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Chapter Text

We stand on the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. For it is when we fall that we learn whether we can fly.

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9:52 Dragon

The day began as it always had, with the pale, cold light of morning bleeding across the towers of Highever, casting long, reaching shadows over stone walls still scarred by the memory of war. Mist pressed itself against the earth, thick and clinging, hiding the worn paths that wound through the fields and skeletal forests beyond the castle gates. The very air tasted of rain, though no drops had yet fallen, and a heavy, unnatural hush settled over the keep.

Within the highest chambers, where the restless sea's wind rattled against stained glass and weather-beaten stone, Elissa Cousland stirred from a sleep that had offered no peace. Beneath the thin comfort of furs and silk, her body trembled; not from the cold, but from something deeper, older, something that moved through the unseen places where dream and waking blurred.

In her dreams, she had walked through a broken world. The ground beneath her feet was shattered and dead, the sky above torn and bleeding light. The scrape of armored limbs against stone echoed in the air, thickened by the low, fetid breath of darkspawn. High above it all, wings beat ceaselessly against a dying crimson sky, and somewhere beyond the reach of her senses, something vast, something more ancient than any archdemon, stirred from its slumber.

She woke with the taste of ash on her tongue and the voices of forgotten things whispering through her bones. For years, she had lived in a fragile peace, her connection to the dreaded Grey Wardens' Calling faded to a distant murmur. But now it returned, sly and coiling, and behind it came another presence—vast, alien, incomprehensible.

Elissa sat unmoving in the dim chill, her breath rising in pale mist before her. The fire in the hearth had burned down to stubborn embers. Outside the window, the wind keened against the stones like a dying thing, and far below, ravens stirred in the leafless branches of winter trees, their cries sharp and restless. The world felt thinner now, stretched taut over some gaping wound.

And she, once the hero who slew an archdemon, understood without words that this time, the storm would not be held back by steel or will alone.

Far to the east, within the towering walls of Denerim, King Alistair Theirin sat upright in his bed, his heart racing. Cold sweat clung to his skin as he stared into the dark, the final threads of his dreams slipping away like smoke. Yet their weight remained heavy upon him.

He had seen cities crumbling into dust, skies swallowed by an endless void, towers rising into nothingness like broken fingers clawing at the heavens. He had heard no voices he could name, yet he had understood their rage, hunger, betrayal. Nightmares he had once tried to forget surged forth in a wave that threatened to drown him.

The king pressed trembling hands against his face, willing the visions away. But no comfort came. Outside the palace walls, Denerim slept uneasily, its fires dim behind the thick mist that curled through its streets. No enemy approached the gates. No drums of war sounded. Yet the certainty gripped him like a blade: war was coming, a war deeper and more terrible than any they had experienced.

Something had broken. And through that break, nightmares had begun to bleed into the waking world.

Beyond cities and thrones, where the wilds sprawled untamed and magic still clung to root and earth, Kieran awoke gasping for breath.

His eyes flew open, his body slick with sweat, chest rising and falling in harsh, shallow gulps. At the end of his bed, the embers of the fire sputtered weakly, casting trembling shadows across the cold stone walls.

The dream was still upon him. Too vivid, too real to be banished by waking. He had stood before a throne of black stone, half-buried in mist and ruin. Chained to it was a being neither dead nor living, hollow-eyed and vast beyond comprehension. It had turned its gaze upon him, and he had felt it not with his senses, but with his very blood.

And somewhere deep within him, something ancient had answered.

The remnant of Urthemiel—Old God, archdemon, betrayer—stirred within the marrow of his bones. It pressed against the wards that held it fast, recognizing the breaking of the world beyond, sensing those who fled their ancient prison. 

Kieran pressed shaking fingers against the amulet at his throat, feeling the cold bite of the magic woven into it. A gift and a chain, crafted by his mother’s hand to bind what should never awaken. He felt the old magic flare against the pressure rising within him, but the force inside was relentless; not rage, not malevolence, but inevitability.

Staggering to the window, Kieran leaned heavily on the ledge, drawing in deep, burning breaths. Beyond the trees, the horizon churned with unseen storms. The mist seethed like a living thing. The sky itself seemed wrong, stretched and trembling, waiting for the world to tear open at its seams.

A thread had been pulled. A prison had been shattered. And nothing would ever be the same again.

At Highever, Cordelia Arainai-Cousland moved through the misted halls, the soles of her boots whispering over worn stone. She had risen early, as she often did, ready to greet the day with the weight of a sword in her hands, with the easy certainty of drills and sparring.

But as she passed the familiar door to her parents’ chambers, her steps faltered.

Behind the thick oak, voices murmured in low, urgent tones, wrapped in a fear she had never heard from them before. A fear that stilled her breath and set her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She pressed her palm against the cool stone, feeling the ancient chill seep into her skin. At that moment, something deep in her blood began to sing.

Outside, the mist thickened, creeping into every crack and hollow of the world. Far below the castle foundations, within Dwarven tunnels long forgotten, darkspawn lifted their heads to the silent call that trembled through the deep.

In the twisted hollows of the Fade, beings older than memory stirred from long slumber. The Veil, stretched thin for centuries, now bled openly, a wound beyond mortal healing.

The Evanuris, the forgotten gods imprisoned by desperate hands long ago, had been loosed upon the world once more. Their freedom had torn through the fabric of reality, setting into motion a storm that would not be stopped by armies or heroes alone.

And so it began—with a dream, a whisper, a breath caught in the dark.

The old darkness had not been destroyed. It had only slumbered.

And now, it opened its eyes once more.

Chapter Text

It had been one month since the south heard of the events in Arlathan Forest. 

Ferelden had not yet caught fire, but the wind carried the scent of it—ash, wild magic, and something older still. Dreams had turned strange. The Fade whispered too close. 

And then the raven came.

It circled once over the towers of Castle Cousland before folding its wings and dropping into the courtyard like a stone. The air shimmered where it fell. Feathers became silk. Talons became feet. Wings melted into the form of a woman—tall, proud, draped in black like night had chosen a shape.

Morrigan, Witch of the Wilds. And to Cordelia, simply: Kieran’s mother.

