s going to be okay.  

Behind us, the others argue—sharp voices flaring in that language I still can’t crack. Dickrobe sounds especially pissed, which honestly just makes me feel a little better. Good. Let him be mad. I didn’t ask for any of this.

The elf gives a light squeeze to my shoulder, then gently urges me forward. We walk again, with him guiding my steps. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t react to the shouting. Just moves me further down the bridge, like it’s only the two of us.

That’d be nice. 

The rest of them follow at a distance. I can feel their eyes on my back. Watching. Waiting. Like I might explode.

It looks like we’re heading up into the mountains, so I start that way—only to immediately regret it. The path is narrow, uneven, and slick with packed snow. I lose my footing more than once, slipping like a newborn deer, and eventually end up face-first in a snowbank, sputtering and swearing.

Before I can even get my bearings, a hand appears in front of me. I glance up to find the elf watching me with that unreadable expression of his. His brow is slightly raised, not quite amused, not quite judgmental. He doesn’t say anything, but waits patiently. I grab his hand, and he pulls me to my feet with ease. 

“Thank you,” I mutter, brushing snow from my clothes. He doesn’t understand, but it slips out anyway. To my surprise, he inclines his head slightly. Guess he gets the gist. 

We continue on again, trekking through the mountain path—narrow, winding, and flanked by cliffs that drop off into snowy nothingness. My legs ache, my fingers are numb, and the cold has settled into my bones like an unwanted roommate. Every breath fogs the air in front of me. I’ve stopped trying to brush the snow from my sleeves. It’s part of me now.

Oh, hell no.

I stop dead in my tracks and stare up at the death trap.

That’s the only way to describe it. To me, it looks like a death trap stapled to a cliff face by someone who hates safety regulations. A patchwork of wood and rope clings to the rock like it’s praying the next gust of wind isn’t its last. Half of it is broken, sagging dangerously, and the other half looks like it’s auditioning to join it. Jagged boards stick out like teeth, and the whole thing creaks in the wind with the ominous groan of something that knows it’s doomed.

“Jesus Christ.” I take a step back, involuntarily. 

Mean-Face steps toward the ladder, moving past me. She shoots me another one of those no-nonsense glares—the kind that could wither crops—and nods toward the ladder like it’s not the rickety lovechild of poor planning and zero safety measures. I grip the cloak tighter around my shoulders, trying to keep the warmth in and the dread out. 

My feet shift back instinctively, crunching snow. I shake my head. Nope. Absolutely not. Mean-Face’s scowl deepens.

This is how I die. 

On a splintered horror structure that looks like it was stapled to a cliff by a drunk medieval contractor who thought “support beams” were optional. At the ass-end of a frozen mountain range. In soggy pajamas and boots that are rubbing my feet raw.

I glance up again, as if it might look better the second time.

It doesn’t.

The elf steps around Mean-Face, planting himself between us. She scoffs—sharp, dismissive—and turns on her heel, shoulders squared, to begin the climb. The dwarf follows, flashing me an encouraging grin as he ascends as if to say ‘you got this, kid’.

Baldie’s stoic mask softens the instant he turns to look at me. He slides aside and lifts his arm in a silent invitation. 

I shakily exhale, bracing myself, and place a trembling foot on the first rung. Before panic can set in, his free hand drifts to my back, fingers splayed just below my shoulder blade, guiding me onto the wobbling board. His touch is firm but gentle, anchoring me against the creak and groan of the ladder.

Okay, April. You got this. You did climbing as a fucking hobby…nevermind that you don’t have a safety harness, chalk for your hands and trained supervisors watching every move.

I force myself not to look down—because the moment I peer over the edge, I know I’ll lose it. 

He falls into step behind me, matching each shaky move as we climb the next ladder—and the next—until at last we’re pacing along a narrow, rickety catwalk clinging to the mountainside. My fingers white-knuckle the iron railing. I force myself forward, one careful foot in front of the other, heart hammering in my throat. I grab the railing and walk slowly, and make the mistake of looking down—-

Fuck—

A wave of vertigo hits me like an avalanche. 

My legs give out, and I fold onto my haunches, arms coiling around the rail as though it’s the only thing keeping me from plummeting. The wind shrieks through the passes, whipping stinging snow into my face, and for a heartbeat I’m convinced I’ll never stand again.

Then he’s there—his fingers easing onto my shoulder, he’s speaking softly and his voice is a comfort, but not enough to get me moving. I close my eyes, and draw a shuddering breath. I shake my head, willing the world to stop spinning.  

Rock climbing in a padded gym is a thrill—ropes secured, helmets clipped on, cushioned mats below. You flirt with danger, but you know you’ll land softly if you slip. This, however, this is not fucking fun. Every gust of wind, every creak underfoot reminds me that there’s no safety net here. This is sheer terror. This is real. This is real . This whole fucking thing is real and I am not having a fun fucking time.  

Baldie says something. It’s soft, like a blanket on my ears. Syllables flowing over me like warm water. Inside the cadence, there’s reassurance—an unspoken, it’s all right that threads straight into my chest. Even if I can’t grasp the meaning, I know he’s telling me not to be afraid.

Or maybe I’m just mesmerized by how pretty it sounds.

When I open my eyes, he’s watching me with an intensity that feels almost tender. His gaze meets mine and holds—no rush, no demand—just a quiet assurance that, somehow, we’ll make it through this together.

You can do this, April . I like to imagine he’s saying. You’re alright . Almost there . 

I force a shaky breath, pressing my forehead against the cold railing before straightening up. He slides an arm around my waist and helps me to my feet, guiding me across the swaying catwalk. The snow crunches under our boots as we step onto solid ground. Ahead, Mean-Face stands arms crossed, her jaw tight and one brow arched. She shifts impatiently, tapping her gauntlet against her hip—clearly fed up with our dawdling. Behind her, Chest Hair’s grin is practically infectious.

Mean-Face’s lips part, about to issue another command, but the dwarf beats her to it with almost something boastful and… proud? His tone is light, teasing—an attempt to defuse her scowl. Mean-Face rolls her eyes and turns away, muttering something. Chest Hair steps closer and claps my arm, offering me a reassuring wink, as if to say, told you so . 

I can see the massive rift from here, unobscured by trees or walls, and it’s… 

Breathtaking. 

A roiling column of sickly green light falls from the cloud-choked sky to the snow-packed valley below, twisting and writhing like a living flame. It’s mesmerizing—like the northern lights but with a hunger that could swallow us whole.

I’ve never seen anything so savage and so beautiful at the same time.

When we finally stagger out of the tunnel—after endless demon fights and me cowering in the corner—I nearly trip over bodies strewn across the snow.

Mean-Face mutters a curse under her breath. Her expression tightens—sad, maybe, but disciplined. She pauses for a moment, but then steps past the bodies like a soldier who’s seen too many. I pause, swallowing hard, then slowly drop to my knees. I press two fingers to each neck, just to be sure—no pulse. They’re gone.

I don’t know these people. Just soldiers. Strangers.

I don’t cry.

Instead, there’s a dull, hollow stillness in my chest. Too much has happened—too many horrors stacked on top of each other. I stay kneeling, numb, listening to the wind whip through the mountains and wondering how I’m supposed to feel when I’m already out of feelings.

I sigh, and don’t bother trying to close their eyelids. In real life, the muscles that control blinking go slack after death. Unless you tape the lids shut or use those little plastic eye caps they mention in forensic threads, the eyes always slip open again. I’ve seen a lot of analysis channels on YouTube, read a ton, and debated realism in death scenes with friends.

I don’t want to be here anymore, so I stand, and start following after Mean-Face. 

We walk for what must be hours, the cold worming deep into my muscles, each step a fresh protest from my aching feet. I’m stumbling now, leaning hard on the thick stick I picked up along the way. It’s the only thing keeping me upright. 

At this point, I’m just doing what they want. I think they want me to close the biggest rift in the sky—whatever that means. So I do what they ask, nod when they gesture, follow when they move. All in the feeble hope that they’ll see I’m cooperating. Then maybe—just maybe—they’ll help me get back home. 

If I can ever figure out how to tell them that.

Oh my god…

I push forward, and the path spits me out into a landscape torn straight from a nightmare. Spires of black stone—twisted, crystalline things—stab at the sky like the world fractured and never healed.

What the fuck happened here?

Veins of green light pulse inside the rock, like poison trapped in glass. Ruins sprawl beneath it all: shattered walls, broken towers, ancient architecture half-swallowed by snow and time. Bits of flame still flicker among the rubble, casting eerie light without heat. The air thrums with some lingering power, and it tastes burnt—metallic, like storm-charged wind. My steps crunch loudly, too loud in a place this dead.

I see bodies. Frozen mid-motion, curled or sprawled where they fell—blackened and stiff, like the casts from Pompeii. Their skin looks scorched, petrified, as if whatever hit them turned them to charcoal and stopped time in the same breath. Their arms are raised, like they were trying to shield themselves from something that never gave them a chance.

“Jesus…”

There’s a few of them… no—too many. Figures frozen in death, scattered like broken statues. My eyes catch on one smaller shape—a child—and my blood goes ice-cold.

Then the smell hits me. Burned flesh.

“Oh god—”

I stumble back and turn around, dropping to my knees, hard enough to sting. Bitter bile scorches my throat as I retch onto the ground, my whole body shuddering. My breath breaks between sobs and dry heaves, helpless against the wave of horror crashing through me. I stay there, and comb my hair back, leaning on my knees. I wrap my arms tight around myself like I can physically hold it all in. 

Then I hear the crunch of boots nearby. I flinch, instinctive and startled, but it’s the dwarf. The one with the kind eyes and the crooked smile. He sets his crossbow down with a quiet clink, then eases into a crouch beside me. Close, but not crowding. One gloved hand hovers—hesitates—then settles lightly on my arm. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just there.

He doesn’t speak—not that I’d understand him anyway—but his face softens when our eyes meet. No pity. Just… presence. A quiet, worn understanding I didn’t know I needed.

I choke on a breath. 

It’s too much. This is too much.

I want to go home. 

The smell of burned flesh is still clinging to the back of my throat. The images—those bodies—are seared into my mind, and no matter how tightly I close my eyes, they won’t go away. The silence around me isn’t peaceful—it’s loud. Screaming. Every heartbeat feels like a drum against my ribs, panicked and out of rhythm.

I’m cold. My fingers hurt from gripping too tightly. My face is wet with tears and wind, and my whole body feels like it’s buzzing just beneath the skin—like I might shatter if anyone touches me again.

And all I can think is: I want to go home.

Home. Where the air smells like rain on pavement, and the worst thing I had to deal with was a late bill or forgetting to defrost the chicken. There were beds with clean sheets, and coffee in the morning, and people who spoke my language. Who knew me. Where I wasn’t surrounded by corpses and monsters and strangers with swords.

I want my apartment. I want my playlists. I want someone to tell me this is a dream and I can wake up now.

But I don’t wake up. I just sit there.

And I want to go home so badly, it fucking hurts.

Chapter Text

Okay, April. Get up.

My eyes squeeze shut. I wipe my face with numb fingers. Breathe in.

Out. 

In.

Out.

In.

I keep going until the tremble in my chest dulls enough to move. My limbs still feel heavy—like grief has weight, like sorrow clings to my bones—but I shift. One knee. Then the other. The dwarf’s hand tightens slightly over my bicep, just enough to help. Not rushed. Just patient, solid strength as I push myself back to my feet. I don't thank him—I can't. But I nod, and he nods back, as if that’s enough.

And maybe, just for right now, it is.

Mean-Face barks orders at someone as we move deeper in. 

The place is massive—high ceilings, crumbled stone, like some ancient temple hollowed out by time or violence. Pillars lean at odd angles, and the floor’s cracked underfoot. It smells like damp earth and something older—dust, maybe, or ash. Whatever it is, it coats my tongue when I breathe. 

It’s weird. Something about the space—it feels familiar. Like a half-remembered dream. Like I’ve seen this place before in a museum exhibit or a history book I never finished. The shapes, the arches… it all presses at the edge of memory, but never quite comes into focus.

I see crystals. Jutting from the stone walls like jagged wounds. They glow red—angry red, pulsing faintly like they're alive. I slow, eyes drawn to them. Something in my gut tightens. They’re… beautiful, in a kind of alien way. Not glittery like gems, more like something dangerous pretending to be pretty. They hum faintly, almost too quiet to hear. The vibe’s wrong. It feels sinister. My instincts flare—

Chest Hair steps into my path, firm, and I realise with a chill that I was walking toward them. He  shakes his head, mouth a grim line. He raises one hand—not forceful, not scolding, just stern . Then he gestures me gently away. I let him guide me past.  

This whole place is wrong.

I avoid stepping on the debris, the pebbles, small slices of red gems and—

The air is thicker here—like something’s pressing down on my lungs, on my skin. At the far end of the hall, the rift looms like a scar carved straight through the sky. Massive. Pulsing. Alive. It crackles and churns with impossible energy, a swirling vortex of sickly green light that bathes the stone in a sinister glow. But I feel it. Buzzing under my skin, a high, crawling tension that makes my bones want to run.

Then—

Voices.

We move deeper into the temple, toward the stairs that lead down into the hollowed-out space below. As we round a corner, a voice crashes through the chamber—deep and echoing, like thunder rolled through a cathedral. It’s not just loud. It reaches into you, claws at the inside of your head, your chest, your spine. One is deep, commanding—male. I don’t know what he’s saying. It's not English. Nothing here is. Then a second voice. A woman this time. Familiar in a way that hits me in the chest.

And then I hear myself . 

“What’s going on? Please—I want to go home! I want to go home!”

I sound frenzied. More freaked out than I am now. The same as I felt when I first woke up in the dungeon and started crying. 

The others hear the voices too. I don’t have to look to know their eyes are on the rift—on me.

Then Mean-Face is on me.

She grabs my shoulders, her grip firm—controlled, but intense. She's saying something, sharp and quick. Urgent. Her brows draw tight, eyes boring into mine like she’s trying to yank answers out by sheer force of will.

I squeak and flinch, shoulders hunching up to my ears. My legs lock. I feel like I’m made of glass—tight and ready to crack. 

Chest Hair steps in fast. He’s calm, but the edge in his voice makes her pause. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t argue—just says something with a warning weight to it. Mean-Face lets out a frustrated breath through her nose and releases me, stepping back with stiff, reluctant restraint. But her eyes never leave my face. Not even for a second. She’s still watching—like she’s waiting for me to unravel.

Baldie is a little ahead of us, he says something. He motions toward the mark on my hand, then back to the rift.

Above us, the rift pulses, shifting like a wound trying to close but never quite healing. Crystals grind against each other with a sound like bones being crushed. That awful light keeps spilling out in waves, painting the cracked stone in shades of ghostly green.

Dread pierces my stomach. We’re not done yet, are we?

Mean-Face barks sharp commands, her voice cutting through the stale air. Soldiers scramble into position, spreading out like practiced clockwork. No panic. No hesitation. Just grim readiness. The unsheathing of swords, the tension of bowstrings being drawn. I don’t know what she says, but I don’t need to. The look in her eyes tells me enough.

More things are coming. More monsters. More danger.

Baldie approaches slowly, as if careful not to startle me. His steps are soft against the stone, his voice even softer—calm, measured, the way someone talks to a frightened animal. I don’t understand the words, but I understand the tone. It’s meant to reassure.

And that only makes my heart race harder.

It’s the kind of voice people use when something’s really wrong and they don’t want you to panic. The quiet-before-the-storm kind. My fingers twitch. I want to back away, but I’m already backed into this moment, with nowhere left to go. He must see it—the tension, the way I flinch slightly even at his calm. Because he stops. Mid-step. Just—waits. He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t press.

Instead, he lowers his staff slightly, shifts his weight in a subtle way that makes him seem... smaller. Less threatening. Then he raises a hand. Not toward me—just open, palm up, an offering. Not demanding. Not commanding.

Waiting.

I don’t move right away, but I stop retreating. That’s something. I think he knows it too.

Because he stays exactly where he is. Present. Not expecting anything.

Just waiting for me to choose.

Well… I can’t run. Not with all these soldiers around. Not with Mean-Face or Chest Hair eyeing me, and not with the magical nuke right in front of me.

Reluctantly, I step toward him. He reaches for my hand—not grabbing, just gently guiding it upward, toward the rift. 

The moment it aligns, I feel it. A pull, like gravity in reverse. The mark on my hand flares to life, burning bright against the murky green above. It doesn’t hurt, exactly—it’s more like pressure, a deep throb radiating from the bone. A strange heat travels up my arm, not fire-hot but wrong-hot. Like a fever. Like something alien pressing into my skin.

And then—

The air tears.

With a horrible crack and a thunderous boom, something massive comes out of the rift, the sound like a lightning bolt being born. It slams into the ground in a shockwave of force and heat. The thing that appears is monstrous—towering, brutal, wrong. Its body is massive, sculpted from jagged muscle. Spikes on its shoulders. Horns twist from its head like something hell-forged.

It lands in a crouch, and when it tilts its head back up—

Multiple eyes.

Like a spider.

All of them locking onto me.

I can’t breathe.

What the fu—that’s what was in there?! Did we—did we summon it? Why would we do that?! Why would anyone do that?!

My thoughts are a trainwreck, a full pile-up of panic and disbelief, but my body doesn't wait around for my brain to catch up. My feet are already moving—back, away, anywhere else. My survival instincts scream louder than anything else and I run. I run.

I hear yelling behind me, but I don’t care. I don’t stop.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

Fear explodes in my chest, flooding my veins like ice water as the ground shakes with the demon’s roar—massive, guttural, alive. Arrows hiss through the air behind me. People are shouting. There’s a metallic clang. I don’t want to know what’s happening.

I just want to be gone.

Then—hands.

A soldier grabs my arm. Reflex takes over—I swing the shield clumsily, more desperation than precision, trying to bop him in the face. He dodges like it’s nothing, and before I can try again, he yanks the shield right out of my grip and tosses it aside like a toy. My breath punches out of me. He doesn’t let go of my wrist.

He won’t let go.

He’s stopping me from running.

Stopping me from gettingthefuckawayholyshitlemmegolemmego—

I twist, panic rising to my throat, raw and ragged. My free hand claws at his armour uselessly. I think I scream—I’m not even sure anymore.

I just know I have to move. I have to run. I have to not die today. He yells something, loud and urgent, but it washes over me like noise underwater. My heartbeat is a thunderclap in my ears, drowning out everything else. I thrash in his grip, wild, barely human. I’m trying to wrench away, trying to claw, trying to breathe.

My wrist burns where he’s got me, fingers like iron. I lurch back, tugging, twisting, shoving.

“Let me go!” I scream, hoarse and cracked and raw.

The soldier’s face tightens—maybe in confusion, maybe in frustration—but he doesn’t let go. His mouth keeps moving, saying words I can’t understand, can’t process. There’s too much noise, too much light. The glow from the rift scorches the edge of my vision, and the thing is still there, somewhere behind, tearing the air apart with every step.

I'm going to die.

I’m going to die and I can’t even—

Then someone else steps in.

Baldie.

He says something to the soldier, and the soldier glares at me, before spitting on the floor and running back in. Then Baldie…He doesn’t shout or rush. He moves with careful intent, hand extended—not to grab, just offered, open. Like he’s approaching something fragile. Like I’m the fragile thing. His voice follows, low and level. There’s slight urgency in it, but no heat.

I don’t understand what he’s saying. Not a single word.

But the gestures make sense.

He taps my hand. The mark. This.

Then taps the middle of my chest, just below my neck. You.

Then—he presses that hand to his chest. Wide eyes. Fingers splay over his heart, held there for a beat, and then drift outward, slowly, toward me. A simple gesture that says: Please.

My heart is hammering. My breath keeps catching in my throat.

A scream cuts through the air. Raw. Final.

Someone's dying.

That could be me.  

Every instinct I have screams to run—but my feet stay rooted. Trembling, aching, unsure.

I’m scared out of my goddamn mind. But I meet his eyes anyway. His brow is furrowing, but not with anger. With need. Urgency. He taps his own chest, then gestures between us. I’ll help you. 

I shake. I want to run. I’m still thinking about the scream I just heard. It rings around my skull like an echo in a cave. But he holds his ground—silent, waiting for me to make the choice. No one’s forcing me. He’s asking. Others would force me. He is asking . 

Fuck. 

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. 

I clench my jaw and shut my eyes, and curse everything as I think. I need to think.

Every thought in my head is static. My heart's hammering like it's trying to punch its way out of my chest, and I can still feel that scream—echoing through the air, vibrating in my bones. My legs twitch. I drag in a breath that shudders all the way down. My fingers twitch. My knees threaten to give. But I keep my feet planted. My eyes flick open, and he’s still there.

“Okay,” I whisper to no one. Maybe to myself. Maybe to the gods. Maybe to him.

Let’s do this, Baldie.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

I’m running—sprinting—full tilt around this hellscape as demons barrel after me like it’s feeding time. I don’t even know where Baldie went. He vanished somewhere behind me, probably slicing through his own nightmare.

I am so fucked.

I’m screwed six ways to Sunday. I should’ve never said yes. What the hell was I thinking? 

Nope. Nope. Nope.

This is how I die. Not with glory. Not with meaning. Just… screaming. Running in circles. In boots that don’t even fit. I should’ve never agreed to—

Shit. 

A yelp rips out of me as I duck and skid across cracked stone—something sharp whipping past my head. A sword, maybe. Thrown? Launched? I don’t know. It crashes somewhere behind me. I don’t look back. Don’t have time to dwell. 

Periodically—when I’m sure nothing’s barrelling after me—I stop and throw my hand toward the rift. It doesn’t react. I shake it, try again. Still nothing. Apparently this thing works like bad Wi-Fi—get too far and you lose the signal.

“Shit,” I hiss.

Too late.

A demon locks eyes with me. Starts toward me.

I bolt—again—but barely get far before I skid across the floor, my boots slipping on loose debris. Another demon materializes ahead. Then a third, to the side. I spin in place, scanning for anything—anything—to fight with. I’m cornered.

Rock.

I snatch it up and hurl it at the closest one. It smacks the demon right on the head with a sad little bonk.

It snarls. Roars.

Cool. Now it’s angrier.

So I do the only thing I can—even breathless, heart in my throat—I inhale and scream at the top of my lungs, praying to every god I don’t believe in that a soldier hears me.

I’m mid-scream, lungs raw, when the air changes.

A shimmer—no, a crack—like heat warping the space in front of me. I flinch, throwing up an arm, expecting to get mauled. 

Instead, the demon bursts into flames.

It doesn’t just catch fire. It erupts.

Blue fire, colder than it looks, wraps around it in ribbons of controlled destruction. It screams—an awful, screeching sound—and then crumples to the floor in a charred heap.

Oh goodie.

I don’t stop to check who made it. I just run. Full tilt. Legs burning. Heart screaming. Probably Baldie. It had to be Baldie. I haven’t seen anyone else tossing magic around like that. But I don’t look back. Looking back gets you killed.

I’m sweating—dripping. My arm pulses with pain, hot and sharp, worse than ever. Every step is a protest. My legs burn. My lungs burn. Hell, even my teeth hurt. Everything feels like it’s on fire. Like my body’s a battlefield too.

Across the open area, I see him.

Baldie.

He’s moving, but it’s not the same. His steps are slower now, his shoulders tight with exhaustion. He ducks another strike, barely, and staggers—magic flickering at his staff but weaker than before. There’s no time for precision anymore. Just survival, and the demon roars and lashes out again, relentless.

And Baldie—he’s not going to make it.

Something in me snaps.

I don’t even think.

I just run.

My legs are already moving before my brain catches up, boots pounding against broken stone, hand outstretched, the mark flaring hot and furious. The demon’s arm lifts—lightning coiling up its monstrous whip, ready to bring it down. Baldie narrowly escapes. But he's too tired. He won't dodge the next one.

No.

No, no, no.

I shove myself toward the rift, chest heaving, breath burning. The heat from the mark licks up my arm like wildfire, white-hot and unforgiving. But I don’t stop.

Come on.

I throw my hand forward.

Plant my feet.

My arm is on fire.

The heat surges from the mark and crawls up my shoulder, biting deep into the muscle. It’s not just burning—it thrums, pulsing with something ancient and wild and impossibly vast. Like the rift is trying to pull something out of me. Or into me. I can’t tell which.

I think I’m screaming.

But I’m not sure if it’s from pain, or desperation. Maybe both.

My knees threaten to buckle. My eyes are watering from the brightness of it all, from the sting in the air, from the panic clawing at my ribs like it wants out. The power in my hand lashes toward the rift like a tether—snapping into place, alive with impossible energy. It’s like holding a lightning strike. It hurts. It hurts worse than anything I’ve ever felt, but I hold.

I scream louder—if only to drown it out. The pain. The terror. The noise of the battle behind me. The fear that I’m too late.

But I don’t let go.

The green tendrils of mist recoil, curling inward like smoke pulled into a dying flame—tucking back into whatever hell they tore through to get here. And for the first time since this nightmare began, something stirs in my chest that isn’t panic.

Hope.

It’s small. Shaky. But it’s real.

A blinding flash explodes behind my eyes. I stagger—vision white, ears ringing. Dizziness slams into me like a wave.

The world tilts sideways, and my knees hit the stone before I even realize I’m falling.

My mouth is dry.

Scratchy. Like I’ve been swallowing dust for days.

But I’m… not cold?

That’s the first thing I really notice. There’s no bitter wind clawing at my skin, no stone floor leeching the heat from my bones. Just warmth. Gentle, steady warmth soaking into my limbs. Prying open my eyes is like peeling back layers of sleep with dull fingernails. My head feels stuffed with cotton. Everything's too bright.

And then—softness.

Beneath me is something soft. Not luxurious, but a hell of a lot better than the cracked stone and blood-soaked dirt I’m used to. A bed. Actual bedding. A blanket. My fingers clutch at the fabric like I’m not convinced it’s real. I shift, slowly, limbs sore and aching but functional. My body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry, but at least it’s not screaming anymore. That’s something.

My heels throb, raw and angry—probably from those boots with no socks. Better than frostbite, I guess.

Sitting upright, the room is small, rustic. Like a cabin—if not for the stone flooring. There’s wooden beams above me. Fur-skins hang near a shuttered window. A chair sits beside the bed, next to a low table with a half-empty glass of water and a bowl of something I hope isn’t porridge. A shelf with books. A birdcage—with a freaking raven in it—and a fireplace crackles nearby—its warmth licking across the floor, chasing away the chill from outside. 

No chains. No guards. Just quiet.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to piece it all together—fantasy world, green magic mark, rifts, demons... Baldie. And then—nothing. Just pain. Darkness.

That I’m still breathing feels like a cosmic clerical error.

I sit up with a wince.

Not a dungeon.

I’m disappointed it’s not my bedroom. Not home. But the change in treatment is... confusing. I guess they decided I’m not a threat?

An ally, maybe?

That doesn’t sit right.

An ally? Just like that? No angry knight breathing down my neck? No one goes from “world-ending threat” to “give her a pillow” overnight.

A creak.

My head turns—slowly.

A blurred shape steps into the room—a girl, young, with arms full of cloth and glass. Her eyes lock with mine. She yelps and drops everything. The supplies hit the floor with a clatter, scattering in every direction. She drops to her knees, scrambling to gather them, stammering in a rush so fast the words blur into each other. Nervous. Maybe scared.

I only half register her.

The other half of me is distracted—by the red rug stretching across the floor, warm and rich, grounding the room in colour and comfort. It matches the rest of the space in a way that feels almost… lived-in.

Then she does something I can’t ignore.

She bows.

To me.

Uh.

What. The. Fuck.

I hold out a hand, voice soft, trying to reassure her. “Uh—it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

She squeaks, bows deeper—forehead nearly to the floor—then scrambles to her feet, head still ducked. Without another word, she backs out of the room like I’m some kind of royalty, and disappears behind the door.

Leaving me alone.

I repeat:

What the fuck.

I’m getting whiplash from how the people are acting around me. 

But more importantly—what happened?

I remember the rift. The searing light, the roar of demons, the way my arm felt like it might split open from the inside out. I remember planting my feet and trying. I remember the flash. And then… nothing.

Did I do it?

I think I did. I'm not dead. The rift isn't here. So unless someone else closed it while I passed out, I guess that means... yeah. I did it.

I shift on the bed and ease my legs over the edge. The moment my feet touch the floor, a sharp breath escapes me. Blisters. Raw skin. It feels like someone took sandpaper to my heels and set fire to my tendons. Pain crawls up my legs in waves.

Something distracts me almost immediately when I see the shape in the corner of my eye. 

Is that a lute?

My gaze lands on an instrument leaning against the small table at the foot of the bed. And next to it—is that wine? A real, actual bottle. With a cork. And a glass beside it.

I blink.

Is that for me?

No. It can’t be for me. Right? I'm a prisoner. A suspect. A freak with a magical hand problem.

But the lute’s just there, like it belongs to me. Like someone thought, “Hey, maybe she’ll want a drink and a jam session when she wakes up from her magical coma.”

What the fuck is going on?

I’m also still in my fucking pyjamas.

This might be the weirdest hostage situation I’ve ever heard of. 

I scoff when I look down at the fuzzy cartoon sheep printed on the pant legs. I need to find some clothes. Real clothes. Preferably ones without barnyard animals or elastic waistbands. And socks. Gods, please let this world have socks. If they’ve figured out how to summon demons but haven’t invented socks, I might actually riot.

Gritting my teeth, I push myself to stand. My legs wobble like wet noodles, every joint loudly protesting the idea of movement. But I manage, even if I feel like I’m ninety. The soles of my feet sting with every step—raw and bruised from running in boots clearly not meant for marathons—and no fucking socks.

I start scanning the room more carefully. There—off to the side—baskets, barrels. Crates stacked in corners. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this place was a storage room before someone half-heartedly tossed a rug and a bed in it to make it feel “homey.” Like they got the idea of comfort right off a medieval Pinterest board.

It doesn’t feel hostile, exactly. Just rushed. Temporary. Like I’m being kept here until they figure out what to do with me.

I eye the black chest with gold trim the way a raccoon eyes a trash can—cautious, curious, fully prepared to bolt if something jumps out. But before I get to it, my gaze snags on the cage nearby.

Inside, a raven perches in stillness, its feathers glossy in the firelight. Most of them are a deep, ink-black, but there’s a flash of vivid red—a sharp mohawk trailing down its back, and two streaks slashed beneath its eyes like war paint. Not “weird shade of brown” red. No, ruby. It’s… pretty. Beautiful, even. But not in a comforting way. Not the kind of bird you name Edgar and teach to quote Shakespeare. More like the kind you’d see perched on a necromancer’s shoulder—right before it pecks out your soul.

Still, it doesn’t caw or flap or lunge. Just sits. Watching. Breathing.

I glance at it again. It must be tame, right? Friendly? No one sticks a cursed hellbird in a convalescent’s room. Right?

Unless it’s a camera. A magical security drone. Shit, maybe some mage is watching me through it right now—studying me, waiting to see if I raid the chest or try to escape.

…Or maybe I’ve just seen too many movies, read too many books.

I shuffle toward the chest anyway. Slowly. Cautiously. Watching the bird as much as it's watching me. 

I pop the chest open, half-expecting it to hiss or bite or start glowing ominously. It doesn’t. Just creaks like regular old wood. Inside, a neatly folded outfit rests on top—a tunic, pants, something that might pass for undergarments if I squint, and—oh, thank the gods—socks. They even smell clean. Like herbs and maybe a little bit of woodsmoke. Not blood or mildew or whatever nightmare scent this place could’ve offered.

I pick the outfit up and give it a once-over. It’s simple, but well-made—stitched from sturdy fabric in earth-tones that scream “fantasy peasant” more than “prisoner.” Which makes me wonder: did someone actually leave this for me? Or am I technically stealing?

I pause. Consider. Shrug.

Whatever. I closed some weird alien hellhole in the sky and got tossed around like a ragdoll for my trouble. I’ve earned clothes.

I slip into the clothes, one layer at a time. They fit snugly—almost too well. A little too tailored to be random. Which is… disconcerting. Someone definitely guessed my size. From memory? From staring? Hopefully a nurse. Hopefully a woman. 

The socks are scratchy, a little rough on my sore heels, but a lot better than being barefoot. 

I take a few slow steps, my blistered heels hating me with every movement. My gaze drops to the rug again. That red-and-gold design I half-ignored earlier—it’s not just a pretty pattern. At a second glance, the sun motif practically glares up at me. Bold. Symbolic. Like something important, though I have no idea what. A crest? Religious iconography? Cult décor?

Great.

I keep thinking about it—about the sun motifs—and the more I do, the more I’m convinced about it being a cult. Still, I reach for the door. My hand hovers for a second before I grit my teeth and shove it open—

And immediately freeze.

Oh good god.

Two soldiers stand directly outside, rigid on either side of a path, fists pressed flat over their hearts in eerie unison. No words. No movement. Just silence. And then—behind them—people.

Rows and rows of people.

They stretch along both sides of the winding path that cuts through what looks like a village. Dozens of them. Every single one standing perfectly still, heads bowed, arms crossed tightly over their chests, fists clenched over their hearts—like the soldiers.

My skin crawls.

It’s not just respect. It’s not just tradition. This is coordinated. Choreographed. This is reverence. 

This is devotion.

Cult. It’s a fucking cult.

Chapter Text

I close the door behind me.

Lock it.

Turn the bolt.

Then I stare at the room. At the furniture. 

The large chest goes first—shoved in front of the door with a grunt. It scrapes across the floor, loud and solid. The table follows. It’s not light, but adrenaline does most of the lifting. That glass of wine nearly topples—I take it off and put it on the bed. Finally, the chair. Balanced awkwardly on top, wedged just enough to add weight.

A makeshift barricade.

I step back, panting, heart thudding in my ears.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

The knock is soft. Polite, even.

I don’t answer.

I don’t breathe.

Instead, I turn on my heel and march to the window. My fingers tremble as I grip the edge of the shelf—then I shove. It groans against the stone floor, every inch a protest, but I don't stop until it's pressed up tight against the window frame.

Good.

No way in. No way out.

I step back and eye my barricades like I’ve done something clever, something safe. Kneeling down, I spot the narrow shadow beneath the bed—then I shuffle forward on my elbows, wincing as my knees scrape the wooden floor, and wedge myself under. It's a little tight. Dusty. Quiet.

Then I pause. Twist out a little. Reach one arm back up, feeling blindly until my fingers curl around the neck of the wine bottle. I yank it down with me, the cork still wedged in tight.

The knocking hasn't stopped.

I wait. Eyes on the underside of the mattress. Counting heartbeats.

Eventually, silence.

Only then do I pop the cork with a muffled thump and bring the bottle to my lips. The wine burns a little, sharp and cheap—but warm. Familiar, in a way nothing else here is.

So I drink, listening to the fire crackle and pop. 

I take another sip—longer this time. The kind that fills your mouth and makes your chest go warm even if your brain's still screaming that everything’s wrong. My hand rests over the bottle, the cool glass grounding me as I stare at the bed slats above. Dust floats in lazy spirals. My breathing slows.

What the hell is this place?

A cult of sun-worshipping medieval strangers. A glowing hand. A rift in the sky. A guy with magic who saved my ass. And now, a crowd bowing like I’m some divine message.

I grip the bottle tighter.

This is insane.

I shift a little to get more comfortable, knocking my elbow into something sharp—probably a loose nail—but I don’t move again. I stay there. Hidden. Breathing. Thinking. Drinking.

The bird squawks, and I wince, knowing it’ll have to get fed and that I’m a weak spot for animals. But maybe I can just move the shelf a little, open the window for it. It probably isn’t recall trained, or it is—in this type of world, but it’ll do a lot better out there than in here with me. 

This isn’t fucking real.

Maybe there’s feed in one of those containers. Seeds. Berries. Bread. Eggs—

Well, maybe not eggs but—

The knock comes again—firmer this time, but still polite. Then a voice, muffled through the door. I don’t answer. I just grip the wine bottle tighter, arms wrapped around it like it’s a lifeline. My cheek presses against the stone floor. I shuffle back, further under the bed, into the darkest, dustiest corner I can reach, ignoring how the ground scrapes against my elbows and knees. The bottle clinks softly as I reposition it, cradling it like a hot water bottle of bad decisions.

I hear the wood creak outside the door, like someone shifting their weight.

More silence.

Then, finally, retreating footsteps.

Good. Let me lose my sanity in peace, thank you . 

I close my eyes, and imagine home. 

I see cracked linoleum floors dusted with paw prints, and the scratch of little claws on tile—sharp, rhythmic, familiar. I smell cedar shavings, old hay, wet fur, kibble dust, and disinfectant that never quite masked the animal scent underneath. That smell clung to me everywhere. It was never perfume, but it was mine.

There were mornings when the sun would slant through the east windows of the sanctuary just right, and the whole place would glow like a secret. Rabbits twitching their noses in golden light, tortoises blinking slow hellos, the chorus of impatient bleats from goats who thought breakfast was late if I was two seconds behind the clock. And cats. Cats draped like royalty over every warm surface, judging, yawning, blinking at me like I was their servant and their favourite.

Evenings were quiet. My second-floor apartment above the shop smelled like old paperbacks and dryer sheets. I had a lot of DIY furniture I commissioned from a friend, too many blankets, and too few clean mugs. There were puzzles always half-finished, books always half-read, and dice sets on the floor that I stepped on more often than I rolled. Game nights with laughter loud enough to echo down the street. Friends pretending to be wizards and rogues, while we passed popcorn and fought imaginary dragons.

I clutch the bottle tighter, and tears burn. 

I’m in there for hours.

Time slows in the dark, under dust and wood. Every creak of the walls might be someone returning. Every footstep outside stiffens my spine. Now and then, there’s a knock. A voice. Each time, I flinch and shrink back as if hiding will make the world forget I exist.

As if fear can make me invisible.

Eventually, the hunger wins. A slow, twisting ache that gnaws at my ribs and makes the wine in my gut sit sour and thin. I press a hand to my stomach, as if shushing it. Then I brace myself, breath shallow. I slide forward on my elbows like a soldier crawling through trenches, and emerge from under the bed.

There is food.

Not much. Not fancy.

But food.

The burlap sacks in the corner yield rough, earthy gifts—potatoes still dusted with dirt, carrots with their bitter green tops limp from storage, apples gone soft in places but still good enough to eat. Nothing cooked. Nothing seasoned. Just raw, quiet survival packed in linen and twine.

But I’ve survived on worse. 

Stale toast scraped with butter when there wasn’t enough to coat the corners. Cold spaghetti out of the tin, eaten standing over the sink. Nights when the power was out and I lit candles not for ambience, but necessity. When the hum of the fridge stopping made my heart stutter because I wasn’t sure how long I could afford to fix it. I learned how to make meals stretch, how to tell when milk was just sour enough to toss, how to ignore hunger by keeping my hands busy or by drinking too much water to trick my stomach into being full. 

How to find comfort in the plainest things—crackers, broth, a decent apple.

My stomach knots and gurgles now.

I chew one of the better apples and sit against the wall, knees drawn up, the raven watching from its cage with an intelligent tilt of its head.

“Yeah,” I mutter, “go ahead. Judge me.”

It caws once, as if in response.

I sigh and bite off a small piece of apple, because I don’t have a knife, and kneel in front of the cage, gently offering it to the raven. “Sorry for the lack of manners, buddy, but this is all I have.”

It doesn’t attack me. It pecks at it, eats it. It caws once—quiet, raspy, almost thoughtful—and then returns to its perch, fluffing its feathers and eyeing me like it’s trying to decide whether I’m a pet or a problem.

“Same, honestly,” I whisper.

A chorus of rising voices outside the door sends a jolt down my spine like cold water.

I scurry back, fingers dropping the apple to the floor as I scramble, and wedge myself beneath the bed again. The hard wood presses into my back. Dust itches at my nose. I breathe shallow, quiet.

I curl tighter beneath the bed, arms wrapped around my ribs, like holding myself together will make me invisible. What sounds like arguing gets louder and louder. The first knock is a warning. A sharp thud against the door that rattles the frame. I jolt, head knocking the underside of the bed. Then the voice follows—gruff and unmistakably irritated. I recognize it. Mean-Face. I imagine her armoured fist hammering against the wood like she’s about to break it down.

Nope . 

I stare at the baseboards and try not to think about the knock. I imagine the sanctuary—hay stuck in my sweater, the warm bulk of a sleepy goat leaning on me, the smell of dog shampoo and wet fur. I imagine home. 

There’s silence for a long stretch.

There’s more bickering—quieter this time, like they’re trying not to scare me off. Muffled words, frayed with frustration. I don’t bother trying to make out what they’re saying. There’s no point. It’s all noise.

A shuffle.

Then quiet.

And then—

A different kind of voice. Less command, more coaxing. Like someone speaking to a skittish child behind a locked bathroom door. The tone is gentle, maybe even warm, but the meaning doesn’t reach me through the pounding in my ears. I lift my head slightly, peeking out from the edge of the bed frame. Just enough to see the room again. Just enough to spot the bottle where I left it. I crawl quick and quiet across the floor, fingers closing around the neck of the wine bottle.

Then I retreat. Back under the bed, back into shadow and silence.

The voice keeps talking. 

When there’s silence again. There’s a few words from the other party, Mean-Face, and—

—the door slams.

Jesus Christ!

I jump and hold the bottle like I have room to swing it in my cramped space. 

It slams again, and again until the wood bucks beneath the force, the whole barricade shuddering like a startled animal. The chair on top wobbles, clatters to the floor. The table creaks forward, scraping loudly. A second hit comes like thunder. Dust drifts from the ceiling. My breath catches. 

Another blow. The chest groans in protest. The raven shrieks—piercing and furious—wings flapping violently in its cage. I don’t know if it’s afraid or excited. Maybe both. Maybe it knows something I don’t. Maybe it knows this woman won’t stop until the door splinters in half and I’m dragged out by the wrist like some rabid thing she intends to cage again.

No, no, no, no—

One last bang—more impatient than aggressive this time—and the lock gives with a metallic shriek. The barricade doesn’t explode, it just… fails. The chest tips. The table skids forward with a heavy scrape. Something falls and shatters—glass, maybe. A breeze from the hall teases dust across the floor.

Bootsteps. Just one pair. Slower. Less stompy.

I tighten my grip on the bottle.

A pause. A breath.

Then another voice—not the mean one. Not barked orders or tight-laced fury. Just a slow, exasperated sigh.

I don’t move.

The boots scuff quietly against the wood. Measured steps. Not marching. Pacing. Thinking.

He hums to himself. Not a tune—more like a sound of curiosity. Then a pause. A rustle. Another sigh, this one almost amused. The gentle rustle of him shifting again. Then—The soft creak of leather. A grunt as he lowers himself further. 

Then he peeks under the bed, and I see the dwarf’s face. Chest Hair. 

I startle with a yelp and stare, wide-eyed, bottle clutched tight in both hands like a club. He quickly holds up his hand as if to say ‘ easy there, kid ’.

He didn’t treat me like shit, so I hold off on smacking him with the bottle. 

He speaks, and of course, I don’t catch a damn word of it. The tone’s soft, gravelly—almost friendly—but it might as well be static. His mouth moves, his voice curling with something warm and unhurried, but the sounds are foreign.

He must see the confusion on my face, because he pauses. 

Chest Hair adjusts so his neck isn’t at an awkward angle and settles onto his side like he’s getting comfortable for a nap, one arm propped up as if we’re just two friends hanging out under a bed. He reaches up, grabs something from the top, and then, with casual precision, sets a silver tray beside him. A gentle clink. He nudges it forward a few inches.

My eyes flick toward it.

…Pastries?

Does he think I’m a stray? Some twitchy raccoon he can lure out with buttery, maybe spiced, maybe sweet bait?

…I mean.

They do look really good.

He watches me with a calm smile, still in that ridiculous position. He’s practically lounging. One of Jack’s French girls. All he’s missing is a chaise lounge and a come-hither smirk.

He says something else. Slower now. The cadence’s changed—gentler, maybe questioning. A different phrase entirely. Might be asking my name. Might be saying please don’t bash my head in with a wine bottle.

Still no idea what the words mean.

He sees it. The blank look on my face. He nods, thoughtful. Scratches at his stubble.  He eventually picks up one of the pastries and takes a bite. His eyes close a second and he gives a quiet, approving hum, nodding to himself. Then gestures to me—again—with the same hand still holding the half-eaten tart.

Alright. Fine.

I stare. Then reach out and snatch one like he might change his mind. I sniff it, cautious. Apple. Warm spice. That good kind of crumble sugar that gets stuck to your fingers. I take a bite—and damn it. It’s good. 

Annoyingly, ridiculously good.

His mouth curves. Just slightly. That knowing kind of smug that says yeah, I thought so.

I finish it. Go for another.

But before I can reach the tray, he moves quickly and slides it back a few inches. Out of range. My hand freezes midair. My eyes snap to him in betrayal. 

Really?

He gives me a lopsided smile. Half-apologetic, half-mischievous. He wags a finger. Then mimes a beckoning motion—out. Come out.

Unbelievable.

The bastard is bribing me.

He thinks I’m some twitchy raccoon he can coax from hiding with buttered sugar and flaky crusts.

…And the worst part?

It’s working.

I hesitate—then, grumbling under my breath, I slowly, reluctantly wriggle out from under the bed like a gremlin dragged into daylight. I sit cross-legged in front of him, spine stiff, posture guarded. Like I’m not still debating whether I trust him or not. 

He doesn’t gloat.

He just offers the tray again.

Like a peace treaty.

And I accept it. Begrudgingly.

She stands just beyond the ruined barricade like she belongs there. Like she owns the space, even with splinters at her boots and dust catching in her cape. Her posture is military-straight, armoured arms crossed tight over her chest, jaw clenched so hard I can hear the grind of it from here. 

But she doesn’t speak. She watches.

Her eyes pin me like a knife through parchment. They flick to the bottle in my hands, then to the tray, to Chest Hair, and then settle back on me with something unreadable—half judgment, half calculation. She looks… tired. Not just physically. Like she's been arguing—not just with others, but maybe with herself. 

When I’m done eating, Chest Hair points to himself, says one word, slow and clear: “Va-rick." I blink at him. He points to himself again, sounding it out more. “Var-ric.”

A name?

Then he points to me. Eyebrows raised. 

I hesitate, then answer, quiet, slowly.

“April.”

His smile widens, just a bit more, and I slowly put the bottle down. Not far—just enough to show I’m not about to brain him. Yet.

“Ay…prul?” He sounds it out. 

I’ve never heard anyone mispronounce my name before. I blink, then snort. Just a little. A hiccup of a laugh that escapes before I can swallow it down. ‘Va-rick’ catches the laugh—small, startled, real—and his grin sticks, triumphant, like he’s just cracked some kind of code.

To show him that he got it wrong, I shake my head, and sound it out for him. He mimics the shape of my mouth, brows furrowed in cartoonish concentration. It’s closer. Better. He glances at me for confirmation, and when I give the smallest nod, he lifts both hands in mock celebration like he’s won a prize.

He taps his temple like he’s storing the name in a vault. Then he points again to me, this time not with a question but a certainty: “ April .”

I nod softly. 

Then—he dips a hand into one of his many pockets and pulls out a small leather-bound notebook. Worn edges. Dog-eared corners. The kind of thing that’s been used and reused a hundred times. From his bag, he produces a tiny vial of ink and a quill. He flips to a blank page. Dips the quill. Begins to write. The symbols are strange—sharp in some places, blocky in others. It almost reminds me of old norse.

I catch glimpses of familiar motion—left to right, top to bottom—but nothing I can actually read. It looks more like it belongs on a scroll than in a schoolbook.

I tilt my head and examine the page. 

He finishes one word. Circles it. Then draws an arrow pointing to me . 

Another word. Another circle. This one points to him .

Wait— Is he… writing our names?

Oh. He’s trying to translate. Or maybe just... label us.

I tilt my head. Lean a little closer.

The shapes aren’t completely alien—there are patterns, repetitions, curves that feel like they should mean something. I don’t know what the letters say, but I can tell when one starts and ends. I can see rhythm in the strokes, the way certain lines echo others. It’s not gibberish. It’s just... untranslated.

My fingers itch. A part of my brain, still hungry for control, wonders how long it would take to crack it. To learn it. To read signs, notes, maps. To understand what they say when they think I can’t.

It’s like a puzzle. 

I think of the stacks of half-finished puzzles scattered across my desk back home. Logic games, riddles, cryptic crosswords with corners scribbled in frustration and coffee stains.

It’s just like those. 

This is the same. Just a new kind of borderless jigsaw.

A language I don’t speak. A world I don’t know. But the pieces are there, and if I squint just right, I can feel the edges clicking into place. One at a time.

Something I can solve, something concentrate on so I don’t lose my mind. 

I gently take the quill from Varric ’s fingers. He lets it go without resistance, watching me with a flicker of curiosity. 

The ink is darker than I expected—thicker, maybe. Like molasses in a bottle. Carefully, I write my name next to where I think he’s written it in his language. The letters look strange beside each other—mine, rigid and familiar; his, looping and alien. 

Then I mimic what he did. Point to the word—April—then point to myself.

His brows lift in approval.

I glance back down. Then, with a small exhale, I write the name he said earlier—Varric —beside the symbol he’d written for himself. My handwriting looks too modern, too clean, beside his, but I tap it once, then gesture toward him.

His smile is warmer this time. Pleased, but gentler. Like we’ve just shaken hands without touching.

I hear a sound behind me. Just the faintest shift—leather creaking, armour brushing wood. 

I glance back.

Mean-Face still stands there, barely moved. But something’s shifted. Not her stance—not exactly—but the weight behind it. Her arms are no longer crossed. One hand has drifted down to her side, relaxed, not resting on her sword. Her expression is no less stern, but the edges of it have changed. Softer? No, not soft. Just… less rigid.

And she exhales. Quietly. Not a sigh, not quite.

She steps forward—just one step. The boards don’t creak this time.

I stiffen, ready to run. Varric  puts his hand gently on my shoulder and says something to her.  They share a look—silent, but full of something I don’t have the words for. Communication without speech. History compacted into a single exchange. Whatever passes between them, it calms something in her.

