Chapter Text
Four weeks pass, and still no letter from Fina. Each day, I half expect to see the post rider’s silhouette cresting the hill, but none ever comes. I tell myself the ship might have been slowed by still waters, or the winds might have failed. Perhaps she’s preoccupied—buried under clan duties, or waiting for calmer days before she sends word. She hadn’t given me a timeline when she left, only that it wouldn’t be long. I told myself that meant months, not years. But the weeks stretch on, and the silence grows heavier.
Sometimes I wonder if her reasons for returning to Ferelden are tangled up in the same question I’ve never asked outright—who Fenarel’s father was. I’ve imagined her once before with another pregnancy, one she was forced to end at her lover’s insistence. Maybe this time, she refused to give up her child. Maybe that’s why she left Kirkwall behind.
Fenarel takes the absence hardest. For the first two weeks, he searches for her scent in every shadow, wails until his throat goes raw, and falls asleep only when I let him curl against my chest. He rests his ear over my heart, small and trembling, until the sound steadies him. His breathing slows; his body softens. It’s the only time he truly sleeps.
He’s nearly weaned now. I feed him goat’s milk when I can afford it, though lately even that has grown scarce. The coin stretches thin, the way time does—pulled taut and humming with quiet dread.
Between my worry for Fina and the toll her absence has taken on Fenarel, I lose track of the kitchen gossip. I barely register the murmurs about Lady Liana’s new guests until one afternoon the manor doors are thrown open, and the guards’ boots thunder down the halls.
They corral us all into the great dining room—every servant, every cook, lined up like cattle before Lord Garuth, Lady Liana, and a tall man in the silver-and-blue of Starkhaven.
Lady Liana’s expression is carved from ice. “Prince Vael and the Champion of Kirkwall were attacked,” she says, her voice cutting through the murmuring. “Assassins sent by enemies of the true prince. They were armed with information known only to those within these walls.”
A chill crawls up my spine. Around me, the servants shift uneasily.
Liana paces the line, her gaze like a blade. “Who among you is missing today?”
Her eyes fall on Beverly. The old woman clears her throat. “The knife-ear. Elnora,” she mutters.
“When did you hire her?”
Beverly hesitates. “Little over two months ago, my lady. She seemed an empty-headed girl, begging your pardon. Could barely cook bacon without this one—” she jerks her head at me “—stepping in.”
I drop my gaze.
Liana’s tone sharpens. “She could barely cook, and you brought her on?”
“She didn’t need much coin,” Beverly sputters. “I thought she could be taught.”
“And if she were a bard sent here to spy, because she somehow heard we would be hosting the prince’s allies—would you still think her cheap wage a virtue?”
The silence is blistering. Beverly offers no excuse.
“Send a runner to the alienage,” Liana orders a guard. “Find her. Beverly, we’ll discuss the terms of your employment later.” She turns to her guests with a smooth bow. “Forgive the indiscretion of my staff, my lords. It will be dealt with.”
The Starkhaven noble inclines his head. “Much obliged, my lady.”
Lord Garuth claps once, the sound cracking through the hall. “Enough. The meal won’t cook itself. Anyone qualified to take over the kitchens from the old woman?”
The words escape my mouth before I can stop them. “Ashleigh, my lord.”
Ashleigh startles beside me, but I go on. “She’s been in the kitchens the longest, and she’s the best cook we have.”
The others murmur in agreement.
Garuth nods. “Then Ashleigh is in charge. We’ll find replacements soon enough. Until then, you all stay overnight. No one leaves until we’re sure no one else is compromised.”
The air thickens. No one argues, but dread settles in my stomach.
“My lord,” I manage. “My—my son.”
I feared that if I didn’t claim him as such, I wouldn’t be able to bring him.
Garuth raises a blond brow. “Your son?”
“Yes, my lord. He’s with a caretaker. I pay her, but she can’t keep him at night. I’ve no family.” The lie trembles in my throat, but I force it steady.
He studies me a moment, then waves a hand. “Bring the boy at night. Not during the day. I’ve no desire for my children to mix with the help.”
I bow low, biting down the word that burns in my mouth. Bastard.
When we’re dismissed, Ashleigh catches my sleeve. “I didn’t know you had a boy.”
“I gave birth before I found work here,” I say quietly.
She hums, sympathetic. “It’s costly, raising a child alone. Bring him in the mornings, too, if you must. The kitchen won’t mind. The lord and lady never set foot there.”
I nod, wordless gratitude catching in my throat. But beneath the relief, another fear stirs—what they’ll say when they see his ears.
The next morning, their reaction is as I expected: a stunned silence. Fenarel blinks at the line of women watching him, his small ears unmistakably elven. When he waves, the tension breaks slightly, a few of them cooing despite themselves.