Cordelia stood near one of the courtyard columns, arms crossed over her chest, watching as the woman walked past without breaking stride. Morrigan hadn’t changed in all the years since Cordelia last saw her—still as elegant and terrifying as ever. Her presence felt like standing near a lightning storm: beautiful, inevitable, and very likely to kill you if you stood too close for too long.

“Cordelia,” she said as she passed. A curt greeting.

“She could have used the front gate like a normal person,” Cordelia muttered as the woman disappeared into the castle.

Zevran chuckled under his breath beside her. “Ah, mi vida, you know she would rather fall from the sky than knock.”

Inside, Elissa rose from the long table in the war hall the moment Morrigan entered. The two women did not embrace—of course not—but they stood facing each other with the worn weight of shared years.

“Morrigan,” Elissa said, voice soft but steady. “You’re earlier than expected.”

Morrigan inclined her head, golden eyes gleaming. “I fly when I must.”

Cordelia remained silent in the archway, watching, half-shadowed. She couldn’t remember a time when Morrigan wasn’t part of her life in some way. The woman had always hovered at the edge of things—too sharp, too powerful, too other to ever be warm. But never absent. Always present in the shape of Kieran’s strange childhood and her own confused understanding of what family meant.

And now she had arrived with a purpose.

“The Veil is thinning,” Morrigan said without preamble. “Tearing, fraying, unravelling at its seams. What was once sealed now seeps. And worse, Solas has failed, or perhaps succeeded in part, which may be worse still.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “Failed at what, exactly? Enlightening cryptic riddles?”

Morrigan gave him a look. “He attempted to tear down the Veil entirely. To return the world to its forgotten shape, where magic reigned, and the Fade had no walls. He was stopped. A mortal interfered, someone by the name of Rook, and the Evanuris escaped in the process.”

Cordelia felt something shift in the room. A pressure behind her eyes. The name tasted strange in her mouth: Evanuris. Ancient elven gods. Dalish myths learned from the clan nearby, one Cordelia would sneak off to join instead of doing her noble duties.

“They are free?” Elissa asked, a whisper of disbelief.

“Their prisons broke when the Veil cracked. I have seen it. Felt it. The Fade bleeds into the waking world. And soon, the south will feel it too.”

Cordelia leaned forward slightly, unable to help herself. “Are they... here? In Ferelden?”

“Not yet,” Morrigan answered, eyes flicking toward her. “But the dark places shiver. The Deep Roads echo. The Fade has grown thin around the Brecilian. Demons will come first. Spirits. Chaos. Then perhaps something worse.”

She turned her gaze back to Elissa and Zevran. “You must rally what remains of your allies. You have held back Blights before. You must hold again, while Rook and her companions engage the northern threat.”

“And what of you?” Elissa asked, quieter now.

“I return to Arlathan Forest,” Morrigan said. “The Veil Jumpers need me. There are spirits to bind. Fade ruptures to seal. The Inquisition—what remains of it—must rise again. I go next to Lothering. Laelia Lavellan and her husband will answer the call. Cullen may grumble, but he has never turned from duty. I expect they will summon the others.”

She reached into her cloak and drew out a small, sealed scroll, marked with the royal crest of House Theirin.

“Alistair has sent for you,” Morrigan said, offering the letter to Elissa. “He calls for council...he says you’ll understand.”

Elissa took the scroll, brow furrowed. “I do.”

Cordelia looked between them all—her parents, Morrigan, and the silence that followed. History had become prophecy again. And prophecy had come knocking at their gate.

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They rode for Denerim.

The mountain winds gave way to softer currents as they descended from the Frostbacks into the lowlands of the Bannorn. The green hills rolled like waves, cut with dirt roads and watchtowers, and far ahead, the stone walls of the capital rose from the earth like the bones of an old god, weathered and immovable.

Cordelia rode at the head of their company, her cloak snapping behind her in the breeze, her sword strapped across her back. The rhythm of the ride had long become part of her—hooves pounding, breath steady, muscle and purpose fused beneath leather and steel.

Beside her, Zevran kept a loose seat in the saddle, his posture deceptively relaxed. His eyes, however, never stopped moving; scanning the ridgelines, the tree lines, the thinning clouds above. There was always danger, even in familiar lands. Especially in them.

At the rear, Elissa rode with her nephew Oren and a handful of his own men. Oren, grown now, wore his sword and title of Commander with calm discipline, and his presence was a quiet reassurance to the Cousland banner they flew.

Cordelia pushed aside a loose strand of light hair whipped across her cheek by the wind, squinting toward the horizon.

The lower city came into view as they crested the last rise, its ramshackle roofs and smoke-streaked chimneys unchanged by the years. The last time she’d entered its walls, she had been fifteen—quietly defiant, eager to prove herself in a world that didn’t yet know her name. Now she was two and twenty, older, more sure of her place, but still untested in the ways that truly mattered. The city looked the same as it always had, gritty, stubborn, alive. 

As they passed through the outer gate, Cordelia kept her gaze fixed ahead, doing her best to ignore the stares that followed them; children peeking from alleyways, market-goers pausing mid-step to watch. Armor always drew attention. A half-elven mage with a sword on her back drew more. Beside her, Zevran smiled and waved with theatrical cheer, tossing a wink to a pair of giggling washerwomen. Cordelia rolled her eyes.

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” she muttered under her breath.

“On the contrary,” her father replied easily, his smile never faltering. “I take everything seriously, especially my image.”

But she saw it, as she always did—the faint tension in his jaw, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long on every rooftop and alley mouth. His smile was a weapon, but even weapons dulled with worry.

The castle gates loomed ahead, opening with the groan of ancient wood and the hiss of iron chains. In the courtyard, stable hands stood at the ready, their expressions wary but well-trained. They moved quickly, taking reins and saddlebags as the riders dismounted.

Cordelia swung down from her horse, landing hard enough to jolt the weariness from her bones. She rolled her shoulders back and tilted her head side to side, cracking tension from her spine. One of the stableboys reached for her reins, but froze when she met his eyes. Cordelia offered a small smile, meant to reassure.

He flinched like she’d bared her teeth.

She sighed.

Footsteps approached across the stones. Cordelia didn’t have to turn to know it was her mother.