When I look at Varric again, he starts writing something else, and makes sure I have his attention before he holds up the notebook and points to her. 

I glance at her warily, and she nods at me, a lot more gentle than before. Then to my surprise, she speaks, and I know the name before she finishes saying it.

“Cass-ann-dra.”

It lands oddly. Not because it’s foreign, but because it’s not. I’ve heard that name a hundred times—on TV credits, in paperbacks, passed around middle school hallways. A girl in a leather jacket who wore chipped nail polish and borrowed trouble. That name belongs to my world. To normalcy. To Earth.

And yet…

Maybe there are familiarities between our worlds, after all. Maybe some names are mirrored, maybe something in our language is too. Hell, the place resembles earth, it just…feels stuck in some alternate dimension of it.

“Cassandra,” I echo quietly, the name slipping out smooth and sure.

Both of them blink. There’s the barest flicker of surprise on their faces—nothing dramatic, just a subtle hitch in expression. Varric ’s brow lifts slightly. Cassandra’s lips part, just a little. They hadn’t expected me to say it so easily.

She says a word—short, clipped. I don’t know the language, but I know what it means judging by her expression and nod.

Yes.

I nod, slow, then let my gaze fall to the notebook again. I trail a finger lightly along the edge of one of the words, careful not to smudge the ink.

There’s so much I don’t know.

So much I have to learn.

And I just hope they don’t kill me before I figure out how to say the only thing that really matters: Please help me get home.

I want to stick to the cabin. 

Cassandra seems to insist on bringing me somewhere, but Varric  seems to convince her that I need rest, or something. A few low words pass between them. But after a pause—one long breath—she sighs and relents with a clipped nod.

Maybe he’s in my corner after all. 

I do wonder where my mysterious bald elf is though. I hope he’s alright. I hope he didn’t get squished below that demon. 

As he turns to follow her, I reach out and tap his shoulder gently.

He pauses, looks back with a raised brow. I gesture to the notebook still tucked under his arm. Without a word, he hands it over, along with the little vial of ink and quill. I sit down cross-legged on the floor, balancing the page on my knee, and start to draw a silly doodle that would get the picture across—quick strokes, a rough oval, two pointy ears, no hair, and a grumpy frown for good measure. It doesn’t take too long, due to my experience with silly doodling. 

I hold the page up and tap the little caricature. Then I tap the place where Varric had written our names, looking up at him with a questioning tilt of my head. H is eyes flick from me to the drawing, and something passes across his face—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a breath caught on the edge of a laugh. He exhales through his nose, amused.

Then—smiling in that way he does, like he’s trying not to—he takes the notebook back, flips to a clean page, and pens a single word beneath my sketch. He taps the word once, then glances at me, says the name out loud—slowly, enunciated. Sol- ass ? No. It's said more like Sol us . I’m pretty sure it’s spelled Solas . I doubt his mother was cruel enough to saddle him with “ass” at the end of his name. 

But it’s funny, so I snicker. 

Varric  glances at me, one brow raised in curiosity. I just shrug, grinning, and to my surprise, he mirrors it—like he doesn’t get the joke, but he’s glad I’m laughing. I try to hand him the notepad back, but he gently closes my fingers around it instead. I look at him questioningly. 

Keep it. He gestures, and points at me. Yours . 

My eyes widen, flicking from the notepad to his face. I hug it to my chest, the pages warm from our hands and ink still drying on the last page. A quiet kind of warmth blooms in my chest, unexpected and a little overwhelming.

Hesitantly, I hug it to my chest and give him a shy, grateful smile.

 A silly doodle to show how she drew Solas XD

https://x.com/PastaFiendArt/status/1917934692273197409/photo/1  

Also, Varric is such a dad, fight me.

Chapter Text

It’s the next day, and I’m still hiding in the cabin.

I spend the morning rearranging the cramped little space like it matters. Straightening the chest, fixing the table Cassandra nearly demolished in her dramatic entrance, setting the chair upright like it hadn’t been flung aside in her rush. It’s all a little pointless, really—but it gives my hands something to do, something to anchor me while my brain spins like a compass with no north.

Visitors come. They knock. I don’t answer.

I sit in the silence and let it stretch. It’s not a peaceful kind of quiet—it’s taut, suspended. Like the world outside is holding its breath, waiting for me to stop pretending I’m not here. Waiting for me to re-join a story I didn’t ask to be part of.

Cassandra doesn’t come back to drag me out by the ankles, thankfully. Not yet, anyway. It’s only late morning. There’s still time for her to change her mind and kick the door in again like some armoured force of nature. But for now, she lets me be. A mercy, I guess.

The door stays shut. I would’ve locked it, if the lock hadn’t been splintered by her righteous fury yesterday. Now it just hangs there—useless, symbolic. This cabin is the only thing that feels remotely mine in this upside-down world. The only space that feels like a choice.

I know it’s not. Not really. But it’s a comforting illusion.

Eventually, I drag the side table closer to the bed and perch on the edge of the mattress. I set down the notepad Varric  gave me—still strange in my hands, still heavier than it looks—and pull a book at random from the shelf. The cover crackles as I open it, and a storm of dust erupts into the air. I cough, waving the cloud away with my sleeve, and squint down at the brittle pages once the haze clears.

The writing is unreadable. It looks more like a spell than a story. But I start scanning anyway, flipping slowly, page by page, eyes hunting for patterns, repetition, anything that might serve as a foothold. I start scribbling notes in the notepad. Drawing comparisons. Copying shapes. Guessing at meaning. One symbol keeps showing up near the top of paragraphs. Maybe it’s a header? A chapter? A name?

I lose track of time.

It’s hours before I realize how long I’ve been curled here, hunched over pages of ink and dust, following trails through a language I don’t speak. But something about it feels familiar—not the letters, not the words, but the act. Like doing a puzzle in the middle of a blackout. Something to hold onto when the lights are gone.

And I’m good at puzzles.

I’ve been here for hours, losing time without noticing. The only thing that finally pulls me out of the spiral is a sharp squawk from the raven. He flutters his wings irritably from the cage, and I wince. Right. He’s probably starving. Poor guy hasn’t eaten since yesterday—just like me, now that I think about it.

I set the quill down and look at him, brows furrowed. I’m going to have to get someone to feed him. Or maybe... is there a kitchen nearby? A mess hall? Something?

I don’t really want to leave.

But before I can fall deeper into that thought, there’s a knock at the door. Sharp. Two short raps.

I sigh and drag myself to my feet, grabbing the wine bottle as I pass—just in case. I crack the door open slowly, hinges groaning in protest. A chill drifts in, biting at my skin. I shiver and fold my arms tightly around myself. Varric stands on the other side, grinning.

I narrow my eyes, immediately suspicious.

He lifts a silver tray like it’s a peace offering. Not just pastries this time, real food. Warm scones that smell like bacon, a bowl of thick, steaming stew, pickled eggs, slices of coarse bread. The smell hits me like a punch, and my stomach growls in betrayal. I glance between him and the tray, then step back and pull the door wider.

But Varric wags a finger like I’m a misbehaving child, then repeats the same gesture from yesterday: hand sweeping outward, palm open. Come out, or no deal.

I scowl.

“Fucker,” I mutter.

He doesn’t know the word, but he catches the tone. His grin widens, all mock innocence and smug satisfaction.

“Fine.” I snap the word out, and glance past him, checking over his shoulder for company.

No one seems to be paying attention. The handful of soldiers nearby are wrapped up in their own duties—patrolling the perimeter, murmuring in low voices, sharpening blades. No gawkers. No Cassandra.

Just Varric. And food.

I glance again at the tray, then duck back inside. From the chair, I grab the folded cloak and sling it over my shoulders. I feel Varric ’s gaze follow me as I reach for the notepad with all my scribbles and shove it into an inner pocket.

Stepping out again, I point at the raven, then mime eating.

Varric tilts his head, brows drawing together. Confused at first—then something clicks. His expression clears.

He says a word that's slow and deliberate. It doesn’t mean anything to me, but he repeats it like it should.

I mimic the motion again. Point. Eating gesture. Raised brows.

With a soft exhale, he moves to a nearby crate and gently sets the tray down. Then he straightens, taps his palm with two fingers, and gestures writing. I hand him the notepad, and he flips to a blank page.

He sketches quickly—a small circle, a horizon line beneath it, then another circle sinking toward the edge. I think it’s the cultist sun motif at first, then realise it’s a sun setting. He taps the lower sun, points to the raven, then writes something in his script beside it. Underneath, he carefully prints a single word. He looks up at me, brow lifted in silent question. 

I study the page. Then him. And finally, I nod.

Later . He means later. 

He grins in quiet triumph, then hands the notepad back to me and scoops up the tray again. With a tilt of his head, he gestures for me to follow.

So I do, but not before tucking myself under the hood of my new cloak.

My feet don’t ache quite as badly today. The blisters are still there, tender reminders of too much walking in the wrong shoes, but with socks and careful steps, the pain stays manageable. I follow Varric  past the threshold of the cabin, the cold biting at my cheeks the moment the door closes behind me. The air is thin, mountain-crisp. Everything smells like pine, smoke, and steel.

I stay close. Not that I think anyone here’s going to grab me and throw me in a dungeon, but… well, I’ve been wrong before. 

We follow the path—mud crusted with frost, snow crunching underfoot. The courtyard stretches before us, ringed by weather-worn buildings and wooden palisades. A few soldiers in mustard-coloured coats stand talking by the gate, one of them laughing as he gestures animatedly.

None of them look our way.  

My eyes flick to the tall mountain peaks that frame the horizon like curved fangs. They’re beautiful, in a sharp and lonely sort of way. Like the world is reminding me how small I am out here.

Varric walks slowly, like he knows I can’t move fast with my feet still raw, but also like he doesn’t want to spook me. He talks for the sake of talking, I think. To put me at ease. I don’t respond. I just nod, absorbing all the details about the village in case I ever have to run. The buildings are rough, practical things. Timber and stone. Firewood stacked in bundles. Barrels pushed against the walls. 

The only splash of colour, really, is the red banners flapping above the gates and along defences. 

As if telling other people this village isn’t to be fucked with. Under protection. Military order, or religion, I wonder.

I glance at the people—workers, guards, a man hurrying by in layered robes. No one stares. Not even a sideways glance. Maybe they’ve already had their fill of the rift-closing stranger. Or they don’t know who I am, with my cloak on and hood up. Hand covered. No glowing mark for them. Not that it’s glowing now, anyway. 

I glance down at the hand in question before looking back up as we stride up stone steps, dusted with snow. I can see other pathways, one leading out a giant palisade framed by stone, and statues of—dogs. I think. They really like the dog motif as well as the sun one, it seems. 

The path bends gently, the packed snow giving way to stone as Varric leads me. My steps crunch quieter here. The sound of distant hammering fades behind us, replaced by the faint crackle of a fire and the low murmur of conversation. We crest the small incline, and I see them—rows of canvas tents huddled in the shadow of a larger stone building that looms at the centre of the village. Banners flap lazily from its spires, the red and gold stark against the pale stone and snowy backdrop. 

Ah. I realise. It’s the same place Cassandra dragged me. The dungeon is in there.

Varric doesn’t say anything, but he glances back, checks that I’m still with him. I nod once. My legs ache. My feet are still tender from yesterday’s punishment, but I keep moving. It’s easier now, even with the cold biting at my fingers.

There’s life here, too. A woman crouched by a fire stokes the embers with a long stick. Another, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, carries a crate into one of the tents. Supplies are stacked neatly along the walls—sacks of flour, baskets of roots, jugs sealed with wax. The tents smell of leather and smoke and something vaguely herbal. Clean, in a rugged kind of way.

My eyes drift up to the building ahead with worry—the heart of the camp, clearly. I don’t know what waits inside. Accusations? Maybe someone who’ll finally tell me what the hell is happening beyond “sky broke open and now you glow.”

I look up.

The sky is clear in patches, a pale blue pushing through the veil of cold clouds—but there, at the heart of it, the rift still hangs. A gaping wound torn into the world. Massive, celestial, and wrong. But it isn’t raging like before. No howling winds, no wild lashes of green lightning. Just a quiet churn of light and energy.

It reminds me of a scar more than a wound now. Still open, still raw—but not bleeding. Not screaming.

So I didn’t fix it.

I just… soothed it.

This is both a good thing, and a bad thing. That means they still want me alive. Good . Still want me to travel with them to close more of those rifts, probably. Bad . 

Varric gives a little jerk of his head, wordless but clear— this way —and strides ahead toward the weathered building with the carved wolves flanking the doorway. The lantern hanging above creaks gently in the breeze, its metal frame green with age. Warm firelight spills from inside, golden and inviting against the snow-muted world.

I follow, boots crunching over the frost-hardened ground. The scent hits me first—smoke, spiced mead, something vaguely gamey and roasted. Comfort, distilled. Varric pushes the door open with one hand, holding it for me like a proper gentleman and I step inside. 

The heat is instant, wrapping around me like a blanket. The tavern is rustic but cozy, walls lined with antlers and old banners, the floor covered in a scatter of rugs and muddy boot prints. A few soldiers and villagers—or workers?—are already gathered near the hearth, talking quietly, tankards in hand. A few people glance over, but don’t pay us too much mind. The tavern is warm and dim, the air filled with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional creak of wood or clink of mugs. It smells like smoke and something vaguely sweet—maybe mead.

Varric nods to the woman behind the bar, who gives him a knowing look and starts pouring something amber into a pair of cups. Then he turns to me and gestures toward a corner booth near the hearth. I follow him there, keeping my head down.  The table is scratched, the wood burnished smooth by years of elbows and spilled drinks. The bench is worn. The fire nearby warms the side of my face, and I breathe in slowly, trying to ease the tightness behind my ribs.

Varric slides into the seat across from me and smiles—small, tired, but genuine—and says something I don’t understand. I blink at him, and tilt my head slightly, uncertain. Whatever he said, I think it’s meant to be kind.

He slides the tray forward, and I say fuck it to manners. I’m starving.

I dig in.

He watches with quiet amusement, but I ignore him. I ignore the low murmur of voices around us, the clink of mugs, the occasional burst of laughter from across the room.  When I’ve finished, I lean back with a contented sigh and fish the notepad from my coat. I flip to one of the earlier pages—scrappy doodles from the cabin: a chair, a chest, a bed, even a lopsided fireplace and a wine bottle. Each sketch has a label beside it, written in my own language. An experiment. A shot in the dark. But maybe not a useless one.

I turn the notebook around and slide it across the table. Varric leans in, eyebrows rising as he scans the page. I flip to another page—more drawings: a sun, a tree, a boot, a cup. Just rough, quick sketches.

I tap a few of the sketches with the quill, then glance at him expectantly. A silent request.

Your turn.

He stares at the page for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then something shifts. His brow lifts, eyes flicking to mine—not with amusement, but with something quieter. Warmer. Appreciation. Maybe even pride.

He picks up the quill.

One by one, he writes his words next to mine, sounding them out as he goes. We take our time, trading words across the page.

The only hitch: I don’t know how to ask for a toilet.

I’m not even sure what they use. From what I’ve seen, things lean… medieval. So I sketch a chamber pot and hope for the best.

He leans forward again and taps the chamber pot with the quill. He writes down the word beside it in his own flowing hand. Then he says it out loud, slowly, clearly. I repeat it—badly. He is patient with me, continues to repeat it until I get it right. 

When I do, I smile, and he mirrors the expression. 

He leans forward again and taps the chamber pot with the quill. Then, in his flowing hand, he writes the word beside it. He says it aloud—slow, deliberate, clear. I repeat it. Badly. He doesn't laugh. Just gives a small nod and says it again. And again. Patient. 

Eventually, I get it right.

I smile.

He mirrors it—small, warm, genuine.

We keep going, word by word, passing the quill between us. I listen as he speaks, careful with my mimicry, matching sounds to sketches. 

In the background, a woman in the corner starts to play—some thin, lute-like instrument cradled in her arms. She strums gently, singing in a voice soft enough to wrap around the edges of the room. It’s the kind of song that feels like dusk—quiet, tired, kind. It seeps into me. Slows my thoughts. Loosens something tight in my chest. I glance over. When she meets my gaze, I smile and give a quiet clap of appreciation.

She grins, still playing, her voice curling around the next verse like a lullaby meant just for us.

Now that we have some form of very crude communication, he and I keep the translating game going until I have to use the little girl’s chamber pot. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable, then flip back through the notebook until I find the page. I tap frantically on the chamber pot sketch, trying to recall the word we practiced. My mouth works around half of it, then fails. But he gets the idea. He nods, and stands, motioning for me to do the same and follow him. 

He leads me through the tavern, weaving between tables and patrons, nodding politely to someone who greets him in passing. 

Before we leave, I pause to gather the tray. Manners might be a luxury here, but I still have some left. I carry it to the front bar, where a woman is tending to mugs and drying her hands on a rag. She looks up as I approach, clearly surprised. She says something—gentle, but unintelligible to me.

Varric quickly appears at my side a moment later and responds in kind, his voice easy, reassuring. The woman nods, her expression softening. She bows her head slightly in thanks—not in reverence, not like the others. Just polite. Grateful.

Good. She doesn’t know who I am.

I follow Varric outside.

We step outside into the cold.

Snow crunches softly beneath my boots, the air sharp in my lungs. The light’s pale and bright at once, filtered through the overcast sky and glinting off rooftops dusted with white. A breeze stirs the branches of a small tree nearby, shaking loose a few stubborn golden leaves that drift lazily to the ground. The village is blanketed in snow, roofs capped in white like iced pastries, trees dusted in frost. The buildings feel old but solid, built to last through worse winters than this. The wind carries the faint scent of woodsmoke and something herbal—resin, maybe. It smells safe.

Ahead, the path splits.

To the left, a broad, cobbled walkway leads straight to a grand stone building. Arched doors, flanking statues, crimson banners. The church. My stomach twists at the sight of it.

That’s the one with the dungeon.

I narrow my eyes at it—unsubtle, unkind. Varric notices. I hear the soft rasp of a chuckle as he glances back at me. He turns toward the other path—narrower, winding up a set of snow-dusted steps carved into the slope. Wooden cabins perch above like quiet sentries. He gestures for me to follow.

At the top of the steps, the area is ringed by squat wooden buildings with steep roofs heavy under the snow. Smoke snakes lazily from chimneys, curling into the sharp blue sky. The scent of burning wood and cooked grain is stronger here—earthier, lived-in. Domestic.

To the left, one building looks like a cabin. Modest, but inviting. To the right, someone leans against a stone well, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Then I recognise him.

“Oh!” The word escapes before I can stop it, bright in the cold morning air.

Varric stops mid-step. The elf blinks, startled, then turns fully toward me.

Baldie.

Well—Solas. I know his name now.

I lift a hand in a small wave and offer a smile. His head tilts ever so slightly. I can't tell if he's amused or confused. Maybe both.

The toilet can wait.

I flip open the notepad as I walk toward him, flipping through the mess of pages, half-translated words, and clumsy sketches until I find what I need. I stop in front of him, grinning like an idiot, nerves dancing in my chest like loose coins in a dryer.

“Hello!” I say in his language. Or try to. The accent probably butchers it, but the shape of the word is right—I think. 

His eyebrows rise. Just a bit. He replies in a string of words too fast and too smooth, and I catch absolutely none of it.

My grin falters.

Then Varric, ever the hero, steps in. He speaks up from beside me, casual and warm, probably saying something like; easy, she’s new. Don’t scare her off. 

Solas glances between us. I brace for smugness, disinterest or mocking, but none of that comes. Just a quiet moment, a soft narrowing of his eyes as he studies me. Then—he nods softly. 

I frown, and turn toward Varric, thinking on how I can express to him I want to say thank you to the elf—when I notice Solas saying something to Varric and slowly backing away like he’s about to leave. I step in front of him with a stern hand held up. He freezes, a little startled, and I quickly flip back to the notepad, furiously scanning the pages for something I can use. A word, a symbol—anything.

That seems to stop him more than my hand did.

He leans in slightly, eyes flicking over the scribbled drawings and notes. There's curiosity now—real curiosity.

I catch it.

So I hold the notepad out to him with both hands.

His eyes move slowly across the page, thoughtful and quiet. Then he opens his mouth—about to say something, maybe explain, maybe correct, maybe bestow infinite wisdom. Whatever it is, I’m ready for it. Eager, even. I look up at him, bright-eyed and waiting—

“Varric!”

The voice cuts through the air like a sword. 

I flinch. 

Solas glances toward the sound, but I already know who it is. I don’t need to look.

But I do anyway.

Cassandra.

Shit.

My brain short-circuits. My body, however, reacts on instinct.

I grab Solas by the arm and yank him directly in front of me, planting him like a very surprised tree. Then I reach out and snatch Varric, pulling him into place beside Solas like the world's most unwilling living wall. I huddle behind them, gripping their sleeves like awkward, mismatched shields. Solas looks down at his arm, then back at me. Varric gives me a look over his shoulder that says really ? without saying a word.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Maybe if I stay perfectly still, she’ll just keep walking.

Like a dinosaur. Cassandra is a T-Rex. Just a dumb T-Rex. 

I know she’s nearby when I hear an annoyed sigh. She stops just behind my new living barricade. I hear a another impatient breath—one that sounds like it's been held in for hours and is only now being allowed out.  Varric gently pats the back of my hand, like all right, kid, let’s not get stabbed, and tries to step aside. I clamp down harder on both their arms like a vice. Peeking between them, I lock eyes with her and deliver a solid stink-eye from the safety of my shields.

She stares down at me with all the warmth of a frostbitten blade.

Karen. She’s a military, medieval Karen.

Varric says something, and she huffs. 

She points at me, and it sounds like she’s giving me an order. 

Another rift? I wonder, and hide even more tightly behind Solas and Varric. 

Varric says something in a low voice—hopefully something diplomatic. Cassandra huffs in response and jabs a finger in my direction, barking out what can only be an order. I duck further behind Solas and Varric, trying to disappear entirely. My fingers tighten their hold. Varric glances at me again, more gently this time. His eyes are sympathetic, and he gives a small, subtle nod— you should probably go.  

I tug lightly on his sleeve, tilting my head with a quick motion. Come with me?

He sighs. Looks to Cassandra. Says something on my behalf. She growls something sharp in return and storms off, stomping like she’s trying to make the snow feel it. 

Varric starts to move, and I clutch his arm like a drowning woman reaching for driftwood. Solas, unfortunately, is still within range—and still in my grip. I feel him shift, just slightly, the tension in his arm suggesting he’s debating whether to remove himself.

But then… he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales quietly—a contemplative sound, almost like a hum—and matches his steps to mine. No resistance. No protest. He allows it. More than that—he closes the notepad he’s been holding and offers it back to me. I hesitate, reluctant to let go of him, afraid he’ll vanish the moment I release my grip. But I take it, tuck it into my cloak.

I look up at him.

And then—without a word—he offers me his arm.

I take it.

And the three of us walk forward, toward the church.

Toward my doom.

Chapter Text

I don’t like being in the church. 

The image of the dungeon beneath it doesn't leave my mind, doesn’t let me feel at ease. 

Varric walks at my side, not needing any further encouragement. He’s here for emotional support, and so is Solas, even if he stays silent and leads me by his arm. 

Cassandra stops in front of a door at the far end of the hall. I stop walking, stiffening, afraid she’s going to turn around and bite my head off, but she just opens the door wide enough for all of us to file through. 

The room beyond is warmer, though not by much. The fire in the hearth does its best, crackling in protest against the chill that seeps in through the stone. A long table stretches across the space, weighed down with maps, ink pots, and pins. On top, there’s a thick goddamn book—with that weird sun motif, an eye in the centre.

Three people turn at my entrance.

Quiet Red, I recognize. The other woman that was standing silently in the back as Cassandra interrogated me. The other two, I’ve never seen before. 

One has a refined and noble appearance. Her features are soft yet striking—high cheekbones, full lips, and wide amber-brown eyes that carry both warmth and calculation. Her dark hair is styled in smooth, intricate braids pulled away from her face. 

She’s pretty, I notice immediately. But her elegant poise and luxurious clothes intimidate me, as someone who has fluctuated between poor and middle class my entire life. Rich people scare me. Probably because I feel like they’ll judge me for being born in the wrong family. 

The other one is a blond man. He turns toward me, and yep. Of course he’s handsome.

He’s got that square-jawed, noble sort of face, like someone sketched him while daydreaming about the ideal knight. Blond hair swept back neatly, not a strand out of place. His golden-brown eyes are focused, not cruel, but not exactly warm either. His face isn’t clean-shaven, but not scruffy either. Just enough stubble to look like he doesn’t care about vanity, but still somehow makes it work. He looks young but tired—like someone who’s seen too much war to believe in fairy tales, but still wears the armour like he’s trying to live one.

There’s a quiet intensity in his stare, and I don’t know whether to salute him or hide behind Varric again.

Maybe both.

“Hello.” I tell them, a little less confident than how I approached Solas before. 

Two of them blink in surprise. Quiet Red doesn’t. 

The noble woman’s brows lift slightly, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—approval, maybe? The blond man—Sir War Hero or whatever—straightens in surprise like I’ve just declared myself fit for battle. He opens his mouth, ready to launch into something. But Varric cuts in smoothly. He speaks, hands raised.

The dark-haired woman turns her attention to him, her voice like silk over polished glass as she responds. There’s a faint lilt there. I’ve heard something like it, but I’m not sure where. Spanish, maybe. I eye her, trying to match the accent with a memory. The way she carries herself—shoulders back, chin up, not in a snobbish way, but like she’s been trained to balance a glass of wine on her head since childhood.

I shift my weight, glance around the room. Should I keep standing? Find a chair? Do they kneel here? Curtsy? Oh God.

I glance at Varric like he’s my emergency escape button. He doesn’t move.

I stand there like an accused witch.

Cassandra crosses her arms and makes a gesture to me, talking to the others. Like I’m a problem. 

Well fuck you too, cunt. 

The elegant woman with the dark braids tilts her head, voice softer as she says something that sounds like a question.

“April,” Varric says, smooth and clear.

My head snaps toward him like a dog hearing the treat bag. For a second, I freeze—surprised, almost touched, that he uses my name. Maybe he’s introducing me. Maybe he’s sticking up for me. Hopefully both.

“‘A-pril’?” the woman echoes, sounding it out like she’s rolling a foreign spice across her tongue.

I gently correct her, shaping the syllables slower this time. Her gaze shifts to me, and for a heartbeat, her eyes light with a kind of surprised warmth, like she forgot I was still standing there. Then she smiles—genuinely—and repeats it again, this time nearly perfect. I nod, my lips curling upwards. 

She says—or asks—something else, her tone light, inquisitive.

Varric looks at me, then mimes scribbling in the air. Oh. Right. 

I fumble the notepad from my cloak, flip to the page with my name on it, and step forward hesitantly toward the table. I set it down where they can all see, tapping gently on the letters and then myself like this one, this is me.

The noble woman steps closer, slowly, like she’s trying not to spook a stray animal. Her expression is all warmth and careful grace, and there’s something so… practiced about it. Like she’s done this before, met a thousand strangers and always made them feel a little less strange. She leans in slightly to study the page, and then Varric says something that makes her eyes light up. She picks up the quill I’d set beside the notepad and writes. She taps the paper, then touches her chest lightly.

“Josephine,” she says with a smile.

I beam like a kid who just figured out the rules to a new game.

I repeat it a couple times— Jo-se-phine —carefully mimicking the sounds as best I can. She nods, encouraging, as if I’m a student who just got a tricky word mostly right. Then I take the quill and, just beneath her script, I scribble my version of her name in my own handwriting—clumsier, a little crooked, but readable. My memory’s weird with names, so it helps to see them how I hear them. That way I can remember better. 

I’m already starting to notice some patterns—some letters repeat. I’m picking up on them slowly. It’s like decoding a puzzle. Still, I don’t let myself get too proud. I’ve only just started. Baby steps. No need to expect I’ll be giving speeches by next week.

I have no idea how I’ll communicate the idea of home . 

The next one to step forward is the military one—the handsome officer with the stubble and the knightly jawline. He doesn’t say much at first, just gives me a curt, polite nod, then takes the notepad when I hand it to him. He writes it, then taps the page once and says it aloud, slow and clear, like he’s taught before. I pay attention. It’s not as hard as Josephine’s name.

Cullen. His name is Cullen. 

The red-haired woman steps forward last.

She unnerves me.

She doesn’t reach for the notepad. Doesn’t smile, either. Her eyes—sharp and strangely calm—study me like I’m a riddle she hasn’t decided how seriously to take yet. There’s no overt threat in her stance, but there’s something quiet and coiled in her presence, like a hawk that hasn’t decided if I’m prey or not. She speaks, her voice low and smooth. Almost too pleasant. But there's something in it. Something layered. It sounds…like her accent is French.

Which can't be right.

When Varric responds, I glance sideways at him, watching his hands move in that easy, diplomatic way—soothing, casual. I hope he’s saying something like she’s harmless, she’s trying.

The woman doesn’t argue. But she doesn’t drop her gaze either. Then, at last, she looks at me again, gestures faintly to herself, and says her name: “Leliana.”

It’s soft on her tongue. Musical. I repeat it under my breath, and she nods slowly—just once.

I write it down.

Cullen. Josephine. Leliana. Cassandra. Varric. Solas. 

I try to memorise these names, I have a feeling whatever happens, if it includes me living—I’ll be seeing these people a lot. 

They start talking to each other, a lot faster than I can keep up, or hope to catch any singular words among the stream they spew. I squint, I look down at my book, and I keep shuffling uncomfortably on the chair that Varric offers me earlier. 

I still need to go to the bathroom, dammit. 

I shift again. My boots scrape the stone floor with a sound that feels ten times louder in a room full of Very Serious People talking at Very Serious Speeds.

They're arguing. Not yelling, but there's heat in it. Cassandra gestures sharply. Cullen frowns. Josephine’s voice rises, smooth and pointed, like she’s trying to rein them all back. Leliana occasionally speaks. Then so does Varric, as if defusing. 

I hate not knowing what’s going on.

My eyes flick to Solas. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing, arms loosely crossed, unreadable as ever. Then he speaks. One sentence, maybe two. The others go still. Cullen responds—something clipped, doubtful. His gaze turns toward me, and I feel like I’ve been dragged to the centre of the room without ever leaving my chair.

Are they talking about the weird thing on my hand? Are they talking about me?

I sink lower in the chair, like maybe I can fold myself into the wood and disappear. But the urge accelerates, and I need to go . 

“Chamber pot.” I state, clearly, not caring that I’m interrupting their debate. 

They all pause like I just declared war.

Varric snorts. It’s not even subtle—he chokes on a laugh and immediately covers it with a cough into his hand. Josephine blinks, looking caught between politeness and scandal. Cullen straightens like I’ve just cursed in a cathedral. Cassandra’s brows furrow in what might be confusion or mild horror. Leliana, at least, doesn’t flinch.

Solas just exhales through his nose. Not quite a sigh, but close.

“Chamber pot,” I repeat, louder this time, lifting my notepad like a holy relic. I even underline it with a firm stroke.

Varric laughs, and I start to wonder if he’s translated ‘toilet’ for I need to shit or I need a piss or something. He seems the type. 

Josephine recovers first, stepping toward the door and saying something in that polished accent that probably translates to someone please help this poor soul before she pees on our war table.

A servant—I think—appears, summoned from the hallway. A female elf with short black hair. Josephine gestures politely. She says my name again. I give a quick nod of gratitude and follow, tugging my cloak tighter as I pass the long stares of the Inquisition’s inner circle.

Not how I wanted to make a first impression.

But hey—at least I didn’t wet myself. Yet.

I’m escorted back after my business, feeling a little more human—but still wildly out of place.

I sink into the chair again like it’s a lifeboat in shark-infested waters. The others are in full swing now—voices rising and falling, fingers jabbing at the giant book in the centre of the table like it owes them money. They argue like I'm not even here, like I’m some kind of problem they pulled out of the air and are trying to figure out who gets to deal with it.

Hot potato with the foreign lady.

Solas sits beside me, quiet as ever. He looks like he wants to vanish into the stonework, but either duty or guilt keeps him glued to the chair. Occasionally, his eyes flick to me—then to my marked hand—then back to the heated debate like he’s tallying risks in real time.

I glance at the book again, trying to figure out what’s so sacred about it. A bible? A spellbook? Necronomicon? Nothing would surprise me at this point. They did literally make me summon a demon out of thin air for a moment there. Even if they did kill it—it’s sketch. Shady as fuck. 

With no sign of being dismissed—or even acknowledged—I pull out my notebook and set it down on the table, flipping to a fresh page. If I can’t go back to the cabin, I may as well keep studying. I start scribbling down words I think I hear and sounds as best I can. It’s messy work—half-guess, half-hope—but it’s something.

I feel a quiet pressure. 

I glance up.

Solas is watching me. More specifically—watching me write.

I tilt my head at him, let a small smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. Then, casually, I sketch a quick doodle in the corner of the page—an egg-shaped head with long, pointed ears. It’s not flattering, but it’s definitely him. Beneath it, I scribble his name in my alphabet. The lines are crude and a little crooked, but it’s my own phonetic attempt—how I hear it, how I think it should be written.

Then, with a flick of my fingers, I slide the notebook across the table toward him.

A silent offer. A challenge, maybe. Or a joke.

Your move, Baldie.

He blinks down at the notebook, then raises his eyebrows slightly. His lips twitch. 

To my absolute shock, he takes the quill.

He studies my version of his name, his fingers brushing the edge of the page like he’s deciphering a rune rather than looking at a joke. And then he writes something underneath it in his own fluid, looping script.  Once finished, he places his long fingers on the paper and slides it gently back to me.

I glance at the page. Next to my messy scrawl is what I assume is the proper spelling of his name. It…looks different from the script I’m studying. Stranger. Beautiful in a way I can’t quite describe. The letters are unfamiliar—curved, sharp, almost woven together. 

Now that I’m not in a full-blown panic spiral, my brain has room for something else—wonder.

The elegant writing Solas left on the page stirs something in me. Curiosity. Awe. A thousand questions bubbling to the surface now that I’m not just focused on surviving the next conversation.

Do elves have their own language? Or if it’s just his handwriting it’s a damn sight prettier than mine. 

Do dwarves have one too? Is there a separate script, a whole hidden culture layered beneath everything I can’t yet see?

Is the language I’m currently studying—the one Josephine, Leliana, Cullen and Varric speak—the equivalent of a “common tongue”? A bridge between species? A trade language across continents?

How big is this world?

My fingers twitch with the need to write more, to ask questions I can’t yet phrase. The notepad feels too small for how fast my thoughts are multiplying. I want to know everything. Every dialect, every difference, every untranslatable word.

I look up, eyes drifting from face to face, and feel the enormity of it for the first time.

I’m not just lost.

I’m on a different planet.

And somehow, despite everything, I want to understand it.

I flip back a few pages and find the better version—the chair I sketched yesterday, when I had more time and less anxiety rattling my bones. Legs, backrest, a little shading. I turn the notebook slightly and slide it toward Solas, eagerly tapping the drawing once for emphasis. Then I offer him the quill.

“Your turn,” I say aloud. 

Label it. Translate it. Show me your word for this.

Solas’s gaze drifts from the arguing council back to the sketch in front of him. He inclines his head once, a silent acknowledgment of the offer. He takes the quill, and I can almost hear the scratch of feather on parchment if not for the background ambience of arguing. He studies the lines of my chair, then lowers the quill and traces a few gentle strokes beside it.

I catch the faintest arch of his brow as he writes the word. It is different from the other script. Elven language, then?

A jitter of warmth pools beneath my ribs, like sunlight spilling into a cold room, and at the same moment my lungs pinch tight, as if an unseen fist has closed around them. My fingers grow clammy on the quill. Learning one language feels daunting enough; now two swell before me. It’s overwhelming, yet a spark kindles behind my ribs.

Two languages, but just a few words doesn’t hurt . 

He slides the notebook back to me. Solas settles back into his chair, but his eyes linger on me a moment longer. He tilts his head, lips curving into the faintest of smiles. It’s small, but it suits his face, brightens his eyes. My chest warms a little. I want to see it more. I want to know what makes him laugh. Because I feel like he doesn’t smile a lot. 

And that’s a crime. 

We have this little back and forth for a while, swapping the notebook so I can learn his words, but then the “council” disperses. Cassandra strides over as I close my notebook with a soft snap. She glances between the two of us, says some terse words to Solas, who answers in his calm way. She shakes her head and crosses her arms, looking at me now. 

“Hello,” I greet, a little nicer than my previous times, with a little wave. Maybe we just got off on the wrong foot. 

For a heartbeat, I catch something—an almost-twitch at the corner of Cassandra’s mouth. A flicker of… what? Amusement? Approval? I can’t tell.

She sighs, mutters something to Varric, then turns abruptly and stalks from the room.

The door closes with a dull thud.

Varric is walking over to me, offering me a grin that says, Well, that could’ve gone worse.  

I huff.

A sharp curse rips from my lips as I stub my toe on the desk’s corner.

“Fuck!” I snap.

Silence—then a teasing echo: “Fuck.”

My head whips to the windowsill, where the raven perches, glossy feathers fluffed like it’s in on the joke. Its beady eyes gleam, and a crooked tilt of its head feels almost mischievous. I grin, adrenaline crackling through me.  

“No way!” I exclaim in a hushed whisper. 

“No way!” It mimics me. 

My heart stutters, swells, my chest warms. A thrill like electricity dancing beneath my skin, excitement surges from my chest outward in quick, eager pulses. My heart skips and races, as if it’s trying to leap out of my ribcage and sprint ahead of me.

Ravens talk here too. That’s—gods, that’s adorable . I’ve always loved birds, but this? This is something else.

I lean forward slightly, watching the creature with renewed fascination. I wonder how smart this one is. Is it like the ravens back home? Can it understand tone? Intent? Trickery? How far does it go? Does it just mimic?

“Okay,” I murmur, grabbing a stray berry from the desk and holding it out like a peace offering. “Can you say: hello?”

“Fuck,” the bird replies.

I blink, stunned—and then burst into muffled laughter. Its voice is so casual, so perfectly timed, like it knew exactly what it was doing. My hand flies to my mouth, trying to muffle my giggles.

“Hello?” I say again, carefully.

“No way,” it croaks, tilting its head with that same impish glint in its eye.

I snort. “Come on, buddy—say hello.”

The raven shuffles its claws along the windowsill, gives a dramatic ruffle of its feathers, and then finally: “Hello.”

“Hello!” I beam, nearly bouncing in place. I drop the berry into the little wooden bowl I’ve repurposed as his treat dish, and he immediately hops down and devours it like he’s earned it.

“Hello,” he says again with a pointed look, as if to say, That got me a treat—let’s keep going.

I giggle. “Oh, you cheeky little… fine. One more.” I hold up another berry and waggle it between my fingers. “Say it again: hello.”

“Hello.”

I drop the berry into the bowl. “Good boy!”

“No way!”

I can’t help it—I laugh, big and breathless. “What have I done?”

He’s off now, repeating hello over and over again. Each time he cocks his head, he looks at me expectantly, hoping for another prize.

“No, buddy,” I say, scooting the berry bowl out of sight. “No more. You’re going to get fat and insufferable and spoiled.”

He lets out a confused hello and resumes his preening. I finally let myself exhale and lean back, still grinning.

Once he settles, I grab a piece of charcoal from the desk—my fingers already dusted black from earlier—and start sketching him. There’s something soothing about it, reminds me of home: the scratch of charcoal on paper, the gentle rustling of feathers as he shifts on the sill, the low flicker of the candle beside me.

I want to get his eyes right. Sharp, intelligent, a little mischievous.

I glance up again. “You already have a name, don’t you?” I ask softly. He doesn’t answer—just turns in place and fluffs up like royalty.

“Hello!”

“Figures,” I mutter with a smile, and keep drawing.

Maybe Varric knows. 

Night has settled outside, soft and heavy, curling into the corners of the cabin like a thick blanket. The hearth’s glow has dimmed to quiet embers, casting long shadows that stretch and shift with every movement. The raven has tucked its beak beneath its wing, perched like a soot-stained statue in it’s cage.

I hope he gets to go out soon. I don’t know if anyone is letting him out when I’m not here. 

I glance toward the door.

If I want to talk to Varric, I’ll probably have to go outside. Into the dark. Into the unknown. Just the thought tightens something low in my stomach.

Tomorrow , I tell myself. I’ll go out tomorrow. I’ll ask Varric then.

There’s a knock on my door the next morning.

Coffee , I think to myself. Need coffee .

I’m only half-awake, eyelids gritty, limbs sluggish with sleep. Groaning, I sit up and fumble for my notebook on the bedside table, clutching it like a reflex. The cold hits as soon as I swing my legs off the bed—sharp, unforgiving—and I make sure to only step where the fluffy rugs are. The stone floor is ice beneath the soles of my feet.

I hate the cold . Fucking hate.

I don’t think much of the knock. Varric , I assume. Maybe more questions, or another attempt at winning me over. I hate to say it’s working, but he really isn’t that bad. He’s dare I say nice to me, compared to everyone else.

I don’t bother changing, just tug the cloak tighter around the nightgown they gave me, the fabric whispering against my skin as I shuffle across the room. I open the door—

And nearly slam it shut again.

Cassandra stands in the doorway.

In full armour.

Her expression is carved from stone.

“Hello,” I say, cautiously, half a mind to run back under my bed. 

She hesitates, her frown deepening just a fraction. But then, to my surprise, she says—politely, even—“Hello.”

I blink. Some of the tension in my spine loosens, though not all of it.

Okay. Probably not here to kill me.

I study her warily, trying to gauge what she wants. She studies me right back—her gaze flicks down, slowly, taking in the nightgown, the cloak, my bare feet. A flicker of something passes over her face. Disapproval. Judgment. Possibly regret.

She scowls.

Oh. Great. Changed her mind already?

Maybe I’ve committed some kind of social faux pas. Answered the door while indecent. Breathed too weirdly in her direction. Who knows? This world feels like it runs on invisible wires I keep tripping over.

I open my notebook and flip through the pages, scanning my messy scrawl until I find it—the word I think translates roughly to “ question .” It’s not perfect, probably more literal than conversational, but it’s the closest I’ve gotten to asking Varric how to say what. Close enough, for now.

When I say the word, she stares at me like I have two heads—or like she’s waiting for me to ask said question. 

Of course, she wouldn’t understand the context. 

I am one confused shrug away from setting this notebook on fire.

It sounds like Cassandra follows me when I walk back into the cabin, her armoured footsteps a thudding metronome behind me. I make a beeline for the desk, snatch up the charcoal, and drag a huge, dramatic question mark across an entire page in my notebook. Big. Crooked. Aggressively smudged. I hold it up like a protest sign, eyebrows raised, hoping to whatever God put me here—or whoever’s listening—that this symbol is universal for: questioning, confused, what the fuck is happening, how, why, what?

She stares at it. Then at me. I throw in some theatrical gesturing—broad shrugs, pointed stares, hands flung to the ceiling. To my immense relief, something shifts in her expression. A flicker of realization. Understanding, at last, dawns on her face. 

Finally . 

I’m going to run out of fucking pages just trying to ask the most basic questions.

Cassandra extends her hand, palm up, clearly asking for the notebook. I pass it over, half-expecting her to scold me with it. She looks down at the giant, tortured question mark, then says something—short, clipped. She taps the mark once with her finger. Then looks at me.

Silence.

Then she says it again, this time more firmly, pointing directly at me.

It clicks. Oh . She wants me to say it back. Repeat it.

I do, and she nods in approval.

I feel like a toddler. Asking singular questions instead of constructing full sentences. 

It grates.

Every attempt to speak feels like pressing my face to glass, trying to shout through it, and getting nothing but muffled echoes in return. I point, I gesture, I draw sad little pictures like I’m in nursery again, hoping someone connects the dots between “I am freezing” and me hugging myself and shivering.

The worst part isn’t that they don’t understand—it’s that they look at me like I’m stupid. Like I’m simple. Not cruelly, but with that thin-lipped patience you give a child or an injured animal. Cassandra nods when I finally repeat the word back, and I know she’s trying. I know. But still, it burns.

The only ones who haven’t… are Varric, and Solas. 

Wonder why I prefer their company . 

I used to hold conversations. I used to be somewhat clever. I could argue, joke, ramble. Now I’m down to What. No. Yes. Toilet. Hungry. Sleep and cold , like some badly programmed NPC trying to trigger a dialogue tree. 

The humiliation isn’t loud. It’s a slow crawl up my spine. A heat that makes my eyes sting, but I refuse to cry. I grit my teeth, I scribble faster, I repeat the damn words. Because what else can I do? If I can’t speak, I’ll learn. If I can’t learn fast enough—I’ll find a way to fake it.

I expect her to turn and leave, or maybe say something I can half-translate, but instead, she stays. And then—without a word—she starts opening the drawers.

I freeze.

They’re not technically mine, I know that. This isn’t my room, this isn’t my world, and none of this furniture belongs to me. But…

My hands curl into fists at my sides as I watch her rummage through them.

It’s not violent. Not aggressive. But it is casual in a way that cuts deeper. Like I don’t matter enough to ask. Like privacy is a luxury I haven’t earned.

The illusion was already barely holding together—a desperate DIY patch-job of duct tape and splintered planks. But now it collapses completely, the seams tearing open with ease. I’m not a guest , now. I never was. I’m still a prisoner, their terms, in their space, under their rules. My agency—already paper-thin and fraying—pulls tighter like a leash being yanked short.

I don’t say anything. Just stand there and watch her fingers sift through the contents of the drawers.

And I hate it—how quiet I am. How small I feel.

She pulls out a heavier cloak than the one I’m wearing. Boots. Gloves. A tunic that actually looks like it might keep a person warm above freezing. Then she marches over and lays them all out on the bed—neat, squared, precise—like a mother preparing her child for a winter outing.

Then she looks at me. Expectant. Stern. 

I stare at the pile, then at her.

She raises an eyebrow. “Cold,” she says firmly, and gestures toward the clothes.

It’s not a suggestion.

I open my mouth to make a snarky comment—something about being dressed like a lost noble’s wayward daughter—but the words die halfway up my throat.

Because honestly? The cloak looks warm. And I am cold.

Instead, I just mutter, “ yes ,” and walk toward the bed, trying not to feel like a scolded toddler as I pick up the gloves. They’re thick, lined with fur at the cuff, and softer than I expected. 

She just turns on her heel, strides to the door, and steps out without a word. The door clicks shut behind her. 

The quiet offer of privacy lets me have some dignity, at least. 

When I’m done, I tuck the notebook and supplies into the inner pockets of the cloak. I hesitate at the door, hand on the handle, bracing for whatever comes next. When I open it, she’s still there. Waiting. She jerks her chin—a silent motion. Come .

And all I can do is obey. 

Chapter Text

Cassandra is taking me somewhere.

I’m not tied up. I’m not gagged. I’m not stuffed in the back of a wagon or flanked by armed guards with big swords. So that’s… good news. Relatively speaking.

But then she leads me to the stables. And there, waiting patiently with reins already in place and a saddle cinched tight, is a horse.

A motherfucking horse.

Not some scrappy mountain pony, either. No, this beast is magnificent. Tall and statuesque, its coat is a flawless black that gleams like polished obsidian. Its mane and tail are thick and flowing, practically made for slow-motion shots. The feathering around its hooves dances slightly with each idle shift of weight. It stands like it knows it’s noble blood. Regal. Dignified. Definitely better than me.

It looks like a Friesian. 

My breath catches. Delight zips up my spine and blooms behind my ribs. It's ridiculous—after everything, after all of this—that a horse could make me feel this happy, but I can’t help it. My steps carry me closer before I even think about it. I glance at Cassandra, then back at the horse, grin threatening to split my face.  She watches me quietly, and for the first time since I’ve seen her, there’s a very small smile on her face. 

I don’t wait for her judgment. I step forward slowly, palm open, fingers outstretched toward the horse’s nose, heart thudding with something like wonder. I glance at Cassandra, eyes wide with barely contained excitement, and ask the word I’ve clumsily stitched into memory over the past few days:

“Name?”

She raises a brow—just a little—but I catch the hint of approval in the shift of her expression. Her arms uncross. She steps closer to the horse, resting a hand lightly on its sleek neck. She says a word I ask her to repeat a few times. 

Something like Dara . 

“Hello, Dara.” I greet the horse gently. Their ear flicks, and I hold back a squeal, petting their soft neck.

We’re friends now, I’ve decided. 

Varric throws out a quip in that usual amused drawl. Cassandra responds with a low grunt, the kind that could mean anything from “don’t encourage her” to “I’m watching you.”

But before either of them can lift a finger to help—or worse, offer to help—I click my tongue, give Dara a little nudge, then, without hesitation, plant a boot in the stirrup and swing myself up in one easy motion. Clean. Confident. The kind of movement that says I’ve done this before.

Because I have. Several times.

By the time I settle into the saddle and glance down, Varric’s eyebrows are halfway to his hairline. Solas watches, unreadable—but there’s a flicker of surprise that doesn’t quite escape his expression. Cassandra says nothing, but there’s a notable pause.

I flash a grin and give the reins a light twitch, more than ready to ride.

But within the hour, I regret everything.

My ass hurts. My back hurts. Muscles I didn’t even know I had are sending hate mail directly to my spine.

And that’s not even the worst part.

When we finally stop, I dismount like I’ve aged forty years, legs wobbling, and nearly collapse right there in the dirt. I’m expecting a break, maybe a warm inn, or—dare I dream—a bed.

But no.

They start setting up tents.

Tents. As in, we’re staying here.

We’re not even there yet?!

I stare at the half-built canvas like it’s personally betrayed me.

Varric meets my gaze, and there’s something almost—merciful—in the way his brow softens. Like he’s seen this exact look on a hundred poor souls before me and knows better than to crack a joke just yet. I rub at my eyes, slow and exhausted, dragging the heel of my hand down my face like it might press the fatigue out of my bones. A long, defeated sigh slips out of me, fogging slightly in the cold air. I stretch my arms, then my legs—achy joints popping like creaky floorboards in an old house, then I find a soft enough patch of dirt by the campfire and shuffle over to it, pulling my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I sink to the ground with a relieved sigh. 