“He’s half, isn’t he?” Meera asks, peering closely.
“Yes,” I say, curt.
“Big eyes on him,” Tamra murmurs. “I thought he’d have curlier hair.”
“Half a knife-ear’s still a knife-ear,” Meera mutters. “Father didn’t stick around?”
“He died.”
She sniffs, disinterested. “So long as he doesn’t make the kitchen stink like shit.”
I say nothing.
Ashleigh, ever calm, extends a finger. Fenarel grabs it and grins. “He’ll be teething soon,” she says. “You’ve got something for that?”
I shake my head helplessly.
“First time, eh?” She smiles gently. “Don’t fret. I’ll give you a poultice recipe. He’ll thank you for it.”
Her kindness disarms me. The others drift back to their work, and I tuck Fenarel into a small corner penned off with old sacks and sheepskin. He seems content there, wooden spoon in hand, watching the bustle around him with wide eyes.
The scent of onions and garlic fills the air as I start the sauce for the mutton. Maddy brings me the drippings, her freckled face flushed from the heat. “He’s beautiful,” she says softly.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve never seen a babe take after his elven side so strongly.” She hesitates. “Do people give you trouble for it?”
“Not really. I keep him covered when I can. It’s easier.”
“Shame,” she murmurs. “He’s got his father’s eyes, hasn’t he?”
“He was a good man.” The words come easily; the lie has a well-worn path.
Maddy stirs the pudding beside me. “What happened to him?”
“He died.”
The conversation ends there, but Maddy’s curiosity lingers. She watches Fenarel with something like wonder, lets him tug at her hair, and insists on changing and bathing him between tasks. Her tenderness worries me—too much affection for a child not her own, but I can’t bring myself to stop her.
That evening, when Fenarel grows restless, I cradle him against me and hum softly. He presses his ear to my throat, comforted by the vibration more than the tune. I sing the Dalish lullaby Fina used to sing, my rough elvish softening on my tongue. It isn’t perfect, but he doesn’t care. The firelight flickers against the stone, and for a brief, fragile moment, the kitchen feels like home.
Night passes quietly until Maddy shakes me awake before dawn, her face ghost-pale. “Asali, get up,” she whispers.
I blink the sleep away. “What is it?”
“Kirkwall,” she breathes. “An apostate blew up the Chantry. Killed the Revered Mother—mages and templars are fighting in the streets. The Champion fought for the mages. They say all the Circles might rebel.”
Her words blur together. My heart stumbles in my chest. “How did word travel so fast?”
“Messengers. Traders. Everyone’s talking.” She wrings her hands. “Lady Liana says Prince Vael left three days ago. No word from Kirkwall since.”
The world tilts. No word from Kirkwall. My thoughts crash toward Fina, toward her clan. I push them down before panic takes root. “Are free mages really so bad?”
“Mages on the loose,” Maddy hisses. “It could mean riots. It’ll be like the Blight again.”
I dress quickly, Fenarel stirring at my chest. Ashleigh’s voice is already echoing down the corridor, calling us to the kitchens. “Bread, bacon, eggs, broth—we feed the guards first!”
I boil water for Fenarel’s breakfast, breaking dried beef into tiny cubes and softening them in his cereal. Ashleigh looks the other way when I steal cheese for him. He eats greedily, and I take a few spoonfuls myself, more to keep moving than from hunger.
The door slams open. A stable hand stumbles in, his shirt stained brown with dried blood. “The Templars,” he gasps. “They came to the town, thought the alienage was hiding mages. They’re killing everyone.”
The kitchen goes silent. The only sound is the crackle of the hearth.
Ashleigh steps forward, her face ashen. “Are they evacuating?”
The boy shakes his head, trembling. “They barred the alienage gates. Set them on fire. Mages came out of the woods to fight the templars—now everyone’s dying. There’s fire everywhere.”
Tamra screams. “My husband—my children—!” She bolts for the door, and Ashleigh grabs her by the arm.
Outside, the courtyard fills with shouts. “What do you mean we can’t leave?” “My family’s out there!” “The alienage is burning, Maker save them!”
I step into the doorway just long enough to hear the guard captain’s reply. “Lord Garuth’s orders. No one leaves the manor. The fighting’s too close.”
Chaos ripples through the servants. I retreat before it swallows me, heart hammering. Fenarel squirms, sensing my fear, and begins to cry.
Maddy stands by the hearth, eyes vacant, frying eggs in silence. “It’s just like the Blight,” she says hollowly. “You’ll see. The world’s gone mad again.”
I turn back to the dough and begin to braid it, one over, one under, one over, one under. The motion steadies me. Outside, the world burns, but here in the kitchen, there is still bread to bake, mouths to feed, a child to keep alive.
And sometimes, survival is the only prayer left.