Elissa’s hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. “It’s been a long time since you were here,” she said, eyes sweeping the towers with quiet memory. “Alistair will be happy to see you. And who knows? Maybe that handsome squire of his is still around.”

Cordelia groaned. “Mother. Please. We’re preparing for war.”

Elissa only smiled, unbothered. “Your father and I met during the last Blight, you know.”

“He was also sent to kill you,” Cordelia replied, raising an eyebrow.

“At least he was honest about it.”

Before more could be said, the sound of armored boots echoed across the courtyard. A figure emerged from the great doors—tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick fur-lined cloak around his shoulders and a delicate crown on his head. His golden hair was touched with grey now, but it did nothing to dim the warmth in his eyes.

Alistair.

He walked toward them with long strides and open arms, smiling widely despite the weight that must sit on his shoulders.

“My friends!” he called.

Elissa stepped forward and clasped his hand. They embraced briefly, shoulders tight with shared memory. When they parted, Alistair turned to Zevran and, without hesitation, pulled him into a bear hug.

“You haven’t aged a day,” Alistair said, stepping back. “Which either means you’ve found a magical fountain of youth, or I’ve aged twice as fast just to make up for it.”

Zevran grinned. “Oh, I’ve aged. Just... beautifully.”

Alistair laughed. “Still impossible. I missed that.”

Then his gaze turned, just a moment longer than it needed to, and settled on Cordelia.

“Cordelia,” Alistair said, and this time, there was no formality in it.

She stepped forward, her posture straight, but her eyes softened when she looked up at him. “Hello, Uncle Alistair.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, and something in his shoulders dropped.

“Thank the Maker. For a second, I thought I was going to get a 'Your Majesty' and a curtsy, and then I’d have to pretend not to cry.”

Cordelia allowed a smile to break across her face. “You’d cry?”

“Openly,” Alistair said, stepping forward and wrapping her in a hug that was warm and solid and smelled of leather, parchment, and a hint of old campfires. “And loudly. It would be very undignified. The kingdom would never recover.”

She stiffened for a half-second in surprise, then let herself return the hug, one arm tight around his back, her cheek pressed briefly to the bear fur lining his cloak. Alistair stepped back, his eyes crinkling at the corners of his light brown eyes. 

His gaze swept over all three of them. “Come inside. We’ll get you fed and warm, and then we can pretend the world isn’t ending for at least fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty if I hide the council ledger.”

Cordelia fell into step behind him, the smile still ghosting at the edge of her mouth. The wind caught her cloak again, but it no longer felt as sharp. And as they walked through the archways of the castle she hadn’t seen in seven years, something in her chest loosened. 

“Jauffre,” Alistair called, turning to an attendant standing nearby, the Fereldan crest stitched proudly across his shoulder. The young man straightened at once, almost vibrating with the need to be useful. “Please take our guests to their quarters.”

Cordelia tried not to sigh as Jauffre snapped to attention, a senior squire’s pin on his lapel. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, voice stiff with purpose. “Right this way, if you please.”

Alistair bumped his elbow gently against her arm, voice low and amused. “I remember when you broke Jauffre’s nose with a practice sword,” he said. “He told you girls couldn’t be knights, and you told me if I didn’t fire him, you’d break it again.”

Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “I stand by that.”

Alistair chuckled. “Please don’t break his nose a second time. He’s grown into a decent squire. Mostly.”

“I’ll try,” she said, deadpan. “But I make no promises.”

She pasted on a court-appropriate smile and followed after her parents, boots echoing softly on the polished stone as they wound through the familiar halls. Their rooms were in the same wing as always, though this time, Cordelia noticed a small shift: her chamber was across the hall from her parents’. A small but deliberate change. She wasn’t a child anymore—wasn’t to be tucked between them under the illusion of protection.

She exhaled slowly in relief.

Jauffre stopped before her door and, with a slight bow, unlocked it with a key drawn from his belt. “My lady,” he said, eyes fixed politely at the floor as he opened it.

Cordelia almost smiled. Almost. “Thank you, Jauffre.”

He nodded and walked off without another word, posture very determinedly upright.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, letting the silence settle around her shoulders. 

The room was modest by noble standards, though well-appointed. A small sitting area for guests, a writing desk by the hearth, and a bedroom beyond the carved archway, all lit by soft afternoon light pouring through the tall window. A separate door led to a private bathing chamber. 

She crossed to the window, tugging aside the thick curtains and looking out. The city of Denerim sprawled below her, roofs and chimneys and towers rising in layers, the smoke of cookfires beginning to curl into the sky. The sound of distant bells carried faintly on the wind, along with the call of gulls and the occasional clang of hammer on anvil from the markets.

Cordelia leaned one hand on the windowsill, the stone cool beneath her palm.

It felt... strange. To be here again. Not as a guest-child under watchful eyes, but as herself. A mage. A warrior. And maybe something more, if this growing storm meant what she suspected it did.

With a stretch and a quiet groan, she pulled off her gloves and unfastened her sword, setting it gently on the chair by the fire. Her pack followed. The bath could wait. For now, she just needed a moment to breathe.

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The receiving hall in Castle Denerim had changed little since Cordelia last stood within it. The air still carried that same weighty stillness, as though it remembered the voices of every monarch, every war table council, every oath sworn within its stone walls. Tall banners bearing the lion of Ferelden hung from the high rafters, faded at the edges but no less proud, catching the last warm shafts of afternoon light as they slanted through the arched windows. 

Cordelia stood beside her mother, her posture straight, shoulders tense, arms crossed tightly against her chest. Zevran lounged a short distance off, half in shadow at the base of one of the great columns, his travel leathers dusty and his blades still on his person despite protocol. One dagger sat at his hip, the other tucked away in the boot he always insisted “didn’t count.” 

Alistair stood at the head of the chamber, not the smiling man from an hour before, not the man who’d once lifted her onto his shoulders at a harvest festival—but the King of Ferelden in truth. His brow was creased with familiar tension, shoulders squared in the manner of someone bracing for the next blow before it landed. He wasn’t armored, but he may as well have been. 