I draw my knees in close, burrowing into the fabric like it’s some makeshift cocoon, and let out a long, jaw-cracking yawn. The sky above is growing darker now. Deep navy smudged with bruised purple, the way it gets right before the stars come out. Their version of winter seems to lean harder into nightfall.

I breathe into my hands and watch the faint curl of fog that escapes.

Varric prepares us dinner—something simple: strips of meat sizzling over the fire and coarse bread that looks like it’s been through a war. I don’t care that it lacks seasoning. I don’t even care what kind of meat it is. I’m just hungry. Starving, actually. 

When he passes me a portion wrapped in cloth, I mumble a hoarse “thank you,” and tear into it. It’s tough, a little dry, but it’s warm and real and fills the hollow pit in my stomach. The bread is almost dense enough to double as a weapon, but I still chew it gratefully.

After, the three of them talk back and forth occasionally, and it’s light talk. Not bickering or arguing like I usually hear. 

Eventually, Varric stands with a soft grunt and gestures for me to follow. He leads me toward one of the tents—modest in size, but solid—and with a theatrical sweep of his arm, he opens the flap like he’s revealing the grandest suite in the world.

I blink at him.

He raises his eyebrows, like: Well? What do you think?

I snort a laugh.

“I’ll rate it five stars,” I mutter, stepping inside and dropping to my knees on the bedroll with a sigh. 

Despite the ache, I’m out like a light. 

The tent dissolves like mist.

Sand cushions my fingertips—soft, sun-warmed, familiar.

Golden light spills over everything, thick as honey, warm in a way nothing has been for days. When I blink my eyes open, the sky above is a pale, endless blue, streaked with silk-thin clouds drifting like breath. Gulls cry overhead. The cliffs rear in the distance, jagged and sunburnt, their stubborn crown of wildflowers still clinging to life.

I’m on a beach.

Not just any beach. That beach. Spain. Childhood. Memory pressed flat like a dried flower in an old book. 

My hands sink into the fine white grains. They cling to my skin, sift between my fingers. The breeze carries salt and sun and the faintest ghost of oranges. The waves roll in slow and heavy, their rhythm etched into me. It thrums through my ribs like a lullaby I never forgot. It feels like home, but from a distance. Like I’m standing behind glass. Everything is almost perfect.

My legs are bare. A thin yellow skirt dances around my knees. Sunscreen gleams faintly on my skin, catching the light in tiny constellations. Figures drift past—bright towels, sunburnt shoulders, chatter in the distance. Children shriek and laugh as they chase waves and each other. The scent of salt and citrus is thicker now, wrapped in sun-warmed memories.

I missed it here.

Wait.

My fingers curl in the sand. The thought flickers, out of place, like a thread pulled loose.

Why? Why am I here?

I blink up at the sky, and the clouds are the same as I remember. But they don't move. Not really. Just drift in place, like stage props hung too high. The gulls don’t stray far. They loop. They repeat. A child runs by me, laughter trailing behind like ribbon—and for a heartbeat, I could swear I’ve heard that same laugh already. The same pitch. The same exact joy.

The waves crash in perfect rhythm. Again. And again. And again.

I glance down. My hand in the sand has made no mark.

The air still smells of oranges, of sunscreen and salt—but now it’s too perfect. Too preserved. 

Like memory caught in amber.

Something isn’t right.

I look at my hands again. The lines in my palms seem too defined, too etched, like they’ve been drawn in ink. I squint up at the sky—and there it is. A flicker of green, veined through the clouds like lightning held in a jar. Rift-light. Unmistakable. Unnatural. The edges of my vision blur slightly, like fog gathering at the corners of a mirror. 

This isn’t now.

This isn’t real.

A dream. 

The word clicks into place like a switch being flipped. I’ve lucid dreamed before—rarely. Just a few times. And it usually didn’t last once I realized what it was. 

I brace myself for it to collapse. For the illusion to snap like a curtain pulled too fast.

But this time… it holds.

It keeps playing, even as the figures around me lose their shape for a moment, glitching faintly—like a video buffering under the weight of my self-awareness. I sigh and let it play out, expecting it all to collapse like it usually does.

But it doesn’t.

The dream steadies. The beach rebuilds itself with gentle conviction, like a memory determined to stay intact. I lean back into the towel—newly conjured—and reach to my side, imagining a cocktail. It appears instantly, sweating glass, citrus twist, everything just right. I smile, sip, and close my eyes under the warmth of a sun I haven’t seen in what feels like weeks.

Then—shade.

A shadow crosses over my face.

I open my eyes, squinting up—and freeze.

A figure stands above me, backlit by the pale sun. Tall. Still. Bald. Robes unmoving in the breeze that tousles my hair. He doesn’t cast a proper shadow. Doesn’t disturb the sand. He just is.

I blink, half-expecting him to glitch out like the others.

But he holds.

Drink still in hand, I sit up slowly, towel rustling beneath me. My heart stumbles in my chest.

Wait.

Solas?

What’s he doing here? What’s my brain trying to tell me? Do I have a little crush on him or something? Or do I just find his presence comforting since he and Varric—but Varric isn’t here, so why is he?

He stands in perfect stillness, hands clasped behind his back, like some polite statue observing the world. The robe, the posture, the thoughtful brow—it’s all painfully accurate.

“You dream vividly,” he says—in my language.

I drop the cocktail. It spills over the towel, but I barely register it. I blink. It vanishes. I imagine it dry again—and it is. 

He watches this with polite curiosity. 

I rise to my feet, stepping toward him. He doesn’t move. And because shame is a waking-world inconvenience, not a dreamland policy, I reach out and press a finger to squish his cheek—just a little—then give it a slow, testing swirl. Pinch. Nudge. His skin moves under my touch with real weight, real warmth. Not the slippery, static blur of a dream-ghost. No uncanny give. 

It’s a very detailed version of him. God, he’s detailed. Chiselled features, the severe cheekbones, the faint crease between his brows. Cleft between his chin. Pointed ears, sharp eyes, calm intensity. Bald. All fingers accounted for. 

Dream accuracy is 10/10.

“Wow,” I murmur, half to myself as I start touching all over his face. I’m impressed with how good my brain is at making the details seem so real. 

My hand drifts to his shoulder, testing—half-expecting my fingers to pass straight through like mist. But they don’t. I slide my touch down to his arm— Oh. I think with intrigue. Muscle. A lot more than I thought he'd have. Why does he feel like he has muscle? He doesn’t look muscular. Is that my doing? Am I embellishing him?  

“I should have known, even in the Fade, you’d be very tactile.”

That pulls me up short.

I freeze, my eyes snapping to his. There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Amusement. Barely there, but enough. I let out a mortified squeak and jump back like I’ve touched a hot stove.

Is this real? I don’t know. I’ve seen enough weird shit lately to err on the side of caution. So I treat it like it is.

“S-Solas?” I exclaim. “You’re—you’re in my dream—you’re speaking English . How? What? How ?”

“We are in the Fade,” he says, like that should mean something to me. “Here, your thoughts shape reality. Language is no barrier—I am simply borrowing your understanding of it.”

“Borrowing my—wait, are you in my head?” 

“Not quite. The Fade is not in your mind, nor are you in mine. It is a shared realm of thought, memory, and emotion—a reflection shaped by both of us.” He glances toward the crashing waves. “This beach is yours. Pulled from your memories, held together by your sense of self. But my presence is real, as real as anything here can be.”

So… a dream world, then. That’s the only part I can really grasp right now. But more pressing is the fact that he’s speaking to me—and I understand him. I want to say a million things, ask a hundred questions, give voice to the rush of emotions crashing through me like a wave. But my mind blanks. I’m stunned. Overwhelmed. There’s too much to feel, and no clear place to start.

My gaze flickers over his face, staring at him once more.

He calmly observes the beach, drinking it in, looks at me in the corner of his eye before leading the conversation—because I obviously can’t.

“This place,” he says. “Is it a memory? Or something you created?”

I glance toward the sea—the sun spilling gold across the water, each wave catching the light like glass breathing. The horizon blurs where the sky melts into the ocean, a soft line pulled taut by memory.

“I came here a lot as a child, my family took me here every few years.” I tell him, and let out a deep breath. Then, sharper—more alert, I turn to him. “Wait… how are you even here ?”

He adjusts his posture, and faces the sea. He turns his head slightly, watching the water, as if the answer is floating somewhere just offshore.

“I’ve walked the Fade for as long as I’ve existed in memory,” he says. “Stepped through the dreams of others as easily as through doorways. I’ve seen cities lost to time come alive again in the minds of spirits. I’ve watched wars replayed endlessly in spectral ruins. Compared to those, slipping into your dream was… simple.”

I don’t know whether to be insulted or not. 

But this is good news. This is great news. So I look on the bright side, choose to believe he’s not being an asshole, and ruin his image for myself. 

“Well, I’m glad,” I say, flashing a smile of relief. “It’s so good to finally talk to someone. You have no idea how hard it is trying to communicate with people who barely even try, or treat you like you're an alien.”

“I…can only imagine,” he replies. “To be surrounded by voices and yet understand none of them, or for them to understand you.”

My heart skips a small, grateful beat. For the first time in days, I don’t feel like I’m shouting into a void. 

“How long will this dream last?” I ask, a little anxious now. There’s so much to talk about, and possibly not any time. “How long do we have?”

“As long as your mind allows it,” he says. “Time is... malleable, here. Dreams can stretch a single heartbeat into hours, or condense entire conversations into a blink.”

“Then I’ll get to it,” I rush. “What the fuck is going on out there?”

He blinks, just once, at my bluntness—then smooths it away, folding his hands neatly behind his back. His tone remains composed, but there’s a glint of something wry in his eye.

“That depends,” he says. “Do you mean the Breach tearing open the sky? The anchor on your hand that closes the rifts? The Divine’s murder and the whispers that name you her killer? Or perhaps you mean the growing number who’ve decided you’re the Herald of Andraste herself?”

My mouth opens, and closes. 

“Um…” my mind spins. I blink uselessly at him. “ What ?”

It's not the most eloquent response, but I think I'm entitled to a little shock when the list of catastrophes I'm apparently at the centre of is rattled off like ingredients in a stew.

“I take it no one has explained much.”

Solas arches a brow, the faintest ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, a little dry. But it vanishes quickly as he starts speaking again.

“The Breach is a tear in the Veil, linking our world and the Fade. It is growing—unstable. Dangerous. The mark on your hand is the only thing we’ve seen that can close smaller rifts linked to it. Naturally, that has made you...a subject of interest.”

“I have no idea what you just said to me,” I say flatly, rubbing my temple as I exhale a long, frustrated sigh. “I really wish I had my notebook.” I glance at him, trying not to sound too overwhelmed. “Can you—sorry, could you maybe start somewhere simpler? I think you tried to explain the Fade to me before. You said it was... a dream world? Could we start there?”

“Not merely a dream world,” Solas replies, already in teaching mode. “Put simply, the Fade is a realm of thought, memory, and possibility—the place where all spirits dwell, and where your mind goes when the body sleeps. It is where dreams—and nightmares—are born.”

“So, like a mirror of the world?”

He inclines his head slightly. “Yes—though an imperfect one. It is tied to the world, but separated by The Veil.”

I think I’m following. “Like a barrier?”

“Exactly,” he says. “A barrier thin in places, thick in others. It keeps the Fade from bleeding into the waking one. Most of the time.”

“And you’re saying that it’s breaking, and that’s why there’s a giant hole in the sky?”

“In very broad terms… yes. The Veil has been torn, violently. What many call the Breach is a wound—one that exposes both worlds to each other.”

“Oh,” I say to myself. “Shit.”

“Quite.”

I can already see why a dream world—a collective unconscious filled with spirits, memories, and raw embodiments of emotion—would be dangerous if it started leaking into reality. Especially if those rift-creatures I saw are what happens when it does. 

World going fucky . The mark on my hand stops it from going fucky . No wonder they’re dragging me around to close them. 

I lift my hand, as I’m talking about it. “So, the mark…sorry, the anchor?”

“The anchor behaves like a key,” he already guesses my train of thought. “It closes smaller tears in the Veil. We don’t know how or why. Only that without it, the world would already be unravelling faster.”

“How the hell did it appear on my hand, is the question I want to know,” I murmur. “Hell, how I got here at all —I’m not supposed to be here.” 

“That is the question,” he says slowly. “Before the Breach opened, there was an explosion at the Conclave.” His gaze meets mine. “Which reminds me, what were you doing there?”

I stare back at him blankly for a moment. 

“Conclave…?” Sounds like a cult. I’m surrounded by fucking cults .

He inclines his head. “You were found in the centre of the destruction. The only survivor. No wounds, save for the mark.”

“Hold on, you still haven’t explained, what’s a Conclave?” 

“It was a summit. A gathering called by Divine Justinia to negotiate peace between the rebel mages and the Templar Order.”

It feels like he is back to speaking a completely alien language. I stare at him cluelessly, helplessly. My eyes flicker across his features, looking for answers between the creases of his brow.  He watches me for a beat, then sighs—just barely—and shifts his stance, falling easily into explanation.

“The Templars are a military arm of the Chantry,” he says, gesturing faintly as he speaks. “Trained to control and, when they deem necessary, eliminate mages. The Circle system was their solution—a containment, if you will.”

He pauses, watching my face for understanding.

There is none. My mind is blank. 

“The rebel mages no longer accept that containment. They’ve broken away, demanding freedom. Divine Justinia—leader of the Chantry—attempted to broker peace. The Conclave was her answer.”

The information is a lot, everything he’s spewing is overwhelming and confusing. But I am starting to understand. “But it went boom?”

He inclines his head. “Spectacularly.”

I drag both hands down my face, trying to physically press some sense back into my skull. The words Solas just said are still spinning in my head—except now they’re literally spinning around my face. Glowing letters orbiting me like I’ve been cursed by a very verbose spirit.  The words— Conclave, Templars, mages, Fade, survivor —glow faintly, circling my head like confused fireflies. I swat at them, and they fizzle on contact, popping softly like soap bubbles. One of them squeaks. The rest fizzle into nothing. 

Dream worlds. Of course.

Good to know I’m working with cartoon logic .

Solas arches an eyebrow, watching me. “You are remarkably lucid, and adapting quickly, for someone new to the Fade.” 

“Big imagination, I guess.” I murmur. 

I sigh and lower myself onto the towel, the fabric warm beneath me, soft in that not-quite-real way dream-things are. I tilt my head back and stare up at the sun—it glows like a giant heat lamp, golden and gentle, without the sting or glare of reality. It’s not harsh. It doesn’t burn. It just… glows. Like a warm bulb hung high in a painted sky.

“Can you help me get home?” I ask quietly, the question slipping out before I can second-guess it.

Solas looks at me for a long moment. He’s silent for a while. 

“That depends,” he says at last. “Where, exactly, is home?”

I run my fingers through my hair, tugging out the knots the breeze left behind, and shift in place, adjusting my sundress until it sits more comfortably. “Somewhere called Earth,” I say, a little dryly. “A small island called the UK—specifically, the southeast corner, city of London. But I’m guessing that means absolutely nothing to you.”

He slowly steps over, and takes a seat next to me, on another towel I don’t remember being there before. 

“Earth,” he echoes, as if tasting the word for the first time. “I’ve wandered every corner of the Fade, stepped through the dreams of spirits, kings, and dying gods—and never have I encountered such a place.”

A lump rises in my throat.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“Can you try?” I ask, voice barely above a breath, as I glance down at my hand.

The mark burns there like an accusation, glowing sickly green—an open wound pulsing with power I don’t understand. Delicate tendrils unfurl from it, writhing in the air like spider silk dancing in a breeze that doesn’t touch anything else.

Solas’s eyes flicker to it, then back to me.

“What of the Breach?” he asks, his tone gentle, but not… accusing, like I’d expect. “Do you wish to abandon all those people?”

I hesitate. Swallow hard. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But they’re not my people. And I’m not a hero.”

The dream begins to shift. Dim. The sea dulls to grey. The clouds above start to smear like wet paint, dripping across the sky. Grains of sand lift from the beach and float upward, as if gravity has grown confused.

“Please?” I whisper, more fragile this time, watching the world melt at the edges. “I just want to go home.”

“As long as the anchor remains on your hand… I’m sorry, but you cannot,” he says. 

I stare at him, the weight of those words settling like stone in my chest.

“Help us close the Breach,” he adds, quieter now—but firmer. “And then… I’ll do everything in my power.”

I don’t get a chance to respond.

The world shudders.

The clouds fracture like glass, light spilling through the cracks. The sea ripples in reverse, waves folding back into themselves. Wind rushes past my ears, carrying the faint echo of voices—real ones, shouting, urgent.

“No—wait—” I reach toward him, but my hand dissolves into mist.

His figure holds, just for a second longer. Then he, too, is swallowed by the Fade unravelling.

The last thing I hear is his voice, distant and echoing:

“We will speak again.”

And then—

I wake up.

Chapter Text

It’s almost crushing when Solas greets me at the morning fire and I can’t really speak to him.

I can talk, sure—but he barely understands me. Maybe seven words, give or take. After everything we said in the dream, after finally being understood, the silence between us now feels heavier than ever. I still have so many questions—about the Fade, about this “Divine Justinia,” and what exactly the Chantry is. It was all too much to take in at once, and I’ve been scribbling everything I remember into the notebook.

The Conclave—a summit, apparently. Big meeting. Something went wrong. Massive explosion. Important woman dead. I somehow survived without a scratch, except for this strange, burning mark on my hand. Some people think me responsible. Now, somehow, I'm the only person capable of closing the rifts in the sky—and eventually the Breach itself.

I didn’t sign up for any of this. 

If I do what they ask… if I close the Breach… will it go away? Will I be free?

How long is that supposed to take?

Over the next four days of travel, I draw. 

I draw a lot . 

It’s not like I have anything else to do—no one speaks my language, and I can’t exactly scroll through my phone to pass the time.

So I draw.

The glowing woman who pulled me out—half angel, half memory—bathed in light that pushed back the darkness around us like a tide retreating. I draw the spiders that chased me, limbs too long, like they’d been pulled from some primal corner of my fear. I draw demons, twisted into shapes I still don’t have names for. The rifts, tearing through the air like someone slashed the sky open. And I keep redrawing the symbol I’ve seen again and again: that sun motif, with the staring eye at its centre.

Usually when we take a break, I take a perch next to Solas. I write a word in my language—slowly, clearly—then hand him the charcoal without needing to prompt him. He studies it, thoughtful, before writing down the equivalent in his. This shared silence feels more like communication than most conversations I’ve had. 

It’s routine at this point. 

Varric strolls over now and then, never one to let too much silence sit unbothered. He’ll toss out a comment in passing, which always earns a quick, arched eyebrow from Solas and a smooth, composed reply. I can’t understand the words, but I get the tone. Varric’s smirk says he enjoys ruffling the elf’s feathers.

My arse is numb by the time we get to wherever the hell this is—hills, rocks, trees. I’ve stopped keeping track. All I know is, it’s been hours on horseback and I may never feel my spine again. At least it’s not as cold out here. No more snow biting at my nose, just the lukewarm kiss of sun and a breeze that smells like grass instead of frost. 

It almost feels like home.

I close my eyes and let the wind brush past my cheek, pretending for half a second that I'm walking down a street in London around springtime, and not stepping into yet another mess involving demons and exploding sky holes.

I open my eyes again when I hear a thud, and see Varric hopped down with far too much energy for someone who’s also been riding all day. He starts chatting with another dwarf who approaches. A woman—short, sure-footed, bright-eyed. She has a bow slung over her shoulder, which I stare at for a while, until her gaze lands on me.

But to my surprise, she smiles. “Hello,” she says, and then continues, but I don’t get the rest. 

“Hello,” I say, a little awkwardly. I shuffle a little closer to Solas’s side. He doesn’t react. Getting used to my presence? Maybe. I hope.

Varric says something to the woman—quick, familiar—and she listens, eyes flicking toward me, head tilting just slightly. Understanding seems to dawn, and her expression shifts. Softer now. She offers me a sympathetic smile.

Or maybe it’s pity.

I can’t decide which sits worse—this quiet, well-meaning sadness or the angry accusatory glares. Or maybe it’s the other extreme: the unnerving awe from that elf who looked at me like I’d grown wings and declared a new religion.

Before I can muster the nerve to stumble through another introduction, the woman steps forward, places a hand lightly to her chest, and says, slowly and clearly, “Harding.”

Her name?

I blink.

Unfortunate. At least, in English.

“April,” I reply, mirroring the gesture and offering a polite, if slightly tight, smile.

Harding grins, hands slipping to her hips in a casual stance. Her next words are more gentle, and then she talks to Varric and Cassandra again. I sigh under my breath, already dreading the next march. My legs are still sore. My spine feels like a folding chair someone sat on wrong. But at least the sun’s out. The air is sharp and clean, and there’s green in the world again. 

I cast my eyes to the view. 

“Oh.” I say under my breath.

And for a moment—just a moment—I forget about the mark burning on my hand, the pressure of everyone’s expectations, the fear of never going home. 

The valley stretches out below like something from a storybook—so vivid it almost doesn’t feel real. 

Mist clings to the shoulders of distant cliffs, drifting lazily through the ravines like smoke from an ancient fire. Towering pines spear upward from the slopes, their dark green needles stark against the grey-blue haze of distant mountains. Below, some trees give way to open glades of gold and amber and soft, vibrant greens—patches of moss and grass catching the light like brushed velvet. Birds wheel high above, dark shapes circling on unseen currents. In the far distance, half-shrouded by cloud and height, the jagged peaks of some forgotten range jut from the earth like the bones of a god.

And on the breeze, a scent of pine, damp earth, and cold stone.

It’s wild. Untouched. Beautiful. And impossibly far from the world I know. 

I should at least look at the stars tonight, instead of hiding away in my tent. They're probably beautiful.

Varric stands next to me, and pats my arm. 

I look down at him, and he smiles up at me. I smile back—small, grateful. His face shifts into an exaggerated grimace, one hand hovering dramatically at his lower back as he leans sideways with a groan. Then he gestures to me, a clear question in his raised brows and pointed finger: You too?

I nod, rubbing the small of my back with a wince. He gives a knowing grunt, then rifles through his pack. I watch as he produces a small glass vial filled with a swirling red liquid, the kind that seems to glow faintly from within. I hesitate, eyeing it. He holds it out, brows raised, and after a moment’s hesitation I reach for it, cautious. We've built a fragile sort of trust over the past few days, but still— strange red glowing potion?

Just to be sure, I glance over at Solas, who watches the exchange in silence. When my gaze meets his, he gives the faintest nod of reassurance.

Well. Good enough for me.

I uncork the vial and down the contents. It tastes…herbal. Slightly metallic, with a trace of sweetness at the end that’s oddly pleasant. The pain begins to ease almost immediately, the ache in my spine and hips fading like fog under sunlight. I exhale, relieved, and shoot Varric a grateful glance. 

Miracle liquid in a bottle. 

But then, out of nowhere, a sharp pang of hunger twists in my stomach. I frown, pressing a hand to it, and before I can even voice a complaint, Varric—ever the prepared one—produces a stick of roasted meat wrapped in a napkin from somewhere in that bottomless pack of his. He offers it wordlessly, with a raised brow. I don’t even hesitate. I take it like it's a lifeline and groan with unfiltered relief as I dig in, half-laughing through my first bite. Warm, smoky, a little salty. 

“Thank you,” I say through chewing, lifting the meat like a toast.

Varric raises a brow, then grins, clearly catching my drift.

I pause, an idea sparking. Tapping him on the shoulder, I hold the meat between my teeth and rummage through my cloak for the notebook. Once I have it, I quickly scribble down thank you in English, then turn it toward him. I take the meat out of my mouth and point at the words. “Thank you,” I say again, slowly and clearly, tapping the page. 

Then I point to him, brows raised. A question.

Understanding lights in his eyes. “Ah,” he says, nodding, and takes the book from my hands. He writes his own version beneath mine, says it aloud in that familiar cadence.

I grin wide. I straighten up, give a theatrical little bow with one hand over my chest, and repeat the way he says: “ Thank you .”

He chuckles, clearly entertained, and claps me on the shoulder.

Cassandra approaches with her usual purposeful stride, every step exuding the kind of authority that brooks no argument. She stops just short of where I’m sitting, eyes flicking to the now-empty skewer in my hand before gesturing firmly—two fingers forward, a clear sign to follow.

Reluctantly, I tuck the notebook back into the folds of my cloak. I have a new vigour, luckily, thanks to that potion, so I fall in step behind her without a word.

Whatever this is, it’s clearly not optional.

Battle.

Of course its battle.

Fuck my life. 

At least no rifts this time. No sky-splitting, world-shaking rifts. For now, I’m allowed to hide behind a tree while they do the work. While they risk their lives—Cassandra, Varric, Solas— who is at least next to me—-fighting against armored men and robed mages. I can’t resist peeking out, and immediately regret it. A sharp whistle fills the air, and an arrow grazes past my ear. I yelp as something yanks me back behind the tree. Solas shoots me a stern look, his lips moving in what’s likely a scolding.

He doesn’t need to say much more to get me back into cover. I’m more than happy to leave the fighting to them.

And fighting there is. 

So. Much. Fucking. Fighting. 

I half-consider pulling out my sketchbook and drawing behind this tree. But I don’t. One, because I’m pretty sure that would be considered... insensitive. Spoiler: it is. Two, because if they miss a target, I’ve got to stay sharp enough to make a quick getaway.

When it’s quiet, and Cassandra comes back to collect me, I get to look at the aftermath. 

And holy shit. 

It’s a fucking mess. A very fucking messy one.

The ground is littered with bodies—some frozen, some scorched, others twisted in unnatural ways. There’s fire and ice everywhere, as if the elements themselves have been used as weapons. Blood stains the earth, pooling in dark patches where the fallen lie. The smell of smoke and burning flesh mixes with the sharp, cold tang of the ice. It’s chaotic. Violent.

They lead me through the outskirts, Solas guiding me with a gentle hand on my upper back, nudging me forward. He does it quietly, like it’s a subtle way to keep me from lingering too long on anything I shouldn’t be looking at. I don’t argue. Hell, I’d wear damn horse blinders so I don’t have to look at any of this. It’s easier that way—eyes forward, let him steer me through the mess without having to face it head-on. 

I’m led into a town. 

I stand at the edge of the path, just inside the gates. It thrums with people, hauling crates and barrels, their carts creaking as they roll past. Smoke curls from chimneys, the scent of roasting meat mingling with damp stone and autumn leaves. The statue of a woman looms in the centre, weathered but  a silent guardian above the cobbled square. Around me, tents and makeshift shelters sprawl between ruined stone walls and wagons packed with supplies. The banners flap in the breeze, red and gold threads catching the light like fire.

I take a few steps forward. I shift my stance, watching the villagers move about their day.

There’s tension here, like the air right before a lightning strike.

Probably because of the people fighting outside. The ones that Cassandra, Varric, and Solas fended off like it was just another Tuesday.

I briefly recall Solas briefly telling me there’s a war between the mages and Templars. A rebellion of the oppressed. Is that what’s happening here? Did we walk straight into the middle of it?

It’s still strange, the idea of mages being real. Magic was something I only ever saw in fantasy films or bad television. But then there's Solas. And Solas is real.  I find myself glancing his way without meaning to, like he’s a little guardian perched invisibly on my shoulder. Not in the literal sense. But if the world’s about to fall apart—and by the looks of things, it already has—I’d rather have someone like him nearby.

We walk ahead, Cassandra leading the way, her stride purposeful, every step radiating that iron certainty she carries like a second weapon. The villagers watch us as we pass. Some with curiosity. Others with fear. A few with something harder to name—hope, maybe. Or suspicion. Probably both.

As we near what looks like a makeshift med-bay—really just a cleared stretch of ground littered with bedrolls and crates doubling as tables—I slow my steps. The air smells like poultices and blood, too much of both. People lie scattered across the space, wrapped in blankets, murmuring in pain or passed out completely. A few healers move between them, their movements practiced and efficient.

My chest clenches slightly. 

Then I see them.

The red and white robes are impossible to miss. The tall hat seals it. Like the others back at the village—same shape, same colors. My whole body goes tight. 

Cult. My brain hisses it before I can stop it. Cult cult cult.

She stands out not just because of what she’s wearing, but because she’s calm. Focused. Dark-skinned, expression carefully neutral, she’s tending to someone’s arm with gentle precision. And then she looks up. Sees me. Varric’s already stepped up beside me. I hear his voice, low and even, probably telling her I don’t speak the language. 

She says something else, so Varric gestures to the woman for me. 

“Giselle.” Is what he says. 

I step forward, awkward but trying. “April,” I say, offering a polite smile. “Hello.” 

It comes out stilted, like I’m learning to speak for the first time. Just one-word phrases. Toddler stuff. But hey—progress.

Giselle gives a patient nod, her expression kind but unreadable, like she’s taking measure without judgment. She says something again, slower this time, maybe for my sake. Her hands are folded in front of her now, robes rustling softly as she takes a step closer, and then takes a seat on the short stone wall.  She pats the spot. I feel uncertainty, so I glance at the others, but Varric seems enthusiastic. I take a seat, and take out my notebook. Her eyes brighten a little bit at that. She looks at Varric, and asks him something. 

I pull out my notebook, and that gets a reaction—her eyes light up with interest. She says something to Varric, quick and curious. He nods, then steps in front of me.

Without warning, he pinches my arm.

“Ow!” I yelp, slapping his hand away and glaring at him. “What the hell was that for?”

He just grins, unfazed, and points at the spot he pinched. I flinch, more annoyed than hurt, but then he repeats a word—slowly, deliberately. Then he nods toward my notebook. 

Oh.

He’s teaching me the word. Hurt . Pain. Ow.

I hand him the book, and he scribbles it down. I study the letters, then glance up when he looks at me expectantly.

“Hurt,” I say, repeating what he said.

Giselle’s watching with keen interest. When I speak, she echoes it softly—“Hurt.” Then she gestures to a wounded figure nearby. Back to me. “Hurt.”

I glance around at the injured, then turn back to Varric, brows furrowed in confusion. I give a questioning look and use the word for confusion—just a simple, “ What ?” I gesture around, pointing at the wounded and then back to Giselle. I put my hands on my chest, as if asking, what can I do about the ‘hurt’?

“Stop.” She says to me gently.

I mean, not shit. I get that. She wants me to stop it. But how? 

Shit, I need to learn the words for how, what, why, when —the basics. Next time I dream, I need to make sure Solas teaches me. But until then, I’m stuck with these simple gestures and whatever I can pull from my notebook. I look back at Giselle, my frustration clear. She gives a soft, almost sympathetic smile, as if she understands, but she waits for me to respond.

I only know two words to exhibit a question toward my confusion, this one from Cassandra. “Question.”

She looks at me patiently, and I want to throw the book in the dirt.

Solas, though, he is my savior. He gets me, gets what I’m trying to ask. 

How , he hopefully asks her, and it’s like understanding dawns on her face. I almost want to cry in relief. 

Thank. Fuck . For the elf.

She says something to the others, but then turns to me. She grasps my hands, almost in a pleading motion—or a grateful one, and looks down at the mark that hums on my hand. 

Ah . Use the mark. Close the rifts. Maybe be the saviour we need. 

Well duh. It’s not like I have any other choice. 

I nod to her, and for extra measure throw out a sombre, “yes.”

After the long conversation between them all, they talk a little more before they start dragging me around the town, and outside of it. We can’t use our horses here, the slope is too much at an angle, so we have to walk. 

I hate it.

I’m tired. I want to sleep. I want to go home.

I try to ask where we’re going, what we’re doing, but my brain’s too fried to piece the words together. It’s a battle I don’t have the strength for. Eventually, I just mutter, “Stop,” to Varric—my version of never-fucking-mind . He sighs and pats my back in a, we’ll figure this shit out somehow way.

At some point, I’m curious what he and Cassandra are talking about. Varric starts miming eating and nods toward one of the villagers who are half leaning out of a tent—refugee, maybe. Varric rubs his stomach like he’s got a problem, and I have three ideas initially: One, he’s constipated and looking for a remedy. Two, he’s hungry. Three, the villagers are hungry, and they need our help. 

Luckily, I know the word for hungry this time. I’ve memorized it from the sheer number of times I’ve said I’m hungry. Varric grins and nods when I say, “Hungry?” and point toward them. He gives me a thumbs up, like I’ve just solved a riddle. It’s weirdly satisfying—like I’ve passed some invisible test with my three-word vocabulary and a half-dead brain.

Okay, so the villagers need food. I have to wonder why we’re getting it. Or if we are getting them food.

I’m still not sure what Cassandra, Varric and Solas represent other than an authority to help close the rifts and the giant hole in the sky—using me to do it. I know about the mage rebellion—roughly, I know a lot of religious people circle around the village. Are they a holy order? Are they actually a cult, after all? Are they a military company? A government agency? Might explain all the soldiers. 

More questions pile, and I make note of them in my notebook to ask Solas for my dream tonight. 

I notice Varric pause beside a plant as we make our way up a slope, his eyes catching on the leaves. I glance at it too, curiosity tugging at my exhaustion. When he sees me watching, he grins and rummages in his bag—pulling out that familiar vial, the now empty one—the one that made me feel better and all those aches vanish. I feel myself perk up almost involuntarily, straightening with sudden interest. He gives the vial a little wiggle, then kneels to snip a few of the leaves, tucking them carefully away.

So that’s what he needs to make more of it?

I wonder if other plants go into other potions. What other kind of potions there are…

Excitement flickers through the haze of my fatigue—sudden, almost childish.

Here’s hoping the plant isn’t addictive.

I think back to the wounded by Giselle’s makeshift med-bay, and wonder if I can find anymore of them. Probably not as much as I’d like to collect, but maybe they could use a little extra help…

Wonder what they’re called.

I kneel beside Varric and give his shoulder a quick tap. He glances up, curious. 

I point to the plant. “What?”

He blinks, then gives a short laugh, amused by the question. “Elfroot,” he says.

I pluck a leaf and tuck it carefully into my notebook, scribbling down the word phonetically. Before I can ask, Varric snatches the pencil from my hand with a grin, already anticipating what I want next—how to spell it properly in his language.

I grin right back.

We’re back on the road soon—as well as our horses, but it turns out, there’s a whole sampling of strange and unique plants around here. I don’t know what they do—if they heal, harm, poisonous, or just smell weird—but every time I spot a new one, I hop off my horse and grab either Varric or Solas and point at it, asking the only thing I know to ask: “ Hurt ?”

Sometimes they give me the go-ahead with a nod, and I collect it carefully. Other times, they shoot me a warning look and confirm— yes, hurt —when I’m already reaching for it.

There’s one that catches my eye—vibrant, almost glowing in the light. Emberium, I think it’s called. I’m still not entirely sure I’ve got the name right. Another one, a striking flower called Bloodlotus, isn’t exactly the friendliest name, but Varric assured me with a quick ‘no hurt ’ when I picked it up. I’m just eager to collect it and press it into my book.

At this rate, I might need a whole new book just for these plants.

Sometimes, I’ll ask Varric to repeat words by saying them. I write down every single one when I do. I know I won’t remember them right away, but it’s best to do it in the moment, when there’s context to latch onto. Like now, when he looks around and then says something. 

I repeat his words, doing my best to mimic the sounds. Varric chuckles, giving me a sidelong glance before he slowly says the phrase again. I scribble it down phonetically, even though I have no idea what it means yet. I can always figure it out later.

Varric, ever the helpful one, wanders over and takes my book. He draws a simple triangle, and—is that a fire next to it…?

He draws a simple figure—of what I think is him, Cassandra…Solas…me?

I freeze for a moment, then it clicks.

Oh! 

I smack my forehead. 

Camp! Camp! It’s a camp!

I can’t help it—I squeal in realization, practically bouncing on my heels and shaking his shoulders. I repeat the word with newfound excitement, and Varric chuckles, clearly amused by my enthusiasm. 

He can sue me, it’s progress. I’m happy. 

Chapter Text

I hum.

No, not there…

I glide the piece across the smooth, cloth-covered surface of the plastic fold-up table, my fingers brushing over its edges as I pause, considering where it might fit. My mouth presses into a thoughtful line as I examine the puzzle.

Where do you go…?

The garden around me is small, but it carries a quiet charm—just enough room for a koi pond where lantern light dances on the surface, casting golden ripples as the fish glide beneath. The koi flicker like living brushstrokes, wriggling through the stillness. A weathered wooden gate marks the edge of the space. Overhead, fairy lights stretch like a constellation strung through the branches, soft and warm, as if the stars themselves have come down to rest. 

It feels hidden, sacred. A little sanctuary cradled gently by the night.

I lean forward slightly, my attention still focused on the puzzle, hoping for the perfect fit. I tap the table, exhaling a soft breath. There’s the soft sound of footsteps, and I don’t have to look up to know who it is. 

“Would you teach me the basics, please?” I ask, my voice edged with frustration as I scowl at the puzzle piece that refuses to fit. “How to say where, when, why, how. ‘What’ just doesn’t cut it anymore.”

There's a beat of silence, and I can feel his presence near the table. He settles into the chair opposite me.

“Straight to the point, I see,” he says, his voice light but laced with mild amusement.

“I assumed we don’t have time for pleasantries,” I retort, my gaze never leaving the stubborn piece. But I lift my gaze.

Solas wears familiar robes, finely fitted and much like the ones he dons outside the dream. His bare scalp catches the soft glow of the fairy lights, gleaming in a way that feels dreamy—unreal, as if he’s been painted into the scene with light instead of brushstrokes.

Solas leans back, his expression thoughtful. “You’re right, of course. We may not have time for small talk. But a bit of patience now could save you considerable frustration later.”

I shoot him a playful stink eye, but hold back the impulse to lightly toss the puzzle piece at him. His eyes flick briefly to the puzzle, as if he can somehow read the thoughts racing through my mind. 

He spends the rest of the dreamtime teaching me the stuff I asked for. I can only hope the knowledge sticks when I wake. But after a while, though, his focus shifts. His personal curiosity emerges. 

A long finger taps the table in a slow, measured rhythm. My eyes catch the movement, and I can’t help but notice—there’s a kind of effortless elegance to him, even woven into the smallest gesture.

“Where, or what is this place?” he asks.

“Something I aspire to have,” I admit, and look at the completed puzzle on the table. “It doesn’t exist. Not yet.”

Solas remains silent for a moment, his gaze sweeping the dreamscape with a hint of something like…admiration in his eyes. I think, at least. And that gives me a small sense of pride. 

“You’ve given this place a great deal of thought,”

“I live in my head a lot,” I confess. “My parents called me a daydreamer. I like private sanctuaries where I’m undisturbed—where I can think.”

His gaze lingers on me for a moment, a small furrow appearing between his brows. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

“Would you?” He asks finally. “Rather be undisturbed? In your dreams?”

“Oh, god no.” I say quickly. “Your presence is a godsend. I’d be lost without you.”

There’s a brief pause. For a split second, I swear his eyes narrow, something flickering in them, but before I can process it, he speaks again, his voice sharper than before. “I would advise against such comparisons, even in jest.” He adds, his tone holding a note of caution. “It could be... dangerous.”

My lips part open, at a sudden loss. I glance at him quickly, trying to read his expression, but it’s guarded—cool, almost distant. Not angry, but something’s off. Did I say the wrong thing? I feel a sudden wave of discomfort. I turn my attention back to the puzzle, my fingers tracing a piece idly. I don’t want to make things worse.

He clears his throat, his voice softening slightly as he speaks again. “You are being referred to as the Herald of Andraste, for example. How do you feel about that?”

I blink, then say bluntly, “Like the people calling me that are a cult.”

For a moment, I think his face is just twitching, and I’m about to ask if he just had a stroke, but then I realize—his lips are twitching too, like he's fighting something.

“Are you… laughing?”

He clears his throat quickly, trying to mask the small, almost imperceptible chuckle that escapes him. His eyes dart away for a moment, as if pretending the entire thing didn’t happen. But there's still a faint curve to his lips.

“No,” he says, voice barely holding its usual level of seriousness. "Not at all."

I grin, and put my hands on the table, leaning forward. I jab a finger in his direction. “You’re laughing!”

And then, to my surprise, he actually breaks into a quiet laugh. It’s a rare sound, soft and singular and unexpected, but it's definitely a laugh. He covers it quickly, clearing his throat again, but there’s no hiding the amusement dancing in his eyes. 

I feel warmth spread through me, the sound of his laughter lingering in the air. There's something about it that sparks a deep sense of joy in me. It's strange—how something so small can be so satisfying. I can't help but feel a little lighter, like the tension that’s been building between us has momentarily dissolved.

I want to hear it again. I want to see that smile, the one that seldom makes an appearance, the one that he hides so well behind his stoic demeanor. I watch him for a moment, trying to gauge if there's any chance of pulling that smile out of him again, but I have a feeling it’ll be very difficult. 

“I... I apologise,” he says, still struggling to keep a straight face. “That was not what I expected to hear.”

The slight smile that lingers at the edges of his mouth only makes it more apparent how hard he’s trying to regain his composure.

I lean in slightly on my elbows, the words ready to slip out. “You know, if you keep trying to hold back laughs like that, you’ll just make me try harder.”

He raises an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not sure if that’s wise,” he responds. “I already have a reputation to uphold with Varric.”

“I give you my utmost vow that I won’t tell him,” I say, crossing my heart with a solemn nod. And I mean it—if keeping that moment to myself means I might get to see him laugh like that again, it’s worth it.

He arches a brow, clearly unconvinced by my theatrics, but there’s still a trace of warmth in his eyes. “That may be the most suspicious vow I’ve ever heard.” 

I laugh now, the tension slipping away like steam from a kettle. He seems to relax too—just slightly, but enough that I notice. There’s something rewarding about that. I smile, brushing my hair behind my ear as I try to regain my composure.

“You… have a nice laugh,” I tell him, soft but genuine. “And a nice smile.”

He looks at me with a faint tilt of his head, almost studying me—like the words caught him off guard in a way he didn’t expect. “You don’t strike me as someone who says things they don’t mean,” he replies eventually.

“I don’t.”

He nods once, a subtle but honest acknowledgment. “Then thank you.”

I beam at him. “You’re welcome.”

Solas filled in some other blanks last night.

The group I’m apparently “working for” is essentially called the Inquisition. 

I tried not to laugh at the time, because it sounds like a holy order hellbent on purging heresy from the land. Either way, he told me the Inquisition is helping refugees caught in the middle of the mage–templar war happening. People with no stake in the fight, just trying to survive. Some are even rogue mages and templars trying to escape the violence, who don’t agree with the war.

I asked more about this war. What started it, why the mages want freedom, why the templars are chasing them down and killing them.

“In short,” he began. “For centuries, mages were confined to Circles—towers governed by the Chantry, guarded by templars. Officially, it was protection. In truth, it was fear. Fear of what mages might become. Fear of what they already were. The tensions were always there, but in this Age, they refuse to be ignored.” 

“One catalyst,” he continued, “was an apostate—” 

“A what?” I blurted. 

He didn’t flinch. His reply came smoothly, almost as though he’d anticipated the interruption. “A mage,” he said patiently. “One who lives outside the authority of the Circle. Those who escaped it… or were never part of it to begin with. Technically, the latter are called hedge mages.” A faint flicker of wryness passed over his expression. “Such as myself. But in this war, titles blur. To the Chantry, apostate now simply means: not under control.”

“So, inmates,” I said, bitterness leaking into my tone. 

“Indeed.” 

“Anyway, go on.” 

“The apostate destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry,” he said, as if setting down a piece on a game board. “The Grand Cleric, and all within, died in the blast.” 

Ah. A terrorist, then. Though… if he was raised in a cage, maybe it was only ever going to end that way. Sooner or later. 

“With that one act,” Solas continued, “he eliminated any possibility of compromise. The Knight-Commander—invoked the Right of Annulment. The city burned. Some mages, overwhelmed by desperation, gave in to fear and became vessels for demons. The templars responded in kind. Madness, feeding madness.” 

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing. 

“In the aftermath,” he went on quietly, “Circles across Thedas rose in rebellion. The Chantry demanded obedience. The templars cast off even the illusion of restraint. Now they wage open war.”

“No offense, this world kinda sucks.”

He regarded me with a faint, almost sad smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

It sounds to me that the Templars are a holy order purging a bunch of people that can’t help what they are. It reminds me of countless parallels. Mutants versus humans. Benders versus non-benders. The Jedi and the clones. Even the damn mages in the Witcher, magic users heavily regulated and feared. Always the same story. People afraid of power they don’t understand. So they try to cage it. Or burn it.

But then—why is the Inquisition so torn? Why do they hesitate over who to help? Are they afraid of the mages too, even as they claim to protect some of them? Can they truly reconcile the need for order with the freedom mages demand? Is it genuine concern for innocent lives, or simply political posturing to gain more power in Thedas so they can have more resources to close the Breach? That seems to be their main concern, after all. 

And if neither side is truly trustworthy—if Solas’s view is tinted by his mage blood, while the Templars might still hold some shred of honor—what does that mean for the countless people caught in between? Those erased by rigid, black-and-white labels? How do you govern chaos when fear warps every choice into a weapon?

Regardless, I have no one to talk to about this except Solas. I wish I could ask Varric his opinion, but until I gain more words, more eloquence, this is all I can do. I can only think to myself about it. 

Speak of the devil, Varric seems to sense I’m irate somehow. Like he has a radar for it. 

He pats my arm, gives me the ‘you good? ’ expression. I can only nod stiffly, only hold back my frustrated sigh and suppress the urge to rant at him in my language even if he doesn’t get it. 

I think of the Templars at Haven. The mages, too. People who might not want anything to do with the war—who just want life to go back to what it was. Or maybe they’re with the Inquisition because they believe in something. The first seems more likely. But who am I to say? If I could just talk to one of them. Hear their story. Maybe all of this would start to make more sense. 

I trust Solas. But I also trust that pain has a way of bending perspective. His might not be the whole picture.

Over the next two days, I find out the Inquisition’s supposed to be gathering food and supplies for the refugees. Problem is, there’s not enough of either, and the order’s already stretched thin.

Naturally, the good man he is, Varric volunteers to help. When I ask Solas what Cassandra thinks about that, he said to me that she does want to help—but she’s less than thrilled about me being sent into danger to do it. So while they run off to handle the “real” errands, I get left behind with a footsoldier.

I feel like a kid being babysat. Not that I’m complaining. It’s kind of a relief. 

And Larrs—my assigned bodyguard-slash-chaperone—is chill enough. Broad-shouldered, perpetually armored, and with the permanent scowl of someone who’s seen too many winters, he mostly stands nearby with his arms crossed, watching the world like it might try something. He doesn’t talk much, thanks to the language barrier, but I’ve caught him eyeing my notebook a few times, like he’s mildly curious but too polite—or too stoic—to ask.

At one point, when I’m really bored, I poke him in the arm and slide the notebook over, revealing a grid with an X already placed in the center. Tic-Tac-Toe. Fingers crossed it’s universal. 

He glances down, then at me. Raises a brow. Then, slowly, deliberately, he takes the pencil and draws an O in the corner. 

I slowly grin. 

He loses three turns later and mutters something that’s probably a curse, but he’s already redrawing the grid before I can gloat. Turns out “quiet and surly” doesn’t mean “not competitive.”

When he declines for another round, I draw my own little maze, and then offer him the paper. He considers me for a moment, looks at the maze with squinting eyes, before shrugging and taking the notepad. He spends a good ten minutes tracing the outline, solving it in his head, before he solves it in real time. 

I smile at him proudly. He rolls his eyes but mirrors the expression. 

I like Larrs. Larrs doesn’t treat me like I’m the holy chosen one or a witch at Salem. 

But sadly, the third day, it’s back to hauling me around for the main event we’re all here for—aside from helping refugees: rifts . There are so many bloody rifts. Honestly, if I never see another glowing green tear in reality again, it'll be too soon.

On the upside, I’ve collected a buttload of elfroot on my excursion today. My pack’s basically a traveling herbarium now. I could set up a roadside apothecary and no one would question it. I don’t even mean to stop every time I see one. But I do. I can’t not . There’s a scene etched into my brain that stings more than the mark ever has.

A man. Broken. Slumped against the bedroll like a ragdoll, his life leaking out in red. His daughter is small, so small. She presses her face to his chest, and her hands shake, but his hands—they don’t move. His fingers slip from hers like they’ve forgotten how to hold on. She says something, words I don’t understand. But the pain, the way her voice cracks... I don’t need to know what words she’s using. It’s all in the way her eyes scream with agony.

So yeah, I stop. I gather what I can.

I know I’m testing everyone’s patience with the constant stopping and starting, but I just flash a fake grin and throw up a thumbs up like everything’s fine. 

I catch Solas watching me sometimes—quiet, unreadable. Maybe he’s wondering what I’m doing. Maybe he’s annoyed. He can deal with it. Varric throws out a comment now and then—light, teasing. Something about me stockpiling for the apocalypse probably. Maybe he thinks I’ve developed a potion addiction. Cassandra just grunts and tells me to move. Follow . She wants to keep going, close as many rifts as possible, like we’re racing the sky itself.

By the time we return, I feel like I’ve been scraped out and stitched back together wrong.

My legs ache with every step, muscles burning from hours of trudging over uneven ground. My shoulders scream under the weight of my pack. My hands are raw—thumbs stained green, fingers nicked from roots and thorns. I’m coated in sweat and dust, and my head throbs with the dull rhythm of a gathering headache. Every breath feels heavier than it should, like the air itself is tired.

The mark throbs on my hand, rubbed raw by every rift I’ve closed.

But still, I swing off the horse and make a beeline for Mother Giselle.

Behind me, I hear Cassandra’s voice—sharp, confused. I catch the words I’m familiar with: What? Where? And get the gist of what she’s asking. 

“Where is she going?” A pause. “What is she doing?”

I don’t answer. I just keep walking, hauling the heavy sack of elfroot in both arms. It digs into my chest, my arms trembling slightly under the weight, but I don’t slow down. Mother Giselle spots me, and her face lights up—wide and warm, like the sun breaking through stormclouds—when I hand her the herbs. 

Behind me, the others fall quiet. I don’t have to turn around to know they’re watching. And maybe now they finally understand I wasn’t gathering for me .