“I’ve sent word,” Alistair said, pacing slowly, his boots echoing faintly across the stone, “to anyone who might answer. Bannorn levies are already on the move. We’ve recalled the southern watchtowers, and scouts are sweeping the borders. Morrigan—” his gaze flicked to Elissa “—has warned that the Veil continues to weaken, not only in the north but here, across the heartlands. There are already demons breaking through in the forested reaches, and we’ve received reports of strange rifts near the coast. The Venatori have increased their presence in the east. The Antaam’s movement patterns are shifting again, and the darkspawn...”

He trailed off, jaw tightening. “They’re gathering in numbers we haven’t seen since the last Blight.”

Cordelia glanced at him. That same unease stirred inside her; the sense that the pieces were falling into place too fast, like a pattern traced in blood across a board none of them had seen in time.

“Will the former Inquisitor answer the call?” Elissa asked, her voice sharp with purpose.

Alistair nodded. “Morrigan passed on my invitation. Lavellan is no longer Inquisitor in name, but she hasn’t been idle. Her forces are scattered, but not lost. She’s still trusted. And she’s already begun regrouping. We expect them to arrive before the week’s end, perhaps sooner.”

Cordelia shifted slightly. Inquisitor Lavellan. The woman from stories, from whispered tavern tales and bard songs. Someone who’d walked into the Fade and lived. Who had once nearly become the most powerful figure in Thedas, and who had let it go. 

“What of your son, Alistair?” Elissa asked. Her arms were folded, but there was something behind the words—a mother’s voice, edged with old worry. “Will he go north with Morrigan?”

“No,” Alistair replied. He paused, gaze dropping for a heartbeat before it found Elissa’s again. “I asked him to come here to Denerim. I’d rather keep him close, especially now. After what we have seen... I won’t risk losing him to what’s stirring out there.”

His words were heavy with something more than concern. They were guilt-shaped. Tired. Cordelia felt her jaw tighten. So Kieran was coming here. Of course, he was. It made sense. Strategically. Politically.

Maker help her.

A beat passed. Alistair opened his mouth to speak again—

But the hall doors burst open with a bang that echoed off the stone.

A knight stumbled in, panting hard, helm tucked under one arm, dust and blood streaking his armor. “Your Majesty,” he gasped. “A messenger just arrived. There’s a horde gathering outside Fort Drakon. At least four dozen darkspawn—possibly more. The outer guard requests immediate aid. They won’t hold long.”

The room fell into silence so complete, Cordelia could hear her pulse in her ears.

Alistair stood still for a moment, then drew in a slow breath. “So,” he murmured. “It begins.”

Chapter Text

The echo of the knight’s words still hung in the receiving hall like the final note of a funeral bell. A horde gathering outside Fort Drakon. A village destroyed. The silence that followed was a living thing, thick and suffocating, pressing in around them like stormclouds trapped beneath stone, like the moment before the sky broke open.

“How far out?” Alistair asked, his voice quieter now, not uncertain, but taut with calculation, already running through contingencies, mapping the field in his head, weighing the cost in steel and blood.

“Less than an hour’s march from the outer field,” the knight replied, his breath still shallow, armor streaked with dust. “They’ve taken the road. Scouts report they’re not advancing blindly—they’re positioning. Surrounding.”

Zevran straightened from where he had leaned with deceptive ease against a column, the shift in his posture immediate. The rogue was gone. In his place stood something sharper. “We’ll need to flank them. If they’ve circled south, they’ll try to pin us against the inner wall. If they reach the gates—”

“We won’t let them,” Alistair said, his voice gone flint-edged. He turned his gaze to Elissa. “Will your company ride with us?”

Cordelia’s mother nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

The air in the room had changed. Orders were forming. Marches would be set. And the moment pressed down like a vice. Before Cordelia could talk herself out of it, she stepped forward.

“I’m going with you.”

Cordelia’s voice rang too loud in the stillness, sharp as steel drawn in a quiet room.

Zevran turned at once. “No.”

“Yes,” she said, and this time her voice was steady, not raised, but resolute. “I’ve trained for this my whole life. You trained me.”

Zevran’s expression shifted, the lines around his mouth tightening. “I trained you to survive. I trained you to think, not to throw yourself into the jaws of something that doesn’t feel pain and doesn’t stop.”

“I can handle myself,” she shot back. 

Elissa said nothing, but Cordelia felt her gaze.

“You’ve never seen a horde,” Zevran said, quieter now. “You’ve never stood in the middle of a battlefield where the sky turned black and the dead piled six high. You’ve never fought when the Fade spills open and screams come from nowhere. You’ve never fought when the world itself is ending.”

Cordelia’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t flinch. “Then let this be the day I do. You told me I was ready.”

“I told you,” Zevran stepped close now, his voice low, “that you were strong. That you had fire in your blood. I never said that meant you were invincible.”

Cordelia’s breath shook—but only once. “This isn’t about being invincible. It’s about choosing to stand when others can’t. It’s about the people who will die if we don’t. It’s about the ones who don’t have fire, or strength, or training. Let me fight for them.”

For a moment, he said nothing. And then his expression changed—not softened, exactly, but something old surfaced. Not the sharp smile of the Antivan Crow or the winking mischief of her father, but something deeper. The look of a man who had outlived too many people he loved.

He was afraid.

Cordelia didn’t back down. “I’m not a child.”

“No,” he said, too quietly. “You’re not.”

Alistair cleared his throat, and the spell of stillness broke. “She’s right, Zevran,” he said, voice calm but firm. “She’s trained. She’s proven herself. If she stays behind, she’ll never forgive herself. And neither will you.”

Zevran turned to Elissa, silently asking for an ally. But Elissa only nodded, eyes still on their daughter. There was no smile on her face—only the grave steadiness of someone who had once stood in Cordelia’s place, years and lifetimes ago.

Zevran let out a long breath and turned back to Cordelia. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Then you will listen to your commanding officer,” he said, voice low. “And you will heed their orders. No foolishness. No lone heroics.”

Cordelia bowed her head slightly. “Yes, Father.”

But her heart was alight. Not with pride. Not with glee. But with something harder, something sharper. The fire of purpose. Of readiness. This was no longer a training yard. No longer whispered warnings and future hypotheticals.

This was war.

And she would not be left behind.

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Elissa’s squire worked quickly, practiced hands fastening buckles and lacing leather with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Cordelia stood still, arms slightly raised, gaze fixed ahead, as her armor was secured piece by piece. 

Her armor was light, built for movement rather than brute force, but crafted well enough to turn aside blades. The breastplate was a smooth curve of darkened steel, nearly black in poor light, fitted close to her frame and without ornament save for the House Cousland laurel, embossed in silver over the heart. 

The helm was simple, full-faced and fitted, with a narrow visor slit and a slight curve along the crown. The blackened metal caught almost no light, offering little reflection — a soldier’s helm. When worn, it disguised her entirely. No daughter of nobility. Just another fighter in the storm. 

When the last strap was cinched, Cordelia rolled her shoulders back, the armor settling into place like a long-remembered rhythm. Her sword was strapped at her side, the hilt worn smooth beneath her gloves, a cloak on her back, borne more of ceremony than practicality. 

“Ready?” Elissa asked quietly. 

Cordelia nodded, looking at her mother. Elissa Cousland stood as the realm had once seen her: the Hero of Ferelden, Grey Warden, and savior of Thedas. Her Warden armor was scarred and dark with age, reforged and worn again, but the clasp still bore the griffon, and her sword was the same one that had pierced an Archdemon’s heart. Her hair was bound tight, her expression grim.

And in that moment, Cordelia didn’t feel like her daughter at all. She felt like a soldier standing next to a legend.

She nodded. “I’m ready.”

The stables were alive with motion. Horses stomped and snorted, bridles clinked, and squires moved between them with the sharp, hurried grace of those who had done this too many times before. Cordelia’s mare, a pale dappled creature with sharp ears and a steady gait, was already saddled and waiting. She mounted with some difficulty—armor never sat clean in a saddle—but adjusted quickly, the weight shifting around her hips until it moved with her.

At the front of the column, King Alistair swung easily into his saddle, armor creaking as he settled. His cloak was gone; his sword was at his side. And beside him, her father, Zevran, was already grinning like a lunatic. He looked younger when he was on horseback, his twin daggers gleaming faintly at his thighs, a wicked glint in his eye that said he was ready for this, even if no one else was.

Cordelia swallowed hard. She’d dreamed of this moment—of riding into battle not as a shadow of someone greater, but as herself.

The gates of Denerim opened slowly, creaking on old hinges as the guards parted the way. Beyond them lay the path to Fort Drakon, and beyond that, the ruins of a small village already marked by smoke on the horizon. The hooves of their mounts struck stone, then soil. They rode in formation, Elissa and Cordelia in the center, Zevran and Alistair ahead, the king’s bannermen following closely behind. 

After almost an hour’s ride at a steady pace, they crested a rise, and the ruins of the village came into view.

As Cordelia scanned the horizon, she felt the wind change. It swept across the hills with a dry whisper, carrying the stench of rot and ash on its back. The trees along the road stood still as sentinels, their limbs bare and unmoving. No birds sang. No insects stirred. Only the dull, rhythmic clatter of hooves and the muted creak of armor broke the hush.

Cordelia’s magic stirred before she understood why. It was not a call—more a pull, a pressure deep behind her sternum. A thread of something she had never quite named, woven into her blood. It coiled low in her belly, rising with each step they took toward the north.

The Wardens felt it first.

Her mother straightened in the saddle, her face darkening as if a shadow had passed over the sun. Farther ahead, the king turned his head slowly toward the horizon, his jaw clenched, his expression sharpened into something cold. Cordelia knew the stories. She had grown up with them. The darkspawn didn’t always need to be seen. The Taint announced itself, like a sickness in the soul of the world.

But what stirred in her veins wasn’t sickness.

It was familiarity. A tremor in her magic, a whisper just outside the edge of hearing.

They crested a rise just past the ruins of the outer village, and the land beyond spread open like a wound. The cottages had been gutted, their roofs collapsed in cinders. Smoke rose in crooked lines from smoldering beams. Nothing moved among the dead. There had been no battle here—only a slaughter.

Beyond the ruins, the land sloped sharply down toward Fort Drakon’s outer defenses. And there, at the base of the ridge, battle had been joined.

It was chaos in motion—guards in scattered formation, striking at the dark mass that surged up from the low fields. Steel flashed. Arrows arced. Fire belched from overturned carts. She could not hear the screams, but she could see them in the way men moved—jerking, desperate, half-swallowed by the tide. The darkspawn were thick on the field, black shapes with snarling faces, armored in rust and bone, their formation twisted and lurching, yet somehow deliberate.

Then came the light.

A burst of gold fire split the grey, a searing arc across the edge of the battlefield, lighting the sky like a second sun. It rolled outward in a wide, crackling ring, striking the ground with thunderous force. Bodies flew. Smoke surged. The darkspawn scattered in shrieking confusion, their formation broken in an instant. And from the smoke came another strike—sharper, more precise. A blade of lightning, blue-white and blinding, carved down from the heavens, cutting a swath through the field like a god’s judgment.

Someone stood at the center of it all.

A solitary figure, ringed in ruin and flame. His silhouette moved with purpose, tall and lean, a cloak flaring behind him like torn wings. Power coursed over his arms, trailing along his fingertips in arcs of silver-blue energy. The storm bent around him. Firelight danced at his heels. He fought like something unchained, more tempest than man.

The King and his men were already galloping into the chaos, weapons drawn, shields raised, their cries swallowed by the roar of battle. Cordelia hesitated for a breath, her mare rearing beneath her as the magic on the wind grew thick enough to taste. The scent of scorched leather and blood flooded her senses. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword. Her magic responded, coiling along the blade in a shimmer of golden light. She steadied her horse.

And charged.

She didn’t follow the standard formation. She didn’t fall in with the Grey Wardens or even her mother, who rode low and fast, her braid unraveling in the wind. Cordelia turned her mount hard toward the edge of the field—toward the lone mage who stood just beyond the ranks near the forest, barely holding his ground. No one else had seen him. Or if they had, they didn’t recognize the danger.

But she did.

Even from a distance, she could see the signs. His movements had begun to slow. The rise of his hand no longer matched the blast of power it released. He staggered once, the light around him faltering. He was either injured or exhausted. Perhaps both. The darkspawn were circling now, drawn to him like wolves to a wounded stag. Another moment, and he would be overwhelmed.