We go back to camp, because the town’s almost overrun with refugees now, and there’s not enough space for us to sleep in the small tavern anymore. The crowded streets are filled with the murmur of voices, a constant hum of people trying to make do with what little they have. Everywhere you look, there's more—more tents, more desperate faces, more people just trying to hold on and make do.

The camp is quieter, at least. A little less suffocating than the disorder in town. The smell of smoke from the cooking fires mingles with the sharp scent of sweat and earth. I can hear the gentle muttering of the crew, along with the occasional chatter of soldiers who are scattered around the camp.

I’m not in my tent yet—just outside the camp, sitting on soft soil with my back against a fallen log. It’s quiet here on the outskirts. The low hum of campfire chatter fades into the distance, replaced by the rustle of grass and the gentle creak of trees swaying in the night breeze.

You’d never see stars like this in the city—too much light, too much noise. Even in the countryside back home, they never looked like this. Here, they feel closer. Like I could reach up and touch them. Like the universe cracked itself open just enough for me to peek through.

And suddenly, I feel so small.

Not in a comforting way—just hollow. Like I’m a speck clinging to a world too vast to understand. The stars shine like they’ve always been there, while I... I don’t know what I’m doing. Why I’m here. If any of this even matters.

I rub my eyes, tears blurring my vision, and drag my fingers through my hair, nails digging just enough to sting.

Even the sky, for all its beauty, feels alien.

And that’s when the ache starts.

It’s quiet at first. Then it swells.

Homesickness.

That gnawing, slow-burning kind. The kind that hides in your chest and twists when you least expect it. A longing for the little things—things that shouldn’t matter, but do.

I miss home. I miss the city—cold mornings and pale afternoon light, the smell of damp pavement, the hint of cherry blossoms from the parks. I miss the hum of traffic, the clatter of coffee cups, the hiss of buses stopping outside the sanctuary.

I miss the refuge. My chipped mug. The one Gemma always threatened to throw out, but never did. I miss Gemma—her crinkly laugh, her terrible playlists, the way she always brought me an extra biscuit because she said I “forget to eat” when I’m too busy. I miss our little routines. The structure. The purpose. The animals that needed us and made the days feel worthwhile.

Out here, everything is too quiet and too loud at the same time. Nothing smells right. Nothing moves the same. I feel like I’m floating in someone else’s dream—among strangers, in a world I don’t understand, with a mark on my hand that everyone stares at like it means something. Like I mean something.

But I’m not sure I do.

I miss being just April. April from the sanctuary. April who knew what she was good at. Who had a role. A rhythm. A reason.

Now I’m lost again. I don’t know what I’m doing. 

And I don’t know how to find my way back.

I’m in a field.

It’s big, empty, vast. Surrounding.

At first, I think they’re reeds—tall, slender, swaying gently. But when I look again, they might be wheat—thicker, golden, rippling under the weight of the sun. The light shifts: amber, then pale gold, stretching across the stalks. They whisper, but not in words—not quite. It’s a sound like breath caught in the stillness. A murmur that seems to rise from the earth itself.

I reach out and the heads of grain bend toward me, curious. 

One brushes my palm like a cat.

The air smells of something half-remembered—crushed grass, the sharp tang of rain on hot stone, the ghost of lavender clinging to the edges of time. It’s a fragrance I can’t quite place, but it tugs at something inside me, a memory that’s never fully mine. 

In the distance, there’s a tree.

It wasn’t there before.

Its trunk is white as bone, gleaming under the shifting light, and its branches stretch across the sky—too wide, too long. They twist and curl in defiance of gravity, as if the tree grew in a place where the rules of the world are only faint suggestions. Something swings from one of the branches. It catches the light, flickering.

At first, I think it’s a lantern. Or maybe a cage.

No—it's a mirror.

The mirror turns slowly in the breeze, its surface catching slivers of sunlight and flashing them across the field. Each time the light hits me, my reflection changes. Older. Younger. Covered in blood. Laughing. Gone. It’s as if I’m seeing lives I might’ve lived, moments that might’ve been, but are lost, slipping away with each flicker.

The field breathes around me again—deep and slow—and I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the pulse of the earth beneath me. When I open them again, the night sky floods into view. Stars glisten in sharp clarity, as if they’re watching me, waiting for something.

There’s a house in the distance.

Mine.

I don’t know how I know, but I know.

The house stands there, perched at the edge of my vision, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. I start walking toward it, careful at first, brushing aside the tall stalks that shiver as I pass, their touch sending a ripple through me. But the house drifts away. Not moves—drifts—like a boat slipping silently from its mooring. The harder I focus on it, the further it feels. The ground beneath me shifts, as though pulling back, refusing to let me draw closer.

I pick up speed. 

The stalks clutch at my legs, pulling me back, tugging, as if they’re trying to keep me here. I push harder. My breath hitches in my chest. I run,  but the field starts to shift beneath my feet. The ground dips, subtly at first, then sharply—as though the world itself is tilting away from me. My feet hit soil that’s suddenly loose, unstable, and I slip, stumble, scramble to regain my footing. But the house stays far ahead, tethered to the horizon like it’s part of another world.

I collapse to my hands and knees, fingers sinking into the warm, pulsing earth. My breath is jagged, ragged in my chest, the world swimming around me. The ground is too warm, too alive, like something beneath it is breathing, waiting. I stare helplessly at the house as it blurs, its edges flickering like a mirage. It’s still there. But it’s so far away.

My eyes sting.

The reeds—or wheat—start to coil around my arms, soft at first, then tightening. They twist like vines, winding around my wrists, my elbows, pulling me down. Pulling me through the soil, deeper, the earth swallowing me whole. The sensation is suffocating, a weight pressing on my chest, my throat. I try to scream, but no sound comes. My voice is swallowed by the silence.

The mirror above spins once more, the light flashing across my face. My reflection flickers—no longer just me. Not anymore. Someone else, someone different. The faces blur together: older, younger, bleeding, laughing, gone.

The field is alive. It breathes in and out, and now it exhales dust. My vision wavers. The plants climb higher, creeping over me, choking me, their presence a heavy weight, dragging me under. The world around me grows hazy, distant. The sound of my heartbeat fills my ears.

Then—

A hand.

Warm. Firm. Real.

Fingers close around mine, anchoring me in place. There’s a force, a gravity pulling me back up—a new anchor. The vines resist, the field pulls, but I can feel the unyielding grip. For a moment, it feels like I’ll tear in two. 

Then, I’m yanked up.

The wheat—no, the reeds—scream, not in sound, but in sensation. A jagged spike of cold pain shoots through me as they tear from my skin, leaving the mark of their passage. I collapse, my legs weak, half-sunken in the earth, the world spinning as I struggle to breathe.

And then something gives, and I fall toward whatever has me. 

Solas.

I see his face. His pointed ears. The shiny bald head and the chiseled features.

He’s on his back, and I’m sprawled on top of him, half on him, my body weak and shaking. His breath is ragged, just as mine is, but he doesn’t move. He holds me, arms braced around me like he’s the only thing keeping me from being swallowed by the dream. His hands are there, holding me on my waist.

His presence is solid—unwavering, a quiet strength in the storm.

Above us, the sky shifts, spinning gently, like the universe itself is rearranging. The stars flicker, as if they’re watching—waiting—as if the very air is holding its breath. The dream, with all its tangled, strange beauty, seems to pause, caught between what was and what might be.

Solas’s gaze drifts to the house, still on the horizon, unreachable. His brow furrows, but he says nothing. His eyes are unreadable, dark, like the space between stars. I try to focus on him—on his presence here, on his warmth beneath me.

A dream.

It’s a dream.

No.

I rest my head against his chest, warm—solid—-my breath wavering, terror pulsing in my veins. His heartbeat beneath my ear is grounding, a comfort.

Nightmare .

It’s a nightmare.

I’m here, held close in the safety of his arms. It doesn’t make the fear go away, but for a moment, I let myself lean into it—into him, into the reality of this fleeting, strange space where I’m not alone.

Solas's voice rumbles quietly beneath me, his words oddly distant, as though he’s speaking more to himself than to me. “I did my best to replicate your creation, but it was not from my mind.”

The words don’t immediately make sense, their meaning slipping around the edges of my understanding. My body protests, still caught in the lingering tremors of the dream, but I shift, lifting my head from his chest. I blink at the sudden change in the air, at the shift in the world around us.

I startle slightly in the stillness of the garden that unfolds before us. The scent of lavender clings to the air, and the soft rustle of leaves creates a muted song, too familiar and yet… not quite right. The familiar stone path winds ahead, the ivy twisting in the way it always has, the deep green spilling into the flower beds. The distant hum of water flowing from the fountain should soothe me, but something is different.

Something is off.

I look around, trying to place it. It’s the same, but not. The colours are deeper, the shadows too long, stretching like dark fingers across the stone. The garden is more alive, the flowers twisting slightly as if they’re alive in a way they shouldn’t be, swaying in rhythms that feel alien to the world I know.

It’s the same, yes, but it’s not.

Solas shifts beside me. The faintest flicker of discomfort crosses his expression, though it’s gone as quickly as it came. “I thought it might help. To anchor you."

I roll off him to offer him a reprieve from my weight, and lay by his side, staring up at the sky.

“It does. It is.” I let out a shuddery breath. “Thank you.”

We lay there together, side by side on the cooling grass, in silence. The stars above flicker in and out, their light faint and distant, and for a moment, it felt like time has paused. 

We’ve been in the quiet so long that his voice nearly makes me jolt.

“Dreams…” he begins, his voice soft, thoughtful, almost reluctant, as if choosing his words carefully. “They are often the mind's way of processing what lies hidden beneath—our fears, our desires, things we may not even understand ourselves.” He pauses, his gaze turning towards the sky. “I’ve been told that seeking counsel about it offers some…relief.”

The offer is there, unspoken but palpable. It’s an invitation, a chance for me to confide in him, to reveal more of myself. He’s not forcing it, but he’s waiting for me to make the next move. But I have to consider it for a while, as I stare up at the stars. I think about the tangled mess of thoughts I’ve been carrying, the confusion and the yearning that seems to always cling to me. The suffocating feeling of being caught between two worlds. 

Finally, I let the words slip out before I can stop them.

“I’m homesick.”

“Ah,” he says, and it's a defining word, his voice almost knowing as if it all makes sense now. When I shift and crane my head to look at him, he’s looking up at the sky still. There’s something soft in his gaze. “It is a common feeling among many.”

“Have you ever felt homesick?”

For a moment, his features twitch, the smallest flicker of something crossing his expression. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by his usual calm, impassive demeanour.

“I think…” he starts slowly, his tone thoughtful, “everyone has, in some way or another. It is a feeling that is not easily shaken.”

I notice how he doesn’t mention himself, but I don’t push. Not everyone is comfortable with emotional vulnerability. Instead, I give a small, rueful smile. My fingers lightly clasp over my stomach.

“Familiarity is comfortable,” I say. “It’s safe. Change is terrifying. I miss my world, more than anything.”

He’s quiet for a beat, as though mulling over my words. 

“Tell me,” he says gently. “About your world.”

And so I do. 

Chapter Text

I’m “up” all night.

In a manner of speaking.

In the dream, I share pieces of my world with Solas, and he’s immediately—almost aggressively—curious. I do my best to keep up, conjuring objects like a blender, a phone, a pair of headphones. Things I wouldn’t look twice at back home, but here? They’re borderline arcane marvels. He questions me relentlessly on all of them, until my brain is too tired to conjure more.

Now that the refugees are okay, and things are a little more stable in Redcliffe, we start riding back to Haven. 

It takes about four days to get back. Give or take. 

I manage to pick a few more herbs along the way—not as many as I’d like, though. Not for lack of need, just fewer growing on this path. Otherwise I’d hoard every last one to stave off the dull, bone-deep ache that comes from riding Dara too long.

The further we ride, the colder it gets.

At first, it’s just a bite in the air—sharp enough to notice, but nothing a thicker cloak and a swift pace can’t push through. The land out here, even in winter’s approach, still clings to the rust-red hue of earth and the last stubborn tufts of green. 

By the second day, with each passing mile, the colour drains from the landscape. Our breaths fog the air in thick, rhythmic clouds. Dara’s hooves crunch over frozen ground, his pace slower now. The others bundle up in silence. Conversations thin out, muffled by scarves and the increasing need to conserve warmth. Even Varric talks less. That says everything.

The third day brings true snow. It falls in lazy spirals from a pale sky, piling onto our shoulders and hoods until we look like a traveling band of poorly carved statues. The trees thin. Rocks jut up from the white like the bones of the world itself. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howl. 

The breach becomes clearer in the sky, the closer we get. 

By the time we reach the slopes leading into the Frostbacks, it feels like we’ve stepped into another world entirely. A quiet, white one, cold enough to bite through every layer. I can’t feel my fingers. I can barely feel my legs. Dara is breathing hard, and so am I.

I want bed. I want fire.  

I want a fucking bath.

It’s been, what, nearly two weeks? Two weeks of grime under my nails and the constant stench of sweat clinging to my clothes. The closest I’ve had to a wash was a pitiful splash of river water—pits, tits, and ass, the bare minimum to not offend my own nose and others. Cold as death, too. Made me gasp like I was being stabbed.

I’ve been crawling through dirt, ducking demons and patching rifts like some glorified arcane janitor.

I feel filthy. Not just dirty. Worn down to the bone.

So when the gates of Haven finally come into view—when I see smoke curling from chimneys and the faint, golden flicker of hearthlight through cabin windows—I could cry. 

And I just might. 

After the bath.

The doors creak open. Someone shouts. A stablehand runs up to take Dara’s reins before I can even attempt to dismount. My legs feel like they've fused to the saddle anyway, so I sit there for a second, blinking against the flurry of snow. Let them wait. I need a moment to remember how to be a person again. Eventually, I swing my leg over and hit the ground with a graceless thud. 

My knees almost buckle. Almost . 

Someone says something to me as they take the horse, and I send them a slightly wary sideways glance, but give them a small polite smile. 

I stretch my legs, and they crack like old wood—loud, stiff, unsatisfying. Every muscle protests, sore from riding and fighting and just… existing. My spine feels like it’s been compressed into dust. I start toward my cabin, boots crunching through the snow. The rest of the party fans out behind me, peeling off toward their own quarters. 

I don’t even make it inside before I start unfastening belts, straps, layers. My fingers are stiff, fumbling at buckles. My nose is numb. My hair’s a matted mess of cold sweat and melted snow under my hood. 

The only thing I want more than a bath is to never ride a horse again.

“Bath,” I mutter to myself. “Bath, bath, bath, gimmie bath…”

Wait—

Just as I’m kicking off my boots, I freeze mid-hop, one foot in the air, sock half-peeled. A horrible, sinking realisation creeps in. No plumbing. No knobs to turn. No hiss of pipes warming up. Just a tub. A hopeful, empty, ice-cold tub.

But I don’t have to panic for long.

There it is—tucked off to the side of the room, steam curling from its surface like a gift from the gods. A bath. A hot bath. Already drawn. Already perfect.

Oh my god.

Who do I have to kiss? Who do I thank? God? Andraste? Someone’s grandmother??

I make a beeline for the tub and peel off the rest of my clothes before I even think to check the water temperature.

I could cry.

It’s hot. Like, just right. Not skin-melting, but comfortably hot. I don’t have to wait for it to warm up or cool down—I can just hop in.

And I do.

I sink into the water, and as soon as I do, a groan escapes me. Probably sounds suspicious to anyone outside the door, but I don’t give a damn. It feels so damn good.

There’s only white noise in my head as I just… float in the bath. My mind empties. The water wraps around me like a warm hug, like the weight of the world has been taken off my shoulders. The crackle of the fire fills the room, its warmth creeping into the air, mingling with the heat of the bath.

Everything is warm in here.

Delightfully warm.

I close my eyes, let the steam settle into my skin, and just… exist.

For a while. 

There’s a knock on the door, shattering my peace. I groan, curling my toes beneath the water as I fight the urge to sink lower into the tub and hide from whoever is intruding on my serenity.

Why can’t the world just leave me the fuck alone?

Another knock, a bit louder this time.

“For fuck’s sake—what?!” I half growl, half yell, grabbing the sides of the tub and sitting up, knees pulled to my chest for some semblance of modesty. I brace myself for whatever fresh annoyance is about to come my way.

It’s Cassandra, right? Probably here to drag me out for some random rift that’s just opened, or—

Oh.

It’s the elven woman, the same one who was bowing to me when I first woke up here. She drops to her knees, forehead pressed to the floor in a gesture of humility or... maybe penance. She’s looking for forgiveness, but for what?

Oh. Shit.

“No, no,” I say quickly, my voice a little softer, more guilty now. I wave my hands in a frantic motion, trying to signal that there’s no need for this. “It’s fine, please, stand up.” 

I’m sure I’ve made this ten times worse with my temper. She's just trying to do her job, and I’m the one who lost it. I should’ve known better. But the words to apologise are unknown to me, and all I can offer is a sheepish, guilty look as my stomach twists with embarrassment, a knot tightening deep inside me. I feel heat creep up my neck, flushing my face.

She bows her head again, forehead to the floor. She starts rambling, but I can’t understand a single word—especially not at the speed she’s going.

My gaze flicks to the tray beside her. Glass vials. Creams. Oils. Goddammit.

God dammit. 

I’m an arse . 

“Okay, uh,” I rub my forehead and try to wave to get her attention, and use the only simple words I have at my disposal. “Hello? Name?”

She stares up at me with wide eyes. 

I point to her, and try again. “Hello? Name?”

“A-Anwen,” she answers, and I hope that’s her name. 

“Hello, Anwen.” I give her a sheepish smile, doing my best to soften the mood despite the awkwardness. Then I tap my chest. “April.”

She nods slowly, mouth still slightly open—like she can’t believe I’m talking to her. Or that I’m not mad. Not yelling.

I point to the platter. “What?”

She blinks, then fumbles to her feet. Lifting the tray, she tiptoes toward me with the carefulness of someone defusing a bomb. I shift a bit in the tub, suddenly all too aware of how naked I am. She sets the tray down gently on the nearby table, opens one of the vials, and gestures—first to her hair, then to mine.

Oh.

She wants to—do my hair?

I really am an arse. 

“Y-yes,” I answer her, and make a note to ask Solas, or Varric, how the fuck to say sorry I’m a huge arse , and thank you so much . 

Anwen moves with quiet care, her fingers combing oil through my hair with a gentleness that startles me. She doesn’t rush. Just slow, steady circles over my scalp, tugging out knots with barely a pinch. I almost melt under her hands. My shoulders sink lower into the bath, eyes fluttering shut, even though this whole thing still feels a little surreal.

I’m being pampered. Truly pampered. Like someone important.

And God—I hate how good it feels.

It reminds me almost of when I'm a child again. When my mum scrubbed her fingers into my hair to get the mud out because I was an active kid that played in the dirt a lot.

When she’s done rinsing the oil out, she pats my hair dry with a soft, warm cloth and gives me this small, hesitant smile. It just twists the guilt in my stomach tighter.

She moves to the chest at the foot of the bed, pulls out something neatly folded, and lays it over the chair. A dress. Winter-weight, thick, lined with fur. Dark fabric with simple embroidery—practical, but lovely. Too nice for someone who yelled at her five minutes ago. 

Then she approaches again, a towel in her hands, held out like she’s ready to wrap me in it herself. I blink, startled. She isn’t looking directly at me—giving me privacy in her own quiet way. Swallowing, I rise from the water and let her wrap the towel around me. I step out, clutching it to my chest. She bows her head again and moves to stand near the dress—waiting, it seems, to help me into it.

I have no idea what to say.

“Thank you,” I murmur anyway. It probably means nothing to her, but maybe the tone does. Maybe she hears it, deep enough to know I mean it.

I hug the towel tighter and stare at the dress like it’s a dragon.

This is a starkly different treatment from the first day I was here. It’s…scary, how quickly I went from being an enemy of this order, to someone important to them. 

Anwen dresses me with the same quiet care she used when washing my hair—gentle, methodical, not a word spoken between us. I let her, too stunned, too tired, and frankly too guilty to protest. She laces me into the winter dress, smoothing the fabric down my sides like I might wrinkle if she doesn't.

When she's done, she crouches to the floor and lifts a pair of boots from beside the chair—sturdy, fur-lined leather. Practical. Warm. She offers them to me like they’re something sacred, holding them in both hands.

I blink at them, then at her. She's not meeting my eyes. Still polite. Still careful.

God, I yelled at her.

I take the boots gently, like touching them wrong might offend her all over again. “Thanks,” I mutter, voice rough.

She just nods and steps back, hands folded, waiting in case I need anything else. Like a shadow. Like a servant.

It makes my skin itch.

I hope she’s got a wage. If she doesn’t, I swear to God, I’m going to demand she does and ask—what the fuck is wrong with this place?

No, no. I’m sure she does. Haven’t seen any slavery here. Not yet, anyway. People bow a lot. And yeah, there’s definitely a hierarchy. But no shackles, no collars, no one chained up. Just… a lot of people willing to serve without question.

Still. It doesn’t sit right.

A gift.

That’s what I realize I can give Anwen. As an apology.

The only problem? I have no idea what she likes.

Soap? Everyone needs soap.

No, that could come off wrong. Like I think she’s dirty. That won’t do. My Aunt Sherry always got offended when anyone got her perfume or soap for Christmas or birthdays.

Money? I don’t even have any. Not really. And I wouldn’t know who to ask for something like that anyway. Varric, maybe. Or Solas. But they're both already juggling enough.

And I don’t know elven culture. What if giving a gift is seen as an insult? I mean, the Japanese don’t accept tips. Maybe it’s something like that here. This is a different world. Anything I think is innocent could be a serious offense.

The pretty diplomat lady—what was her name? J-something. Jackie? No, Josephine. Yes. Josephine .

She’d know. It’s literally her job to know this sort of thing—cultural bridges, diplomacy, all that. The perfect person to ask about an appropriate gift. She’s also probably busy, but I won’t know unless I try.

I find myself walking toward the repurposed church like an awkward newborn lamb trying to figure out how legs work. She was in the council room last time. Maybe she’ll be there again—or at least someone who can point me in the right direction.

I feel the weight of eyes on me as I pass.

Cullen. Roderick. Arguing at the doors, voices raised just enough to carry over the low buzz of the crowd gathered around them. I can’t hear the words clearly, but the tone is unmistakable—sharp, clipped, edged with the kind of frustration that comes from too many days of tension and too little compromise.

I spot the insignia of a sword on a soldier’s chestplate. Templars. Staffs, too—on backs. Mages.

Ah. More mage and Templar drama.

I don’t want to get pulled into this. Whatever power I supposedly have, whatever strange authority these people think I carry, I don’t know how to wield it—and I sure as hell don’t want to be the one to step into a volatile standoff.

Yeah, no thanks.

I slip my hood up and slink past the mess.

People in robes—Solas said they’re Chantry?—glance at me as I pass, but none of them stop me. They’re busy with their own rituals: murmured prayers, bundles of supplies carried from one corridor to the next, quiet conversations that die as I walk by and resume once I’m past.

At the far end of the hall, I catch sight of the room Cassandra dragged me into before—the one with the big war table and the even bigger personalities: Leliana, Cullen, Josephine.

My pace quickens.

I reach the door, hesitate with my hand halfway to the handle—then take a breath and push it open.

Leliana is there, leaning over the war table, fingers tapping the edge of a parchment map. My eyes catch on the map. Is that the whole world? Just the region? I make a mental note to ask Solas later. That poor elf, I have too many questions for him. Maybe he needs a gift, too.

I suddenly realize Leliana is staring at me with those sharp eyes, waiting. Silently.

Crap.

I clear my throat and straighten up, pulling out my notebook—careful not to dislodge any of the pressed herbs tucked inside—and flip to a page where I’ve written Josephine’s name.

I turn the book to face her and tap the page, eyebrows raised in a hopeful please-don’t-kill-me way.

Her only reaction is the slow, barely perceptible raise of one eyebrow. I shift uncomfortably under her stare and wonder if I should’ve just found Varric. Then—finally—she steps away from the table and approaches, like a panther deciding whether or not I’m worth pouncing on. I brace myself. 

She plucks the notebook from my hands like she’s handling something delicate and flips through the pages.

“No?” I try, uncertain. Not even sure what I’m asking.

She meets my gaze over the top of the notebook. I swallow a little at how piercing her eyes are. Then—snap—she shuts the book and passes it back to me.

With a short nod, she says, “Follow.”

Terrifying.

But I follow.

She leads me to a room I’d passed earlier and raps once on the door. There’s a voice inside—soft, refined. Leliana opens the door and stands aside, saying nothing. Just watching me. I step inside, heart hammering. The door shuts behind me with a click. I glance back, and hold back my squeak.

Leliana remains behind me like a very polite executioner.

“April! Hello!” Josephine greets warmly from behind her desk. I offer a slightly nervous smile. 

Josephine gestures to the chair in front of her desk. I sit, careful not to knock over any decorative items. The room smells like parchment and ink and something flowery. It's oddly calming.

Josephine says something, a question, I think. I hear a how in there. Maybe how can I help you, instead of what do you want ?

I hold up the notebook and flip to a rough sketch of Anwen. I don’t know how to spell her name, so I did my best with her face and hair. Josephine leans in, curious. I flip the page—this one’s a little comic: me, handing a box to Anwen, complete with sparkles and exaggerated motion lines.

“A, uh, gift?” I try. I grab a decorative ornament from Josephine’s desk, turn to Leliana, and pantomime offering it with a flourish.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t take it.

Rude.

Leiliana says something— Anwen is in the sentence. Then Josephine frowns. My gut sinks. Oh no. Did I get her in trouble? I think—I hope—she gets it. I want to get this right. I need to make it right.

When they’re still uncertain in what I’m saying, I huff and throw my arms up in the air, snatching my book and turning around to leave. There’s murmuring behind me, but I don’t stop. 

Fuck it, I’ll do this myself . 

I make a pitstop at my cabin.

Indecision paralysis be damned—I’m getting her something useful. A practical apology. She looks like she could use a scarf, and I know I’ve got one stashed somewhere in here. It’s freezing up here, and it’s not like she’s walking around in wolf pelts. A shitty dress, more like. It doesn’t even look thick, like the one she dressed me in. But a bad hand-me-down.

I find the scarf tucked in a crate somewhere. Thick wool, barely worn. It’ll do. I pack it away in a small box, then I head out, scouring the village.

She’s a tough one to find.

I peek into the tavern—no luck. Doesn’t seem like the drinking type anyway. Probably not nursing a tankard or downing stew with the others. 

The Chantry’s a no-go. I was just there. She wasn’t. 

I’m near what I think is the apothecary—smells like pine and crushed herbs—when I spot Solas outside, perched on a bench with a book open across his knee. He’s frowning slightly in concentration, his fingers absently tracing the edge of a page. When I call out and wave, his head lifts slowly. One arched brow rises, but he nods in greeting.

Then I spot the servant.

She’s carrying a crate toward the church. I light up, holding up the box with the scarf like a prize. I call out her name, like it’s the best news in the world. She looks up, sees me—and her eyes go wide. Not in the good way. The moment I start toward her, she pivots and walks away, head down. 

I didn’t scare her that bad, did I? 

My heart breaks a little, but I decide to keep hope. “Wait!” I call, practically pouting. I jog after her, waving the box. “Where are you going? Anwen, wait!”

I follow Anwen around the corner, still clutching the box. She’s fast when she wants to be—but the crate she’s carrying slows her down. Just as I’m about to call out to her again, she stumbles.

It happens so fast—she trips straight into a blond man rounding the corner from the other side. The crate slips from her grasp and hits the ground hard, the wood splintering slightly as the contents spill across the snow-dusted path.

I wince. Then freeze.

The man reels back, then turns on her. 

And explodes .

I don’t catch every word, but his voice carries, vicious and sharp. Anwen shrinks back, her hands coming up to shield her head. 

The moment that happens, something strikes a chord. 

It’s not the words—plenty of people raise their voices. Not the way he steps forward, looming—though that doesn’t help. The tone. The sharp, cracking edge of it. Like a whip of sound meant to make someone flinch. A memory stirs in the back of my skull, unbidden: shouting through thin walls. The snap of a slammed door. The sting of silence that always followed.

My grip on the box tightens. 

The man keeps yelling—some insult that doesn’t even register—but the words blur around the ringing in my ears. All I can hear is the echo. The rhythm of an old fear I thought I’d grown out of. But my breath shortens. My vision narrows. And I feel, somewhere deep in my gut, the urge to run. 

I don’t even think about it. 

Instead, I take a single, stubborn step forward.

He jabs a finger at her shoulder—too hard to be casual.

I pick up my pace, shoving the box under one arm as my boots crunch over the frostbitten path. He’s spitting now—frothing with rage, red-faced and jabbing a thick finger toward her.

I step in fast, wedging myself between them, planting my feet like roots. Anwen stumbles back, nearly drops the crate again, but I don’t move. I become a wall—solid, immovable. My arm stretches slightly, enough to keep her behind me. He’s taller than me by a mile. Built like a tree trunk and just as immovable. His eyes flicker—momentary surprise flashing like static—but then he doubles down. 

Voice rising. Spittle flying.

I’ve never heard a man yell like that in person. Not at me.

Not since—

The memory’s hot and sour in the back of my throat, but I don’t let it show. My heart might be jackhammering in my ribs, but I don’t step back. He yells something. Points a thick finger at my face—jabbing the air like a weapon. He’s looming, puffing, trying to make himself larger than life. I know this posture. I’ve seen this theater before.

The hallway was narrow. Brown carpet. A dent in the drywall near the doorframe. The sound of it slamming made the picture fall off the nail. My socks were wet from the snow, and my fingers were red from gripping the doorknob too hard. I didn't cry then, either. I just sat on the bottom stair and stared at the woodgrain, like it could open and swallow me whole.

I act before I think.

I grab his wrist with one hand—sharp, tight—and bite down on his finger.

Hard.

His roar pierces the cold air like an animal in pain. 

They already think I’m some barbaric lunatic. Might as well give them a reason.

Chapter Text

I had the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Disgusting. 

But Anwen was fine—already gone by the time I looked back. Which left me with one furious blond man, clutching his poor, wounded finger and shouting bloody murder.

Worth it.

Enter Cullen: calmer, taller, significantly more handsome. He arrived just in time and, thankfully, took a more reasonable approach. He said something to the man, and when the guy barked back, Cullen had two soldiers drag him off like yesterday’s garbage.

I was just about to thank him.

Then he looked at me.

No words. Just a stern finger, pointing from me to himself, then toward the church.

Message received: You. With me. Now.

Which brings us here.

The council chamber.

Cassandra sits across from me, scowling, massaging her temples like she’s one exhale away from losing it completely. Varric leans against the wall, half-smirk in place—equal parts smug and entertained. Solas stands beside him, arms crossed, face unreadable in that carefully neutral way of his. Josephine sits at the table, composed as ever, hands folded like she’s bracing for a stack of paperwork. Leliana lingers at the back, arms crossed behind her, expression impossible to read.

And Cullen? He stands nearby, looking mildly peeved but…thoughtful, maybe? I don’t know him well enough to tell what passes for emotion on his face. Not yet.

The room is silent.

Painfully, deathly silent.

Until Cassandra finally fixes her eyes on me and gestures slightly with her hands. “Why?”

I mirror the gesture she did mockingly. “Asshole.”

Gasps. Wide eyes. One scandalised cough.

Then, from the back—Varric snorts.

Cassandra spins around like she’s been slapped, finger jabbing accusingly in his direction. He coughs over a laugh, holding up his hands, trying not to lose himself in more giggles.

Yes. He taught me that word. And yes, I’m glad he did. 

Solas says something calmly. Cassandra whirls on him as fast as she did on Varric, eyes blazing. Solas blinks—just once—as if surprised to be the target. His face briefly flashes “why me?” before he straightens, shoulders squared. She snips something back, and his jaw slightly tightens. 

Josephine says something, which makes Cassandra close her eyes and inhale slowly. 

I shrug. 

The room shifts. No one’s looking directly at me anymore. Cassandra starts pacing now, hands moving sharply through the air as she speaks. Frustration radiates off her in waves. At one point, she jabs a thumb over her shoulder—at me—punctuated with a scoff that earns a sigh from Cullen and a long look from Leliana. 

Cullen speaks for a while. Josephine leans in, replying softly, hands folded, but her eyes flick toward me with concern. Varric mutters something under his breath, shrugging a shoulder, and Solas responds, his voice calm but clipped, one hand making a slicing motion through the air.

Someone says "how." The word stands out. It’s said again. And again. With varying intonations. How this happened. How to explain. How to fix it.

Leliana tilts her head, listening, then lifts a brow and gestures with two fingers in a circling motion—strategy, maybe, or spin. Cassandra sighs, dragging a hand through her hair, then gestures broadly toward the ceiling, the walls, the door—here, the Inquisition, everything.

None of it makes sense to me. But it's easy to guess the source I’m the problem they’re trying to solve.

Josephine raises a hand delicately, and the room settles. She speaks, and then when she’s done, Solas steps forward, raising a hand with quiet authority. His voice drifts into the room as he begins to speak, weaving through his long-winded speech like a thread through the silence. If I know him by now, he’s either offering a solution or gearing up for one of his lectures. 

Everyone looks at me.

I blink, looking around. “What?”

I’m in the garden again. 

The air is cool, the night sky stretched out like a blanket of twinkling stars. The scene around me is still, the faint scent of flowers drifting on the breeze. I lie on the grass, staring up at the heavens, feeling the softness of the blanket beneath me.

The soft footsteps break the silence.

“Biting a merchant's finger is not typically a common greeting,” he says, his voice even, but my ears twitch at the quiet amusement I can hear.

I don’t bother to look, already knowing who it is. “I’ll say here what I said in the waking world,” I reply, still fixated on the sky. “He was an asshole. He deserved it.”

He sits next to me, and I glance to see his own blanket forming. 

Strange. I would’ve expected something darker from him. A rich, velvety purple, maybe. Something more fitting for his quiet, enigmatic air. Something mysterious. Instead, this shade of green reminds me of my research into colour theory in university. How this particular tone was often used in Disney for villains—lurking in magical auras, bubbling potions, smoky transformations. 

I imagine him now, twirling a moustache in a dark room and a malicious cackle.

The image is absurd. And absurdly funny.

Especially since he doesn’t seem to have any hair. Y’know, aside from his eyebrows.

My lips twitch.

After a long pause, his voice breaks the silence. "The others wish to understand what happened.”

I can feel his eyes on me, patient, waiting. There's no rush, no judgment—just a quiet invitation to explain.

My secret smile falters, and I sigh. 

“It’s my fault.”

His brow furrows slightly, a quiet surprise crossing his features. "Explain."

I take a moment, the words catching in my throat before they spill out.

“I was… rude to Anwen,” I begin, then pause at the confused look he gives me. “A servant. I was so tired from the journey and everything—” I exhale slowly. “It wasn’t fair. She was just doing her job. I wanted to apologise, so I brought a gift. But I think… my whole Herald of Andraste thing frightens her.”

I shift slightly on the blanket.

“She started walking away, and then she bumped into that jackass—spilled everything she was carrying. He turned around and just exploded. Yelling, puffing up his chest, towering over her like he owned the place. He wasn’t just angry. He was a bully.”

My jaw tightens, and I return my gaze to the stars.

“I detest bullies.”

He thinks about my answer for a while. 

The quiet stretches between us, comfortable but thick with thought. The only sound is the gentle flow of the water fountain—a soft, calming addition after Solas had shown me how he made it part of the dreamscape. I like it. 

"Your response... while aggressive, was not without reason. I cannot say I would have acted differently."

“You would have bitten his finger too?”

“Perhaps not literally. But if he had been within biting distance, I can’t say the thought wouldn’t have crossed my mind.”

I giggle softly and turn my head toward him, a small, uncontrollable smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “You’re funny.” 

Solas blinks—just once—but his posture shifts, almost imperceptibly. There’s a brief pause, like the moment caught him off guard. His eyes flick to mine, then away again, and for a fleeting second, I think I see a hint of colour rising to his ears. But as always, he’s quick to compose himself. Whatever emotion had flickered there is tucked away as swiftly as it came, like a shadow slipping behind glass. 

“Josephine has suggested assigning you an escort while you’re in Haven—for…peace of mind.”

My mouth sours, and I sit up. I grit my teeth and take in a deep breath. Protection, I don’t mind. But a babysitter…someone constantly at my side and breathing down my neck. It's a little irritating. “For their peace of mind, you mean.”

“It is not an unreasonable idea.”

I scoff and rub the spot between my brow where the headache is blooming—right behind the eye.

“But I suggested speaking with you first. To hear your side of things. I assured them you were perhaps not unreasonable.”

I glance at him, the words circling in my mind like smoke. That’s when it hits me. He hadn’t told them about the dreams. About our conversations. He could’ve mentioned to them he was teaching me their language, told them I’m not some barbaric savage alien. He’s been keeping them…private? It could be seen as thoughtful, but my alarm bells ring. 

So why…?

I turn my body, the frown coming before I even realise it. “You haven’t told them you’ve already talked to me, have you?”

The question hangs in the air between us, heavier than I meant it to be. There’s no anger behind it—just… curiosity. Confusion. And maybe something quieter, more uncertain. 

Solas shifts and sits up with me, his fingers brushing the fabric of his cloak as if adjusting it, his gaze momentarily darting away before locking back on me. I swear—though I can’t be certain—that there’s a slight tension in his jaw, a subtle stiffness in his posture. 

"Magic from the Fade is often misunderstood, and I kept our interactions hidden to protect you—and myself—from the stigma that would inevitably follow. It’s better if others didn’t know about our meetings.”

“But you told them now?” My eyebrows twitch upward. 

He hesitates. "Because it became necessary. You’re a living being person, not a tool or a means to an end. I thought you might prefer your space. You deserve respect, not constant oversight."

Oh. 

“Oh,” I say. 

His brow knits slightly. “Did I overstep?”

“No,” I bring my knees to my chest and hug them. “That’s just…really nice of you.” I smile at him, fiddling with the hem of my sleeve. “Thank you, Solas.”

One hand smooths the edge of his cloak in a way that feels more like a habit than a need.

His lips twitch faintly—almost a smile—but for some reason…I have an odd gut feeling it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Before I can ask if he’s alright, he changes the subject. 

“Might I ask what, precisely, you said to the servant that warranted an apology?”

I groan and bury my face against my knees.

“I just snapped at her,” I mutter. “She knocked, and I was so damn tired—I got annoyed at being interrupted. I thought I’d make it up to her with a gift because I can’t fucking say the wor—” A thought sparks, and I suddenly twist toward him with wide eyes, quick enough to startle him. “How do I say sorry?”  

He blinks at the abruptness, but tells me the word. 

I try to burn the word into my memory, even conjuring up the phonetic symbols in front of me, letting them hover mid-air as I study them. A moment later, Solas leans in—not much, just enough that his shoulder brushes mine. The contact is feather-light, but it sends a quiet jolt through me all the same. 

He says nothing about it, simply reaches forward, his long fingers sweeping through the inky symbols, correcting them one by one. His touch leaves delicate trails in the light, and I find myself watching his hands more than the symbols. He’s close—close enough that I can hear the calm in his breath, feel the warmth of him where our arms nearly touch.

He’s teaching you. Pay attention.

I blink hard and tear my eyes from his fingers, my brain frantically clawing back toward the lesson before it slips through completely.

“Is there a culture around elven gifts?” I blurt out, the question spilling out before I can stop it.

Solas pauses, his hand hovering mid-air, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift in conversation. His eyes narrow slightly, as he processes the change.

"Do you mean... are there particular customs or taboos surrounding gifts among elves?" He asks, his tone more thoughtful than usual. 

I blurt out my thoughts, trying to reign them in. “Yes, that’s it. Are there any gifts that are considered, I don’t know, bad taste? Is it bad to give gifts as apologies? Is it seen as cheap? Do elves see gifts differently from humans? Or is there even a distinction between races here?  Like, with humans, if you give soap, they might think you’re telling them they smell, and that’s a whole thing—”

Solas cuts me off. “Is there a particular reason you’re asking?”

“Anwen,” I blurt again, a little too quickly. “I want to get her a gift. She’s been so helpful, looking after me.”

His expression shifts—the confusion still there, but now giving way to something more inquisitive, almost contemplative. His brows lift slightly. “Anwen is… elven?”

I blink at him, taken aback by his question. His confusion seems out of place, given the context of our conversation. "Uh, yes?" I say slowly, phrasing it a little like a question, my mind racing to make sense of his reaction.

"Forgive me,” he says, his voice softening. “It's... surprising, to say the least. Many humans wouldn’t even think twice about elves in service—much less offer a gift.”

The words hang there and something stirs in me. 

I think back to that moment with the merchant—the way he barked at Anwen, treating her as if she were less than anything. The unnecessary heat in his tone, the dismissiveness in his eyes. I hadn't paid much attention at the time, too preoccupied, but now... now it makes sense.

It’s a cold, ugly realisation.

I shake my head, trying to push the unease down, but it’s stuck there, a knot that refuses to loosen. My nose wrinkles slightly as I try to push the icky discomfort aside. It’s a battle to not let the bitterness seep through, to not let it twist into something worse. My words come out stiff, clipped, but I force myself to breathe.

“Ah, so not just an asshole, a racist asshole,” I murmur, swatting my hand with a huff. “Honestly, not a loss to the Inquisition.”

Solas is quiet for a moment, but the flicker of something—something I can’t quite place—shines in his eyes. 

“Unfortunately,” he says, carefully. “The Inquisition considers him…” he pauses again, his jaw ticking, “…too valuable to lose.”

I pause. My face freezes.

“Too valuable.” I repeat the words, like I’m unable to quite believe them. Because I can’t. I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. “Wait,” I say, a little louder and harsher than I mean to. “They’re keeping him?!” I throw out my arms. “Do they even care?”

His nod is slight. 

“He is tied to a noble house with longstanding trade agreements—supplies the Inquisition cannot easily replace.” He pauses, voice calm but dry. “Josephine fears the cost of severing those ties. Disruptions now, with the Breach unresolved, could endanger more than our pride.” His gaze shifts, sharp and distant. “It is… regrettable. But not, in her view, avoidable.” 

I let out a sharp breath and turn away from him, standing up and pacing slowly. I can feel Solas watching me as my own fury rises, hot and bitter in my throat—but there's nothing I can do about it. 

And maybe that’s the worst part. 

The helplessness. 

The fact that I have to swallow it down and let him win.

Where the fuck am I?

Maybe it’s not so different from home after all. 

Sure, things have gotten better, but there are always going to be racists—everywhere. In any timeline. And the powerful ones? The rich ones? They’re the hardest to remove. Can’t drag them into the light when the world prefers to look away. And worse—I get the sinking feeling most people here probably agree with him.

I stop, crossing my arms so tight across my chest it feels like I might implode.

Josephine’s also right. And that makes me sick.

There are villagers out there—refugees pouring in by the day. A war still burning between mages and templars. Demons clawing their way through rifts, tearing the world apart piece by piece. People need food. Gear. Hope.

But does it have to come from him?

Is there really nothing else we can do?

What’s the point of a cult if the cult doesn’t have power?

I scowl, furious that I’m even entertaining the idea—going out there, flashing my sparkly, rift-sealing hand like some traveling evangelist, recruiting more followers. Use the cult powers for good, I joke, hating how tempting it sounds.

Maybe that’s exactly why they’re parading me around: recruitment.

“I hate that I get it,” I murmur through gritted teeth. “I hate that I understand.”

There’s a beat, and his eyes find mine again. “I know.”

I inhale sharply—as something clicks.

“What about Anwen? I— fuck.” I scrub a hand over my face, a cold pit opening deep in my stomach. “I didn’t even think—damn it. I probably made things worse for her, didn’t I? If she’s being punished—if they’ve fired her—” My fists clench, nails digging into my palms. I let out an empty laugh. “—I swear, Solas, I’ll do more than bite.”

His head lightly tilts. “I did not realise you were so…passionate.”

“About fairness?” I ask with a scoff, voice dry. 

A pause. Then: “Yes. Precisely.”

I turn around to look at him, taken aback by his comment. “...Excuse me?”

Does he think so low of me? He barely knows me!

“I have seen many accept such injustice with far less resistance. It is common, among your people.”

I cross my arms. “My people?”

“Humans.” He clarifies. 

I shrug and shake my head in disbelief. “It can’t be that rare for a human in this world to be free of prejudice.”

Solas slowly rises from the blanket without a sound, his cloak brushing the grass like breath. He smooths a crease from his shoulder, then steps forward—not fast, not abrupt, but with purpose—until he stands just a little too close. 

I freeze, one foot still lifted.

My breath catches as I look up at him. His expression remains calm, unbothered, as if carved into still water. But beneath it… there’s a tension, subtle and silent. Like a wire pulled taut. For a second, just for a second, there’s a flicker—brief, automatic—something in my instincts bracing to run or fight.

I tell myself that’s stupid, because it’s Solas.

“Do you truly believe that?” he says, so eerily calm it unsettles more than if he’d shouted. “That such prejudice is the exception, not the rule?”

Words fail me for a moment, and when I start to respond, his voice cuts through the air—not loud, but laced with something low and tight. A pressure just beneath the surface.

“Then tell me,” he says, “why have my people been exiled to the fringes of civilization? Why were they cast out of their own cities, their culture shattered, their names twisted into slurs?”

His gaze sharpens, still fixed on mine with quiet, unwavering focus. The mask hasn’t cracked, but I see the strain behind it—the effort of holding something too long, too close. He’s not just angry, then, there’s a fury beneath him. 

And I can’t say I blame him. 

There’s a long pause. The silence stretches—uncomfortable, heavy. 

“You speak as though open-mindedness is common. But I have seen what lies beneath the polite words. The fear. The disdain. The casual cruelty dressed as order. This was not the work of a few,” he adds. “It was systemic. Endorsed. Justified.”

His jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly. 

“This mistreatment,” he says, quieter but with an edge to it, “is not a relic. It is living. It is taught. It is woven into human cities, whispered in every market square. It is sanctified in temples, hides in laws, and passed on like inheritance. So tell me,” his head inclines slightly down to me, gaze intense. “If human prejudice is truly rare—why does it endure for millennia?”

There’s no blame in his tone. No pleading. Something…tired behind it.

My mouth opens and closes. My eyes flickering across his. But I can’t say anything. I don’t have an answer for him. It feels like there’s a stone lodged in my throat that I can’t swallow. 

Different world, same rot. 

A thousand thoughts crash through my head at a mile per hour, each one more bitter than the last. There's a sour taste in my mouth I can't spit out, can't scrape away. But when I finally find words, there’s only one thing I do say.

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely, and it feels useless the second it leaves my mouth—but it’s all I have. “I’m really sorry, Solas. No one deserves that.”

A pause. 

His eyes shift away, toward the koi pond, toward anything but me.

“I did not ask for an apology. Least of all from you. You have already offered kindness I had no reason to expect.” He pauses, eyes distant. “Still… it has been a long time since anyone has said such a thing. I will not pretend it means nothing.”

We fall into a bit of an awkward silence. 

I fidget with my hands.

“Would you…” I start a little timidly, and he looks at me. “Would you mind telling me a little bit about elven culture?”

Solas pauses, his eyes softening in a way I’ve never seen before.

“Another time, perhaps,” he responds. “But I’m… pleased that you wish to learn.”

The inquisition arrange the meeting for the following day to give the merchant time to cool off.

When I arrive, I find Josephine has taken certain liberties. The meeting is scheduled for midday, right in the war council room. She’s done her best to soften the setting: a long cloth draped over the strategy table, a few candles flickering gently at each end, and a polished bowl of fruit sitting neatly in the centre like a peace offering.

The merchant is already seated on one side, arms crossed stiffly, his posture defensive despite the carefully arranged setting. I take the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on stone louder than I expect in the quiet room. A small package rests in my hands, something Josephine provided—I assume so I wouldn’t have to dig through my own things.

Without a word, I place it on the table and slide it across to him. The gesture feels heavier than it should.

Cullen is standing at the wall, but ready, his arms crossed. I can feel his stare, as he glances between us. Just in case , I figure. 

But I promised, no bitey. 

Josephine steps in with a few gentle, well-rehearsed words. Her voice is smooth, calming. The merchant still looks annoyed, but less so than yesterday. Progress, I suppose.

He accepts the package with a reluctant sort of grace, and Josephine gives me the slightest nod—my cue.

I clear my throat, then gesture to myself, then to him. “I’m sorry—” I keep my voice sweet, knowing full well that he doesn’t understand a word out of my mouth . “I’m so sorry that your mother didn’t swallow.”

His lips thin, but he nods, clearly taking my words at face value. He unfolds his arms, probably thinking he’s got me right where he wants me. The bastard thinks I’m here, grovelling.

What a fool.

He says something, and Josephine smiles, satisfied. 

Then, reluctantly, I’m forced to shake his hand.

His ego seems soothed. 

I glance at Josephine for confirmation, and she offers a gentle nod and smile, giving me the silent go-ahead.

With that, I turn on my heel, walking out of the room. The moment I step out, away from the suffocating formality of the church, I can’t help but wipe my palm on my dress, disgust curling my lip as if I’m trying to scrub off the stain of his touch.

Fucking politics.

I should check on Anwen, at some point. Or have Solas check on her, to see if she’s alright. I still have to give her that gift, too. If she’s not terrified to be near me right now. 

I’m halfway to my cabin, ready to disappear from the rest of this stupid world and stew in peace, when Varric suddenly appears at my side like he’s been there the whole time. He gives a casual little wave, all teeth and trouble in that familiar grin. 

“Hello, Varric,” I greet, managing a small smile. His presence lifts something in my chest—a flicker of warmth I didn’t know I needed—but there’s also an awkward knot in my gut. I want to tell him to shove off so I can collapse into bed and sleep for a week, but I also… don’t.

“Hello, April,” he claps my arm, before gesturing toward me with a questioning thumbs up. Good?

“No,” I say, my tone blunt. I tilt my head toward the church behind me, gesturing with my thumb. “Asshole.”

Varric snorts, clearly amused.