Cordelia urged her horse into a dead sprint, magic already gathering hot and fast in her blood. Then, without hesitation, she flung herself from the saddle.

The impact never hit her. A pulse of energy burst from her palms mid-air, cushioning her descent as she landed and rolled across the scorched earth. She came up fast, her sword flashing into her hand. The nearest darkspawn was already raising its axe toward the mage’s exposed back.

Fire erupted from her palm before she could even form the spell aloud, a torrent of white-hot flame that cracked through the air like a whip. The heat singed through her glove, licked the underside of her helm, but she didn’t falter. The fire slammed into the hurlock mid-charge, engulfing it in an instant. Its shriek was lost to the roar. Cordelia sprinted forward, driving another blast of magic ahead of her—this time kinetic, raw force that caught the burning darkspawn and hurled it bodily into a nearby boulder. The sound of cracking bone echoed across the field.

Another rushed her. She turned, blade ready, and met it with a vicious slash that carved into its belly. Blood sprayed across her armor. She moved again before it hit the ground, boots skidding on the torn earth as another shape came at her from the flank.

The mage had found his footing. Lightning coiled around his hands again, snapping outward in a wide arc that drove the remaining darkspawn back in a crackling burst. The magic danced along the ground, sparking against stone and scorched metal.

Cordelia held her ground beside him, back-to-back without ever speaking, fire and steel moving as one. The tide began to shift. The field cleared. The horde had not expected resistance like this. The beasts began to retreat, some scattering back toward the treeline, others falling in futile swipes at the last soldiers remaining upright.

Cordelia stood in the silence that followed, chest heaving beneath her breastplate, the breath loud in her helm. Sweat stung her eyes. Her limbs shook—not from fear, but from adrenaline. From magic that still hummed through her like a bell after it’s struck.

Slowly, she turned to the mage.

He was bent over, one arm clutched tightly to his side, fingers slick with blood. His cloak was torn, his skin pallid with strain, but the power still laced his shoulders in shimmering afterglow. As he raised his head, the wind pulled his hair back from his face. His eyes met hers—green and gold, unfocused, burning at the edges.

Cordelia froze.

Recognition struck low and hard, cold as a plunge into deep water. The hair. The shape of his mouth. The faint scar just beneath his left brow. The power that shimmered too bright. She knew those eyes. She’d grown up glaring into them.

Seven years, and he hadn’t changed.

And yet he had.

The storm had changed him.

And she had run straight into it.

Chapter Text

Kieran was procrastinating.

There were letters waiting for him. A horse saddled. Supplies packed. His journey back to Denerim was expected days ago—but still, he lingered in the Wilds, watching the clouds gather over the endless canopy of dark trees, feeling the stirrings of demons and powers in the Fade heighten. But instead of riding out, he stayed for as long as possible. 

He hadn’t seen his father in over a year.

Not since the crown had been placed at the center of their fractured relationship, and Alistair had declared him heir to the throne of Ferelden, loudly, before the court, before the nobles, before Kieran had even agreed to it. He hadn't taken the news with grace.

His father had expected gratitude. A bowed head, a muttered thanks for the honor. Instead, he had gotten silence. And then fury. Because being named heir had never felt like a gift—it had felt like a trap. A sentence. A gilded cage with stone walls and stained-glass windows.

He was supposed to live at court now. Speak like them. Dress like them. Pretend the Wilds had never shaped him. Pretend Morrigan had not raised him, and that the echo of a god’s voice did not still hum beneath his ribs. But Kieran was not made for thrones.

He had a remnant of Urthemiel inside him—something coiled and vast and not quite asleep. Something that remembered the sound of the Deep Roads when the world was drowning in Blight. And the people at court knew it. Even if they didn’t name it, they felt it. They looked at him the way people looked at a strange new beast. Fascinated, afraid.

He was odd. He knew that. Always had.

He saw the way they avoided him. How they spoke in careful tones when he passed. How the younger nobles watched him with wide, too-still eyes. He was too tall, too much like his mother in the sharp lines of his jaw and his ever-changing eyes.

He had tried to fit in. He had made an effort during his early years of study in Denerim. He tried to join the games, to mimic the speech and posture of noble sons, to mold himself into the role everyone expected him to grow into. But that effort had withered quickly.

Instead, he returned to the Wilds when he could. Where the Fade crept close to the roots. Where the trees whispered. Where he could breathe.

Now, though, he couldn’t even find peace here.

With a grunt of frustration, he slashed at a tree trunk with the dagger in his right hand, the blade ringing against bark and splitting moss. He struck again with the staff in his left hand, the force of it sending a tremor up his arm. Again. Again. The old oak shuddered under the blows.

Magic rippled along his skin, unbidden.

Sparks leapt from his fingertips and hissed into the mud. The staff vibrated, pulsing faintly with mirrored energy. His breath came fast. The pressure behind his eyes built as magic coursed through him, wanting to escape.

He was unraveling.

Ever since Morrigan had told him of what had happened in Arlathan Forest—of Rook’s interruption, of the Dread Wolf’s failure, of the Evanuris released from their prison—something had begun to stir inside him. Something ancient. Something terrible.

A heaviness lived in his chest now. A thrumming tension in his limbs. Magic that once obeyed him now surged and lashed of its own accord.

He had woken with his sheets aflame. Twice.

Another night, the skies above his home in the woods had opened, and rain had fallen so hard and fast that the riverbanks collapsed. The land flooded. He had no memory of calling the storm. But he had felt it watching him as it broke across the trees.

A calling. That’s what it was. Not words. Not a voice. But a pull.

The same thing that had drawn the archdemons together across centuries—now humming in his bones, aching behind his teeth. 

Like calls to like. And something beneath Thedas had heard him.

Kieran pressed his palm to the cracked bark of the tree and closed his eyes, willing the energy to still. The magic settled… but it didn’t go away. It never went away anymore. He stayed like that for a long time, listening to the Wilds breathe around him. Listening to the storm above.

He would go to Denerim. He had no choice. His mother had already told him as much. There would be council meetings and prophecy and politics, and his father would pretend the distance between them wasn’t carved deep as the Waking Sea.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

Kieran was quickly waylaid in his journey from the Korcari Wilds to Denerim. 

The Brecilian Forest breathed like something alive. Not in the way of birdsong or wind through leaves—those had vanished miles back—but in the slow, steady pulse of the Fade pressing against the skin of the world, like a heartbeat felt too deep in the bones. Kieran moved through its twisted boughs in silence, the undergrowth damp beneath his boots, the light above filtered through a canopy that let no warmth reach the ground.

His journey to Denerim should have been simple. A few days on foot, a quiet crossing through the forest’s edge, and then north along the watchtowers. Instead, something had changed within the forest. The balance had been upset. Even the birds had gone still. The air was thick with green shadow, the sort that bent light into strange shapes. Kieran knew this forest well. He had walked its paths since childhood, watched his mother draw maps from memories and dreams alike.

But today, the Brecilian did not feel welcoming as it once had.

He paused near a clearing where the trees grew into a knot of roots and stone. A pressure had gathered here—subtle, but ancient. The kind of pressure that made the hairs on his neck rise, the kind that whispered without sound.

And then he saw it.

A tear in the world. Thin as breath, hovering between two trees bent in opposite directions. The rift shimmered with sickly green light, pulsing like an eye opening from slumber. Tendrils of Fade magic licked the ground, curling like smoke.

He should have turned back. Instead, he stepped toward it.

He raised a hand and called on the power that lived just beneath his skin, the magic that Morrigan had shaped, the magic that Urthemiel had left behind. It rose in him like a tide—sharp, bright, and barely leashed.

The rift howled. Two spirits burst forth, twisted shapes of fear and rage, half-formed and shrieking. Kieran struck before they reached him, his staff lighting the clearing with pale fire. The first shade disintegrated beneath a wave of force, its scream cut short as it scattered like ash.

But the second reached him as he was focused mid-spell. Its claws raked across his ribs, and Kieran gasped as pain lanced through his side. He spun, drove his dagger into its center, and unleashed a burst of fire that seared it into nothingness.

Silence fell.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

His breath came ragged, misting in the cool air. He dropped to one knee, pressing a hand to his side. Blood welled through his tunic, sticky and bright against his palm. Not deep, but Fade-touched. And that meant it would linger. He had been living a comfortable life for too long, not training as much as he should have been, preferring to take to the skies in raven form. But his magic had become too wild in the month that had passed, and he couldn’t trust in the power that flooded his veins. 

He remained still for a long moment, crouched amid the roots and ruin, magic humming like a storm inside him. The Fade rift remained. It pulsed in violent bursts of light, unstable and ready to explode outwards in an explosion of blue and green.

Kieran stood slowly, wiping his hand on the grass, teeth clenched against the pain. The wound would slow him, but he would reach Denerim before the day was out. His mother’s warnings echoed in his mind—about Solas, the Veil, the Evanuris, and the deep roots of a world that had already begun to fracture.

He glanced once more toward the trees. They watched him. Or perhaps they waited.

With nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat for company, Kieran turned north—toward the road, toward the capital, toward a war that had already begun without him. He walked alone, the wild closing behind him. He kept a hand to his wound, forcing magic into the open flesh, willing it to heal.

By the time he reached the outskirts of Fort Drakon, he was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Blood soaked the side of his tunic, slow and warm, the wound sluggish and seeping where spirit magic failed to close it completely. The Fade was loud now, volatile. His spells sparked when he called them, too eager or too wild, and every time he touched that realm behind the world, it pushed back a little harder.

The hills grew harsher near Fort Drakon. The soil was blackened by ash, and old blood dried in the furrows where battle had come and gone. He passed scorched carts, broken fences, and a small chapel with its door torn from the hinges. The road was quiet, and that should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. The air was too thick, too still. The kind of quiet that followed after screaming.

Then he saw the smoke. Not from chimneys, but low and clinging. The fort was still far—he could just make out the towers beyond the ridge—but the fields ahead were wrong. Churned mud, black with something more than rain. He crested the rise and froze. Darkspawn.

Dozens of them. Not swarming. Not mindless. Stalking the road in shifting bands, pulling apart wagons and corpses with claws.

They were between him and the city.

He dropped low behind a boulder, swaying slightly, hand pressed to his ribs. He was tired. Too tired. Magic crackled under his skin, ready, but unfocused. If he struck now, he’d draw them all. If he waited, he might bleed out before he reached Denerim.

A low growl echoed across the road.

The largest of the hurlocks turned, sniffing the air. Its head snapped toward him. Kieran didn’t move. Another beat passed, and the darkspawn roared, raising its weapon.

Fuck. 

Kieran rose, every muscle screaming. He lifted his staff and shouted a word of power, sending a blast of force into the nearest cluster. Two genlocks slammed into a tree and crumpled. Fire licked up from the earth, curling around his boots, and he let it rise, let it burn. But it wasn’t enough.

He struck down one, then another. But his limbs were slow now, his strikes uneven. He missed a step, stumbled on a rock slick with rot. Pain surged through his side. 

A hurlock brute, massive and snorting like a bull, was charging across the field toward him, its rusted axe raised high. Kieran braced himself, lifting his sword, but he knew even before the creature closed the distance that he was too slow, too out of position.

There was no time to parry. No time to dodge.

And then—

Fire.

It roared past him in a wave, a living wall of gold and crimson that struck the hurlock full in the chest, engulfing it in a pillar of searing light. The creature howled, stumbling blindly, armor melting into slag around its body.

Before Kieran could move, a figure burst through the curtain of flame, sword flashing—a graceful, deadly whirl of steel and power. The soldier moved like a storm given form, sword and magic blending so seamlessly that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

A blast of force struck the burning hurlock, lifting it from its feet and slamming it into the side of a crumbling building with bone-snapping force. Before it hit the ground, the figure was already moving, spinning low under the clawed swipe of another darkspawn and driving their blade up into its belly with ruthless efficiency.

Magic licked across their armor in wild arcs—pure, unrestrained energy, the Fade shimmering around them. Kieran stumbled back, blinking through the smoke, heart hammering in his ribs.

For a moment, he could only watch.

His savior fought with the ease of someone who had long since made battle their element. They swept through the darkspawn like a wildfire, each spell and strike measured but devastating. A wall of flame sprang up to cut off a group of shrieks circling behind the defenders. A whip of raw force cracked across the earth, snapping a charging genlock's spine.