I stop walking and turn to face Varric. I study him for a moment, the words swirling in my mind. He catches my eye, raising an eyebrow as he questions me aloud. I hesitate for a second. Then, an idea hits me, and I think, Y’know what? Fuck it.

I don’t waste time with words. I grab his arm and start pulling him along, heading straight toward the tavern. Varric stumbles a little in surprise, his voice following behind me with an amused question. I don’t even bother responding. But as we near the tavern, I can see it—the light of realisation flickering in his eyes. 

His grin widens as he figures it out, and a quiet laugh escapes him. 

We enter the tavern. 

Time to get drunk off my tits.

Chapter Text

I’m hungover.

I know it instantly—the moment my brain tries to boot up and instead slams face-first into a wall of pain. My head is pounding like someone’s taken a warhammer to the inside of my skull. My mouth tastes like regret and stale ale, and my tongue feels like it spent the night licking a desert. 

Ugh.

Everything is too bright, too loud, too real. The world is spinning too much.  I groan and throw an arm over my eyes, willing the pain to dull and for the spinning to stop. Eventually, curiosity—or dread—wins out. I peek from under my arm, eyes squinting against the light, and immediately freeze. When I finally peel my arm away, I blink at the ceiling—stark straight wood beams instead of the familiar angled roof of my cabin. 

My heart lurches. My stomach turns. 

That’s… not right.

That’s… I’m not in the cabin . 

Oh god.

I push up on one elbow, slowly, cautiously, like I’m afraid the motion might trigger an avalanche. It makes me dizzy, but I’m too concerned that the mattress is too firm, the sheets too clean. I lower my legs over the edge of the bed, and the cold stone floor greets my bare feet. No rugs. No fire crackling in the hearth. No Varric at the door with breakfast.

Where the hell—

My gaze drifts up, and I go completely still.

Solas is sitting a few feet away, a book open in his hands like this is just another quiet afternoon in the library. He doesn’t look at me, just licks his thumb and then turns the page as if I’m not here, the faint rasp of parchment the only sound between us.

I look down.

The tunic I’m wearing isn’t mine.

Pale, soft linen, cinched loosely at the waist. It smells faintly of herbs and incense, and it’s definitely his.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

Did I—?

Did we—?

My face ignites. I slap a hand over it like I can smother the thought, bury the evidence, and disappear into the mattress all at once. I don’t remember. I got— so fucking drunk last night. I just know I wanted to forget where I am, what I’m dealing with. 

But then my stomach turns again, the nausea rising in waves, and I can’t ignore it anymore.  The air in my lungs is thick with the taste of regret, and my head pounds like it’s mocking me, reminding me of the stupid decision I made. I double over, arms wrapped around my middle, trying to breathe through it—but before I can even curse, a bucket appears in my hands. I barely register that it’s been placed there before I’m retching into it, stomach twisting with every heave. I don't dare look up. I know he’s there.

But I can’t help it.

I glance up through my messy hair, meeting his eyes.

And despite the absolute humiliation I feel, he doesn’t seem bothered. Solas is still seated, still reading—but his gaze flicks up to meet mine. There’s no ridicule. No visible judgment. Just a faint lift of one brow, and perhaps—though I may be imagining it—a note of dry amusement tucked behind his calm.

“Thank you,” I mutter hoarsely, almost embarrassed by how small my voice sounds.

He inclines his head.

I want to crawl under the bed and never emerge again.

I try to remember. 

Me and Varric. The tavern. Drinks flowing, the music loud, and before I know it, we’re laughing, dancing, and the whole damn place is in on it. Somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, when Varric is flirting with someone, I sneak away, like a rogue thief in the night and he doesn't notice.

Why? Who knows. Maybe I was looking for some peace, maybe I was just trying to escape the madness of it all.

And for reasons I’ll never understand, I ended up outside of Solas’s door. Solas—of all people.

Oh god.

I remember stumbling inside, feeling like the world was on its tilt-a-whirl course, my dress sticking to my skin, and then—then I puked. All over myself. Right in front of him. On my own dress. He… he didn’t freak out. He didn’t laugh. He simply offered me clothes out of a draw. His own .

I remember the moment I started to strip right in front of him—grumbling about how hot and gross I felt, how disgusting I was. I was so out of it that I didn’t even care, but then… then he turned away. A gentleman—of all things.

I want to die right then and there.

I can never look him in the eye again.

Ever. My fate is sealed.

I must die.

Death is the only way out of my shame. 

In the silence that follows my internal spiral, I feel it—a small towel, placed gently in my hands. Solas doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. I take the towel, fingers trembling just slightly. I press it to my face, wiping away the lingering remnants of my shame. 

I make a sound halfway between a groan and a dying animal. I want to dissolve into mist. 

“I am… Sorry. So sorry. Very sorry.”

I keep apologising. I feel like I’m an inferno, my face is reddening so much. 

“April,” he interrupts, his voice soft but firm, pulling me from the storm of my own mortification.

I squint at him, still holding the towel in my hands, half-ashamed to even look him in the eye.  “Sorry,” I groan, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

I should go. I should get up, right now. 

As soon as the world stops…spinning so much. 

He sighs. Without a word, Solas closes his book, sets it aside, and rises to his feet. He walks to the nearby table, takes a small pitcher and pours a cup of water before he brings it back without a word.

Oh my god, this man—

I take the cup, my hands shaking a little as I bring it to my lips. The water is like life itself, soothing the dry, scratchy ache in my throat. I gulp it down like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I want to bathe in it. I want to drown in it.

For a few blessed seconds, the world stops spinning.

I hesitate, gripping the now empty cup in my hands, and finally meet his gaze, my cheeks burning. 

"Did we...?" The words stumble out, but then I remember—he doesn't understand. I frown slightly, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. I gesture awkwardly, pointing between him, me, and the bed, before finishing with a disoriented, " fuck ?"

Solas doesn’t quite manage to hide his reaction. His expression cycles through a kaleidoscope of emotions in seconds, like his brain is frantically trying to make sense of what I just asked. Confusion hits first, followed by alarm, and then something that lands somewhere between offended dignity and quiet horror. He blinks. Once. Then again. Very slowly. Like he’s considering if I’ve suffered a head injury.

I stare. He stares back.

A beat passes.

I swallow hard, dread churning in my stomach alongside the lingering hangover. And then there’s the added sting of embarrassment and insult. Either Varric gave me the wrong word… or Solas now thinks I’ve propositioned him while wearing his shirt and looking like I lost a bar fight with my liver.

I can’t.

I cannot deal with this right now.

My whole body thrums with a single instinct: escape.

I shove off the bed, brushing past him with more force than necessary. The world spins like I’ve just stepped off a ship, nausea clawing up my throat, but I grit my teeth and push through the pain behind my eyes. I need to get out. Out of this room, out of this moment, away from the shame still hanging in the air like smoke and choking me to death.

My hands scramble toward my shoes—neatly placed under his desk, of all things. That detail shouldn’t make me feel more exposed, but somehow it does. Like even in my worst, he had the grace to tuck things away for me.

Bending down is almost a mistake. My legs buckle. The cool stone floor rushes up to greet me like an old, unkind friend. I grab the edge of the desk for balance, knuckles white, pulse thudding behind my eyes like a drumbeat of regret.

“April,” he says quietly, reaching out as I sway.

I hold out my hand to stop him.

The door opens, and Cullen is marching in like a man on a mission. 

He freezes. I freeze. Solas freezes. 

Cullen’s eyes flicker quickly. 

His eyes land on me—on my dishevelled hair, the oversized tunic barely skimming my thighs, the sickly pallor of hangover still clinging to my face—and then flick to Solas. A look of scandalised horror creeps onto his face, and I realize, too late, how this must look. 

I look upset—distraught, maybe even vulnerable. 

I can see the way his gaze flicks back to me, then to Solas, and I can practically hear the thoughts running through his head. His expression hardens. A slow, horrified understanding seems to settle on him like frost. 

Oh shit—

Cullen slowly starts walking toward Solas, his boots scraping against the floor. He says something in a sharp tone that I can’t understand, but the narrowing of his eyes and the shift in his posture make his intentions clear. He’s angry—dangerously angry—and I can already see the wheels turning in his head.  I catch what in his sentence, and with everything else going on, it doesn’t take much to figure out what he's thinking. 

He thinks Solas hurt me. Or took advantage of me.

Without thinking, I step in front of Solas, putting myself between them. My chest rises and falls with the sharpness of my breath as I raise my hands in a defensive gesture, blocking Cullen’s path. 

I don’t know if it’s because of what I’ve learned about how this world treats elves, or if it’s because I don’t know Cullen well enough to trust him. But no matter what, I’ll be damned if I let this turn into something violent. If they try to hurt one of the only people that have been nice to me. 

I meet Cullen’s glare, standing firm despite the cold fear shooting in my veins. I meet Cullen’s glare, planting myself in his path.

It’s instinct—reckless, maybe stupid.

He seems surprised. His brows furrow, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. My hands won’t stop trembling. I feel awful—weak, dizzy—and there’s a very large, very armoured man with a sword standing way too close. My body wants to fold, to shrink away, to let someone else handle this. 

But I don’t move.

“No,” I manage, louder than I should be. My skull pulses with pain. My voice slightly shakes, but I stand tall. “No.”

Cullen watches me closely now, like he’s trying to make sense of me. His lips press into a thin line. He doesn’t speak, but something shifts in his posture—wariness, maybe even a touch of respect.  For a heartbeat, Cullen just stands there, eyes locked with mine, studying me like he’s trying to figure out what I’m really saying. His lips press together in a tight line, and I think for a moment he might push back, might insist on some kind of explanation, but then, unexpectedly, he sighs—and nods.

His gaze dips, and a faint flush creeps into his cheeks as he seems to recall my state of undress. Not that I’m scandalous by modern standards. It’s basically a short dress. To my surprise—without a word, he shrugs off his cloak and drapes it around my shoulders. The fabric is heavy, warm from his body heat, and smells faintly of leather and steel.

It’s awkward but unexpectedly kind.

Then, without another word, Cullen gently but firmly guides me toward the door, ushering me out of the room with a caution that feels almost protective. 

I glance back over my shoulder at Solas, some stubborn part of me needing to see that he’s okay—

His eyes are narrow, darkening with something razor-sharp and unspoken as they lock onto Cullen. It's fleeting, a quick flash of something I don’t expect. Solas, usually the epitome of calm and control, suddenly looks... different. There’s a darkness there, something that doesn’t belong in his expression.

But the moment vanishes just as quickly as it appeared—as soon as h e meets my eyes. In an instant, his features smooth back into their usual blankness. The familiar, measured expression returning as he adjusts his tunic. His lips curve into a small, reassuring smile and he offers me a small nod as if thanking me.

I blink, my pulse quickening, but Cullen leads me out of his room, breaks off my sight from him.

For that brief moment, an instinct tugs at me, a feeling that tells me something isn’t right. 

It’s like a shadow moving in the corner of my mind, whispering that I’ve seen something I wasn’t meant to.

It’s too loud.

Cassandra has been yelling at me for the past five minutes. I catch a few words— where, what, why —and I can’t help but wince at the sharpness of her voice. My hangover is like a constant drumbeat in my skull, the pounding relentless, and her words make it worse. I’m vaguely aware that she’s furious, but right now, it’s all I can do to focus on staying upright without collapsing out of my chair. The world is spinning in a dizzying dance, and my mouth still feels like sandpaper. Last night’s mistakes are too fresh in my mind, and the shame is almost as painful as the headache.

I glance at Varric, who also seems to be in a lot of pain, nursing his temples and pressing his forehead against the cooling wood of the table in front of us. He groans, and says something to Cassandra, and I also have to agree with whatever the fuck he said. I’m hoping he’s telling her to be quiet . 

She gets louder. 

I groan, and put my hands on my ears, massaging my own temples. 

When she’s done—at least with her yelling, she stops in front of us and rolls out a large map. The same map I keep seeing every time I come in here. She places figurines on the table, and I watch quietly, still nursing the pounding headache and the haze from last night, not entirely sure what’s going on. 

She meets my gaze purposely, and then points to me, then points to somewhere on the map. 

It means nothing to me. 

My brain feels sluggish, and her words are lost in the fog. I try to focus, but all I can hear is the constant thrum in my skull. Whatever this is, whatever she’s trying to explain, I can’t bring myself to care. The world outside my headache feels distant and unreachable.

“Val.” She sounds out. “Royeaux.”

It sounds French. 

I know maybe a few things in French from school. Basic things. 

Je m'appelle April. How to tell someone my name. 

Parlez-vous français? To ask someone if they speak French. 

Non for no.

Merci for thank you . 

Où sont les toilettes for where is the bathroom?

My uncle taught me a lot of profanity. Like putain and merde or bordel de merde . His favourite to use though was always tête de merde . Considered a vulgar insult. Literally head of shit . That’s one of the ones that stuck the most, probably because it’s the most fun to use. 

But the rest of the language here doesn’t sound like it’s French. Doesn’t have the tone or the accent. There’s no point in mentioning it. It would just be another language I have to learn. 

She taps the spot again, and then points at me, then the spot. 

I’m going. That’s what I gather.  

Fuck. More travel. 

I groan, my head dropping onto the table in a dramatic sigh. “Fuck.” 

I hear Varric's small, amused laugh, followed by a groan of his own. Cassandra’s response is a disbelieving scoff.

I’m ushered out of the council room, the door closing behind me with finality. A footsoldier—one I don’t recognize—stands in the hall, his eyes trained forward as though waiting for a cue to move. New face, probably a replacement. He doesn’t say a word as he falls into step behind me, his boots silent on the stone floor.

I have a feeling this won’t be the last time I see him. After everything that happened—after that mess last night—they’ll probably assign someone to watch me like a hawk. Why can’t it be Larrs instead? Larrs is chill. 

Maybe he’s in Redcliffe, still.

I hope he’s doing alright. 

When we reach the cabin, the guard stops just outside the door, eyes lingering for a moment on the handle like it might betray some hidden secret, before he steps back into the shadows, waiting. I can’t help but feel a little cornered by the whole thing.

When I step inside, I’m greeted by the familiar warmth of the room—and Anwen. I find her in the corner, hunched over, her head down as she quietly arranges a few things on the small wooden table. She’s keeping to herself. She doesn’t meet my gaze, keeping her eyes on the ground, avoiding me.

I hesitate for a moment, standing still as a small wave of guilt hits me. But I shake it off. I rummage through my belongings, and finally, I find what I’m looking for. It’s small, wrapped carefully in faded cloth. I hold it tightly in my hands for a second before I walk over to her. She doesn’t look up, but I can see the slightest tension in her shoulders as I get closer.

When I’m standing beside her, I gently place the box in her hands. She looks up then, her wide eyes meeting mine. I smile at her, keeping my expression soft, though there’s an undercurrent of hesitation. I gently point to the box, and then to her, silently telling her that it’s for her.

Her brow furrows as she looks at the box, and then back at me, her confusion lingering for a moment. But after a beat, she carefully unravels the package and reveals the folded scarf. She tries to give it back immediately, her hands trembling slightly as she holds it out to me. There's a flash of uncertainty in her eyes, like she’s unsure whether she should accept it, like she thinks she doesn’t deserve it.

I push the gift back into her hands, shaking my head firmly, silently telling her that it’s hers with a singular firm point in her direction. The message is clear: yours .

Anwen freezes for a moment, staring at the box in her hands like it’s something fragile, something she doesn’t quite know how to handle. She hesitates, her fingers curling gently around the cloth, the soft ribbon now tangled in her hands.

“Thank you,” I hear her say, delicately and softly, like she’s scared to say it. I give her a small nod and smile wider, trying to encourage. A faint smile tugs at the corner of her lips, small and cautious, but it's there. 

“I’m sorry,” I say to her, putting a hand on my heart. “Sorry.”

She’s staring at me wide eyed, but she slowly nods, as if unsure what else to do.

With that done, I walk over to the bed, where another thick dress is waiting for me. 

I sigh, looking down at it with dread, knowing I’m going to be travelling for days on the road via horseback. Camping in cold nights, and washing in river water. 

Here we go again . 

“Holy shit,” I mutter, stretching again and pressing my hands to my lower back.

It cracks, and I groan, the ache a constant reminder of the road we’ve been on. Three days. On the road. I’m grateful for the break, though I know it’s fleeting.

The days blur together—a relentless rhythm of hooves striking earth, broken only by the odd rift to close, the clash of mages and templars (with me heroically ducking behind trees), and Solas slipping into my dreams like it’s nothing at all. In those dreams, we spend what feels like hours in lessons. Each morning after, I write down everything I can. Even if I don’t get everything. It’s a hell of a lot to remember.

Apparently the Trade Tongue—or King’s Tongue—originally was invented by the dwarves in order to trade with other races. It’s the most dominant language in most human nations. Along with trying to teach me more basic phrases that might come in handy for me, he fills in the gaps about Thedas, the name they give to the continent in the southern hemisphere. We’re usually in Ferelden, but right now, we’re traveling through Orlais, just near the Ferelden border.

Orlais is where Val Royeaux is, and thankfully, I don’t need to learn any Orlesian since most of them are bilingual, according to Solas. It’s one of the largest and most powerful human nations, largely because of its religious influence and the foundation of the Chantry—which is why we’re heading that way. Some dusty old ladies are scandalised that I’m going around calling myself the Herald, and now the Inquisition has decided to reinstate themselves.

Which, y’know, I didn’t make the cult. I didn’t call myself the Herald. It’s not my fault. 

For some reason, they decided to bring me along, like it’s important enough that I need to introduce myself to some dusty old people in robes when I can barely ask, " where’s the loo ?"

Maybe there’s a rift the Inquisition thinks I can close and prove myself in front of them.  Either that, or I’m gonna be drawn and quartered. 

I ask Solas in one of those dreams, why they're taking me. 

“We are demonstrating that you are not just a ‘foreign heretic.'" He said.

I blinked. “...Is that an actual quote?”

“A paraphrase,” he said smoothly. “One of the Chantry’s less...imaginative accusations.”

"What were the others?"

"Are you certain you wish to know?"

"Just spit it out."

“The False Prophet. The Herald of Lies.” A pause. “And—most colourfully—the Savage Cur.”

I lean against the weathered wooden railing of the dock, eyes on the ocean. The sun is high, its light making the waves sparkle like scattered diamonds. The sound of water crashing against the pier is soothing, and I close my eyes for a moment, letting it calm me. 

When I open them again, I glance around. 

The docks are full of life—crews unloading cargo, merchants calling out their prices, and ships drifting in and out, their sails snapping in the breeze. It feels peaceful here, a welcome change from the tension of the past few days. Cassandra is speaking with the shipmaster, probably confirming our passage or sorting out the final details. 

Varric is a short distance away, leaning against a stack of crates with his arms crossed, watching the dockhands with mild interest—or maybe he's just people-watching while pretending not to be bored. 

Solas stands near the edge of the dock, gazing out at the sea. His hands are clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. He looks thoughtful, as if he's studying the horizon for answers no one else can see. The breeze ruffles the edges of his robe, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

We haven’t really talked about what happened in the cabin. Me being drunk off my ass and ending up in his place, him outright rejecting me in abject horror when he thought I was propositioning him—which I’m still a little stung by, admittedly.  I haven’t brought it up. Haven’t even looked at him too long since then. The dream sessions have been clinical in our lessons. The shame clings like damp fabric—tight, itchy, impossible to shake off. 

But now, standing beside him in the sunlight with the sound of the sea all around us, I almost find myself drifting a little closer. 

I stop. 

Best leave him be . For now. 

Breathing in, I lean on the wood once more, turning my gaze to the ocean and allowing myself to go deep in thought. 

“April—”

I yelp, heart lurching up into my throat as I whip around, too fast. His voice came out of nowhere, low and right at my side. I hadn’t heard him move, hadn’t sensed him there. My boot slips, and I pitch forward as the railing gives a sharp crack beneath my weight.

The world tilts—water rushing up to meet me.

But then—hands. Firm and sudden, grabbing my arm and waist. I gasp as I’m yanked back from the edge, the broken railing splintering behind me as Solas pulls me upright and steadies me against his chest. My hands snap up and curl into his shirt, clawing and desperate. 

For a second, neither of us moves.

My breath is caught in my throat. His grip is strong, firm, and I can feel the tension in his arms, the way his heartbeat thuds against mine. His chest feels a lot firmer than I expect it to be. Like his arms. Is there a little muscle underneath all those robes? 

I look up at him, wide-eyed.

He blinks, then slowly loosens his hold, though his hands hover as if he’s not entirely convinced I won’t topple over again. I recognise the word he says as an apology, and I try to say something—anything—but my brain is still rebooting. So I just stand there, cheeks burning, nodding like a stunned idiot.

“Sorry,” I force out, my voice stiff, as I slowly release my grip from his tunic.

My fingers feel numb as they declaw from the fabric, but I can’t help being hyper-aware of the warmth of his body still pressing too close to mine. The space between us feels too small, too intimate. I force myself to take a step back, putting some distance between us, though it’s more out of necessity than comfort. I can’t even look at him properly without wanting to vanish into the sea.

I’m so stupid. Scare too easily. 

“Thanks,” I chuckle awkwardly, trying not to feel the rush of heat flooding my face.

Solas nods, but there’s the faintest trace of something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

Glad he finds my embarrassment so amusing . 

“Good?” I ask, giving him an overly enthusiastic thumbs up, hoping my forced cheeriness hides the way I’m still burning up inside.

His expression softens just a touch. Solas glances at my thumbs up, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. He knows what it means. He remembers. 

"Good," he replies, his voice still even but with a hint of something almost like amusement. 

I stand there for a moment longer, watching the waves and trying to shake off the heat still prickling under my skin. The tension in my shoulders slowly fades, though it’s still there, lingering in the corners. 

"Good," I repeat to myself, the word feeling lighter this time.

And it feels less like a lie.

Chapter Text

I haven't been on a ship in a long time, and that was just a short ferry ride. 

I haven’t been on a ship in years—and even then, it was just a short ferry ride that barely rocked. This? This is going to take two full days. At sea. That’s not counting the time we spent on the road or the stretch we’re skipping by catching a ship out of a dock at Jader. We cut days off the journey to Val Royeaux, sure, but there’s a real chance I’m going to vomit before we even get a third through day one. 

The deck rocks under my boots in a way that’s definitely not normal to me. My stomach keeps doing this queasy roll, like it’s trying to match the rhythm of the sea and failing miserably. I want to grip the railing, but the last time I was near a railing—AKA earlier, when Solas scared me out of my skin—I nearly fell into the water. 

The others are doing much better than I am. 

Of course they are. 

I suck majorly at everything on this medieval fantasy tour. I should start charging for the people here to watch me like a circus act. 

Step right up, step right up! If you look to your left, you’ll see the Herald of Andraste currently losing her breakfast to the ocean. A full ensemble of sausages, bacon, toasted bread, mushrooms, tomatoes, and—

I clamp my hand over my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut and pressing my forehead to the cold wood of the mast.

Oh god, don’t think about food. Don’t think about food.

“April?” I hear Varric’s voice, but I can’t bring myself to look up. The sympathy in his tone is clear, even without seeing his face. “Good?”

“No,” I groan, and hug the mast. “Bad. Fuck. Shit.”

Varric hums sympathetically, standing beside me and patting my back. After a moment, I peek out from under my arm to glance at him. He’s breathing in, breathing out, slow and strong, almost like he’s showing me how to do it— 

Ah . 

I take a deep breath, trying to match his rhythm.

I focus on Varric’s breathing, trying to ignore the gentle sway of the ship beneath my feet. It doesn’t make the nausea go away, but it helps. A little. Eventually, the churning in my stomach calms enough for me to stand up straighter, though I’m still gripping the mast like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling on the floor. 

“Good?”

“Eh,” I motion with my hand. Middle . Okay. Not great. Not awful . 

He gives me a thumbs up. He says something I don’t understand and mimics eating. He probably thinks it’ll help me. I shake my head almost violently, feeling the nausea rise again. He frowns but sighs, not pushing. Instead, he stands next to me, just waiting. 

“Bad,” I say, rubbing my stomach.

Varric’s brow creases. He leans closer and pats my back gently. His shoulders slump a little, like he’s carrying some of my misery for me, as if this was his problem too.

Someone—a crew member, a man about my age—approaches. His brow furrows in confusion as he looks me over, then he speaks to me. I can’t make heads or tails of the words, but the tone is sympathetic. Varric responds in kind, and the man grunts and nods before digging into his pouch.

He pulls out a small, leafy plant and offers it to me, holding it out like it’s some kind of treasure.

I squint at it. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before. Nothing I’ve indented into my book or made notes about. Varric, sensing my hesitation, mimics chewing and points to the plant. I look from him to the crewman, and then back at the herb. 

After a moment, I sigh and take it. Why not?

I bite into it, grimacing immediately at the bitterness. The moment it hits my tongue, I want to spit it out. The aftertaste is... worse. But I force myself to swallow it, feeling the sharp sting of nausea threatening to rise again.

The sailor’s eyes widen when he sees my reaction, and he starts shaking his head, eyes wide with concern. Varric pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s dealing with a particularly stubborn child. 

I’m sure I look just as confused as I feel. I gesture helplessly with a ‘what?’ motion, my hands in the air. I did what they told me, didn’t I?

Varric sighs, his voice taking on a tone that’s almost fondly exasperated. “Bad.”

I blink a few times, feeling the warmth of the herb begin to settle in my stomach—along with an unexpected sense of light-headedness. 

Maybe this was a mistake.  

I glance up at Varric, still dizzy. "... bad?" I ask, unsure if I’m asking about myself or the situation.

He shakes his head and motions, “ follow .”

I stumble a bit as I try to follow Varric, my legs not quite as steady as I’d like. He watches me with that same amused expression, though there’s something kind in his eyes. He lets me latch onto his broad shoulders as he leads me somewhere. My feet flop in thuds on the wooden floor after him one step at a time, as I try to keep balance.

I’m not sure what it is, but it feels like the world is... floating. Is it always this light? Why is everything so... soft ? I catch a glimpse of my dress, and for some reason, it feels like the fabric is the softest thing I’ve ever worn. I run a hand over it, wondering why I never noticed that before.

He leads me below deck, and the air shifts. It’s cooler here, the rocking is less intense, and I feel like I’m floating on air, not walking on solid ground. The quiet settles in around us, and I feel like I’m moving through a dream, wading through water.

That can’t be right, there’s no water, it’s wooden floorboards. 

I spot Solas before he notices me. His bald head almost shines in the low light, and I can’t help but stare at it for a second, mesmerized. It’s smooth, like polished stone. I imagine it would feel cool to the touch. I blink and catch myself staring for too long, but it doesn’t matter. He’s sitting near his hammock, flipping through pages of a book, looking completely absorbed in his own world.

Then, he looks up. The moment his eyes meet mine, I sway a little too much, and I’m suddenly so aware of how wobbly I am. I clutch Varric’s shoulders and Varric pats my arm. 

Solas’s brow furrows, his gaze flickering to Varric beside me. “Varric? What—?”

Varric says something, cuts him off. But the words spin around my head. I try to focus on the conversation, but everything’s swimming a little too much. My thoughts feel slow, distant, like I’m watching the world through a foggy lens. 

I glance at Solas, but his expression is a little too serious for my liking.

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I blink a few times, trying to focus on him, but his face seems to... shift. No, not shift. Glow. Yeah, that’s the word. It’s glowing. Or maybe I’m just really tired. He looks... warm. Comforting.

“Bad,” I whisper, from behind Varric, hands stubbornly holding onto the thick part of Varric’s coat. “ Baaad .”

Solas raises an eyebrow, and for some reason, I notice the colour of his eyebrows—kind of russet brown, like the earth itself. Why does his hair stop there? Is he bald... everywhere?

I snort, the sound escaping before I can stop it. The laughter bubbles out of me, so sudden that I can’t help it. It’s not funny, but it is. And I can’t stop giggling to myself. Scandalized little giggles. 

Solas pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep sigh. 

Varric gives him a thumbs up and pats his shoulder before he walks backwards up the steps.

I’m not sure how much time passes. 

Solas is seated nearby, his legs crossed on the crate as he reads, the soft rustling of pages blending with the creaking of the ship’s wood. The candlelight on other crates of the room highlights the smooth curves of his features, and the stillness of his focused concentration is almost serene.

Meanwhile, I’m swaying gently in his hammock, rocking back and forth, the fabric cradling me in its soothing rhythm. The world feels like it’s moving a little easier now, and my head is filled with a hum, the kind you make when you’re far away from everything. A dull sense of contentment settles over me, and as I lazily observe Solas, a question floats to the surface of my thoughts.

His ears.

Do they… boing ?

I tilt my head slightly, my eyes narrowing. I find myself staring at them. 

The smooth, tapering shape of them... and the curve at the top. The pointy tip. 

Do they twitch when someone lies? Can he hear like a cat—track every creak and shuffle with those ears? Elves do kind of remind me of cats: graceful, quiet, a little smug, and weirdly elegant. Only their ears stick out sideways instead of up ways.

The longer I stare, the worse it gets. Curiosity builds like pressure behind my ribs.

The temptation is almost unbearable.

I reach out cautiously, my fingers moving through the air like they’re following their own mischievous path, and as I gently flick the tip of his ear, almost a caress. 

Boing . A little bounce.

There’s a flicker—a light shiver that runs through him before he stiffens, spine going ramrod straight like someone had yanked an invisible string. He tries to hide it, that tremor, but I catch the glimpse of it anyway. 

His eyes snap to mine—and the air shifts. There’s a moment of complete silence. He doesn’t look angry, not exactly. But there’s something... almost pained about his expression, like he’s trying to hold back some sort of reaction.

I give him a small, playful smile and reach out again, still floating in that soft, blurry haze from earlier.

A soft gasp escapes me when his hand moves before I even register it. Fast. Precise. His long fingers wrap around my wrist—not tight, but firm. Possessive, almost. Unyielding. It makes me blink. My stomach does a weird little flip. His eyes don’t waver from mine, and I notice something about them. 

They’re striking in the candle light. 

And I was wrong.

They aren’t the grey I’ve always thought them to be, but a rich shade of purple. It’s subtle, the grey is over most of the outer iris, but in the inner iris, but there’s no mistaking it now—violet. They’ve darkened, like storm clouds gathering over a quiet sea, a depth there that I hadn’t seen before, something smoldering just beneath the surface, held back. 

A warmth creeps up the side of his neck, colouring his cheeks faintly, and I catch the flush spreading to the tips of his ears. It’s barely there, but it’s enough to make my heart stutter.

Oh…

My lips part as the realisation settles, slow and warm, and I swear I see his eyes flick down to them.

He holds my wrist longer than necessary. 

“ No .”

When he speaks, his voice is low. Strained and deep, lacing with something dangerous at the edges in a way that sends a subtle shiver crawling down my back and makes me crave more of it.

I swallow slightly.

His hand lingers another second before he lets me go. Then he returns to his book, or at least pretends to. I’m not sure he’s reading anymore. His posture is too still. Too careful.

I sink back into the hammock, suddenly not so floaty anymore. My wrist tingles where he touched it. My mind flickers back to the time he was horrified at the mention of us in that way , but maybe I…misunderstood. Maybe it was a translation issue after all?

Either way, don’t think I should do that again. 

My eyes flick toward his ears, definitely a tinge of pink. 

Probably.

The lessons continue over the course of the boat journey.

He doesn’t mention the ear thing in the dream visits, and I don’t say anything either. Honestly, maybe I imagined the way his fingers curled a little too tightly around my wrist. Maybe the heat in his voice was just the herb messing with my head. 

Maybe I’m the only one still kind of thinking about it. 

I keep showing up. I keep listening. I keep pretending it’s not circling in my mind like a moth too close to a candle. Maybe my body’s just touch-starved. Maybe I’m reading into it because it’s been so long since I’ve had even a scrap of self-care. 

I’m only human, after all.

I don’t even know if I like Solas that way . But I let the thought drift off before it can slither in and take root—using the lessons as a distraction, an anchor, a place to breathe. 

I nearly kiss the ground when we finally dock at Val Royeaux. 

I’m wearing a lighter dress today, because it’s warmer here. Not by much, but it’s better than the frozen hell that was Haven.

The dress is soft linen, pale blue and simple, but it feels like heaven after all the thick, heavy layers I’ve been stuffed into lately. It laces up the front—not too tight, just snug enough to hold me together and give me shape without making a big deal of it. The sleeves are long and loose, trimmed with a whisper of gold, and they float when I move. A soft belt ties at my waist, cinching it in just enough, and the skirt brushes around my knees as I walk, light and swishy.

The sweetheart neckline dips a little lower than I’m used to—not scandalous, but enough to frame the curve of my chest in a way that’s... definitely noticeable.

It fits... nicely. 

Maybe a bit too nicely.

I do feel pretty in it. 

I brush my hand down the skirt, smiling. 

When I step onto the deck, Varric’s eyes widen and he lets out a low whistle. I can’t help but grin. I give a little spin, the fabric catching the breeze and swirling around my legs like I’m someone out of a story book. Varric sweeps into an exaggerated bow, one hand over his heart, like he’s just been granted an audience with a noblewoman.

I laugh—an actual, honest laugh—and for a few seconds, I feel light. Almost normal.

Cassandra glances over, her eyes sweeping me head to toe. She gives a short, sharp nod—approval, maybe. 

But then I catch Solas looking at me. 

There’s a pause, his gaze lingers a little bit too long, and I feel a hint of warmth, sudden and low in my chest—something unspoken, like a breath I forgot to take. His eyes soften, just for a moment, and there's a flicker of something, too fleeting to name—before he blinks and looks away.

A small, traitorous part of me wants him to keep looking. 

I chastise it. Shove it down. Box it up. 

Someone calls out, boots clatter across the planks, and the ship creaks as it prepares to pull away from the dock.

Time to go.

We all walk down the ramp and step off the ship. Then I’m faced with Val Royeaux. 

It’s fancy. Very fancy. 

There’s a lot more architecture than land here, compared to Ferelden. Any nature that exists is meticulously controlled, carefully arranged in planned plots, placed with purpose for mere decoration. The buildings are extravagant, towering with elaborate designs, their pale blue stone nearly identical to the shade of my dress. 

I can’t help but wonder if that’s intentional, Josephine .

Still, I can't help but stare at it all, in wonder, in quiet admiration. I twirl slowly and walk backwards as my gaze lifts to trace the towering structures, as if I miss the tiniest detail. A lot of the architecture reminds me of old cathedrals. The renaissance. Pointed arches. 

Then, suddenly, my arm is grabbed—Varric gently steering me out of the way of passing people. I smile down at him sheepishly, and he gives me a look. 

It’s a look only a lightly disapproving but amused father could give, and, oddly, I find myself comforted by it.

As we walk, I spot a woman in a dress more elegant than mine—more expensive, probably, too. She’s wearing a ridiculous hat that nearly has me bursting into giggles. It looks like something you'd see on the runway in a fashion show—but that’s definitely not a compliment.

The woman sees me and gasps, quickly turning and briskly walking in the opposite direction.

I blink, then glance down at my own un-intimidating self before looking over at the others.

Well, Varric does have a large crossbow strapped to his back, Solas is carrying a staff, and Cassandra is fully armoured, with a shield slung over her back and a large sword at her side—though it’s sheathed, it’s still hard to miss.

Yeah, random noble woman. I guess that’s fair. 

Varric says a comment to Cassandra, and she scoffs. 

We pass through a large iron gate, and I can’t stop looking around, as if I’ll miss something important if I don’t take it all in at once.

Oh my god, that’s a lot of statues.

They’re nestled in little groves built into the arch we walk under, and I can’t help but notice the marble. I wonder just how rich Orlais really is—or at least this capital. Considering it’s the seat of the Chantry, I imagine a lot.

Fancy motherfuckers.

Someone approaches, and I notice the familiar uniform of the Inquisition—the green hood and the eye insignia pin make it obvious. An agent, then.

I think they’re going to talk to Cassandra, but instead, they bow to me.

I’m never going to get used to that.

I take an awkward step back, unsure of how to handle this. But turns out, I don’t need to. Cassandra steps in and talks for me.

Thank fuck.

They talk. I’m getting better at hearing and recognising certain words used in conversation, but I still haven’t got a clue what they’re talking about. Probably regarding the reason we’re here. Judgy old ladies who think I’m committing heresy. The Inquisition, trying to prove I’m not.

Cassandra takes the lead, and when the others start to follow, I shuffle in behind. Still, I linger for a moment, eyes drawn to the statues—gobsmacked by the sheer amount of detail carved into them. They’re beautiful, really. They remind me of the ones I’ve seen in the British History Museum, like something out of Ancient Greece or Rome.

I lean over the little wall—having to press my stomach over the stone—to reach out and run my fingers across one because I’m curious what it’s made out of. The surface is coarse, not smooth. Not marble. Rock. Maybe granite? How did they get the wrinkles in the clothes so well? Did they have to chisel and sand it down? The craftsmanship here is—

“April?” 

I blink and look back to the others, seeing them staring at me.

I probably look really weird. 

I give a sheepish grin and catch up to them. 

We step into a wide, sunlit courtyard. The walls rise around in bold, deeper blue. A royal blue, trimmed with gold and adorned with elegant archways and lavish balconies. Long red banners stretch from a central tower to the surrounding columns, like spokes on a decadent wheel, catching the light and casting crimson shadows across the square. Gold-painted lion statues flank stairways and doorways like silent guardians, and more of those potted plants shaped to near perfection line the edges. 

  Everything here exists to be admired and remembered. 

And as I’m doing that—admiring and memorising this all like a big fairy tale—I stumble over my feet when I see a gallows on the side. 

Oh . 

Right. 

It breaks whatever rose-tinted glasses I’m wearing.

I shuffle past it quickly, pulse quickening. I don’t look too long. Just enough to know it’s real. That the noose hanging there isn’t just for decoration. That it could, if things went wrong, end up around my neck.

I didn’t ask for this mark. I didn’t claim to be their chosen.

That wasn’t me .

We walk further, and the courtyard narrows into a bustling plaza. The air here feels warmer—closer—buzzing with conversation and motion. Stalls line the walls beneath navy awnings, their tables stacked with baskets, jars, and bundles of goods I don’t recognise.

Ahead, a crowd has gathered, murmuring and shifting on the flagstone path. Their clothes are a strange blend of practical and ornate—earth tones and silks, leather and linen, structured like something out of a Renaissance faire. I try not to stare too long at any one person, but some wear masks more suited to a masquerade ball than the street. Their masks shimmer in the light—some feathered, others gilded or shaped like animals or delicate porcelain expressions frozen in time. It’s theatrical, unnerving, and oddly beautiful. 

I get the sense that they aren’t wearing them for fun. Maybe here, identity isn’t always something you wear on your face.

Or maybe it’s just gaudy decoration. 

I tuck my chin and keep moving, slipping between pockets of people as quietly as I can. Cassandra walks just ahead, cutting a path for me through the shifting crowd. Up ahead, there’s a stage. A handful of people stand on it, dressed in those stiff Chantry uniforms with the flared hats. Among them, I spot armored figures with a familiar insignia etched on their chests.

Templars.

I falter, shrinking back instinctively—and bump straight into someone. When I look, I can see Solas is behind me. He meets my eyes and gives a small nod. A quiet kind of reassurance. I breathe a little easier, and hide in his side. 

I’ve seen what he can do. He can throw fire. Big fire.

He won’t let them hurt me.

…I hope.

He’s an ally for sure, wants to close the breach and believes I can do it with the mark on my hand. But would he go to prison to defend me?

…Probably not. 

The person on the stage calls out—loud, commanding. A string of words in that same unfamiliar language, but the tone alone is enough to make my chest tighten. Their eyes land, gaze locked with me.

Then they point.

At me.

I freeze. 

The breath catches in my throat. For a second, it feels like the whole square stops with me. My eyes flick to the Templars, to their weapons, to the silent eyes behind those helmets. My hand shoots out before I even think, grabbing onto Solas’s arm like it’s the only solid thing in the world. His sleeve bunches in my fist. I don’t look at him. I can’t. My gaze is locked on the figure who just made me a target.

Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe they’re asking something harmless. Maybe they just want to know who I am.

But that pointing finger feels like a sentence.

“—Andrastre—!”

Oh fuck. 

Yeah, they’re pointing at me because I’m the false Herald . The Herald of Lies. The foreign heretic. 

They seem to react when I step back and half-hide behind Solas, their voices rising a notch—sharper now, questioning, maybe even accusatory. Another string of words, this time directed not just at me, but at him too.

I grip his arm tighter. I don’t know what they’re saying, but I can hear it in their tone: suspicion.

They don’t like that I flinch. That I seek cover behind someone who clearly isn’t one of them.

A memory flickers. I remember him saying elves aren’t looked at too kindly, in this world.  Guilt tightens in my chest. I might’ve just painted a bullseye on him. 

But he doesn’t budge, doesn’t even glance my way. He just stares them down, all quiet defiance, like he’s made of something harder than I am.

One of the Templars shifts, boots scraping the stone, hand twitching near his weapon. 

Cassandra responds to the person.

I can’t tell if it helps or makes it worse.

But I don’t let go. I’m ready to sprint away with Solas in hand.

A group of Templars is approaching. A dozen of them. My heart races in panic. I can’t breathe right—every step they take feels like a nail being hammered into a coffin I didn’t ask to lie in. Their armour clinks with each movement, loud and final like the ticking of a clock counting down to something awful. 

Oh god, they’re coming for me—

I grip Solas’s arm harder, fingers aching now. I try to pull him away, but he doesn’t move. I glance up at him— why isn’t he moving?

But he’s watching the stage with a stoic expression. Then he catches my eye and gives the smallest nod, tilting his head subtly toward the platform. I follow his gaze, heart still hammering in my chest.

The Templars aren’t headed for me. They stride past, ascending the platform, flanking the Chantry figure who had pointed my way. 

I blink hard. The rush of fear doesn’t drain, but it stumbles—collides with confusion. If they’re not coming to arrest me... then what was that? Why point? Why single me out? My whole body feels light and heavy at the same time. Like I’m still bracing for impact that never came. Relieved, but very confused. And deeply unsettle—

WHACK.

I flinch hard at the sudden crack of sound.

What—?

My head snaps toward the stage just in time to see a woman in Chantry robes collapse like a ragdoll, her hat tumbling off as she hits the ground.

Oh my god. The Templar just hit her in the fucking head. What the fuck. What the fuck? I thought they were holy figures—what the fuck?!

Gasps ripple through the crowd. A few people step back. Some press closer, straining to see. The rest of the Templars stand impassive, as if nothing happened—as if this was expected.

She’s not moving.

She’s just—there. On the floor. Out cold, maybe worse. I can’t tell. 

I stare, jaw slack, every breath locked in my chest. That just happened. In front of everyone. No warning. No reaction. No one rushing to help her. The Templar walks off the stage and Cassandra follows him to talk, a few of his group follow.

When I’m sure it’s safe—when there aren’t Templars, I climb onto the stage, my boots scraping softly against the wood. My hands tremble as my shadow falls over her still body. She looks small now, but she’s conscious, barely. The other Chantry members, only two of them, ignore me, they’re on the floor like they’re terrified. One of them is praying . 

What the fuck—she seemed like an asshole for pointing the accusatory finger at me, but she didn’t deserve that , Jesus. 

I kneel to help her up.

At first, she allows it—but then her eyes meet mine. Her face twists like my touch is some vile offense. She slaps my hands away and snarls something I can’t understand, jabbing a finger into my shoulder hard enough to shove me back a couple steps.

I huff.

Unbelievable.

I draw a slow breath through my nose, exhale through my mouth. I won’t let her get to me. Not this time. Flipping off a Chantry sister probably counts as sacrilege, and knowing my luck, they’d use it to prove I’m some uncultured, blaspheming outsider.

Even though, let's be real— that Templar just clocked her in the head and no one batted an eye.

No. No, April. I tell myself. You already bit a merchant and nearly got strung up for it. One more misstep, and the Inquisition might actually throw a leash on you. Walk away. You’re better than this. 

Better than them.

I lift my chin and turn away, graceful and cold, channelling my inner Leiliana ‘bitch face’ like they’re nothing of any consequence to me. She’s not worth it . Just another judgmental face in a world that doesn’t understand me. I might not speak their language, but I have manners.

Fuck you , lady.

Solas is waiting at the edge of the platform. Without missing a beat, he offers his hand to support me as I walk down the step. I accept it with a polite smile, letting the moment sell the image.

I am poised. I am dignified. 

And I will not be dragged down.

But of course—I will be shot at.

I let out a completely undignified yelp as an arrow thuds into the ground inches from my foot. I leap what feels like nine feet straight into the air, clutching Solas’ arm with both hands like he's a lifeline. 

He freezes, his hand tightening on his staff. His eyes flick to me—checking I’m in one piece—then shift to the arrow. His brow furrows.

I follow his gaze and spot the scrap of paper tied to the shaft.

A message.

A message.

What the actual fuck is wrong with people here? They couldn’t just send a fucking raven ?  

I’m so fucking done with this place . 

Chapter Text

I’m staring down at the dress in the stall, eyes narrowing.

Is being the Herald supposed to be a paying job?

They feed me. Clothe me. Give me somewhere to sleep.

But I haven’t seen a single coin. I don’t even know what their money system is. Is it the classic fantasy deal—gold, silver, and copper? Or is it some weird barter system where people trade goats for socks or... whatever? Would have to be a lot of socks, in exchange for that value . 

I pull out my notebook and scribble down yet another question for Solas. Then frown at the growing list.

This isn’t working. I can’t keep waiting for night time to ask one question at a time. There’s not enough time for this and language lessons. There has to be a better way. There has to be something I can find. Some trick. Some tool. They have potions for everything else—why not one for languages? Is that not a thing here? If it was, surely someone would’ve shoved one at me by now.

No. I need magic. Real magic. Old magic. Something powerful.

I just don’t have a damn clue where to start.

Solas is my only answer.

This growing dependence on him is starting to wear thin.

On me—and probably on him, too.

I glance at him.

He stands there, quietly observing the courtyard, offering nothing of what’s going on in that mind of his. I wear my heart on my sleeve. He keeps his locked in a vault, buried under a mountain and guarded by a dragon. 

Sometimes I catch hints and glimpses, but today he’s…awfully stoic. 

I sigh. 

The sound catches his attention, and his eyes drift toward me. He tilts his head, eyebrows curving upward in question. Are you alright? The words aren’t spoken, but I feel them in the air between us, clear as if he’d said them aloud.

I want to answer. To explain that no, and also to explain why I’m not.

But I can’t.

My shoulders sag under the weight of everything I can’t say.

I close the book with a snap, and tuck it into my satchel, next to the letters that Solas picked up. Four of them, apparently for me. That I can’t bloody read . 

It sits heavy in my chest—this sour, coiling frustration that no matter how hard I try, I’m still stuck. Still silenced. I’m trying. The stupid mountain never gets smaller, and I’m still at the bottom with bare hands and bleeding nails, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to climb.

My emotions melt into something sharper—anger. I’m pissed at myself, at the world, at this godforsaken place. I’m still stuck here, and all I have to show for it is that constant fear gnawing at me, because deep down, I know I’m helpless.

Alone, or otherwise.

It’s maddening. 

It’s lonely.

The feeling creeps in like a shadow from all sides, curling up in my chest until it feels like my ribs are cracked open. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth, like something sour that lingers far too long, making my heart heavier with every step. They’re leading me somewhere, and I have no choice but to follow, like cattle being herded, stripped of any say or control. I move only because they tell me to—no reason, no explanation. 

And I don’t even know where I’m going. 

I don’t know what we’re doing.

Breathe, April . Breathe . 

I’m quiet as we walk, pulling inward, shrinking into myself whenever Varric or Solas try to engage with me. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to put in the effort when it feels like it’s all for nothing. They walk beside me, but it’s like they’re miles away—so close and yet so out of reach. It’s not that they don’t try. They do. But I can’t bring myself to reach back. Not today. 

Not when everything feels so damn far.

We arrive at what looks like a palace—or, well, I suppose here it’s a manor. 

We enter, and it’s—well.

As fancy as everything else here. Fancier, maybe.

A vast foyer stretches out before us, with a fountain at its centre, water spilling over the edge in a way that’s supposed to be peaceful but just feels out of place. Two stone staircases curve up on either side, leading to towering ceilings that make the whole room feel small, like we’re nothing more than ants under the weight of it all. Guests are scattered around, all dressed to the nines, looking like they’ve stepped out of some ridiculous fashion show—mostly because of those ridiculous hats . 

The curtains are royal blue, like everything else that’s supposed to scream “fancy.” I can tell it’s an Orlesian thing, or maybe it’s just considered the height of luxury. Either way, it doesn’t make me feel special. It just makes me feel more out of place.

“April—”

I startle, my head snapping toward the voice. A man stands there, holding a scroll in one hand, calling my name. For a moment, I just stare at him, blinking, trying to figure out what the hell’s going on. It takes me a second to realize—he’s announcing me. A herald—not like me. I don’t know what they call them here—maybe a crier? The type of person who announces someone when they walk into a ballroom, making them sound like they’re something worth paying attention to.

He mentions ‘Inquisition’ in whatever he cried out, so I imagine he’s introducing me as their pet.

I frown, my gaze shifting to the grand space around me, and oh my god, the size of this place. In the corner, there’s a statue, carved from stone but nearly reaching the ceiling. It belongs in a museum. I blink at it, and then glance around at the other guests. Their murmurs ripple through the air, their eyes flicking to me, whispers slipping behind their hands. 

Right. The poor girl. The feral Herald. The Outsider.

I’m playing right into their role by being so amazed at the ‘decor’ that probably costs them nothing more than chump change. 

Someone approaches me, but they don’t bow like the others, or scowl. In fact I can’t see the expression they wear at all with the damn mask obscuring their face.

Ah. So that’s their purpose.

Hide their emotions. Play the political game. Play it safe.

I think I’m right. At least, I’m starting to understand it. The masks are a symbol, a way to keep the world guessing, to keep them from showing their hand too easily.  

I’m starting to get it. Orlais is the kind of place where they smile in your face and stab you behind your back.

Those people.

Snakes.

I smile at them sweetly, wanting nothing more than to leave. 

No. Not snakes. Vultures. It’s more fitting. 

Why are we here?

I turn my head to Cassandra, Varric and Solas, who are also observing the space with distrustful eyes. Less obvious than I am about it, but I know their expressions enough by now that I can read them. 

“Herald—” I hear from the person talking to me, and I press my lips together. I don’t want to respond, because I know they’ll just make fun of me. But if I don’t answer, they’re going to see me as rude. And I promised Josephine I’d try .

I feel the dejection in my heart ahead of time. 

“Hello,” I say politely, my words stiff. “Sorry. No. Good. Talking.”

One of them gasps, a sharp, exaggerated sound that rings in my ears, and claps their hands together like I’m some trained animal. They say something to each other like I’m not even standing there, their words dripping with condescension. Then, in that same patronizing tone, they say, “ Ooooo —good!”

My eye twitches. 

Solas, to my surprise, approaches my side. I’m impressed by the seamless, polite smile he wears. It’s almost close to his real one. 

Almost. 

He says something in a measured, diplomatic tone, gesturing between himself and me with a hand to his chest. The nobles nod with interest, making those delighted, over-performed noises people do when they think they’re being charming. They start conversing with him like I’m no longer a participant, just some curiosity being managed.

I’ve had enough. 

I smile at them, sugar-sweet, and say in a soft, warm tone. “Eat shit and fall over.” 

Of course I don’t use their word for shit. I’m still behaving . 

“Inquisition?” a voice calls from the staircase, sharp and unmistakably disdainful. I glance over and spot a man dressed like the rest of these peacocks, his tone already heated before I’ve even clocked his face. He scoffs mid-sentence. “—shit!”

Oh look, another fan of the Inquisition. We have lots of those.

He waltzes toward us like he owns the place, and even though his mask hides his expression, I can feel the contempt rolling off him. He looks at me like I’m something he scraped off his boot.

I meet his eyes—at least, where I think they are behind the mask—and hold my ground as he spits venom in a language I still don’t understand. It’s easier to keep my face blank when I don’t know the words, but I feel myself stiffen, spine straightening, when he stops just a foot away.

Inquisition. I hear it more than once in the middle of his rant.

I’m about two seconds away from breaking my very specific, very recent promise not to bite fingers when it happens. 

Ice.

Fast, alive, jagged—it surges over his body like a living thing, locking him in place mid-sentence. 

I jerk back, heart leaping to my throat. 

There’s a new voice now, coming from the opposite staircase. I see the source of the culprit from a woman stepping down the stairs. White smoke sneaking back into her hand. 

She glides down the stairs like she owns the very stone beneath her feet. I can’t look away.

Her outfit is an intricate sculpture of white and silver, molded like armour but soft as breath. The bodice clings to her curves, carved and boned with elegance that dares you to stare, and I do—flickering to the low plunge that reveals more than I expect and somehow still leaves everything to the imagination. Her sleeves bloom outward in sharp, winged flourishes, edged in gold like they were forged, not sewn. 

They frame her face like a portrait gilded in reverence.

Then there’s the mask. A sweeping, metallic thing that hugs the contours of her face and rises into horns. It gleams in the low light, catching every flicker and flaring it back tenfold. Her eyes behind it glint with purpose, unreadable and cold. Or maybe that’s just how she wants to be seen.

Friendly? Please be friendly. 

The man encased in ice lets out a high, pathetic whimper. A single word escapes his mouth—something pleading. The woman beside him doesn’t so much as flinch. She responds with frosted precision, voice smooth and clipped.

She speaks. I think it's a question, though her tone is so flawlessly calm it could just as easily be commentary. Everyone is watching.

Everyone is looking at me. 

Oh… uh…

I glance at Solas—please, I beg silently with my eyes.

He steps toward me until he’s at my side, and says something. But she tilts her head again. Just slightly. Not questioning, not unsure—curious, like a cat deciding whether the thing before her is prey or amusement. 

Solas keeps speaking, and she allows it—right up until she doesn’t. With the elegance of someone plucking an errant thread, she lifts her hand, and it cuts through whatever Solas is saying. The dismissal is so clean, it stings on his behalf.

Then she looks at me.

This time, her gaze sharpens. She lifts her hand again, drags them across her neck in a deliberate arc. Smooth. A silent slash. She gestures to the man still frozen mid-sob in ice, and the air seems to tighten around us. Her shoulders lift in a dainty shrug. One brow arches. 

Kill. Dead.

It takes me a moment to register. 

Not a threat. Not a plea. A proposal .

Would you like me to dispose of him for you, my dear?

There’s no fear in her. No hesitation. Just that terrible calm.

My hands jut up, palms out. 

“No! No,” I say, shaking my head hard, my voice sharp with panic. “No.”

She pauses, considering me like I’ve just declined a vintage she recommended. A flicker of amusement crosses her eyes—too polite to be mockery, too measured to be warmth. Then, she nods. A single, graceful tilt of her chin. As you wish.

With the barest wave of her hand, the ice recedes, leaving the man trembling and soaked on the polished floor. She turns away from him like he’s nothing, and says something. A servant quickly comes along and starts to mop away the icy water. 

I don’t know whether to be terrified, or impressed.

Maybe both.

There’s a power in her that unsettles me—not because it’s loud or angry, but because it isn’t. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just offered murder like she was offering me tea.

And somehow, that’s worse.

She approaches me again, heels clicking in crisp rhythm against the marble floor. “—Herald of Andraste—” I catch from her voice.

I blink at her, confused, unsure if she’s addressing me directly or simply making a declaration for the room to hear. But then her gaze settles on me, unwavering.

Varric starts walking toward her, his hand lightly brushing my arm in a silent cue, and I follow—because what else am I supposed to do?

She leads us to a quieter alcove, away from the watching eyes and whispered gossip. A tall window opens to the night, moonlight pouring in and catching on the delicate filigree of her silver mask. It glints like frost—beautiful, cold, untouchable. She’s unreadable behind it. But I can feel her sizing me up, deciding what I am. 

A symbol. A threat. A disappointment.

Maybe all three.

“Vivienne,” she says to me, carefully, and I comprehend the name. 

“April,” I return the gesture, and give her a slight curtsy. Because how else are you supposed to greet a woman who just magically froze a man in front of you?

Vivienne watches my curtsy with a faint arch of one brow—amused, but I don’t think unkind. She says something smooth and lilting in her language. 

Solas steps forward to translate, but she lifts a gloved hand ever so slightly—silencing him before he begins. Again. He halts, expression unchanging, but I see the flicker of something tight behind his eyes. The same dark that he glared at Cullen with. Controlled. Leashed. It’s gone before I can examine it though.

Vivienne turns to me once more, eyes gleaming behind her mask, and speaks again with a graceful incline of her head before drifting away, the sound of her heels clicking faintly against the polished floor.

A dismissal, then. Or goodbye?

Solas watches her go, his posture still. The quiet kind of tension that says he’s biting down on something sharp. His arms fold behind his back with deliberate ease, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.

I glance up at him. “Good?”

His jaw shifts slightly, like he's grinding down a thought before it can leave his mouth. Then he gives a curt nod. “Yes.”

I blink, and feel my gaze drift after her. 

What a curious—and terrifying—woman.

We got a nice hotel, because it was too late to travel.

Josephine booked it, obviously. Golden light spills down the corridor like melted candle wax—warm, soft, expensive. The room smells faintly of lavender and old books. Clean linens. Thick curtains. No draft. For once, luxury doesn’t feel suffocating.

I barely make it to the bed before I’m gone. No dreams. Just a deep, unthinking plunge into the dark.

But something keeps tugging me toward the surface. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying there, floating in the space between sleep and waking. Every time I start to drift off, something taps my nose. Light. Annoyingly persistent. I groan and swat at the air, half-mumbling into the pillow.

My brain is sludge. The world won’t take shape.

Then—boop.

Again. Right on the tip of my nose.

My eyes snap open.

There’s a face. Inches from mine. Upside down.

I scream.

A hand clamps over my mouth, muffling the noise. I grab the pillow from the side, immediately in fight mode, picking it up and slamming it into my attacker with as much force as I can. The hand flies off my lips as I roll off the bed and fall to the floor. I jolt up to my feet and grab the vase nearby, holding it up like a weapon. 

A girl—young, eyes wide like I startled her —sits on the bedframe like bloody spiderman. She blinks, cocks her head, and stares at me like I’m the weird one. Like I’m some curious animal in a cage. 

Then I hear her say it—Herald.

Cultist .

I scream again, and throw the vase at her. 

She catches it. Effortlessly. Then she sighs, rolls her eyes, and sets it neatly on the bed like I’m the one being unreasonable. She stands and walks off the bed frame. 

I scramble back, breath heaving, heart pounding. She’s blocking the door. I could try to dart past her, but after seeing those reflexes? Fuck— Balcony ? Who needs legs?

Then the door explodes open.

Cassandra storms in like divine judgment, all righteous fury in a flowing nightgown down to her calves. Her sword is already in hand, her shield raised. She’s barefoot, hair slightly mussed, and her expression can cut steel. 

Varric comes in from behind her, in his own night clothes—mainly bottoms, his chest hair on display, his crossbow aimed. Solas arrives last, but he’s the most dressed. His eyes are sharp and alert. His staff aimed, already glowing faintly, ready to cast. He surveys the scene with quiet intensity, jaw tight.

I point frantically to the girl. 

Cassandra barks something at the girl—an elf, now that I can really see her, blonde and slight. She points her sword. They argue. Fast. Sharp. I hear my title tangled somewhere in the noise—Herald. Again and again. Back and forth. 

Then, too casually, she flops back onto the mattress like she lives here. Cross-legged. Bare hands. No visible weapon. But that doesn’t make me feel safe. She watches me with a half-smirk, like I’m a curiosity. A rumour made flesh. Or maybe just an amusing letdown.

I just want to fucking sleep . 

Cassandra snaps something sharp. Her voice is a whip crack in the room.

The girl doesn’t seem impressed. She shrugs, scratches behind her ear, and mutters a reply. I can’t follow any of it. Just the rhythm. She’s not defensive. Not really. More like irritated that everyone’s so tense about something she doesn’t think is a big deal.

Varric speaks now, and I hear what thrown in. Solas says something next, and the girl scoffs.  

Cassandra mentions Inquisition . The girl mentions Inquisition . 

With them talking, and the girl distracted, I shuffle around and make it so I’m behind Varric and Solas. No one stops me, thank god, they all continue to talk. My heart’s still tumbling around my chest like it’s being kicked down a flight of stairs. Cassandra looks like she’s trying very hard not to start shouting again. Varric lowers his crossbow slightly, though, which feels like a betrayal. I shoot him a glare, but he’s not looking.

Why aren’t we pointing the weapon at the crazy lady?

The girl points at me, and I stiffen. 

Solas says something, and everyone shuts up to listen.

The girl hops off the bed like it’s nothing, breezes past Cassandra like they’re not still one sword swing away from murder, and waves casually at me like we’re old friends. She says something cheerfully, and is out the door before I can blink. 

I stay behind Solas like he’s a shield, my hands still clenched into fists.

I look around. Everyone is still tense, murmuring quietly.

I speak up. 

“... What the fuck ?”

“Don’t be greedy. You’ve had your lot.”

The one legged beast hops, just teetering on the edge of some invisible border. I swat him away and hold out the almond to the pregnant squirrel. It bravely approaches, and then gently takes the nut from my outstretched hand. 

I smile. 

The sun is warm on my face. The park is serene, the sounds of rustling leaves and distant chatter blending with the occasional quack from a duck. I hear the trickling water and tilt my head to squint in the sunlight. The world feels soft here, untouched by whatever discord lies beyond the trees. 

I’m sitting on the grass, my pretty pink sundress folded underneath me on the blanket.

A gentle breeze flutters through the air, carrying the scent of grass and earth. The squirrels are bolder today, looking up expectantly for a treat. I laugh quietly, reaching into my pocket for another almond.

The moment stretches out. I can almost forget the world that awaits me.

And then I hear Solas. 

"Peace suits you," he says, and I turn my head slowly.

He’s wearing what he always is. A wanderer’s outfit. A mage hermit. Fitted robes with bare feet. 

Why does he never wear shoes? I wonder. It’s not an elf thing. I don’t see elves in the world without shoes. 

I look down at the bag of almonds, and then shuffle aside to pat the blanket. A clear invitation. He approaches without hesitation, the grass silent beneath his feet. The sun glints off his scalp. The squirrels scatter, wary of the newcomer.

He doesn’t speak right away, just folds his hands in his lap and looks out at the water.

“Victoria Park,” I answer the question in his head before he can voice it. “It’s a place where I’m from. Very nice in the summer. I go there to feed the squirrels and the ducks. Sometimes the pigeons when they’re not busy being swarming greedy sky rats.” 

“I suspect the pigeon simply sees opportunity,” he says. “Greed and survival are close companions.”

“That’s way too poetic for a pigeon trying to mug me for almonds.”

He says nothing, but the corner of his mouth shifts—barely. A Solas smile. Practically a laugh by his standards.

We sit in the calm for a while, listening to the gentle rustle of trees and distant water. The fountains in the pond dance in the distance, their arcs of water catching the sunlight and breaking it into diamonds. It’s hypnotic—the endless rise and fall, the soft patter of droplets returning to the pool like a lullaby. Ripples spread outward in perfect rings, touching the edge of the pond with a quiet kiss.

A duck paddles lazily by, leaving a V-shaped wake in its path. The breeze carries the scent of summer—grass warmed by sun, the faint sweetness of blossoms somewhere unseen. It curls around me like a gentle hand at my back, easing me into the moment.

“I came to explain,” he says. 

I lean back on my hands, letting my fingers thread through the grass. “Been a busy day. Which part?”

“Let us begin with the unconventional elf.”

“You mean the one who broke into my room, booped my nose, and stole the complimentary wine?”

“It seems she would consider that a warm introduction.”

I glance sideways at him, skeptical. “So she’s not a cultist?”

“Not quite,” Solas says, with the faintest twitch of a smirk. “But she is a Red Jenny . A rogue element by every definition.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” My eyes flicker over him. “What do they do?”

“They are a loose association—if one can even call it that—a fluid collective that responds to perceived injustice with sabotage, disruption, and—on occasion—chaos for its own sake. They target those who exploit the powerless. Nobles. Merchants. Occasionally governments.” 

Stick it to the man , people then. 

“So, anarchists?”

“Anarchists destroy for the sake of collapse. The Jennies disrupt to embarrass—to mock, to remind the powerful that they are not untouchable. They delight in imbalance, but rarely linger long enough to reshape the pieces.”

“Ah.”

“They work in the most unpredictable and theatrical manner possible,” he continues, dry. “They function through compartmentalized cells, each led by different voices, with no central authority. Their only unifying trait is a disdain for structure, and a shared cause: to tip the scales in favour of the lowborn. Usually with fire. Or goat dung.”

I stare at him, wondering if I barely dodged the bullet of having goat shit smeared on my face.

“Their methods are crude, yes—but effective. If they ever embraced structure…” He trails off with a slight tilt of his head. “Their potential would be far more dangerous.”

Decentralized, mobile, hard to trace. Capable of damage and yet... elusive. It’s less comedy and more strategy than it looks on the surface. Weaponized humiliation and chaos.

I glance at the horizon, the sun warming my skin.

I lean back on my palms, the sun soaking into my skin. “Who is she? What did she want?” I shake my head with a baffled shrug. “Just to scare the fuck out of me?”

“She wishes to join the Inquisition,” Solas replies.

I blink. Let that settle.

My eyes linger on the water, the soft murmur of it filling the space between us.

"Right."

“How do you feel about that?”

“How do I—” I start to object, then stop myself. I chew the inside of my cheek. “She could be valuable. If Leliana wants to make use of her connections, her unpredictability could be an asset. If she can handle it.” 

Solas watches me sidelong, expression unreadable. “I believe her intent is more specific. She wishes to travel with you. The choice, it seems, is yours—not the Inquisition’s.”

“What?” I frown at him, sitting up straighter and brushing my hands on my knees to get rid of the residue grass. Not that it’s necessary in dream-land, but it is a human habit. “Why?”

His eyes narrow slightly, thoughtful. “Perhaps she sees more than a cause. An alliance could further her goals, as ours. A chance for someone long kept on the margins to claim relevance—through you.”

I mull over it for a moment, considering his words.

Leverage. Protection. Opportunity.  

Either way, she has reach. Connections. If she’s representative of the Red Jennies—I think is what he called them—we might learn more through her than against her. The Inquisition has spies, soldiers, nobles—why not a wild card? Besides, she already got the drop on me once. Better she’s inside the tent, pissing out, than the other way around. 

“The Inquisition can always use more… allies."

Solas raises an eyebrow, his tone curious. "Is that what you see in her? An ally?"

“I see a woman who broke into a fortified hotel, slipped past guards, and”—I meet his gaze—“booped the so-called Herald of Andraste on the nose. That’s competence.”

He doesn't smile, exactly, but his expression tilts toward something wry. “Perhaps. But her loyalty is unlikely to be unconditional.”

“Whose is?” I say. “But it doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? I’m just the puppet figurehead, remember? The face for everyone else’s decisions. What I want doesn’t factor in much.”

He’s silent for a moment. 

“In the Fade, I have seen lies become gospel, held aloft by nothing but belief. The danger isn’t in being their puppet—it is in forgetting that the strings remain in your hands. Let go, and someone else will take hold.”

“You really think I have any power?” I ask softly.

“You already possess more than you think,” he says, matter of factly. “Power is not given. It is claimed, born from the choice to see yourself as more than what others decree. The question is not if you have it, but whether you are willing to take it.”

“And…” he adds quietly, “should the demands of the Inquisition press too tightly, I will be here. To offer counsel, should you wish it. To offer silence. Perspective. Whatever you need.”

I feel the grass thread through my fingers as I pick at the strands to think about his offered words. He’s been nothing but kind to me so far. Thoughtful. Patient. Very helpful. There’s comfort in him, a strange kind of solace. 

For just a split second, I see it—his eyes narrow, darkening with something sharp and unspoken as they lock onto Cullen. It's fleeting, a quick flash of something I don’t expect. Solas, usually the epitome of calm and control, suddenly looks... different. There’s a darkness there, something that doesn’t belong in his expression.

But the moment vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. 

That’s the thing about comfort—it can be a trap. I’ve learned that the hard way. Just because someone speaks gently doesn’t mean their intentions are gentle too.

I don’t know Solas. Not really. And as much as some part of me aches to lean into the reassurance he offers—to curl into it like a cat finding warmth—I can’t ignore the instinct tugging at me.

The wary part. The part that’s kept me alive. The part that ignores the innate trust I have for the bald elf.

So I ask, softly. “Why?”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

I look him in the eye. 

“Why are you helping me?” I say plainly. “You’ve been kind—more than kind, really. You’ve helped me when you didn’t have to.” I pause, searching his face for something. “And I’m grateful. I really am. But I have to ask—why?”

“Because you are the only hope of closing the Breach,” he says, somewhat bluntly. “If you fall, everything we strive for falls with you.”

My heart cracks slightly, and I force my face into a blank mask—can’t let him see the vulnerability simmering beneath. 

I’m not even sure what I was hoping for. Maybe… that this was something more than duty. Something closer to friendship.

I...thought we were friends. 

Maybe it’s the same for Varric, too.

Maybe no one here is really my friend. 

That lonely feeling creeps in. 

“I am…I apologise, if you interpreted my words as unki—”

“What did Vivienne want?” I cut him off.

He stares at me for a while, then nods and goes along with my subject change. His voice fills the room, speaking of Vivienne—but the words don’t reach me fully. 

I feel more alone than ever.

If it's possible, I'd appreciate anyone's help with characterisation and talking about it with someone, like Solas is hard sometimes and I get stuck >..<

(Also, sorry for the delay, I went to my nanas, plans and got engaged hehe)

Chapter Text

It’s strange, the way dreams work. It feels like we talked the whole night, but when I wake, I feel rested—like sleep somehow happened in the spaces between the words.

The last thing we talked about was Vivienne, after that… awkward ordeal. About what she wanted. Solas didn’t say he disliked her but he doesn’t need to. I could hear it in the way his jaw tenses, the way his voice went dry when he recounted her words. How she interrupted him and ignored his important role of translator. How her ambition gleamed sharp beneath every smile. He told me he’d seen people like her before in the Fade—prideful, grasping, gilded with power.

Dangerous, he said. They’re dangerous. 

He didn’t need to tell me. I saw the power she wielded—and I don’t mean her magic. That was just a tool. She could’ve used anything: a blade, a whisper, a single glance. Her presence was her real weapon.

And she used it to gift-wrap a rude guest for me—offered to kill a man over mild insults, like it was a favour.

It’s terrifying. 

The Inquisition would need to tread more carefully around her than they ever would around Sera—the elf from last night—feels like a juvenile prankster compared to her.

Vivienne? She’s a focused lioness.

I told Solas that if the others truly want my opinion—if they sent him into my dreams to hear it—then yes, Vivienne would make a better ally than an enemy. But they should be wary. Very wary. I even asked Solas to speak with Leliana, to find out what Vivienne truly wants, to put together a proper report—if the Inquisition spymaster has the time. They’re probably already doing just that, given such an ally’s arrival. 

Solas only remarked that I was already following his advice—something about taking my power for myself. I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or not, and I didn’t comment. Not after the revelation that he doesn’t care about me. Not really.

I get dressed in one of Josephine’s gifted dresses—still not sure if they’re actually mine or just on loan. It’s soft, flowing, and feels a little too fancy for what’s probably a regular day. Still, it’s not like I’m going to argue. I can’t exactly walk around in rags. At least, not anymore.

I brush my teeth with the strange powders and chew sticks they gave me—still figuring that one out. It’s not terrible, but definitely different. Kind of like a lot of other things here, really.

As I finish up, I realise there’s something I forgot to ask Solas last night: do I get a wage? I’m the Herald, so surely they’ll pay me something. But then again, maybe I just add everything to the Inquisition's tab.  

I want to see physical gold, or silver, or copper. Whichever I should deserve for running around doing all of this. Josephine is probably the one I should talk to—or Varric. I think Varric likes me enough that he wouldn’t con me. 

I hope. 

As soon as I step out of the room, I spot Cassandra standing in the hallway like a statue stationed on duty. She’s already in full armour—polished, meticulous, like she’s been up for hours. Her sword and shield are slung neatly on her back, but her posture says she’s ready to use them at a moment’s notice. 

Solas is already up as well, of course. He stands further down the hall. I don’t know how he manages it, but his clothes look freshly pressed—flowing just so, not a wrinkle in sight. Like he stepped out of some elven fashion painting while the rest of us are still rubbing sleep out of our eyes.

Just then, Varric’s door opens across from mine. He shuffles out with a stretch and an exaggerated yawn. His shirt’s rumpled, chest hair on proud display, and he gives me a casual two-fingered salute, then glances at Cassandra. He says something, and she exhales through her nose before grunting out a response. Judging by her tone, it’s not complimentary.

First thing in the morning guys, really?

“Morning,” I say, hoping to distract them with my new word.

Cassandra gives a sharp nod—ever the disciplined soldier—but her eyes quickly flash back to me in surprise. Varric, mid-yawn, blinks at the sound of my voice. He does a double take, then grins wide. He says something with a raised brow, glancing between me and Solas. The elf answers smoothly, arms folded behind his back, his tone dry but pleased. There’s a flicker of warmth when he looks my way—something almost like pride.

I ignore him. 

We walk to breakfast in the hotel courtyard, a quiet, walled-in pocket of warmth tucked behind the main building. Stone archways draped with ivy encircle the space, softening the otherwise crisp, Orlesian architecture. Pale morning light filters through the leaves of a central olive tree, its branches twisted and old, reaching out like they’re stretching after sleep. There’s a little fountain nearby, the gentle trickle of water adding a soothing undertone to the early bustle of the city beyond the walls.

Wrought iron tables and chairs dot the flagstone floor, their frames curled into elegant patterns. A few guests murmur over their breakfasts, the scent of strong tea, fresh bread, and some kind of herbed butter hanging pleasantly in the air. Hotel staff move gracefully between tables, but no one disturbs us.

It’s calm. Almost peaceful. 

Or, it was—right up until Sera—the elf from last night—drops into the seat beside me like a bomb wrapped in a grin. An arm slings casually around my shoulders.

I nearly choke on my bread.

Shooting her a wide-eyed glance, I find Sera grinning like this is all perfectly normal.

Cassandra straightens with a sharp look and starts to say something—but I hold up a hand. Not rude. Just firm. Wait. She pauses, eyebrows arching, and slowly lowers herself back into her seat. Her eyes narrow slightly as she glances between me and Sera. She’s doing as I’m asking, but she’s still on watch like a hawk.

I clear my throat, swallow hard, and point at the elf beside me with my half-eaten bread. “Sera.”

She blinks, startled, then tilts her head at me.

I tap my chest. “April.”

A beat.

Then her grin widens.

“Hello,” I manage, feeling a little ridiculous, but at least I’m trying.

Sera lights up like a summer bonfire—bright, untamed, and a little wild. She starts rambling, her words tumbling over each other in a torrent, nudging me with her elbow and snickering at something I’m clearly missing. Solas watches us from across the table, his expression unreadable, a line across his mouth. Varric, however, can’t hold back his snort of amusement, clearly entertained by the whole spectacle. Cassandra just looks like she has a headache. 

I gesture toward Sera, trying to make myself understood. “Inquisition,” I say, pointing to her.

She says a word, and I squint a little as I try to comprehend what she said. Varric speaks up in translation for me, “yes.”

Ah . 

I take a deep breath and put my bread down, focusing. “Sera. Inquisition,” I say carefully, nodding firmly. “Yes.”

Cassandra’s eyes widen just slightly, the only outward sign that she's been listening. Sera pauses for the briefest moment, like she’s trying to make sure she heard me right, then her grin returns—bigger, sharper than before. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I affirm, with more confidence this time.

She lets out a loud bark of laughter, a mix of joy and disbelief, and then slaps the table with the flat of her hand. The sound of cutlery and plates rattling fills the air, drawing a few surprised glances from the other guests in the courtyard. I jump at the sudden noise, a little startled by her enthusiasm.

Cassandra is glaring across the table at me like, really? Her?

Sera’s arm, already around my shoulders, squeezes. Her grin widens, sharpens, and reminds me of a hyena. 

Oh god, what have I done?

Sera doesn’t really leave my side.

She’s talkative.

Even though I only understand one word or two, I let her ramble at me. It’s a little tiring, keeping up with the nodding like I get it, but it’s also… oddly refreshing. She’s trying. She’s genuinely just talking to me. Or, at me. But she’s not shying away just because I can’t understand her.

It’s like she doesn’t care that the words don’t line up, that I don’t speak the same way. She talks the way she wants, and I just go along for the ride, trying to catch the bits I do know, nodding when she seems to want me to. It’s strange how easy it is to get lost in her words, even when I’m only catching the barest fragments.

She’s not ignoring me, or pretending that she’s listening, she doesn’t feel like she has an agenda.

In a way, it’s kind of nice. Especially after last night. 

Sera has basically kidnaps me like some sort of toy to show off around Val Royeaux.

It starts innocently enough—at least, that’s what I tell myself. One moment I’m trying to enjoy some quiet time, and the next, I’m being dragged by the arm through the bustling streets, Sera’s voice bubbling up beside me, describing everything in that rapid-fire way she has. She’s excited, practically bouncing with energy. 

She points at random things—the shops, the vendors, the people—rambling on in that mix of words I can barely keep track of. She waves her hand at me every so often, like I’m supposed to know exactly what she means. Her grin is too wide, and it’s clear she’s enjoying herself far too much. I get the distinct feeling that this is less about me learning Val Royeaux and more about her dragging someone around who has no choice but to go along with it.

It’s like I’m her adopted stray, or something. 

When we pass one stall, I spy her pocketing something, but don’t say anything. 

Snitches get stitches. 

She plops a sunhat, a silly one that one of the noble Orlasians are wearing, atop my head. 

It’s super stupid. 

I snort and adjust it with a grin at her. She’s laughing, and whisking me away again, pulling me from one place to the next, showing me things I probably won’t remember because I’m too busy trying to understand what she’s saying to even focus on what she’s pointing at.

Behind me, I can hear the soft shuffle of footsteps—then the sound of someone cursing under their breath. Solas, Varric, and Cassandra. They’ve fallen into a frantic little parade, trailing after us like a group of worried parents. Every now and then I hear them all call for me, then Sera’s name—and she blanks them. 

Cassandra looks like she’s holding onto her patience by a thread, her jaw clenched tight, and her eyes darting around, ready to spring into action at the slightest hint of trouble. Her usual stoic composure is cracking just enough for me to see the frustration bubbling under the surface. 

Solas, meanwhile, seems to be holding himself together with an effort. There’s a subtle tension in his posture, and the faintest crease appears between his brows every time he glances in my direction.

I don’t care what he thinks.

And then there's Varric. Of course. He’s hanging back with a smirk plastered on his face, clearly enjoying the scene unfolding in front of him. He’s walking along at a relaxed pace. 

My heart clenches slightly when I glance back at him, knowing he probably doesn’t care anyway.

Eventually, Cassandra catches up and steps in front of us, blocking our path with an obvious glare directed at Sera. 

The tension between them is palpable. 

Sera snorts, pointing at her and muttering something that, given the tone, is clearly some sort of jab—probably insulting her in the way only Sera can, like a child trying to provoke someone.

Cassandra takes a deep breath, her shoulders stiffening before she reaches up and firmly swats Sera's arm off my shoulders. The two exchange a few sharp words, though I only catch snippets. From the looks of it, Sera’s more amused than concerned, but there’s a moment when she rolls her eyes and seems to back off. It’s hard to tell if she truly agrees with whatever Cassandra’s saying, but she falls silent, at least for now.

“Inquisition,” Cassandra says to me with a stern voice. “Haven. Follow.”

Oh. She wants to leave Val Royeaux? 

The thought catches me off guard, and fills me with a little sadness. 

For a moment, I pause and adjust the silly sunhat on my head, glancing around at the vibrant life of the city—the bustling streets, the grand architecture, the way the sunlight filters through the trees. It’s a nice change of pace. The weather’s warmer and the landscape is much more… alive than the cold, somber atmosphere of Haven.

If you ignore the people—well, aside from Sera—it seems much nicer here. 

I nod, a little disappointed. 

As we’re walking toward the docks, though, something catches my eye—a figure lurking just behind a wall, barely visible but unmistakable. I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye, the shift of shadows, and my body reacts before my brain does. I whirl around, eyes locked on the spot where I saw the movement. 

The figure doesn’t move, and I narrow my eyes, studying the spot carefully.

Is someone watching me? Or is it just another random passerby? Either way, I can’t shake the feeling of being observed, the cold prickle creeping down my spine.

Varric notices my reaction. “Good?” 

I shake my head. “Bad.”

All four companions turn at my word, looking to where I am. Cassandra steps forward with her hand drifting to her sword’s hilt. Solas lifts his staff slightly. Varric picks up his crossbow and aims. Sera shifts slightly, reaching back to unstrap her bow with a quiet, practiced motion. An arrow is already in her hand, the sharp tip glinting in the weak morning light.

There’s a voice that calls out. Cassandra unstiffens in surprise and stands up straighter. But she’s still on guard even as she calls back something. 

The figure—a woman—pauses just at the edge of the alley, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sends another shiver down my spine. “Herald of Andraste?”

“Yes,” I confirm tensely, despite the fact I don’t believe it at all. It’s less of a mouthful than what I want to say. I don’t have enough words for that.

She puts a hand on her chest, and gestures. “Fiona.”

The conversation between Fiona and the others is a blur of sharp words and clipped tones. Cassandra, ever the soldier, is asking the questions with suspicion, keeping a close eye on Fiona's every word. Varric is a little less tense, his usual easy demeanor returning, though he remains cautious, crossbow still in hand. Sera is, unsurprisingly, looks bored.

But all the while, Fiona’s eyes keep drifting back to me. It’s not subtle—there’s no mistaking it. Her gaze is weighted, searching, like she’s trying to read something in my face, waiting for a reaction. I catch myself shifting uncomfortably under her scrutiny, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel.

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can say a word, I feel Solas step forward.

A slight feeling of bitterness settles in my chest that I can’t help.

He begins, his gaze flicking briefly between Fiona and me, before settling on her with a quiet intensity. The others fall silent. 

I try not to zone out and focus on their words.

“Herald—”

“Inquisition—”

“Yes—”

“What—”

“Why—”

“Talking—”

It’s a mess of fragmented sentences, disjointed thoughts colliding in the air, yet it’s clear enough that Fiona is trying to communicate something with urgency, though her words feel like they’re missing something. The emphasis on “Herald” is unmistakable. It’s obvious she wants something from the Inquisition, but it’s also more than that. 

Then Fiona says something that makes my ears perk up. “Redcliffe—”

I perk up, recognising the word. Her eyes snap to me, as if noticing my reaction immediately. 

“Herald,” she says, her tone deliberate now, as if she’s speaking to me directly. “Redcliffe. Follow.”

My eyebrows raise. This woman is—Clever. She's already figured out what words I know and is adapting her approach to that. 

But she wants me to go to Redcliffe? Why?

I glance at the others as they continue to converse, before bringing up my notebook and scribbling down my question. 

I’m startled when the woman approaches me, Cassandra says something tensely. Back off , probably. Or what are you doing? More likely. I do hear a what . 

She leans over carefully, slowly, as if not to spook me, and looks in my notebook. Her expression shifts, an almost imperceptible flicker of something—appreciation, maybe even a hint of approval—as she nods to herself. She seems pleased, but it’s hard to read exactly what’s going on behind her eyes.

Then, without a word, she offers her hand—it takes me a moment to realise she’s asking for my book. 

I narrow my eyes at her, feeling a spark of protective instinct flare up. The notebook isn’t just some book; it’s a lifeline. It’s the only connection I have to understanding this strange world, the only place where I can track what little I’ve learned so far.

I hug the book closer to my chest, unwilling to part with it.

Varric pats my arm with a reassuring smile. 

Reluctantly, I give it.

She flips through the pages with a quiet efficiency, her eyes scanning the words as she exchanges a few sharp words with Cassandra. Every so often, her gaze flicks over to Solas, who watches the exchange with a quiet intensity. I’m left standing there, tense, fighting the urge to reach out and snatch it back. The book feels like a part of me, and without it, I feel exposed, vulnerable. My hands itch, wanting to hold it again, but I don’t move.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she closes the book with a soft snap. Her gaze meets mine again, and there’s something in her eyes—a flicker of something unreadable—as she holds the book out to me.

Fiona watches me for a beat longer before nodding, satisfied with whatever it was she was looking for.

She says one last thing, before leaving us.

I stare after her, and hug my book. 

The hell was that about?

Grand Enchanter Fiona. That’s her name. 

Solas tells me about it the first night on the way back to Haven. 

She’s the leader of the mage rebellion. She was asking me if we could have a meet, while everyone kept trying to tell her that I don’t speak the language, she claimed she could make do . 

Whatever that means. 

She wants me in Redcliffe Castle, and mentioned that she could teach me. The mages, she said, are a learned people. Educated. She could teach me quickly. They could help me, provide assistance so Solas doesn’t have to carry the burden of teaching me on his own. He doesn’t seem particularly enthused by the idea, but there’s something in his tone I can’t quite read. 

A part of me wants to approach them just to fuck with him. But, even if he’s not my friend, he’s a good teacher. And I know he’s one of the better allies I have. 

The thought of it lingers, heavy, something almost too appealing to dismiss. But I can’t rush this. I have some time to think about it. Not much, though. The pressure is already starting to creep in, like a weight settling across my chest. I can feel it in my bones. Time moves too quickly, and decisions need to be made.

It’s five days back to Val Royeaux.

A combined time on the road, and on the ship. 

In that time, I focus on the King’s Tongue when awake and asleep. It’s not easy—every word feels like it’s slipping through my fingers as I try to hold onto it, but I’m determined. I buckle down in the quiet moments, my book open before me, as I scribble in my own notes. It’s tedious and long but I’m beginning to understand more of the basics and not single-word phrases. 

My book becomes my lifeline—my dictionary and my guide. I’ve filled it with the words that have become my foundation: Hello. Please. What. Is. Where. Why. How. Question. Yes. No. Stop. Follow. Cold. Pain. Sleep. Toilet. Sorry. Asshole. Good. Bad. Fuck. Shit. You. And. Talking. Morning. Inquisition. Herald. Mage. Templar. 

I’ve also added a few phrases to my book. I haven’t memorised them, but I’m working on it, and I have them written down so I can read them out from my book if I need to: Good morning. Good night. Thank you. Goodbye. How are you? I don’t understand. I understand. Help me. Is it safe? I’m lost. What is your name? I don’t speak King’s Tongue. Excuse me. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. Speak slow. Can you show me? 

It feels very rudimentary. But it’s progress.

There is one night—the third night—I ask Solas off.

I need time. 

His admission hurt me more than I thought it would. 

I want a night to myself. A space where I can be alone, in peace. It’s not that I don’t value his company—I do. Perhaps more than I should. And that’s precisely why I need distance. To remind myself he’s not something to be enjoyed, not a comfort or a friend. 

He’s just… an ally. I need quiet.

It’s also that third night that I dream alone.

The dream unfurls like a forgotten memory, slow and disjointed, as if I’m waking in reverse—drifting into awareness from the depths of sleep.

I stand, bare feet on cool stone, my yellow skirt brushing against my skin, the soft fabric like sunlight against shadows. The space around me is vast, stretching out in ways that make no sense. Dark. Empty. Yet there’s a quiet, expectant hum, a pulse beneath the silence, as though something is waiting. 

My steps are unsure at first, like I’m learning how to walk again, but I keep moving, compelled by something unseen.

Endless corridors stretch before me, and as I move through them, the walls themselves seem to shift and breathe, stretching in shapes too fluid to grasp. Time doesn’t exist here; I’m suspended in some in-between place, where nothing is fully real yet everything is undeniably present.

Then, I find it—a door. It’s simple, old wood, like a door that shouldn’t be here. I reach for the handle, the cool metal sending a shiver through my fingers. When I open it, the door groans on its hinges, revealing something that pulls me in, irresistible.

The room beyond is a labyrinth.

No, it’s…

It’s a library. 

I step forward, admiring the impossible large shelves stretching upwards until they fade into darkness. The air smells of aged paper, ink, and dust, heavy and thick, like it’s been untouched for lifetimes. But there’s something more—something alive in the stillness, as if the library itself is breathing, waiting. The shelves curl and bend, twisting in unexpected angles, forming narrow passageways and spirals that disappear into the unknown. 

I could lose myself in here, and part of me wants to.

I move deeper, drawn by the maze. 

There are green lights, soft and shimmering, floating lazily through the air like will-o'-the-wisps. They hover around me, casting an eerie glow against the shadows. I watch them with a mix of awe and disbelief, their light pulsing gently, like a heartbeat too faint to hear. 

I reach out, fingers trembling, and they scatter, darting away as if shy, before drifting lazily back towards me. I giggle, grinning, caught in the surreal beauty of it. The green lights flicker like whispered secrets, beckoning, and I can’t help but follow. They trail down a corridor of shelves, curving in a way that feels almost deliberate, like they have somewhere to lead me.

But then the green lights flicker once—twice—and vanish.

I stop. The air stills.

Somewhere ahead, tucked in the maze of bookshelves, a voice stirs. Not words. Not at first. Just a breath. A hush of something watching. My heart lurches, but I tell myself it’s a dream. Just a dream.

I freeze. The hairs on my arms rise. A voice is everywhere. In the shelves. In the dark. In the spaces between my ribs. It’s not a sound—it’s a presence. It scrapes against the back of my teeth, a whisper inside my chest.

“Little dreamer…”

I round a corner and see it: a figure crumpled on the floor, curled in on itself like something wounded. Knees pulled to chest, arms wrapped tight. It’s weeping—shallow, stuttering sobs that scrape at something primal inside me. 

Its head lifts.

It isn’t crying.

Its face is a smooth mask of waxy skin, no eyes, no mouth—just stretched, pulsing veins where features should be. Smoke curls off its limbs. It unfolds, slow and unnatural, like a spider pulling itself out of sleep.

I choke.

“You’re new…” it croons. Its voice rattles like bones in a box. “So ripe. So soft.”

I back away. 

It follows, gliding more than walking, limbs trailing behind like shadows dragged through water. Books shudder on their shelves, paper crinkling like dried leaves.

“I can smell it,” it sighs, almost reverently. “The way you twist yourself in silence, pretending not to feel lost. You don’t belong.” 

The creature takes a step forward, and the books writhe around it, bending away in fear. I turn and run. It’s still speaking , it’s voice creeping in the shelves all around me. 

“They talk around you. Over you. You smile. You nod. You don’t belong here. You don’t even know what they’re saying. You say yes when you want to scream no, just so you won’t be more broken than you already are.”

Its words lance through me like needles. Too sharp. Too true. It knows. Somehow, it knows.

“You wonder if they pity you. If they laugh behind closed doors. A stray dog in a language it can’t speak. You wonder if it would be easier if you’d died in the sky.”

My chest caves in. I can’t move. I can’t blink.

It whispers, closer now. “You wonder if they only keep you around because they feel bad. You’re a puzzle piece they can’t force to fit. A burden they bear out of guilt.“

I’m frozen. My throat locks.

“You’re perfect,” it hisses. “It drips off you. It sings .”

Shelves blur past, twisting wrong. The corridors shift. I’m no longer on tile—I’m running on pages, parchment crackling beneath my feet.

Then—

A shriek.

A roar of fury that shakes the walls.

I gasp when another figure slams into the corridor in front of me—massive, burning, crowned in fire. Eyes like molten iron. Teeth bared, a face twisted in eternal rage. The thing behind me howls. 

They see each other—and then me.

I don’t know how, but they want me.

I pivot, breath tearing from my lungs, sprinting down another passage, books tumbling from shelves like dying birds. One of them screams as it hits the floor. The library closes in, breathing with me, mocking my panic. A hand grasps my ankle—I scream and kick, tumbling hard into a heap of scrolls. Fingers claw up my back—cold and wet—

It’s suddenly not touching me, as if cut off. 

There’s a new voice. Not like the others. Softer. Gentle.

“Don’t look,” it says. “It likes it when you see. It grows when you see.”

My head whirls around. 

My head jerks up. A boy stands in front of me. Pale. Small. His back to me, arms loose at his sides. There’s something off in the way he holds himself, like he’s only half here—his edges flickering, thoughts more than flesh. 

But he’s between me and the monsters.

“Go,” the boy says. “Run. I’ll make them forget you.”

He turns, just enough that I glimpse his face—young, solemn, kind in a way that makes my throat ache.

Then he moves. 

Not like a person. Like a wind, like a memory with teeth. The world shatters. Wind screams through the shelves. The creatures wail. Shadows recoil. Paper bursts into flame.

Somehow, impossibly, I find the door again. The one I first stepped through.

I throw it open, light pouring through like water.

Then I wake up with a scream.

Chapter Text

The next time he’s in my dream, Solas asks me what I had a nightmare about.

“It’s nothing,” I tell him, even though it clings to me like smoke. Even though there’s a weight on my ribs that says otherwise. A gut feeling. Something lingering. It felt so real. It felt like I was in genuine danger.

After that, I let him in. Every night. I let him invade my dreams. Because I don’t want to face whatever that was alone again.

I do think about it on the rest of our journey back to Haven, a lot.

The two monsters. Their voices cut through my thoughts. The sensation of being utterly powerless. 

And then my saviour. 

The skinny blond boy. 

I didn’t feel the same level of fear with him. There’s an innate trust that feels almost unnatural. Like some invisible thread pulling us together. 

He felt… safe, somehow. 

But not just safe—understanding.

I can’t explain it, but with him, there was no terror. Only a strange sense of quiet comfort, like finding shelter in the middle of a storm.

And for some reason, I knew—I knew —I was safe with him.

I don’t think anyone else will get it though, they’d probably just tell me it’s my broken psyche catching up to me, so I keep the nightmare to myself, and I keep my head down.

By the time we reach Haven, my arse is sore.

Man, is there no way we can at least hire wagons or something?  

My muscles are tight, protesting with every step as I rub my aching back. I groan, the discomfort gnawing at me, and reach out for the healing potion Varric offers. I pull the cork with my teeth, then down a generous swallow, the bitter liquid burning my throat. Passing the bottle back, I catch his eye as he takes a drink, a wry smile tugging at his lips. 

After, Varric tilts his empty vial toward me before heading toward the small tavern here. He says something to Sera, who huffs but follows him anyway. He’s probably going to show her around. Adopt the next stray of the group. 

Cassandra is marching off toward the church—the council room, I assume. I’m surprised she’s letting me roam free, but I guess she trusts me now. Or at the very least, trusts my intuition that the Inquisition is my only hope, and that I won’t run off. 

Solas gives me a polite nod before walking toward his cabin by the apothecary.

I linger for a moment, watching my companions leave my side and the quiet bustle of Haven, the sense of disconnection settling over me again. 

I stretch, bones cracking in protest, and start toward my cabin, hopeful—maybe foolishly—that a hot bath is waiting for me. Steam. Silence. Something that doesn’t creak or ache or reek of horse. Just the idea is enough to make my eyes water.

When I open the cabin door, I nearly collapse in relief.

The scent of lavender and warmed cedar hits me first. Then I see it: a tub tucked beside the hearth, steam curling gently from the surface like ghostly fingers. A folded towel rests on a nearby stool, along with a bar of soap that smells faintly floral and impossibly clean. There’s even a small dish of dried fruit and cheese set on the windowsill.

If Josephine arranged this, she’s an angel. A proper saint. I could kiss that woman.

A soft flutter of feathers draws my eye to the corner of the room. Perched in the birdcage near the window, fluffed up and preening smugly, is a familiar raven.

“Hello, mischief,” I say with a grin. He lets out a hoarse, throaty squawk and hops once along his perch. His eyes gleam, intelligent and slightly judging, like he’s been watching the whole journey and has opinions.

I chuckle, and toss him a small strip of dried meat from the snack plate. He snatches it midair and lets out another pleased croak before settling in with a content ruffle.

I undress slowly, easing out of my road-worn clothes, each piece peeled away with care like removing layers of exhaustion. The moment I sink into the bath, I exhale a sound that might be mistaken for prayer. The water wraps around me, heat seeping deep into sore muscles, coaxing tightness from my spine, my shoulders, my thighs. The silence hums gently in my ears, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional click of the raven’s beak against his food dish.

For the first time in days, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for something.

I just breathe.

I sink deeper into the bath, until the water laps at my collarbones and my chin rests just above the surface. My eyes slip closed, the heat seeping into places even the healing potion hadn’t touched. Each breath feels heavier, slower, like my body’s been given permission to stop fighting for a little while.

The cabin creaks softly as it settles in the cold. The fire snaps now and then, but even that feels far away—muffled by the steam and the gentle throb of my heartbeat in my ears. The raven rustles in his cage, satisfied and still. The scent of lavender fills my lungs. I let my head tilt back against the edge of the tub, and a sigh escapes me, long and quiet.

I tell myself I’ll get out in a minute.

Just one more minute.

But the water is warm, and the light is soft, and for once, no one is shouting. No demons, no fear, no noise. 

My limbs grow heavy. The kind of heavy that feels safe. My thoughts scatter like leaves in wind, too lazy to hold onto.

The shift is so gentle, I don’t notice it at first. One moment I’m floating in warmth, steam curling around me like a cocoon. 

The next, the light changes. Sharpens. Becomes something brighter, clearer. 

I’m walking.

Barefoot on sun-warmed pavement, toes brushing against patches of soft grass growing through cracks in the concrete. The scent of saltwater hangs in the air—fresh and bright, touched by the faintest trace of vinegar and chips. 

The sea glitters ahead, lazy waves lapping against the pebbled shore. I know this place. Southend. Or what used to be. The boardwalk stretches out to my left, the long pier reaching into the distance like a finger pointing into the horizon. It’s all sunshine and wind and distant laughter. Families with ice creams. Dogs chasing gulls. A baby screaming bloody murder over dropped candyfloss.

It’s perfect.

I miss it. 

I pause by a short wall and sit on it, letting the breeze kiss my face and ruffle my hair. A gull cries overhead. Someone walks by with a battered speaker tucked under their arm, playing music too loud—but I know the song. I hum along, smiling.

The water smells real. The heat on my shoulders feels real.

For a while, I just sit there, letting the sunlight soak into me, eyes half-closed. The sand is warm beneath my thighs. The sea hushes in and out, gentle and slow, like a lullaby I almost remember.

But then—

It’s cold.

A sudden shift. The kind that makes your skin crawl before your brain catches up.

The sun vanishes behind a thick cloud, swallowing the light. Shadows stretch, long and unfamiliar. I blink. The colour’s gone. Literally—gone. The ocean is grey. The sky, grey. The people have disappeared. Or maybe they never were. The sand under my hands feels wrong now—too smooth, too cold. Mist begins to crawl across the shore, sliding low over the ground like it’s alive. It reaches for my feet. Threads between my fingers.

Not again , I think. I stand quickly but the boardwalk’s no longer behind me.

Nothing is. 

Just that endless, colourless fog.

My chest tightens. I try to call out, but my voice is swallowed, muffled like it’s wrapped in wool. I take a step, and the mist pulls away—then creeps back in closer.

The world is blank, stripped of everything I recognised.

No path. No signs. No landmarks.

Just the grey.

Just the cold.

Just that weight again, low in my belly, heavy behind my ribs: the feeling of being somewhere I shouldn’t be. Of being lost.

Of home being very, very far away.

I walk.

Because there’s nothing else to do. Because standing still feels worse. But the mist thickens, swallowing the sound of my footsteps. My breath comes short and fast, clouding in front of me even though the air isn’t cold. It’s just empty. 

Something shifts in the fog.

A presence—not loud, not sudden, just there. Heavy. Low.

Then I hear it.

Breathing. Not mine.

Shallow. Wet. Like lungs full of grief.

A shape coalesces in the distance, barely visible through the dense veil. It doesn’t walk. It drags, weight folding in on itself, limbs slumped like a puppet with cut strings. It's tall, impossibly thin, with robes that move like they’re soaked in rain. Its face is a hollow in the fog. Not absent—empty.

I back away. But there’s no direction to flee in. The mist is a wall.

“You don’t matter,” it murmurs. Its voice is damp rot, thick with despair. “ You don’t belong here. You never will.”

It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. The words settle in my bones like they’ve been waiting.

“You think they see you?” the demon says, nearer now. “You’re tolerated. Pitied. A child lost in a war she’ll never understand.”

I shake my head, but the words crawl under my skin. Into my throat. The mist is inside me now. I try to fight it, but it goes straight through my fingers, chokes down my oesophagus. I can’t stop it. My knees buckle. I fall, hands catching on the slick, grey sand. Tears sting my eyes before I realise I’m crying.

The demon draws close. Its shadow covers me like a shroud. It presses down on my chest, my shoulders, my head. Heavy. Very heavy. 

“You’re nothing.”

Then—

A silver blur.

Steel flashes through the fog.

The demon reels back with a shriek as something black—blood maybe—spatters the sand in black arcs. A figure spins through the air, twin blades gleaming. Fast. Too fast to track.

The boy. The same blond one as before. Tall. Lanky. 

He lands between me and the demon, knees bent, blades reversed in his hands.

“No,” he says. 

The demon lunges. The stranger moves. He’s not just quick—he’s precise. He slips past its claws, carves into its arm, flips his blade, drives it into the thing’s side. The demon howls, but he doesn’t flinch. He dances around it, never still, cutting deep with each strike. Shadowstuff bleeds from its wounds, smoking into the mist.

The demon swipes wildly, roaring. The stranger slides under the swing, slashes through its knee, then leaps—silent as a breath—onto its back. His blade drives down, right into the thing’s neck.

The demon lets out a shuddering gasp and collapses. Mist swallows it whole.

And then—light. 

The sun burns through the fog, golden and sudden. The sea is blue again. Real. Warm. A gull cries overhead. 

I blink, disoriented, and glance up at the boy. He stands a few feet away, wiping his blades on the hem of his coat before sheathing them. He turns, and his expression softens the moment our eyes meet. 

I sit there, frozen, staring at him.

“You shouldn’t listen to Despair,” he says softly. “It wanted to make your feelings too big to carry. It wanted you to forget how to hope.”

He steps closer, but there’s no fear in me—only a gnawing curiosity, something I can’t quite place. 

“Who are you?” I croak.

He kneels down in front of me, his knees sinking into the sand, and takes my hands in his. His fingers are larger, rougher than mine—like they’ve known years of work, of struggle. I glance down at them. It’s not a reverent touch. It’s not an intimate one either. It’s like he’s making himself smaller, softer, trying to make his presence something I can literally hold onto. He feels like something steady, like the ground beneath my feet.

“I’m Cole,” he says, his voice soft but insistent. His head tilts a little like a curious bird. “I couldn’t hear you before. Too much noise. Too much fear. But I’m hearing now. Hearing the hurt humming under your skin. If you want, I can make you forget what hurts, so you can breathe. I want to help.”

My heart feels like it’s fighting my chest, but I don’t pull away.

“If forgetting feels wrong, I won’t take it,” his hands tighten over mine just slightly. “I only want to help.”

He’s not human. It’s clear. I don’t even know if he’s real. 

“Cole…” I say, and look down at our joined hands, before asking quietly, “what are you?” 

He lifts his gaze, the brim of his hat rising with him. His face is open, young. Blue eyes, blond hair. But there’s sadness there—profound, quiet sadness. Like he’s always listening to something that hurts.

“You feel too slow,” he says gently. “Too different. Like you don’t work properly. But you do. You’re just… not from here. That’s not your fault.”

I swallow heavily.

“You’re scared,” he says, not accusing, just understanding. “You're trying so hard to understand, and everything just slips past. Like you're underwater and the world is above you, shouting things you can’t reach. It’s loud inside you. The loneliness. Like a scream swallowed in your chest. You want quiet, but it echoes in the silence. I can be with you until that feeling is quieter.”

He hasn’t answered my question, I notice, but he cuts through my heart with his words. He knows me, knows the emotions hidden in crevices and the ones I’m wearing like necklaces. He knows. How does he know? He can’t be human. 

A spirit? Like the ones Solas talked about in the Fade? He doesn’t feel like a demon. Those were probably the ones chasing me before, the ones that made me feel awful. Fear, anger and despair. 

What is he? Hope?

“How?” I ask softly, so small I almost don’t hear my own voice.

"I can be with you. Not just here. Out there, too. When the words don’t work, I’ll be the one who hears. I can say what you mean, when they can’t understand."

I stare wide eyed at him, fear piercing through. “You…want to possess me?”

"No. Not possess. That's what they do—demons, things in the dark. Take and twist. I don't take. I help." His hands fidget with mine, as he looks down at them. His hat shadowing over his face. "I stay close. I help you speak. Like a hand on your shoulder, when you can’t breathe. That’s all. You stay April. I stay Cole. But together."

I hesitate, letting him play with my fingers as I consider. I huff out a shaky laugh. “You sound like a weird, magical emotional support animal.”

“Not an animal. I’m Cole.”

I chuckle slightly. 

My eyes search his face, trying to find the catch, the threat, the thing I missed. 

I don’t sense it. 

“I don’t understand what you are,” I say slowly. “But I think you mean it. And that’s more than I’ve got from most people lately.”

“You want me to help?”

“If you really mean it…” my hands tighten over his, a little frantic, a little desperate for comfort. “Then yes. Stay.”

He looks up at me, his hat tilting back. He doesn’t smile, but I get the impression somehow that this makes him happy. 

His brow furrows suddenly. 

“ Shivering. Lungs full. Water crawls up . Wake now, before you don’t.” He grips my hands tighter. “You have to go.”

What—

The realisation hits just as I’m jerked awake, the water crushing me, cold and smothering. I’m under the tub’s surface, drowning. I shoot upright, gasping, the cold shock of water rushing up my throat. I splutter and cough violently, choking on air that refuses to come. My throat burns like fire. I can’t catch my breath.

In a frantic rush, I roll out of the bath, collapsing onto the floor. My hand instinctively clamps around my throat, gasping, trying to find control. The other shakes as it supports me, my knees weak beneath me.

A hand is firm on my back, reaching to my arm to help me up. I look up with bleared eyes. 

It’s Cole. 

He’s real.

Once I manage to breathe again, I pull on my clothes and sit cross-legged on the bed. 

There’s an odd feeling about being naked in front of him. But it’s not the same as it would be with a person—no, that doesn’t feel right. Cole isn’t human, but he feels like a person still. It just doesn’t feel like he’s looking at me as if he wants to see underneath my layers—not that way.

Besides, it’s not just my body he can see. It’s everything.

That thought settles somewhere deep inside me—vulnerable and unnerving, but strangely comforting, too.

After all, he’s not even alive in the way I know. I don’t think he cares about the things that usually make us self-conscious.

He sits across from me, his gaze unwavering. 

There’s no sound between us, no need for words. We simply look at each other, the air thick with everything neither of us is saying. His face is still, unreadable. But his eyes—those eyes—hold something new. There’s something more there now, something that wasn’t there before. It’s like he’s waiting for me to understand something. Waiting for me to say something.

I don’t know what.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and dense, until it’s almost too much to bear.

“A spirit,” I say carefully. He blinks. “You’re a spirit, right?”

"I think,” he says, and it baffles me. “I’m something between. Something that should be gone, but isn’t. I’m not supposed to be, but I am."

That makes no goddamn sense. 

“You’re not a demon,” I say, hopefully. 

“Not a demon."

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because it means you don’t want to possess me, and it’ll be a lot easier to explain to others,” I murmur. “I don’t think I can keep this from them even if I tried.”

“They don’t have to know I’m here,” he replies simply, his voice almost too calm. “I can make them forget.”

Well, that feels immoral. 

“You think it’s wrong.”

My mouth opens and closes. I don’t answer straight away. Going from having no one understand me to having someone being able to read my mind or emotions in an instant is—jarring, to say the least. 

“We…shouldn’t mess with people’s minds without their permission, Cole.”

He looks at me, his expression unchanged. “But… why not? If it helps.”

The simplicity of his words makes the pit in my stomach grow deeper. Like a child.

I decide to be patient. He doesn’t know any better. He needs someone to teach him.

"Because it’s not for us to decide," I tell him. 

Cole doesn’t blink. He’s quiet for a long time, and in that silence, it feels like he’s trying to find the words to understand. “Sometimes,” he says softly, “people forget because remembering hurts too much.”

“And thats fine,” I say gently. “If they decide it. It’s about respecting their right to choose. Even if it’s painful. Even if it’s hard. Sometimes it’s better to remember, even if it hurts. It's how some humans learn.”

Cole stays silent for a moment, his gaze far away, like he's lost in thought. Finally, he blinks, his voice low, almost distant.

"I’ll… try to understand it better."

“It’s okay.” I nod softly. “For now, let’s… figure out how I’m going to introduce you to the others. One thing at a time.”

My mind runs in circles as I think about how I’m going to approach them. How I’ll explain any of this. The others… they’re not exactly known for keeping their calm when something unknown shows up. They yell, they scream, they panic, like everything is the end of the world the second something unexpected walks into the room.

I can already see it. Cassandra drawing her sword, ready to strike first and ask questions later. Sera with her bow drawn, her aim precise and unforgiving. Cullen rallying the troops, ready to charge, no hesitation in his eyes. And Leiliana—god, I don’t want to think about Leliana. The woman scares me. 

The image makes my stomach churn. 

I grimace at the next thought, the sharp pang of dread tightening in my chest.

Solas might understand. He’s different. Thoughtful. Maybe he’ll be open to listening, to seeing things the way I do. Even if he’s using me like the others, he can help. 

I bite my lip, a sudden thought creeping in. Maybe I should test this… method first. See if it actually works the way I hope it does.  

“We’re going?” Cole asks, already sensing my thoughts. 

“We’re going.” I confirm. 

I stand, pulling my shoes on, my mind already running through what comes next. Before stepping out of the cabin, I pause in front of Cole. I look at him for a moment, my thoughts racing, then gently tilt his hat down just a little more.

Cole’s voice breaks the silence, soft but clear. “I can make myself invisible. The others won’t see me until you want them to.”

“Alright,” I agree, my voice quieter than I intend. “Until I want them to.”

A few minutes later, I find myself standing in front of Solas’ cabin. My heart beats a little faster as I stare at the door, the uncertainty of what comes next hanging heavy in the air.

I take a breath, steadying myself, and knock.

The door opens almost immediately. Solas stands there, his sharp eyes scanning me with that unreadable intensity. It’s like he’s already noticed something I’m not saying—something I don’t even know how to express.

Without warning, he grips my shoulder, not harshly, but with a firm certainty. The suddenness of it catches me off guard, and I stiffen as he pulls me inside. The door clicks shut behind me with an almost finality. He guides me across the room to a chair—a small, simple seat beside a flickering candle and an open book.

He sets me down with deliberate care, his touch lingering before stepping back to observe me.

I can feel the tension in the room, the weight of his gaze lingering on me like a question I can’t quite answer. Before I can gather my thoughts, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps from behind.

Cole appears from the shadows, his movements slow. His head tilts slightly as he surveys the scene. When Solas shifts slightly, just enough to let Cole pass, the spirit vanishes—and now he’s beside me, seated on the bed like he’s always been there.

"He sees you—measuring, searching. Not just for answers, but for pieces of something hidden. What is it? What does he sense? Something is different. The anchor, perhaps, is drawing more of you into the Fade than it should.” 

My lips part open slightly in an excited gasp. 

Solas’s eyes were going through me before, looking, but not at me. 

Now they zero in on my face.

Solas’ eyes flicker with surprise, the calm mask he usually wears momentarily cracking. He tilts his head slightly, watching me with a mixture of curiosity and something else, before his gaze shifts between me and the space around us, as if trying to trace what caused the sudden shift. His gaze hardens as he watches me, and for a moment, I see the fleeting shadow of something behind his eyes—something I can’t quite place. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, the composure he normally holds slipping, if only for a breath.

I hear Cole’s voice in my ear, soft and distant, his thoughts swirling like an unsettling breeze.

“Fear. Hidden, beneath layers. He doesn’t want you to see. Doesn’t want you to know. It’s a crack in his mask, an echo in his thoughts. You’ll figure it out. You’ll find the pieces.”

Solas blinks, almost as if startled by something, before quickly regaining his usual air of composure. But the tension lingers, just beneath the surface. I can see his muscles tighten, the barely perceptible shift in his posture, the way his jaw clenches.

This almost feels wrong. It definitely feels wrong. It’s not just about hearing the words, it’s about feeling them, about reading him—seeing something intimate. No wonder he’s uncomfortable—if he knows what I can do now. If he can sense what’s going on inside me, if he knows I’m starting to understand something he doesn’t want me to, it makes sense that he’s retreating into himself.

But what Cole said... it startles me. 

What does that mean? Is Solas hiding something? 

“ You can tell her. She will understand.”

My head snaps toward Cole, then quickly back to Solas. His expression is carefully neutral, but something shifts in him—something I’ve never seen before. He looks… pained . His lips press together tightly, his eyes fluttering closed as if he’s weighing his next move. He stands perfectly still, every muscle in his body rigid. The silence stretches, as though he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

The stillness is broken only by my voice, shaky with disbelief. “Do you—can you—” I stammer, the question barely leaving my lips. “Cole, he can see you? He can hear you? I thought you weren’t showing yourself.”

Solas clears his throat. He says nothing for a long beat, his mind clearly working through something, but then, from Cole’s mouth, “Of course he can. He is—”

“Mage,” I hear Solas cut in sharply, his tone almost too quick. 

I blink at him, surprised by the interruption. He mutters something else under his breath, and for a brief moment, Cole goes quiet. A shift happens in the air, something faint but palpable.

I narrow my eyes at Cole, suspicion creeping into my voice. “Why are you going quiet?”

“Ancient. The Fade stretches far, deeper than the mind can grasp. Magic born from dust and dreams, tied to things forgotten. Hard to see, harder to understand, but the threads pull, and he feels them.”

Right. He said he walks the Fade. Weird Fade magic is kind of his thing .

But… it’s the way he said it. The way he shut Cole down mid-sentence, like he knew exactly what was about to be revealed. The way he looked at him—not confused or surprised, but knowing. Familiar.

He's being weird. Too composed. Too careful. I already know what he is, don’t I? At least, I think I do.

And that makes his behaviour even weirder.

Solas says something else.

Cole is right there to translate: “He doesn’t just want to know how. He wants to know why now. Why you, why me. A thread pulled where none should be. A meeting not meant, but made.” He glances toward Solas. “He thinks it’s connected. Fade-thin reasons. Accidents that aren’t.”

“Is he asking something, Cole?” I ask gently. 

“He’s wondering if I chose you. If you’re different now. If something’s growing. He’s afraid. Not of me. Of what I mean. Of what you might become, if I stay.”

“He’s worried our… bond will do something to me?” I try to interpret. 

“Yes.”

“Do you know if it will?”

“No.”

“No it won’t, or no you don’t know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want it to. I don’t think it will. But wanting and thinking are not the same as knowing.”

I inhale deeply and nod, patting Cole on the arm assumingly. Solas’s gaze flickers to the motion. 

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, even if I’m not completely sure. But I want Cole to stay—if he wants that too. He’s helping, in his own strange way. His presence is grounding. And his… translation? That’s very useful.

Solas and Cole converse in the alien language. Solas watches him closely. His eyes meet mine again. He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. I stiffen, sitting up. My gaze flickers to Cole.

“What did he say?” I ask, when they finish talking. 

Cole shifts, his voice thoughtful as he looks from Solas to me. “He says… walking the Fade’s not a thing you should do. Not like this. Mages can, but... you’re not one. The anchor—he thinks it’s making it happen. But it’s still too dangerous. Demons could follow. Could get you lost. And then you’d be... gone. He doesn’t want that to happen. He wants you safe. I also want that.”

I can’t help but smile a little at Cole, at how much he cares. There’s something endearing about him, something almost... sweet in the way he worries. It’s hard not to like him, despite everything.

“Thank you, Cole,” I say. 

"I... want you safe. Want you to be okay. I want to help." He looks away for a moment, as though trying to collect his thoughts, but then his gaze shifts back to me. There's something unspoken in his eyes—something almost... fragile.

“I know, Cole.”

OUR BOY HAS ARRIVED

Chapter Text

I keep Cole a secret.

For now.

Solas agrees—it’s safer this way.

So, I practice instead.

I’m curious if Cole’s reach extends to animals. I start with Mischief, the raven in my room. He sits on the windowsill, puffed up like he owns the place, beak tucked into his feathers. He clicks once, like a warning, when I approach.

“He’s a good bird,” I say softly, offering a bit of dried meat.

Cole tilts his head, gaze fixed on Mischief with that usual faraway focus. “He knows you. Feels the care in your hands, the rhythm in your voice. He remembers safety. He remembers food.”

“Reminds me of this one cat from the sanctuary I worked at,” I say. Cole nods, eyes far-off, like he’s smelling the old concrete floors and hearing the cages rattle just as I do.

Cole blinks slowly. His voice softens. "Small, curled in the corner cage. Fur matted, paw hurt. Sat on the cold floor. Talked, even when she hissed. Brought treats. She watched you, waited for the crinkle of the bag. Let you pet her after five days. You called her Bramble."

I smile at the memory. 

“The thorny bitch.”

“She bit you,” he says, almost fond. “Then purred. Confused. Wanted love, didn’t know how to ask.”

I chuckle. 

“You gave her space. Sat nearby, didn’t reach. Talked anyway. She came on her own. Needed to be the one to choose.”

“Yes,” I say. “Some animals need that.”

Mischief clicks again, then hops closer, eyeing the dried meat in my hand. Not quite trust—but closer. Cole’s voice lowers, almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want to scare the bird. 

“He’s learning you’re safe.”

I hold out the meat, hoping it takes it and doesn’t peck me like last time. 

Mischief tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he considers the offer. There’s hesitation, a shift of weight on his feet. Then, slowly, with a sharp, almost cautious movement, he reaches forward. He pecks at the dried meat, quick and sure, before pulling back just as fast—like he’s testing for danger.

Mischief pauses, eyeing the dried meat in my hand, but this time, there's a difference. Instead of the suspicious peck, he inches closer, feathers rustling with hesitation. Then, with surprising gentleness, he takes the meat from my fingers, no jab, no quick retreat. He just—takes it.

I hold my breath, not wanting to disturb the fragile moment. Mischief chews the meat, his beak clicking lightly, then tilts his head at me, as if considering this new kind of exchange.

I smile. 

“He trusts you.”

“I’m glad.”

I watch Mischief carefully, feeling a warmth spread through me as he finishes the meat. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a victory. I hope I can achieve this with people, too, one day. But for now, having animals trust me feels even more special. It’s easier, somehow. They don’t need words, don’t demand anything more than presence, patience, and kindness. I think maybe that’s why it feels so pure, so rewarding—because it’s simple. No expectations beyond what’s given.

I had a dog like that once. He was a special boy. Simple, but loyal and affectionate. Gone from old age. 

There's a small pang in my chest. It’s distant though, dulled by time, though never fully gone.

Cole tilts his head, the light in his eyes softening. “He gave you something. It stays, even when they’re gone. Like a quiet memory that stays warm, even after it’s faded.”

“Love.” I tell him. 

“Love.” He repeats.

I take the next test to a person, this time. 

Varric. In the tavern. I see him when I enter. A lways easy to spot with his broad smile, lounges at a table near the back of the tavern. He’s holding a mug of ale, eyes gleaming with mischief as he talks to a few patrons. When Varric spots me entering, his grin widens, and I can’t help but give a smile in return—albeit a little uncertain.  He calls out my name, and I think it’s just a casual greeting. I sit down at the table, and Varric continues talking to the patrons around him, like he’s making some kind of introduction.

I wait for Cole to catch the words, curious to know what he’s said this time.

I blink as Cole whispers in my ear.  “Here she is, the famous Herald. Don’t worry, she’s not as scary as they say.”

I can understand . Cole helps me understand.

The feeling is elation—bright, sudden, like a door opening where I didn’t know there was one.

“One sees you like a dream. A tale spun too large, but beautiful anyway. He wants to believe in you, in what you stand for.” He pauses, his voice almost hesitant. “The other has seen too much. Too many stories that end badly. He doesn’t want to believe, not anymore. But he doesn’t hate you. He’s waiting. For something. He’s not sure what.”

“Hello,” I say to the two patrons, smiling brightly. “Not. Herald of Andraste.” I point to myself. “ April. ”

Cole blinks, then softly translates Varric’s words: “He says you’re more than they think. More than what they whisper. You’re a person.”

My chest tightens, just a little.

It’s kind of Varric to say that—unexpectedly kind. And maybe… maybe it means he doesn’t just see me as a tool. A means to an end.

Maybe not everyone does, after all.

The elf and dwarf introduce themselves. One still reverent, the other still wary. Arannis, and Grimnir. Both order drinks, and the elf, surprisingly, offers me an ale.

Cole leans in, his voice quiet but clear. "He’s not sure where you come from, but he’s curious. This drink is his way of testing, seeing if you’ll drink with him like equals. He doesn’t expect you to open up, but he wants to see what happens if you do." 

I take the drink and, with a grin, extend my cup toward him, offering to clink it against his. Arannis blinks, caught off guard for a moment, but a small smirk tugs at his lips. Without a word, he taps his mug against mine in a quiet, shared toast. Varric grins, slapping his hand down on the table with a loud, celebratory thump. He raises his mug high, and the dwarf follows suit, lifting his own. 

There’s a cheer that rings out, “April!”

I raise a brief eyebrow at Varric, intrigued by the sudden outburst.

Cole’s voice softens, speaking the unspoken thoughts. “This toast is for you, not the legend they’ve made of you. He celebrates you—the one who’s more than stories and rumours, the one who stands with them, here, now.”

My lips curl up at the corners.

I start drinking with them. 

Eventually, Sera sidles over to the table, a grin stretching across her face as she surveys the scene. She eyes the laughter, the raised mugs, and the good-natured chatter. Clearly intrigued, she leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, eyes dancing with mischief. She reminds me of the raven. 

Cole leans in, his voice soft and a little distant as he catches the thread. "She wants to see if there’s room for fun in you, or if you’re just the heavy cloak they’ve draped over your shoulders."

“Sera!” I call out with an exclamation, raising my mug and wiggling it. 

"Curiosity. A thread of warmth, hidden under the teasing. She wonders, can you be more than what they made you? Can you laugh? Live?"

Cole is an angel made manifest. 

“I am not. I am Cole.”

I grin, and the others think it’s because I’m excited. 

We all drink. Sera joins in with her own. Varric starts spewing stories that I can somewhat understand through Cole now. With every tale, his words twist and turn, painting pictures that I can almost grasp now. I can’t show that I understand, or he’ll know—they’ll all know that I’m not what I seem anymore. 

And that would be bad. 

I don’t drink as much as before, don’t let loose, because I know I’ll end up on Solas’s doorstep with puking—or worse, Leiliana’s. I’m not ready for her eyes on me, not now, not like this. 

“You should go,” Cole says softly, his voice wrapped in quiet concern. “You’re tired. Sleep calls for you. Drink some water before you sleep, it’ll help.”

I nearly look over at him and give myself away, but the others are too distracted anyway. Varric and Sera are singing, Arannis is drooling and sleeping on the table, and Grimnir is flirting with another dwarven woman who is having none of our loud bullshit. 

Still, I smile at Cole, and try to mentally send him thank you for caring. 

Cole's gaze softens, a fleeting glimmer of warmth in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, as if hearing my feelings. “I like to help.”

He does, and it’s endearing. Very endearing. I don’t know what I’d do without him. 

Well, I do, I’ll crawl over to Solas and cry and beg for him to teach me the language faster.

Now that I have Cole, though, I’m happy. It’s easy to like him. To get attached. 

“Sleep.” He murmurs, nudging my shoulder softly.

The tired weight behind my eyes tugs at me, but I try, and fail, to stifle a yawn building in my chest. His words, gentle as a breeze, make the pull of sleep harder to resist. 

I nod, dragging my feet toward the cabin.

I’m on a swing. 

The ropes creak softly with each push, slow and melodic. The air is warm, almost too warm, and smells faintly of summer—of grass, of dust, of nature. My feet brush against something soft as they swing back, but I don’t look down. 

I’m too focused on the sky, stretching infinite blue above me.

It’s strange, this place. A memory worn smooth by time, the edges softer now, like an old photograph. It’s my mum’s old house, the one I stayed in after everything fell apart—after the breakup, when I needed to be away from everything that reminded me of him . It was a place to heal.

A shift in the air. 

Cole appears beside me on the same swing, his presence gentle and anchoring. He doesn’t say anything, just sits beside me.

I don’t mind.  

There’s a radio nearby, one that crackles and starts playing. The opening notes are soft, familiar. Ella Fitzgerald starts to sing through the speakers. I huff, but there’s a smile on my face—small, tired, real. 

“ April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom, holiday tables under the trees.”

“The song curls around you like warm smoke, sweet and slow. It used to fill your kitchen when you were little—your mum dancing barefoot on the tile. Safe. Warm,” Cole says softly. “She loved this song. It’s in your bones. And now it hurts, because she’s not here to share it. No more laughter. No more humming.”

The words settle over me. I blink hard so I don’t cry, staring up at the sky that hasn’t changed.

“Cole,” I say gently. “Please.”

His head lowers slightly, his hands folded in his lap. “Sorry.”

“I know. You want to help.”

He looks at me for a moment before speaking softly, “... you can lean on my shoulder. I know touch can make things feel a little less heavy.”

He knows me more than I know myself. Usually, that would rattle me—but right now, it’s just… nice. 

I press my head to Cole’s shoulder. It’s warm, solid, like a human would be. I close my eyes and take comfort in it. We sit in silence, listening. The song plays softly, smooth, with a melody that flows like a gentle breeze. The brass adds a rich, comforting sound, while the piano taps lightly underneath.  

“Thank you, Cole,” I whisper. “This helps.”

He doesn’t say anything, but I somehow know he likes to be needed.

I wonder if this bond can work both ways, or a little. If I can feel tiny slithers of him.

The radio crackles with static for a moment, and I glance up. My breath catches when I spot a familiar figure approaching—the unmistakable silhouette of a certain bald elf moving through the scenery.

“Oh,” I breathe, startled. I lift my head from Cole’s shoulder and sit up a little straighter. “Solas.”

He pauses, brow arching faintly, his gaze flicking between Cole and me with quiet interest. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I was just… listening to music with Cole.”

Solas steps closer to the swing, hands folding neatly behind his back as he listens. “I do not recognise the melody.”

“You wouldn’t,” I reply softly. “It’s from my home world.”

He tilts his head, contemplative, letting the music linger between us for a few moments before speaking again. “It is… unfamiliar in structure.”

I can’t help my smirk. “Is that Solas for: you don’t like it?”

A faint curve tugs at the corner of his mouth. Solas chuckles softly, though it’s tinged with a quiet thoughtfulness. "I did not mean to offend, only to remark that its form is unlike anything I have encountered." He watches the swing sway, his voice low. "Perhaps it grows on me."

"It's one of my favourites. It would be nice to share something in common with someone."

Would be nice to have friends .

His gaze shifts back to me, a moment of stillness stretching between us, the music filling the air. 

He speaks again after a while.

"I must admit, I was surprised to learn you're a dreamer, or at least some variant of one—especially considering you’re not a mage."

“A dreamer?”

Solas nods, his expression pensive as he regards me. “A dreamer," he repeats, his tone deliberate. “One who walks the Fade with ease—typically, they can enter it at will, without the aid of lyrium. They shape the Fade, and additionally influence the dreams of others. I, for example, have dreamed in ancient ruins to uncover long-lost secrets, watching spirits re-enact the history of a place.” His brow furrows slightly, eyes narrowing with contemplation. “Perhaps I should have expected you to be one. Those who command their own dreams with such clarity often fall into that category. But you are not a mage, so I assumed otherwise.”

“Ah. A dreamist.” I joke. 

His frown deepens. “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

"A jest, suggesting that you were being... exclusionary—dictating how things should be, as though you know all there is to know, deciding how all magic should work." I explain with a small swat of my hand. “Epistemic arrogance. Kind of like an elitist, but I themed the word around Dreamer. Dreamist .”

He huffs slightly, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s pouting . “I do not presume to know everything, I speak from experience, not superiority.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I rise from the swing. My legs don’t ache—of course they don’t, not here—but I feel the urge to move all the same. As I start to wander a few steps away, I glance back.

He’s definitely pouting.

After he broods for a moment, he clears his throat and predictably changes the subject. “Now we know that you can wander the Fade, we should discuss safety precautions.”

“Because of the demons?” I ask. 

Solas inclines his head, eyes serious. “Unless you enjoy being chased or possessed, yes. The demons are worth discussing.”

“Cole has my back,” I say confidently, glancing at the spirit with a smile, and thinking of the times he was literally between me and the demons. Twice. 

Solas follows my gaze, his expression unreadable as it lands on Cole. “Even so,” he says quietly, “not all threats in the Fade come with claws and fangs. Some wear familiar faces. Some speak in your own voice. Cole may protect you from many things, but even he cannot guard against every deception.”

"It’s the things that look like truth that hurt the most." Cole glances up. "But I can still try to help. I always try."

“I appreciate it, Cole. A lot,” I say. “So, what do you suggest, Solas? Are you going to take me on a tour through the Fade?”

“If you are to continue walking the Fade, even unintentionally, it would be wise to familiarise yourself with its nature—its rules, its dangers, its... temptations.”

Got it, don’t ingest the vial that says ‘drink me’.

“What exactly would be tempting?” I ask, out of curiosity. 

“Whatever you long for most,” he says. “Demons will offer comfort. Control. They manipulate with promises, not threats.”

I raise an eyebrow at that. 

“A familiar voice. A loved one’s face. The chance to undo a moment you regret.” He pauses, his gaze meeting mine. “A way home.”

My mouth dries.

“And we’re sure that they can’t offer that?”

Solas’s expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes tightens. “They can offer the illusion of it. Convincingly. But the Fade deals in reflections, not reality. What you’re given may feel real—may even be real to you—but it is shaped by longing, not truth.”

He takes a quiet breath. 

“And the longer you cling to it, the harder it becomes to leave.”

I sigh, dragging my eyes away. There’s a darker thought that flickers—quick, quiet, shameful.

“Shame wraps tight around the ribs, a weight that never shifts, sinking deep into the skin—”

My shoulders grow rigid. “Cole.”

“A part of you wants to hide in the lie because it feels soft, like it could make the hurt go away. Would it really be so bad? If it eases the ache, even if it’s not true?”

I turn, my movement stiff, my voice barely a whisper. My face burns as I can feel Solas’s eyes on my back. “Cole, please.” 

Cole doesn’t waver. “But it’s poison. It wraps around you slowly, and the longer you hold it, the harder it is to let go. It twists the truth, makes it hard to find—”
“I know! ” I cut him off, a little sharper than I intend. The words slip out before I can stop them, and instantly, regret stirs. 

I close my eyes, rubbing the spot between my brows to steady myself, feeling the tension of Solas’s gaze burn into my skin. 

I turn back to Cole, softer now. “I’m... sorry, Cole. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Your grief is a knot of smoke, drifting through your bones.” Cole’s voice is soft as he rises from the swing and steps closer. He looks down for a moment, hat hiding his face, then meets my gaze with warmth. “I’ll anchor it with a gentle hand,” he promises, “so it never has the strength to strangle you from within.”

“You’re sweet,” I mutter. “I swear it was just an impulsive thought. Humans get those from time to time, but it doesn’t mean we’ll act on them.”

“Impulsive or not,” Solas intones, head tilting slightly. I stiffen slightly, forgetting that he was in the background. “Demons will seize upon it. They will echo your longing in dream‑soft tones, until you can no longer tell their whisper from your own desire.”

I glance up at him, clenching my jaw. “I’m stubborn.”

“Perhaps,” there’s a hint of wry amusement on his lips. “But the Fade knows your weaknesses, it can outlast your resolve. Even the most iron‑hearted can break under their patience.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“A safeguard,” he says, folding his arms behind his back. “I will accompany you in your dreams, along with Cole, to ensure your safety.”

“You can’t do that every night.”

“Have I not already done so?” he asks, with a faint tilt of his head. “Teaching you the King’s Tongue, guiding you through Thedosian history, recounting the events of the day… All while ensuring your dreams remain undisturbed?”

My lips press into a line. “True. But I imagine it’s a pain, doing it every night,” I mutter, bitterness creeping into my tone. “I’m sure you don’t exactly want to spend that much time around me.”

Solas is quiet for a moment, then inclines his head, voice gentler now. “...It is no burden. If watching over your dreams brings you peace, then I consider it time well spent.”

That softens something in me, even if I don’t quite want it to.

“You’re kind of an arse, you know,” I say bluntly.

He blinks, just once.

I sigh, nudging a pebble at my foot with the toe of my boot.

“You hurt my feelings,” I admit. “Earlier. I thought we were friends. I know we’re allies. But… we’re not friends, are we, Solas?” I hold up a hand before he can answer. “Please. Just be honest. I’m tired of guessing where I stand. I do enough of that when I’m awake.”  My chest hurts, that empty feeling of loneliness encroaching, and I want it to stop. “I can be polite, I can be professional, but I need to know if it's simply a working relationship, or if...” I turn my gaze away. “If we can be friends.”

I need someone in my corner. Someone on my side. Someone who can talk to me without the need for translation. Cole is a good one so far, but I just met him, I don’t even know if Spirits have friends. Or if it’s just a purpose they fulfil. 

Solas is quiet for a long moment. It’s beginning to make me nervous.

“You seek clarity, and you deserve it,” he says, voice even, but softer than before. “I will not insult you with empty sentiment. I do not give my trust lightly—nor do I speak of friendship without care.” He pauses, eyes meeting mine. “What we have is not yet a bond, nor is the absence of one.”

“That’s… incredibly vague.”

“It is…a complicated matter.”

“I can’t decide for you, Solas.” I huff. “That’s sort of the point of free will.”

His face goes through a variety of facial expressions.

“Do you like me?” I ask bluntly. 

He doesn’t seem to know how to react. “What?”

A flicker of frustration flares inside me, but I force calm. “Do you enjoy my company?”

He hesitates, then answers softly, “Well—yes—”

“Then we’re friends.”

He stares at me. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

I’m back on the road. Scheduled to leave tomorrow.

I shouldn’t be surprised—not really. Disappointed, yes, but never surprised. My breaks are always short. Another rift to close, another tear in the fabric of things. Too many of them, and never enough time to catch my breath.

Josephine heard how it went in Val Royeaux, and I force my face to stay neutral when Cole relays the details. Especially when I hear that Leliana has agents in the city—that’s how they know. So, there’s a strong chance she was also spying on me.

On one hand, I’m relieved to finally know what’s going on. On the other… Now I have to pretend I don’t.

It’s just trading one problem for another.

Cole tells me they’re talking about how the Templars abandoned their post at the Chantry. Now everyone’s debating why . 

I remember the Templar's fist connecting with the Chantry sister’s face, and my brow furrows. A sick feeling pools in my stomach.

I haven’t heard anyone argue in favour of the Templars in this war—this rebellion against oppression. All I’ve heard are the bad things—the endless cycle of cruelty and bloodshed. Hell, I’ve seen it first-hand, the slaughter between the two sides. I’ve seen the aftermath, the refugees and how they’ve suffered. 

A man. Broken. Slumped against the bedroll like a ragdoll, his life leaking out in red. His daughter is small, so small. She presses her face to his chest, and her hands shake, but his hands—they don’t move. 

They’re trying to figure out if it’s smarter to recruit them to the Inquisition over the mages, and I almost scoff aloud. 

I’m aware that I don’t know everything. I’m more than aware. I don’t speak the language—

Cole.

He senses my need for help. A breath, a flicker—and he's there, suddenly beside me like he’s always been there. No footsteps, no sound, just presence. The others don’t notice. They never do.

When he manifests, I realise I can finally approach the Templars and the mages in Haven. 

With Cole’s help, I could peer into their minds, gather raw impressions, and begin to form my own understanding. It won’t be objective—far from it. Thoughts are laced with bias, shaped by fear and pain—but at least I’d be seeing the truth as they see it. It won’t just be Solas. Maybe I can see an in-between.  Maybe then I could grasp the Templar side. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a path to compromise. 

I can get my questions answered. The ones written in my book so I don’t forget:

Why is the Inquisition so divided? Why the hesitation in choosing a side? Do they fear the mages too, even as they shelter them? Why talk so much about the Templars as an option if they’re so awful?

As they’re still locked in debate about which side to choose, I slip away.

The snow crunches beneath my boots. Haven is quiet, but not silent—voices murmur from tents and doorways. I tug my coat tighter around me. Cole walks beside me, silent like a shadow that doesn’t scare me. I move slowly through camp, brushing past the canvas flaps of the mage tents first because they’re closer. 

An older, face sharp, hands shaking slightly—leans against a tent pole, watching the snow fall like it might catch fire. He doesn’t move when we slowly approach nearby.

“He had a friend,” Cole murmurs. “They were caught whispering in the dormitory after hours. The Knight-Captain said it was plotting. Treason. Dragged them out by the wrists. She never cast a spell again—because they made her Tranquil.”

“What does that mean? Tranquil?” I whisper. 

Cole doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed somewhere else, maybe the past, maybe the person who lived it. 

“They take the magic out,” he says softly. “Cut the connection to the Fade. It also takes joy. Anger. Love. Fear. Everything inside that makes you you .” 

I swallow. Hard. My blood turns to ice.

“They…kill your soul?” 

“No,” he murmurs. “They leave it trapped. Still breathing. Still moving. But empty. Like smiling without meaning it. Forever. She used to laugh. Loud and snorting, even when it annoyed the enchanters. She stirs her tea now. Twelve times. Clockwise. Scrolls in order. But she never looks up. Not anymore. Not even when her old friends cry in front of her.”

They lobotomise you. 

My skin prickles. The kind of feeling that makes you want to rub your arms even though you’re not cold. Like I’ve seen something I wasn’t supposed to. Heard something that doesn’t fit.

That’s fucked up. That’s so fucked up. 

“Why?” I croak. 

His eyes are distant, somewhere else entirely. Maybe in the mage boy’s memories. He frowns, tilting his head like he hears something I don’t. 

“They called it instability. They called it dangerous. They said she was cracking. Too emotional. Too unpredictable. One more outburst and she’d lose control. The Knight-Commander said it in front of everyone. That it was mercy. That it was better than a demon wearing her face. She begged. Screamed when they dragged her. But they held her down. Poured silence into her veins. And when she woke up, she said thank you.”

I can’t breathe right for a second. The air feels too thin. I feel sick. Not the kind that comes from food or fever—but the kind that coils low, turning everything in me sour. I look away. I have to. My throat is tight, and my hands curl without thinking. 

That isn’t punishment. It’s erasure . It’s murder with a heartbeat.

I keep moving, I have to, or I’m going to cry. I’m going to lose it. I’m going to scream.

Further in, near a stack of crates and a fire brazier, a bunch of templars sit together, talking quietly amongst themselves. 

My gaze flickers to a man, older and tired. He has burn marks on his cheek, some on his hand.

“He pulled a mage from a room collapsing in flame, her body trembling. He didn’t scorn her. He was desperate to save her—from the magic she couldn’t control, from herself. She reminded him of his daughter. She thanked him, and he took her back to the Circle.”

I’m not sure how to feel. Relief that she was saved, or horror that her salvation meant returning to a prison disguised as protection. Is the Circle really a pragmatic compromise? An ugly necessity with no better choice? It can’t be. Because what I just heard... they lobotomize you if you show too much feeling. They steal away who you are.

There must be a better choice. 

My eyes flicker to the man sitting next to the older one. Red hair, buzz cut. Long nose. He’s looking into the fire and quietly murmuring responses to his companion. Cole digs into his head with no time. 

“He was just a recruit then. Still learning the rites. His armour didn’t fit right—too loose at the shoulders.” His voice softens. “They found the mage huddled in the cellar of a burned-out farmhouse. She was thirteen. Mud on her hands, blood on her face—not hers. Her magic had lashed out when the raiders came. She didn’t mean to. She didn’t even know what she’d done.”

My breath catches. 

“She was crying when they arrived. Kept saying she didn’t want to hurt anyone. But her fear wouldn’t stop growing. It spiraled—tight and wild, clawing at the Fade like a trapped animal.” He blinks, once. Slowly. “The spirit that came was something sharp. Hungry. It offered safety. She said yes. He remembers the way her body broke apart. Not like a person dying, but like a door being ripped off its hinges. Her bones snapped and her mouth stretched wider than it should. And then she wasn’t her anymore. She lunged at his partner first. Tore out his throat with a hand of molten shadow. He struck her down while she still wore the girl’s face. Her eyes looked surprised when she died. He prays for her still. But he doesn’t believe she’s at peace.”

Jesus fuck . Oh my god.

She transformed? Is that what happens—if you face demons? If they possess you? If you give in to the fear, the rage, the helplessness? If your emotions spiral too far, they twist you inside out, turn you into something else—something broken, monstrous. 

The idea sticks in my throat, sour and bitter. 

That’s why they lobotomize them, isn’t it? To stop that change. To cut out the parts of them that feel too much, that scream too loud. To cage the chaos before it tears everything apart. 

But it’s awful. It’s cruel—like ripping out someone’s soul and leaving a hollow shell behind. To be trapped, breathing and moving but empty inside like a puppet. To lose yourself because they’re too afraid to let you be human. There has to be a different way. There has to be . 

I don’t want to keep digging, but I do. 

An older Templar with a scarred cheek looks out at the horizon. Years of battle press down on his shoulders. I stop near him. His armour is dull, hands clenching a worn chantry medallion. He stares into the flames like they might answer something. He doesn’t even notice me. 

Cole’s voice is soft. Almost like he doesn’t want to disturb him.

“He believes in the Circle—not to control, but because he’s seen what happens without it. He remembers holding a girl, no older than eight, flames licking her hands. The flames that burned her home, her family. She watched them die. So did he.” 

My mouth dries, and there’s a twist in my stomach.

“He carries that day with him. Lives lost. Destruction he can’t undo. He fears what comes if the Circles truly fall. He hopes the Inquisition will fix everything.”

“I think I’ve… heard enough,” I whisper. Numb. Sick. “Thank you for helping me, Cole.”

He doesn’t sound convinced. “You don’t feel good. It didn’t help.” His voice is soft, almost broken. I feel bad for making him feel bad. “You feel empty inside. Like something’s been taken, but you don’t know what. Your chest is tight, and your mind is full of noise you can’t silence.” 

I want to tell him I’m okay. But I’m not. There’s no point lying to a spirit who can literally read you like a book, feel everything you’re feeling. 

I need to digest everything I’ve heard. I need to lay down.

“I’m not okay,” I say, quietly. “But I will be. I promise.”

“Sleep,” he tries to urge, hearing the silent plea of my body. It breaks my heart. “Please. Feel better.”

“I will, Cole.”

Chapter Text

We spend a day crossing Lake Calenhad by boat, then take the second half of the journey on horseback. And for that journey, the same question boggles my mind. 

“Do you think there can be any compromise between the templars and mages?”

I’ve been turning it over in my mind for days now, the same answers circling back like vultures. I’m not special. I never claimed to be. If a solution existed, surely someone would have found it by now. But maybe they did. Maybe they came to the same conclusions I have—but fear stopped them. Fear of change. Fear of punishment. Fear that even hoping for something better might tear everything apart. So they buried it. The idea. The hope. Pretended it was never real.

Solas and I sit together in my garden. It's larger now than I remember—grown outward in quiet, creeping ways. I’ve added a gazebo near the back, just before the koi pond, where lilies bloom like small, pale suns. The breeze is soft. 

On the first night, Cole, ever sensitive, heard some people hurting in the ship. I told him he could go—I’d be all right. Solas will stay with me in my dream. His comment swirls in the back of my mind, wondering what the metaphor means.

“The rabbit isn’t alone. The wolf keeps watch when the forest holds its teeth.” 

Cole is weird sometimes. 

Is the rabbit me? But that would make Solas the wolf. He isn’t very wolf-like. I envision him more like a polite bird. Maybe an owl. Like a wise, reserved owl. 

“You are not the first to seek peace between them,” Solas says quietly, bringing my mind back to the present. “Nor, I suspect, will you be the last. Divine Justinia sought such a compromise. The Conclave was meant to be the beginning of it.”

“But now, a conversation between the leaders is impossible—convenient, isn’t it?” I murmur with a sigh. “Though, I suppose striking when they did was clever. It’s always easier to cling to illusions when no one is forced to face the other’s truth. Hence the…” my voice grows softer. “The boom.”

My mouth goes dry at the memory of the Conclave. The bodies—some caught mid-motion, mouths open, eyes wide. Their corpses were a thing of burning flesh with not many features left. There was that one child I can’t forget. Curled on the stone floor, arms wrapped around a woman—her mother, maybe, or an orphan. 

My stomach twists. More and more innocents are piling up like fallen leaves across the country. It feels like there’s no end to it. 

I think of the daughter, clinging to her dying father in Redcliffe. I wonder if she’s okay—if there’s anyone looking after the kids caught up in all this. 

I don’t know how many more I can handle, how many more I need to see before I grow numb to it. 

I’m not made for war . I don’t know if I have the stomach for it. 

All the more reason to help the Inquisition make a fucking choice that brings less suffering. Maybe less death. 

The others fight, so I stay out of the violence—but I can still see it. I still walk past it when they’re all dead.

The smell is starting to stick in my nostrils. 

Solas’s gaze flickers up at me, neutral. “There have always been those who build prisons—and those who dream of tearing them down. Dialogue is only possible when both see one another as equals. That was never the case.”

“No,” I mutter, and place the puzzle piece in place. It fits perfectly. I release a big sigh. “But it isn’t so black and white, either. It’s never so simple. Through Cole, I’ve touched fragments of their memories—the Templars’ fear isn’t born of cruelty alone. Many are burdened by doubt and confusion. They’re…desperate to do good but unsure where that path lies. Some truly believe the Circle exists to help the mages, not to just oppress them.”

He hums in thought. He takes one of the puzzle pieces and fits it into one of the slots with ease.

“Your heart seeks answers. But some questions are not meant to be solved by will alone, some tapestries are knotted beyond the reach of any solitary hand. Sometimes, the wisest path is to accept what cannot be changed, and focus on what can.”

I press my cheek into my palm, exasperated. His eyes flicker up to sweep across my expression, before they focus on the board again. He takes another puzzle piece, hovering over the whole thing before he places it. 

“The others—” I say quietly, tapping my other hand on the table with dull thumps in thought. “They want to choose a side. Templars or mages. What if they choose one, and they’re making a mistake? What if it leads to more strife? More refugees caught in the middle?”

"Then that is their mistake to make, as it has always been. And as it is your choice to abstain from walking down such a path."

I snatch one of the puzzle pieces up with a roll of my eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that cryptic crap. What do you think they should do? I’m asking. Who should they choose? If I have influence like you claim I have, what side should I try to sway them toward?”

He somewhat stalls, the twitch of a brow on his head. “You ask for guidance from one who has spent more time in the shadows of the Fade than in the light of this world. My insights are clouded, and perhaps meaningless. If a choice must be made, they, and you, must do so regardless of the conflict.”

“Regardless of the—" I scoff. "That’s not how problem solving works. I need facts, context, the full story—otherwise, choosing is as pointless as a coin flip!”

“Tell me, Herald,” he says, folding his hands on the table with quiet intent. I’m caught off guard by the title. “Imagine the vote does come down to yours, why should this burden of choice fall to you?”

I hesitate.

He notices my pause and presses gently, “How do the—” he inclines his head thoughtfully, “facts, context, the full scope—assist you in deciding? Through Cole’s memories, you have already felt the truth’s edge. Do you genuinely believe that further memories, from all perspectives, will clarify the path ahead? Or might they only serve to obscure it further?”

I... I don’t know. 

This isn’t just a game or a puzzle. 

It’s life. Multiple lives.

It’s bigger than me. Way bigger.

Before I can respond, his voice cuts through with a quiet force, "Did you not say this was not your responsibility—that your only desire was to return home? Chasing shadows and faults will only keep you here longer.”

He’s… right. 

He is. 

Of course he is.

I fidget with my necklace, subdued a little by his harsh truth.

I got tangled up in it all—how could I not? The suffering surrounds me every time I step out to close a rift, unrelenting and raw and so real . It’s different from hearing about how depressing the world is, versus seeing it in front of your own eyes. 

But this isn’t my world to fix.

A man. Broken. Slumped against the bedroll like a ragdoll, his life leaking out in red. His daughter is small, so small. She presses her face to his chest, and her hands shake, but his hands—they don’t move. 

My chest hurts. 

This isn’t my world to fix.

It’s not. 

But…there’s a part of me that doesn’t feel confident with that. Doesn’t feel good to just look the other way if a small decision can help ease just the little bit of suffering when I know I could’ve done better. 

“Maybe you’re right.” I say, and I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or if he sits up a little straighter. I look down at my necklace and release it. “But if I can offer even a little bit of help before I go home, I can’t ignore that. I wish I could, but I can’t .”

His brow raises an almost imperceptible amount, and I'm not sure if that means he approves or disapproves. As much as we've gotten to know each other the past month or so, he's still an enigma to me.

I look down at the puzzle, the image nearly complete—a mountain landscape bathed in the warm hues of a setting sun. The last light clings to the peaks, as if reluctant to let go.

He asks in a careful tone, "Even if they're not your people, you still think they deserve help?"

I feel a flush of heat rise in my chest—annoyance tinged with something sharper, a prickling bitterness that settles like a weight in my gut. The question feels less like curiosity and more like doubt cast against my very character.

“Of course they do!” I bite, a sharp edge to my voice, stung by the implication. “What kind of question is that?”

“Not everyone would agree. I’ve seen too many turn away when the suffering did not wear familiar colours.”

“And you…you think I would?” I challenge.

Solas doesn’t flinch. “I think many speak of compassion,” he says, “until it demands something of them. You may surprise me. I hope you do.”

I rise to my feet and begin pacing, trying to shake the agitation from my limbs. Trying to cool the fire burning in my chest. “We have a word for such systematic slaughter where I come from: genocide.”

"Is such a term apropos when both sides are equally responsible?" 

I shoot him a glare and let out a bitter scoff. “Suffering is always cruel.”

“There are always innocents caught in the crossfire,” he reminds me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say his tone softened.

But it doesn’t placate me.

One of those innocents could be me. I could be caught in the crossfire. 

Varric could. Sera could.

Solas could. 

It rises like a tide in my chest—hot, swelling, impossible to contain. My heart pounds as if trying to tear free from my ribs. My hands tremble—not from fear, but from the effort of holding it all in. Of not screaming. I’m sick of it—of standing still while everything falls apart. Sick of the helplessness. Of the silence. Of being trapped in a world I can’t shape or stop.

I’m frustrated.

No.

I’m furious.

My breath is shallow, and I force myself to quiet my temper. I rake a hand through my hair, sweeping my gaze across the stars. 

“It doesn’t make it right,” I snap quietly. 

“No, it doesn’t.” 

I close my eyes, and calm myself before I sink back into my chair, quiet. My gaze falls on the puzzle; I slot the final piece into place.

"I cannot fault you for your caring nature. Compassion is not weakness—but wisdom must temper it.”

“I understand,” I say softly, and breathe out. “I just…find myself wishing I can do more.”

“It is a burden shared by all who walk this path, in one form or another. The desire to do more… and the ache of knowing we cannot.”

I grit my teeth, my eyes narrowing as I stare down at the puzzle. Clenching my fists tightly against the table, I lift my gaze to meet his with fierce resolve. “I don’t accept that.”

“Some would call that a foolish endeavour.”

“ Some can go fuck themselves.” I mutter. 

He chuckles. "Your passion is commendable, and I do believe if more people shared it, we might have found ourselves in a different position. Alas, that has not come to pass, and therefore our path—your path—cannot change. By all means, help where and when you can. But keep to your true purpose. The Breach.”

"Yes, yes, I know. The Breach. Always the Breach. Eat, sleep and shit the Breach.” I roll my eyes and press two fingers to my temple, trying to ward off the headache. “God forbid I think about anything else for five minutes.”

He hums low in his throat, the faintest hint of amusement curling at the edges. 

“Well,” he murmurs, “perhaps it needn’t be your only purpose. If time allows, I… admit I’m curious to see what you might create here. You’ve a talent for dreamweaving, I’d hate to see it wasted.”

My hand stills. My face warms, in spite of myself.

“Oh,” I say, a little more breathless than intended. “Thank you.”

“Dreamers—are they rare, where you come from? You mentioned once that magic isn’t common.”

“It doesn’t exist, really,” I say after a moment. 

“Does it not?” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity. “Perhaps your world’s Veil is simply thicker—its magic more distant, more deeply buried. What you experienced may have been… a rare thinning.”

It’s not…out of the question. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m a freak accident of the cosmos.” 

“Even the smallest fracture in the Veil can be a sign of something significant.”

“Maybe it was the fairies,” I joke. “Stole me away, like my grandma always said they would when I was a kid.”

“The…fairies?”

It doesn’t even occur to me that this world might not have fairies. I do wonder what else it has—and doesn’t. 

I pause, suddenly aware of how absurd it might sound.

“They’re like…” I frown, struggling to explain something that’s never needed explaining before. “Tiny beings.” I open my palm and let a vague shape swirl into being—more shadow and suggestion than form. “Humanoid—mostly—with wings. Mischievous. Sometimes helpful, sometimes cruel. There’s a lot of variation, nothing exactly proven.” I pause. “They’re seen as myth, mostly. But… after all this? I’m not so sure anymore.”

His eyes follow the shape I conjure, until I give it proper form. 

“Curious,” he murmurs. “They sound not unlike spirits—at least in behaviour, if not in form. Some tend to be mischievous, unpredictable. Shaped as much by belief as by nature.” 

He leans forward slightly, curiosity flickering behind his eyes. I lift my hand, the shadowy little shape catching a current of magic and zipping through the air—around his head in a lazy arc, before landing gently back in my palm.

“In the Fade, some such beings exist because someone believes they do. Spirits, perhaps—tricksters shaped by dreams. In the Fade, belief is as good as blood. If your people truly believed in these fairies… they may have made them real, in some small way.”  

“Are you saying I might have manifested my own kidnapping and brought myself here?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he replies, infuriatingly calm about this. 

“That’s impossible,” I murmur, and let go of the shape. The little fairy unravels midair, scattering into motes of light that vanish before they touch the table. “I told you, we don’t have magic where I’m from.”

“That you know of,” 

“We don’t,” I say again, firmer this time. But even as the words leave my mouth, I’m staring at the last glittering trace in the air—unable to look away. 

Solas hums thoughtfully, folding his hands in front of him.

“I’ve walked the Fade. I’ve seen the dreams of cities long turned to dust—seen knowledge and wonder twisted into superstition, then lost. Civilisations bury their truths. Sometimes out of fear. Sometimes necessity. Sometimes simply… because no one remains to remember.”

He leans forward slightly, voice low.

“You say your world holds no magic. But perhaps it once did—and time has buried it too deep for you to see. Perhaps what you call myth is simply history you no longer recognise.”

The insane thing is—he might not be wrong. 

I’m sure there’s plenty we’ve forgotten about the ancient world. Things we think we understand—guesses dressed up as facts. Civilisations rise, crumble, and what do we have? 

Educated guesses . Guesses that there’s a chance we can get completely wrong. 

History doesn’t just record truth. It can distort it. Rewrite it. 

Bury it.

I never claimed to be a genius. Never believed I had the universe figured out. But there were certain truths—rules of the universe—I never questioned. Gravity pulls you down. Fire burns. Water makes you wet. Magic isn’t real. It was simple. Absolute. Unshakeable. 

And yet—here I am. 

In another world entirely, having a conversation with a real elf, inside a lucid dream I can bend with a thought. 

None of this should be real. 

And yet… it is. 

I can feel the wood grain beneath my fingers. Hear the low chirp of crickets in the brush. The gentle trickle of water somewhere behind me from the fountain. The night air is cool on my skin. Too specific. Too vivid.

Maybe I’m dreaming, all of it, not just here. Maybe I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I already did. 

Or maybe the world I came from was never as solid as I thought.

My brain hurts. 

I drum my fingers softly on the table in thought. 

Across from me, Solas watches in silence. Then—quietly—“are you alright?”

I glance up. His brow is faintly furrowed, eyes searching my face.

“I did not mean to unsettle you,” he says. “Only to offer… a possibility.”

“I wonder if vampires exist.” I blurt. 

He blinks. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to him short-circuiting. “…Pardon?”

I shrug, vaguely gesturing at the air. “I mean, here we’ve got demons, spirits, magic, elves, dwarves. Might as well throw in vampires. Maybe werewolves too. It’s a whole supernatural buffet.”

“Do…” he pauses. “Are elves not part of your world?”

Ah. Shit. Um. 

“Uh.”

His face remains stoic. But his brow lifts. “I…see.”

“Myth,” I blurt, offering the explanation he doesn’t ask for. “Elves are—folklore, where I come from. Stories passed down for centuries. Most of it rooted in old traditions. A lot of them got mixed up with what we call the fae—creatures from the ‘otherworld.’” I pause, realising I’m rambling, but it’s too late to stop now. “Some stories paint them as tiny, mischievous things with wings—like I showed you. Others describe them as tall, beautiful, dangerous. Like you.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I freeze slightly—and regret everything. I want to die. My cheeks go up in flames. I whip my gaze away from his, trying to pretend I didn’t just describe him like that . I clear my throat, hoping if I keep talking casually, he’ll have missed it.

Fuck, act casual, act like this is normal human behaviour.

I mean—he is tall. 

He towers over me. Compared to the other elves I’ve seen here, he downright looms. And yes, he’s beautiful. Striking, really. It’s hard not to see with my artistic eye. His features are sharp, almost regal, and I’ve definitely caught myself studying them more than once. And his eyes… they’re violet. Unique. Not just unusual—unreal. You don’t see that kind of colour on humans. Or even on the other elves here. It’s like something out of a dream that decided to stare back. And dangerous? This man doesn’t just cast spells—he commands them. Every majestic flick of his staff says: I could end you, and make it art .  

Not that I’m going to blurt that out next. 

No, instead I just keep digging the hole—one panicked shovel of words at a time.

“Uh—a-anyway, there’s also this whole thing with courts,” I forge ahead, gesturing aimlessly, my heart pounding like it might outrun my embarrassment. “Seelie and Unseelie. The Seelie are the ‘nicer’ ones—helpful, mostly. Still tricky. The Unseelie are... not so nice. Think curses, abductions, dancing you to death under a full moon.”

I risk a glance at him. Solas’s expression doesn’t shift, but I can feel him analyzing every word, filing it away. I hope this means he’s skipping over my statement. 

“Once again, not too dissimilar to spirits,” he says thoughtfully. “Some appear benevolent, others malevolent—but such judgments are often projections. In the end, they are neither good nor evil. They simply exist.”

“Elves got tangled in all that over time,” I finish lamely. “They go from being gods or spirits to fairy-tale characters. A lot of people still…Uh…research into it.”

And make romantasy novels but I’m not going to talk about that part . Especially not now. 

“Who’s to say? Perhaps one day, the elves—or fairies—will return, and reclaim what was lost.”

While I’m relieved that he either takes mercy on me—or genuinely didn’t catch that little tidbit—I find myself torn. Because I agree with him. And I don’t.

My world… we don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to the “ other .” 

Maybe we handle differences better than this place does—but that’s not saying much. It wasn’t all that long ago we had slaves, that we burned people for being the wrong kind of different. Hell, some of that still happens. Just in quieter, more insidious ways. We like to pretend we’ve grown past it. Civilised it. Polished it up with laws and smiling faces. But give us fear, or scarcity, or a scapegoat, and the old instincts come right back.

My lips thin. 

“I want to say yes,” I say. “But I’m not sure how people would react if they did. Fear speaks louder than reason—in my world, and in this one. That much is universal.”

“Your world is adverse to change, as well, then?” 

I huff a dry laugh. “That might be the understatement of the century. Even though there are no elves, no dwarves, no other people except human—we still can’t get along.”

“So, it is not just elves,” he mutters, and I can’t work out what he’s thinking by the blank look on his face, voice almost entirely devoid of inflection. “Your world is entirely human?”

For a moment, I hesitate, unsure if this will provoke discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because it feels like an insult to his existence. “But yeah… it is.”

"Then it seems, conflict is simply... inevitable." He speaks slowly, as though testing the taste of it. Then silence—longer than comfortable—as if he's already gone elsewhere in thought.

I don’t want to offer false comforts. That’s not who I am.

“It’s the way of things,” I say quietly. “Throughout recorded history, the rise and fall of civilisation is a cycle—building up, tearing down. Sometimes it leads to progress. Sometimes ruin.” 

My father’s voice, always two steps from breaking, still rings in my ears—shouts that came from somewhere deeper than anger. I remember the sound of a glass hitting the wall like punctuation. 

“But sometimes...” 

His eyes lift to mine. He tilts his head, waiting. 

I think of my mother, kneeling in the garden after a long shift, dirt caked under her fingernails, humming a lullaby through her exhaustion. The sun would already be dipping low, casting long shadows across the fence, and I’d sit beside her with a trowel far too big for my hands. We’d plant marigolds for tomatoes, whatever we could afford that season. 

“Sometimes, people surprise me. They can be unexpectedly kind, quietly strong. And the world... can still be beautiful.” 

“You claim the turning of ages offers growth or decay. But what if the cycle that preceded this one was better, in ways we no longer see? If the beauty we know is only a pale likeness of what came before, would you seek to restore it?”

I mull over his question for a moment, surprised by the depth of the philosophical turn—but not deterred. Late-night talks have become our ritual since I arrived, and I’m not about to stop now. They’re always worth the time, and interesting.

“Maybe. But history repeats itself in new guises all the time. The past is never as perfect as we imagine,” I say. “And nothing lasts forever. Everything has an end. Hell, even stars die. And some of them—they live for…” I blow a soft raspberry as I recall the info tucked in the back of my head. “Billions of years.”

He pauses.

“True endings are illusions,” he says finally. “The stars you speak of may vanish from sight, but their essence continues—folded into a cycle far beyond the reach of time. Such is the way where I come from.”

“They have astrophysics here?” I murmur and stroke my chin, distracted by the idea. “God, what would space in a fantasy world be like? Do I even want to think about it? Do they have cosmic beings the size of continents just floating up there? Does magic work up there? How does reality bend? Has anyone been to space here? Ooh, I have so many questions.”

His mouth opens, but I barely give him time to answer any of what I said. 

“Have elves been to space?” I blurt. 

He slowly blinks at me. I blink at him.

“Have humans?” He asks instead, sounding somewhat exasperated. 

“We haven’t gotten far but we have stood on the moon,” I chirp. 

He looks as if he’s trying to unravel a puzzle.

“What?” I ask. 

“How did you manage to accomplish such a feat without magic?” He questions. “Surely there is more to your kind than meets the eye?”

“Science,” I say simply. 

“Science.” He repeats, somewhat blankly. 

“Science!” I confirm brightly, giving him a firm nod. 

He releases a somewhat long, tired sigh. 

Chapter Text

The Storm Coast is a rainy coastal region in Ferelden located in the north-western most part of the country.

And boy, whoever named it deserves a raise. 

My hair lashes across my face as I squint through the gale and furious rain. 

Solas is lucky he doesn’t have any hair to make him look like a drowned rat like the rest of us. 

Bastard. 

I peel the strands back, soaked and clinging to my skin, and try to gather them in my fingers, wringing out what little water I can. At least it’s not that long—just above my shoulders, thanks to a haircut I got before being dragged into all this. Easier to manage that way.

Still wet though. 

I take the offered cloak from Cassandra. She gives me a grim, almost-sympathetic look, and I wrap it around myself before pulling the hood up. 

Cold water immediately trickles down my neck from my hair. I tense. 

Not my day.

I miss my scrunchies. 

Cole stands beside me, invisible to everyone else. He looks quietly upset that he can’t help me. And—unfairly—he’s completely dry. I eye his hat, sulking a little. 

He tilts his head. “The rain clings to you like sadness. Dripping, dripping—cold in your clothes, cold in your bones. My hat does not mind the rain. You can wear it.”

I don’t answer aloud, but he understands. The others will wonder where it came from, and I don’t want him to be cold.

“I am not cold,” he says softly. “If they look, I can make them see nothing strange. No questions, no wondering. You won’t have to explain.”

I hesitate. That’s manipulating their minds, though. I don’t feel comfortable with that.

“Say you found it. Somewhere quiet. Where no one saw.”

I mean…

He’s not wrong. I can pretend I found it somewhere along the road. Solas will back me up. But still, I hesitate. I don’t want to steal anything from him. I don’t want to make Cole uncomfortable either.

But Cole senses my thoughts, my worries, and gently soothes them. When I slip away for a quick break—promising to scream if there’s a bear following me—Cole pulls my hood down and places his big hat on my head.

I smile up at him from behind the tree and slip my arms around the spirit in a quiet hug. He returns it without hesitation. His form is suddenly warm, and I can feel the soft patter of rain against his shoulders.

“You don’t have to make yourself physical just for me,” I murmur.

“You like hugs,” he replies simply.

I sigh.

“You look strange without your hat,” I say, voice low.

His big blue eyes blink down at me, his golden hair flat without his hat. I grin and tousle it gently, fluffing it up. My hand gets a little wet under the rain, and so does his hair. 

“Is that better?” he asks kindly.

“Yes, Cole. Thank you.”

It is; my hair stays drier beneath his massive hat. I do wonder where he got it. 

“It was lost,” he says softly. “Abandoned… waiting for someone to find it.” Before I can speak, his hands rest lightly on my shoulders, a gentle push guiding me back. “The others stir like shadows. It’s time to go.”

“Okay, okay,” I murmur, but start walking back. 

Cole leans close, and I’m more used to his presence than I ever thought I’d be. It’s almost hard to remember what it feels like when he’s not here. Quietly, I’m so grateful to have met him. Without him, I don’t think I could have held myself together. I know I would’ve broken— but he’s been my saving grace.

It feels like a taboo that I even thought he was a demon. 

We walk toward the others, and their eyes immediately fix on my hat. Playing it cool, I grab the rim and give a little twirl, like I’m showing off. Sera snorts and comes over, flicking the brim just enough to splash me. I glare at her and tighten my grip on the hat. She laughs and gestures at its size with her hands, as if it’s ridiculous. 

I nod with a grin, but I’m happy about it. More shelter.

Cassandra huffs but shrugs. Varric says something with a cheeky grin, but I don’t catch it. Solas narrows his eyes just a bit. Cole appears on my other side and starts speaking to him. 

Meanwhile, Sera slips her arm around my shoulders and tries to squeeze under the hat. I laugh and pull her closer, wrapping my arm around her waist to share the shelter.

It’s like a mini umbrella. 

Cassandra whistles sharply, and we are corralled out of the camp, after her.

Varric looks up at me and says something about the hat. Cole’s voice comes softly beside me: “He asks if the warm shelter can hold one more—one small, soaked friend, hoping for a place to rest.”

Sera replies for me, bumping my shoulder as if including me in the joke. 

Cole whispers softly, “She says dwarves make space like rivers find their way—always room for one more, but beware the thief who wants your hat.”

I give Varric a sheepish shrug. He shrugs as well like oh, well, what can you do .

I stop walking, and nearly trip on my own feet, hugging Sera to me when I hear the screech that sounds inhuman echoing across the shore. It starts higher pitched before diving into a terrifying roar. 

“What.” I say, voice tight. “Fuck.”

Sera freezes too—but only because I’m the one wearing the umbrella hat. Her eyes do snap around, restless, scanning for the source. The others do the same, muscles tense. I’m closest to Sera, so I see her sneering something. The others discuss it, and Cole’s gaze sweeps the horizon, before he leans close and whispers.

“The roar of ancient wings spills like wildfire across the land, burning bright with forgotten fury.”

What?

Ancient wings. Big roar. Burning?

Don’t tell me.

Is that a fucking dragon?!

I tighten my grip around Sera.

He’s…

Huge.

Really, seriously, massive.

I stare wide-eyed at the towering figure before the dwarf—Varric stands confidently in front, chatting with the man who has horns—also very, really big—definitely not something you see every day. I know little about Dungeons & Dragons—my friend’s always been the one playing, sending me cool snapshots of their characters, and sometimes I’d draw their OC’s for them. I’ve wanted to try, but never found a group with an open spot—or, honestly, the patience to explain all the lore and mechanics I don’t know.

But I do know what a tiefling is. And this guy looks exactly like one.

One with an eyepatch, and—

I lean around Varric, peeking to see if he’s got a tail.

I don’t see a tail. 

He catches my eye—and I squeak, standing up straighter, and a little more behind Sera. I hear her snort. Don’t bully me. I’m scared of big.

He says something, his gaze locked on mine. Varric turns around and shoots me a quick glance. He shrugs, then the horned man starts striding straight toward me. I grab Sera by the shoulders and duck behind her, using her like a small elven shield. She huffs and lets out a sharp noise—something like, oi.

That part is universal, it seems. 

Of all the words to be translated the same…

Sera says something, then moves aside with a cackle, daring me to chase her with a whacking stick—because she just betrayed me. I reach out, ready to grab something, when I look up—and there he is. The bull of a man, standing right in front of me.

Holy shit. He’s even bigger up close.

One of the men—I think Solas called them the Chargers , a mercenary group who invited us out here—says something and Varric responds as the Bull-man looks down and watches me carefully. 

Cole’s voice drifts softly beside me. “He won’t hurt you. His friends like him—because he’s warm. Protective.”

I’m not sure about the whole “he won’t hurt me” thing but I force myself to relax a little—because I’m racially discriminating, bad April —and extend my hand for a handshake, hoping that he won’t crush me, and that the handshake isn’t a cultural faux pas.

But then he grabs my hand—my entire fucking hand—and shakes it once. My whole body moves and I need to grab onto him so I don’t fucking fall over. He chuckles, and I can feel it through his skin—which I’m touching oh my god his muscles are so hard —

I put my hands up fast, like I just got burned. My face certainly feels hot. 

“Sorry,” I squawk out. “Sorry!” 

I hear a couple people laughing as I hide under my hat, and my face is molten . 

“He feels the small one—like a frightened kitten, shivering. Watches her stumble like a baby deer. Wonders how she’s still standing. Almost doubts she’s more than a thread in the Inquisition’s web.” Cole translates.

I have to school my expression not to glare up at him, I have to stop myself from scowling. 

I’m startled out of it though, when pressure is put on my head and the hat is tilted back. I jump, and see Bull leaning down to my eye level. I don’t know if it’s more humiliating or not. He obviously sees me as weak—and he’s not wrong. I am. I just hope he doesn’t see me like a helpless child—

Even though it feels like that sometimes. 

He’s grinning, and I stare at him almost slack jawed. He makes a motion with his hand, and I realise he’s mimicking drinking. 

He’s asking me if I want a drink?

I mean… 

Okay, maybe I judged him too harshly.

“Yes,” I tell him with a small smile. 

He straightens up, then turns and calls out something. One of his men stands up from a crate and walks away. The bull-man places a firm hand on my shoulder, gently nudging me toward the vacant crate. I feel a pang of guilt for taking his seat, but at his insistence, I settle down.

I glance quickly over at Varric and the others, uncertain if I should be the one talking to him. They’re deep in discussion, but Varric stays close, ready if I need him. Solas watches me, edging closer after a moment, his staff digging into the sand for balance as he navigates the uneven beach.

Two of the men lug a cask over, heaving it carefully into place. Another follows behind, carrying cups in both hands. The bull-man fills a cup and hands it to me, then pours one for himself. He raises his drink with a wide grin.

I return the gesture, clinking my mug gently against his, careful not to spill.

I bring the cup to my nose and wrinkle it slightly—ale.

Well, when in Rome—or, I suppose, Thedas.

I take a cautious sip.

It’s not too bad, so I keep drinking and pull my mug away even when it has a decent amount. But the bull-man keeps chugging. I hesitate before quickly following his lead and chugging the rest of the mug. The warmth spreads fast, creeping through my chest and loosening the tight knot of nerves I didn’t even realise was there. 

I lower the empty mug, and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, trying to look casual, even though I feel buzzed already. 

I catch Cassandra seeing this, shaking her head. Varric leans in with a grin, giving her a playful shrug like he’s just delivered some news too good to resist. Or maybe he’s just pissing her off for good measure. 

Thanks, dad. Now mother is gonna ground me. 

“Good!” I say, turning to look back at the bull-man, lifting up my mug with an appreciative nod. 

He says something with a grin, voice low. I hear Herald in there somewhere. 

Cole supplies the answer. “He’s asking—does the Herald have a name?”

“April,” I tell him happily, pointing to me. I jolt as a thought flicks across my mind and I fumble through my satchel, pulling out my book and reading out the phrase, “ what is your name?”

I hope it doesn’t come out stilted. 

He says something, and I have to lean a little closer. He repeats it a couple times, and I want to laugh when Cole translates it as, Iron Bull . 

Of course. 

The bull-man is called Bull. 

“Bull,” I say their word for Bull, pointing at him for confirmation. He nods. I feel my lips curl upwards at the corners, a surge of excitement flashing through my veins. I look back down at my book, looking frantically through the short phrases. “I don’t. Speak. King’s Tongue. Speak. Slow. Yes?” 

I glance up at him. 

“Yes,” he says. “Slow.”

I grin, and put my finger on the page, scanning the words. “Bull. Help. Herald. April. Yes?”

He nods once more, his expression calm and unexpectedly patient. Then he refills his mug and holds it out to me again. Not wanting to leave a bad impression, I take it—though I sip slowly, setting it aside soon after so I can focus on flipping through my book.

“Sorry. Bad. Talking. King’s tongue.” I try to express. He seems to get it. “Why. Help. Herald. April?”

He says a word, and I blink, unsure what it means. Cole’s voice flows gently, wrapping the meaning in calm warmth: “He speaks of closing the breach… and gold to fill his pockets, to nourish those who follow.”

Ah. A simple man. I can understand that.

But Bull doesn’t realize Cole is translating—he just slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out a single gold coin. He holds it up for me, and takes a sip of his mug, his single eye watching me curiously. 

I nod slowly, letting him know I understand.

He says a single word, holding up coin and wiggling it a little in his grip for emphasis. I guess it means money. Cole’s soft voice confirms I’m right.

“Money,” I repeat carefully, enunciating the word. Bull nods once more and slips the coin into his pocket. I quickly jot down the word, then hold out the book and pen to him. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a half-smile. “Write,” he says gently, taking the book and pen from me.

I blink and laugh softly. “Write. Sorry.”

I lean in closer, tilting my head, captivated as his large fingers carefully grip the tiny pen, tracing the word onto the page with surprising delicacy. He offers me back the book, and I take it with enthusiasm, beaming up at him. 

“Thank you, Bull.”

He raises his mug in a simple gesture that I immediately understand. No problem . 

I like him, I decide. 

“Inquisition,” I say, and he sits up slightly. “You. Help. Herald. April. Yes?”

He glances up at Varric, before looking back to me with a small smile. “Yes?”

“Money,” I state confidently. “Inquisition. Iron Bull. Yes.”

In other words; you’re hired . 

He lifts his mug high, a hearty cheer rolling from his lips. Calling out to his men, they rise together, voices booming in a raucous chorus. I grin, matching their spirit, and raise my mug in return.

“Follow. April. Herald. Yes?” I ask, to confirm. 

He pours more ale in my mug.

I think that means yes. 

Oh god, I’m gonna be so hungover. 

Fortunately for me, I don’t get too drunk. 

A few minutes into drinking, Sera plops down beside me on the log, grinning like she’s already won some secret game. She grabs my mug, tilts it back, and chugs a good gulp before handing it back like it’s no big deal. I can’t help but grin, soaking up the easy camaraderie around us as more of the Chargers pick up on the teasing, their voices rising in good-natured jeers. 

Solas mutters something sharp under his breath—his tone clipped and tense, like some small irritation has sparked under his calm exterior. I glance his way, curiosity nudging me to ask what’s wrong, but before I can get a word out, Cassandra strides over with that determined, no-nonsense look she always wears. Without breaking stride, she snatches the mug right from my hand.

“Hey!” I protest, but the growing chorus of boos drowns out my words.

Sera’s voice rises first with a teasing “ boo !” and Iron Bull’s deep, rumbling “ boo ” follows like a thunderclap. Even the Chargers—grizzled mercenaries with hard eyes—join the chorus, their voices rolling like waves across the shore. I can’t hold back; I add my own loud, unrestrained “ booo! ” to the mix.

Cassandra shoots me a sharp glare. “Herald!” she snaps, pointing firmly down the shore. “Follow.”

I whine, reluctant to leave the warmth and laughter behind, but I know better than to argue with her. So I heave a sigh, take one last look at the gathered group, and reluctantly follow where she leads.

Yes, mother .

It’s a slow, grinding march forward.

It’s been a long day on the Storm Coast—rifts to close, bandits to chase off, and too many hours standing in the cold rain while the Chargers cleared out caves crawling with giant spiders. At least I have them with me—a small army of muscle, steel, and loud, sarcastic morale. With Iron Bull leading the charge, the fighting goes faster. Cleaner. Easier to breathe between battles.

I fix my gaze on the rift yawning in the distance, it's dark maw writhing with twisted spirits warped into demons. Cassandra stands close, a vigilant guardian at my side. Here, tucked just far enough away, I feel a fragile kind of safety.

The long stretch on the boat to the Storm Coast helped blur the edges of it all—the rifts, the demons. But now, facing it head-on, the weight settles heavy: we’re not just fighting monsters. We’re erasing lives, one soul at a time. And I know we are, now. 

I think back to the dream I had earlier, during a short nap while we camped. Just an hour, maybe less—but deep enough to pull me into the Fade. 

“This is for you.”

I put the daisy crown on Cole’s head, adjusting it slightly with a smile.

Solas speaks from behind, his tone neutral. “You treat him as though he were human.”

I glance over, frowning. “I treat him like he’s a person.”

His expression remains blank as he asks, “do you believe he is one?”

I blink at him. “Cole feels deeply, so yes, I do.”

Solas’s expression remains unreadable. “He is a spirit.”

I meet his gaze. “He’s still a person.”

“Then by that account, you would say all spirits are people. Is that truly what you believe?”

“Yes.”

He regards me carefully. “Then you also consider demons as people.”

I regard him with a confused glance. “What do you mean?”

He clears his throat. “Forgive me, I forget you are not as familiar with the Fade as I am. The Chantry would have you believe demons are monsters — that they despise the natural world, and seek only chaos and destruction. Such definitions are...convenient. But such simplistic labels misconstrued their motivations and in so doing, do all a great disservice. Spirits…wish to join the living, and a demon is that wish gone wrong.”

My hands are shaking. “What?”

“Being pulled through the Veil…it twists them. Warps them.”

I stare at him, struggling to understand. “Are you saying that spirits become demons, because the rift is pulling them through forcibly?”

“Precisely.”

Something twists inside me. A slow, nauseating dread uncoiling in my chest.

Oh my god. 

The others have been killing them.

The others have been killing them. 

Not monsters. Not mindless abominations. Souls. Spirits. Not evil by nature—just twisted by pain. By force.

I press my hand to my mouth and turn away, breath catching. I try to swallow, but the truth catches like a hook in my throat. 

Here, if a person dies, they return to the Fade. They pass on. But a spirit—dragged violently into this world through a tear in the Veil— It doesn’t die. It unravels. 

And we’ve been slaughtering them.

My heartbeat roars in my ears. Panic. Grief. Guilt. Not saving the world—silencing it. People. Twisted, yes. Transformed. But how is that different from the mages who lost themselves? How is the Inquisition any different from the Templars, cutting down those they refuse to understand?

“Her horror is sharp—copper in the back of her throat, breath caught like a bird in a fist, thoughts flapping and broken, too many feelings in a body that suddenly feels too small.” Cole whispers.

I don’t bother stopping him from spilling my guts. I don’t have the strength to speak for a while. I feel a sting in my eyes, my vision blurring. 

“Do—” I breathe. “Do the others know? What they’re doing?”

“Most do not know—or choose not to know—the Chantry teaches spirits are the Maker’s first children—innocent, pure. Demons are monsters to be slain. This simple dichotomy comforts many. But comfort is not the same as truth.”

My mind races, thoughts tumbling over one another as I grasp for answers. 

“Is there—” I pause, spinning back to face him, searching his expression for hope. “Is there nothing that can be done? A way to warn them—keep them away from the rifts? What about reversing it?”

“Regrettably, closing the rifts is the only path forward. Nothing else can undo the damage.”

“And …after?” I ask, hesitant. I’m not sure I want the answer. “Do they go back to their spirit form, or are they… are they gone?”

“Their energy returns to the Fade, but they aren’t what they once were.”

I shouldn’t slack, but for a moment, I wanted to relax with some friends. I wanted to forget where I am. A moment to forget what the consequences are if I fail. And now I feel guilty because of it. Souls are dying, and their energy can’t sink back into the Fade unless I fix it. My issues are petty, and I need to be better. I have to be better. 

“You carry the sorrow of those lost to the Fade, their souls unravelling like threads in the wind. But even the strongest fire must pause, or it will burn itself away. Let yourself breathe.”

I glance at Cole, tilting the hat back. I don’t speak aloud, not with Cassandra so close, but I understand her irritation when I got drunk with Bull this morning. 

My eyes close, and I exhale a long, shaky sigh. “Cassandra.”

Her gaze snaps to me, sharp and alert, like she’s bracing for a threat. But when she sees nothing, she eases back, lowering her shield slightly and settling into her protective stance. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

She hesitates, a flicker of something softer crossing her usually stern face. Then she tilts her head, eyes narrowing as if searching for the right words.

I point to myself, voice rough and quiet. “Asshole.”

Cassandra’s brow furrows, surprise flashing in her eyes before a faint, almost reluctant smile tugs at her lips. She shakes her head firmly, voice gentle but certain. “No.”

I nod again, my own expression softening with the weight of my own admission. “Yes.”

“Not asshole.” Her words are calm, patient. “April…” She pauses, considering, then offers a single word like a lifeline: “Tired.”

My head dips, the sting of tears prickling at the edges of my eyes. I blink fiercely, holding them back.

“Yes.” My voice cracks with the honesty I barely want to admit, and I let out a shuddery breath, fingers running through my hair as if trying to pull the exhaustion from my mind. “Tired.”

Very, very tired.

I’m nearly startled by arms folding around me—soft, sure, like the quiet pull of nightfall. It’s Cole, close and steady, holding me from behind. He knows. I want to cry now, want to let the ache spill out.

Don’t cry. Don’t—

“You carry the storm inside you,” Cole murmurs, voice low as the fading light. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “Let it go. Let it fall like rain. It will ease the hurt.”

I can’t. Not here. 

“Cassandra knows. She understands more than you think.”

It presses against my chest like a dam about to break—tight, trembling, ready to spill over. The ache coils deep inside me, twisting into a lump that catches in my throat. I want to cry so badly, to let it all pour out and wash away the heaviness. But I hold it back, clenching my fists, biting down on the tremour in my voice. 

“That tightness in your chest… it’s a river dammed too long. If you don’t open the flood, it will drown you from within. Let the tears come. They’ll carry some of it away.”

It bursts. 

It’s a sniffle at first, and then I’m sobbing into my hands. 

I can’t stop. 

I feel pressure on my shoulder—not from Cole. I peek up out of my fingers, shuddering breaths from uneven hiccups. Cassandra is putting her hand there, an awkward but heartfelt gesture that seems unsure at first. When I don’t move it away, she steadily tightens her grip, making our gaze level. 

“I’m sorry,” she says now. 

“She sees how much you carry, how you bear it all like it’s nothing. She forgets, sometimes, that you’re not made for battle—that you’re just someone caught in a war not your own. It’s more than anyone should carry. You’ve been strong. Stronger than anyone she knows. And beneath that strength, there’s a sadness… a regret that she didn’t reach for you before.”

I choke on wavering sobs, sniffle, and wipe my tears, try to give her a thankful smile—but it probably comes out more like a grimace. 

So, I put my hand on hers, squeezing back. 

“Friend.” I say through my broken cries. I don’t need my book to remember how to say it. “Cassandra. Friend.”

Her dark eyes soften, flickering across mine, and she nods gently. 

“Herald!” 

The call comes from across the shore, and I sniffle again, fiercely swiping my tears from my face and preparing myself. Cassandra gives me a stern nod, with the hint of a smile. 

It’s time to close the rift. 

It’s time to close all of them.

“You should rest.”

My legs ache. My back screams. Every breath feels like dragging gravel through my throat. I keep going anyway, boots scuffing across the uneven ground, every step heavier than the last.

“I’m fine, Cole,” I try to tell him through panting breaths. 

“The others are worried about you.”

I keep walking. 

“Guilt coils through you like smoke, always in your lungs. You chase the rifts like you can outrun regret. Like every second lost means another soul lost, another scream in the Fade. But you can’t close them all at once. You can’t save anyone if you won’t let yourself be whole. Rest isn’t weakness. It’s the breath before the next step.”

Something twists in my chest. I want to argue, to snap that I don’t have time to fall apart. But I don’t.

“How are the others doing, Cole? Are they tired?”

“Yes. Only around the edges. Like paper curling in heat, not burning yet. They’re stubborn—like you. But they’re also watching you, waiting for you to stop. Hoping you will. Before you break. Human.”

“Can they still move?”

“Yes.”

“Then so can I.”

“You feel… wrong,” Cole murmurs, eyes flicking over me like he’s watching something I can’t see. “Not hurt, not sick—just off. Like music played a little out of tune. Like a coat that doesn’t quite fit anymore. A stillness inside you that hums like a hollow drum.”

“I’ll be fine , Cole. Please, stop worrying about me.”

“I can’t.” He sounds pained.

I feel bad—but I still want space. I don’t want comfort. I don’t want fixing. Sometimes I need to sit in the ache, even when it hurts. I don’t always want what’s good for me. Not yet. I don’t deserve to. The spirits are still trapped, twisted inside the rifts, and they need me to close them. The refugees depend on me too. Everyone needs something from me, and I’m trying—I really am.

Cole needs to stop. 

“Leave me alone, Cole!”

He fades, teleporting behind. 

Guilt stings me. I swallow it.

I keep a hand on the hat, tilting it just enough to see ahead. The landscape stretches out in a wash of gray and green—mostly jagged cliffs and slick shoreline, broken up by patches of windblown woodland and pebbled beach.

So far, no more bandits. No sign of whatever caused that earth-shattering roar earlier, either. No dragons, no towering monsters. Just the Iron Bull, which is more than enough giant for one expedition.

The sound of the waves is nice, at least. Almost familiar. Almost like home. But here, the sea doesn’t sigh—it snarls. It claws at the rocks, crashing against the broken ruins that jut from the shoreline like bones. Or—they look like ruins. Half-drowned towers of rock. Maybe they were built once, long ago. Or maybe the sea shaped them that way, carving stone into strange shapes.

Hard to tell, in a place like this.

I pause when I spot a patch of Spindleweed, crouching down to gather it, damp leaves slick against my fingers. I shove it into my pack without much care. 

Getting back up is harder. 

My back protests with a sharp, grinding click, and I groan through clenched teeth. 

A hand suddenly lands on my arm. I jolt, twisting around, breath caught— Only to find the Iron Bull behind me, one brow raised, his expression unreadable but stern. Like I’d just failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

“Stop.” He orders me, and I don’t know how he knows I know the word. Maybe he saw it in my journal earlier. 

“Why?” I ask, and shoo his hand, but he doesn’t move it. 

He pokes my shoulder with his free hand. “Tired.” 

“Good.” I correct. “I’m good . Thank you.”

“No.” 

He catches my wrist before I can turn away, lifts my hand into the rain light. My fingers are raw—red at the tips, skin scoured. I hadn’t even noticed. He points to my palm, as if the damage speaks louder than I ever could. 

I see the others standing in the distance, watching. I huff, then yank my arm back, stung more by the truth than the touch. 

He doesn’t argue. 

Bull sways on his feet like a drunk, exaggerated and unsteady, then jabs a finger at me. “You.”

“No!” I deny. I point to myself. “ Good . Good!”

He shrugs, and reaches over to softly flick my forehead. I gasp, rubbing my face and staring up at him, scandalised. He grins, and then he puts a hand on my shoulder—and lightly pushes me over. It doesn’t take much for me to fall on my arse. The pebbles bite a little into my hand as I land. 

“Ow!” I snap at him. 

“Yes.” He says, and kneels down. He looks to me and jabs a finger my way, with a pointed look on his face. “Tired.” 

I see Cassandra start to walk forward, but Varric holds up a hand. The Chargers—one of them, seems like Bull’s right hand, also says something. I turn back to the obnoxious horned bastard.

“Yes.” I snap, and then show my hand, letting the light flicker through my fingers. The green magical gash sparks, and I swear for a second Bull flinches, but he stays where he is. “April. Help. Stop rifts. Bad shit.”

He snorts, then he inclines his horned head slightly. He regards me, probably considering how to tell me to give it a rest. But I don’t need a babysitter. I need a bodyguard. And I need to close the rifts. Like, yesterday.

He shrugs, then turns and calls something over his shoulder. The words are loud, casual, but they carry. The Chargers immediately start moving—dropping packs, stretching limbs, kicking at the wet ground like they’re settling in.

It takes me a moment to realise what’s happening. They’re making camp.

I scoff, narrowing my eyes at Bull. “No,” I snap. “Money. No money.” I jab a finger toward the road. 

He doesn’t flinch. “Safe,” he says, simply. Then points to me. “April. Safe.” A pause—then a hand to his own chest. “Bull. Tired.” He gestures broadly to the others. “Tired.”

I hesitate, frowning. That doesn’t line up. Cole said they weren’t feeling it like I was—not yet. Not the same. I squint at him, trying to read past the easy grin he’s probably not showing me. Trying to decide if he’s lying for my sake. If this camp is really for them—or for me.

But then Cassandra and Varric and Sera and everyone else is starting to follow suit, to make camp.

Fuck.

Fine. 

It’s not like I can close the rifts without them, not with the demons spilling out of them. I won’t get close enough. 

And Bull knows it. 

“Asshole.” I grumble. 

Bull throws his head back and laughs—loud and sudden, the sound rolling out across the shoreline, echoing over the crash of waves.

Chapter Text

“Any particular reason you are running yourself ragged?”

The voice carries across the grass, edged with dry humour and something softer beneath.

I’m in the garden again.

I must’ve dozed off at camp.

The world here is still and golden, like it’s holding its breath. The light drips through the leaves in lazy shafts, and the flowers don’t move unless you look away.  Solas steps soundlessly across the grass, barefoot as always, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He moves like someone who never stumbles—only chooses where not to tread. He approaches the gazebo—the one I added the last time I was here—and climbs the wooden steps without hesitation.

He settles beside me on the bench.

“For a bunch of people constantly telling me to close the Breach, you all seem awfully picky about how I go about doing it,” I bite out, then mimic their voices in a low, mocking tone: “ ‘Herald, it’s vital we close the Breach, the world is in danger.’ ‘Herald, the rifts are spreading, the roads aren’t safe.’ ‘Herald, we need you in the Hinterlands, the Storm Coast —Herald this, Herald that—”

“You must be aware of your own limits, pace yourself, or you will falter before your work is done. The world will not be saved in a single day. You need strength—mind, body, and spirit—to see this through.”

“I’m not that tired.”

Solas lifts a brow, offering the faintest trace of a smirk. “I’ve seen trees in high winds stand straighter.”

I scoff. “I was fine.”

“I believe Cole had to guide you around at least two trees. Possibly three. He looked rather concerned.”

I can’t help the small smile as I look down at my hands, but it falters when I remember how I told Cole to go away. 

As if he can tell my train of thought, he says, “this world is too bleak to spurn compassion offered freely.”

“I know.” I sigh, rubbing my fingers together. “Sometimes it’s… hard to accept help. Even when I want it.”

We settle into a silence that feels more like understanding than absence. 

After a moment, I murmur, “Do you think he’s mad at me?”

Solas tilts his head slightly, his voice gentle. “A spirit of Compassion does not, as you say, get mad . He feels concern. He aches when others ache. He reaches out not to scold, but to soothe. That is his nature.”

I nod. 

“However,” he adds, and I tense before he finishes. “If a spirit’s purpose is denied often enough… if his nature is rejected or misunderstood, he may begin to fray. Compassion can become something else—twisted into obsession, or desperation. Even harm, if the spirit believes that pain is the only path to peace.”

My throat feels tight. “But that hasn’t happened to Cole?”

Solas’s gaze softens. “Not yet. He is still himself. But he is young. Vulnerable. Spirits do not possess our resilience—they bend toward what we show them. For better, or worse.”

“Is he safe?” I ask, concern twisting inside me. I look up at Solas. “Is he safe with me?”

Solas looks at me for a long moment, eyes thoughtful, unreadable as still water.

“No spirit is ever entirely safe in this world,” he says at last. “Nor are we, truthfully. But Cole is more than most spirits. He is a unique case. He is learning. Choosing. And for whatever reason, he chose you.”

I let Solas’s words settle into the quiet places they were meant for, and then I rise from the bench. The golden garden hushes around me, like it’s listening too. I take a slow breath, glancing around, before calling softly, “Cole?”

He appears ahead of me without fanfare, sitting cross-legged on another bench, as if he’s always been there, simply waiting until I remembered. He looks up when I speak, his wide-brimmed hat tilted just slightly—though I know I’m still wearing it in the waking world. Somehow, that never seems to matter here.

“You’re sleeping,” he says, voice full of quiet warmth. “I’m glad. You were so tired, and it hurt. Your bones were shouting.”

My heart hurts. 

I swallow, stepping closer. “I’m sorry, Cole.”

His head tilts, not in confusion but in gentle curiosity.

“You’re always so sweet to look after me,” I say, crouching a little to meet his eyes. “Do you know that? I wanted to say I’m sorry. For pushing you away.”

He blinks slowly, as if reading the ache behind my words.

“You were full of splinters,” he murmurs. “Too many things poking at you from the inside. Sometimes people try to be alone with the pain because they think they deserve it. Or they think no one else should have to hold it. Sometimes pain feels like teeth. Sometimes kindness does too.”

His voice gets softer.

“But I want to help. That’s what I’m for.”

The words break something loose in my chest, a quiet tremble I didn’t know I was still holding. I grab onto his hands, holding them in mine. “I know,” I whisper. “Thank you.” I hold his hands tighter. “Thank you.”

I don’t deserve him. 

“You deserve kindness,” he says gently, like he’s correcting me. My eyes burn. His smile is small, patient—like he’s holding a secret just for me. “I am here.”

I sniffle slightly. 

“I’m going to get you a present.” I tell him. “What do you like?”

His head lightly tilts. “I collect stories, not things. Tell me one instead.”

“A story?” I chuckle, and slowly stand up to sit by his side, I’m still holding his hands. “You might be better going to Varric.”

“I hear them whispering at the back of your mind. Tell me one.”

“Hmm… okay.” I settle back a little, glancing over at Solas, who watches us with that calm, stoic expression. “Hey, Baldie,” I say with a smirk, and he blinks, “get over here. You’re part of the friendship circle now.”

His face twists into a complicated expression, a flicker of conflicting emotions crossing his features at being called that.  Cole pats the bench next to him.  Solas hums softly, and then stands, coming over to join us. He doesn't say anything, merely waits for me to start.

“Let’s see—” 

I think of all the mythos. The tale of Odysseus is a good one, but I’m not sure Cole would like it. Solas might. Maybe I’ll save it for him later. One other comes to mind. I lean back a little, letting the warmth of the Fade garden settle over me. 

“There was once a man named Androcles. He was a servant—treated badly, beaten, and miserable. So one day, he runs away. Escapes into the forest. He hides there, alone and scared, until he comes across a lion.” I glance at Cole. “But the lion doesn’t attack him. It’s limping. Whining. There’s a big thorn stuck in its paw. Androcles, instead of running, kneels down. Gently takes the paw, and pulls the thorn out. The lion lets him. Doesn’t hurt him. And then they stay together—just this man and this lion, surviving in the wild. Friends.”

Cole’s expression softens in a way that aches.

“Eventually, though… Androcles gets caught. The people arrest him for escaping, and they decide to make an example of him. They throw him into the arena, with a lion. Everyone’s watching, expecting a brutal death.”

I pause. Let the moment hang.

“But when the lion is released—it’s that lion. The same one. And instead of attacking, it runs to Androcles and licks his face. They recognize each other. The people are so moved, they pardon them both. Set them free.” I smile at him. “You would have taken the thorn out too.”

Cole gently nods. 

“Idealistic, certainly—but not without merit.” Solas says simply. “Small mercies—quiet, genuine ones—can shape the fate of even the fiercest beings. A lesson many overlook.” Solas’s lips twitch in a half-smile. “Or, perhaps the lion wasn’t hungry—and the man’s luck simply extraordinary.”

“The story isn’t really for you,” I say with a teasing roll of my eyes and a smirk. “Sourpuss.” 

“I like it,” Cole says softly, a gentle warmth in his voice. “The man and the lion become friends. It has a happy ending. I like happy endings.”

“Exactly,” I point out to Solas, and wave mine and Cole’s hand around for emphasis. “It’s for him , not you.”

A faint smile plays on Solas’s lips. “Compassion often defies the rigor of reason. In this, I find your story... agreeable.”

“Okay, snob,” I tease. 

"Discernment should not be mistaken for condescension."

“Okay, snob.”

So, that’s where the roar came from.

“Holy shit.”

Varric agrees with my sentiment, also uttering— “shit.”

A giant. And a dragon. Fighting.

Iron Bull bursts into joyous laughter. One of his Chargers claps him on the arm, hissing, as we all drop behind the fallen tree to avoid being seen. Iron Bull hisses something back to his Charger with a feral smile.

Cole crouches beside me, immediately acting as the translator. “He wants to fight them. Both. At once. He’s dreaming of how it would feel—the heat, the pain, the crush of scale and stone. His heart is singing.”

I stare at Bull, who looks like it’s his birthday and someone just handed him two mountains to punch. “No.” I say sternly. 

He looks at me with a raised eyebrow, and gestures to massive creatures. “Yes!”

“Bad!” I hiss. 

The dragon rears back, a glowing charge building in its throat—then unleashes a bolt of lightning that splits the air. It slams into the giant full-force. The giant just tanks it. Doesn’t even flinch.

My jaw drops. I whip around, flailing a hand at the battlefield, then shoot Bull an incredulous look.  He just grins wider, eyes practically glowing.

Cole murmurs, “He thinks it would be perfect. The dragon’s teeth. The giant’s fists. No holding back. No rules. Just the thrill of breaking and being broken.”

A masochist, he’s a masochist. 

I grab his massive arm and yank him down, like that’s going to stop him. It won’t—physically, he could drag me like a leaf—but he can’t go charging into that mess. Not with his assignment still breathing and clinging to his sleeve. He growls, low and sharp, irritation flaring across his face like a stormcloud. He wants this fight—bad—but duty’s a leash, and I’m the one at the end of it.

The dragon roars and lifts off, wings beating thunder into the trees as it disappears into the sky.

Iron Bull looks down at me with a sneer.

I smile up at him, smug. 

“Bad,” I say. “No.”

Cole adds quietly, “he’s wondering if this job is worth it. If dragging around someone who says ‘no’ to perfect fights is going to ruin all the fun.”

Tough titty. 

There’ll be plenty of non-suicidal threats to deal with, later . 

Bull grits his teeth.

I don’t let go. The giant is still lumbering around on the beach, not attacking, not even looking at us. Bull barks a few sharp orders to his Chargers, then shrugs me off and stands, drawing his weapon.

I scramble in front of them, arms out, waving wildly. “No! No!”

The giant’s just minding his business. Do we even have to go this way?

“Rift,” Cassandra says, her voice cool and sharp. She points past me.

I turn.