King’s men were swarming the darkspawn now, swords splitting genlocks in two, arrows piercing thick hides and makeshift armor. Kieran struck out with his staff as an enemy drew too close, sending a spark of electricity through the weapon to enhance his strikes. His eyes were drawn back to the person fighting alongside him, dispatching darkspawn after darkspawn. 

There was something achingly familiar—something that twisted in his chest like a half-forgotten dream. When the darkspawn began to scatter and flee, they approached him with the easy stride of a warrior, wiping the sword they held on their cloak.

"You’re welcome," they said, voice low and amused, rich with a kind of effortless challenge. It was feminine, and as she drew closer to him, he could see her smaller stature, the light hair that was poking out from her helmet. 

Kieran stared at her, confusion flickering into disbelief.

Her voice was familiar, too. Familiar like an old scar you didn’t remember earning. Familiar like a childhood grudge that still ached in the back of your mind. He opened his mouth—and then closed it again.

She cocked her head slightly, studying him as if waiting for something, and then, with deliberate slowness, she lifted two fingers in a lazy, mocking salute.

Kieran realized idly that his vision was beginning to blur around the edges, and he looked down at the wound the demon had scratched into his flesh. It was bleeding in earnest now, reopened fully by the fight with the darkspawn. 

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” he muttered to himself, right before he fainted from the blood loss. 

Chapter Text

9:40 Dragon

The King arrived just past midday, announced not with fanfare, but the sound of hooves striking the stone path in steady rhythm. He rode at a canter through the outer gate of Castle Cousland, tall in the saddle, but it was the boy seated in front of him that Cordelia noticed first.

Dark-haired and sharp-eyed, the boy did not fidget as they approached the courtyard. He sat straight, too straight for a child, his expression unreadable. Cordelia could only assume this was Kieran—the son of King Alistair and Morrigan, the mysterious Witch of the Wilds. Her parents had spoken of him often in hushed tones when they thought she wasn’t listening. She had met Morrigan, though never long enough to understand her. And she had certainly never met him.

Elissa and Zevran stood waiting near the steps, both dressed in the quiet elegance expected of Ferelden’s highest nobility. Her mother’s eyes were warm, her father’s mouth curled in its usual easy smile. Cordelia stood just beside them, posture stiff, hands clasped primly in front of her, the way she’d been taught. Her new dress scratched beneath the sleeves. She tried not to fuss with the fabric.

Alistair dismounted first, swinging easily from the saddle and landing with a soldier’s grace. He reached up and lifted the boy down with a hand at his waist. Kieran landed lightly, boots hitting the cobblestones with barely a sound.

They were a study in contrast—father and son. Alistair was broad-shouldered and golden, still carrying a boyish charm. Kieran looked nothing like him. He was pale, with dark, tousled hair that curled just over his ears, and eyes that flicked across the courtyard like he was cataloguing it. He stood beside his father like a shadow stitched from a different cloth.

Cordelia stepped forward only when Zevran nudged her gently between the shoulder blades.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Be charming.”

Cordelia obeyed, but not with joy. She moved across the flagstones and dipped into a practiced curtsy, extending her hand as expected. “Hello, Kieran. I am very pleased to meet you.”

The words came out in perfect cadence—every syllable polished by tutors and repetition. But she didn’t smile.

Kieran blinked at her. Then, slowly, he tilted his head to the side, one eyebrow lifting as he examined her like something pinned under glass. He did not take her hand. He didn’t even bow. He simply stared.

Cordelia’s back stiffened. Her hand remained extended. Her brow twitched.

Behind them, Alistair pointedly cleared his throat.

Kieran sighed like it was the greatest burden in the world, and finally reached for her hand. He gave it the lightest possible touch, leaned forward, and placed a quick, awkward kiss against her knuckles—then immediately wiped his mouth on his sleeve like she had infected him.

Cordelia blinked, her face neutral only because she’d been trained too well to glare in front of guests. But from the corner of her eye, she caught her father snorting behind a gloved hand.

This was going to be awful.

As the adults exchanged greetings and pleasantries—Alistair clasping Zevran’s arm, Elissa smiling as she welcomed them—Cordelia and Kieran stood apart. The space between them felt like a chasm.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her with that same narrowed expression, like he had already decided she wasn’t worth the effort. She frowned. He smelled like horses and forest smoke. Not like a prince at all.

The announcement came moments later: Kieran would be staying through the warm season. Elissa had offered, and Alistair, busy with court, had agreed. Kieran was to join Cordelia’s lessons—history, swordplay, riding, and etiquette. Her parents said it would be good for her to have a companion her own age.

Cordelia had other ideas.

He didn’t look like he knew how to ride properly. Probably didn’t even like swords. She doubted he could name a single Bann of Ferelden. He looked... soft. Cold. And bored.

She already disliked him intensely.

And Kieran, as if to confirm her suspicions, looked at her as if she were something he’d stepped in. His lips curled. His nose wrinkled.

Cordelia lifted her chin higher.

Then the adults turned to walk inside, chatting about alliances and roads and summer storms.

As Cordelia moved to follow, Kieran stepped sideways and stuck out a foot.

She didn’t see it until her shin hit it squarely, and she went down hard, her knees scraping stone, her palms sinking into cold mud. Cordelia remained on the ground, hands filthy, her brand-new dress stained with muck. Her lip trembled, but only for a second.

She stood slowly, brushing off her skirts with deliberate care, eyes locked on Kieran’s back as he followed the adults into the castle.

She would teach him a lesson.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

The summer stretched long across Highever, golden and bright and heavy with tension.

Kieran Theirin spent three full months at Castle Cousland that year, and Cordelia never forgot a single day of it.

He was in every lesson. Every spar. Every shared dinner where the adults sipped wine and smiled, blissfully unaware that the two ten-year-olds sitting beside them were locked in a quiet, brutal cold war.

Their rivalry began the moment Kieran entered the training yard.

Cordelia was already there, sword in hand, sweating beneath the morning sun as her father barked encouragement between lazy parries. She was proud of her footwork, of the way she held her blade. She’d been working on that stance all week.

And then Kieran arrived and calmly asked if he might try. He didn’t even look at her as he took up the wooden practice blade.

And then he moved.

It wasn’t graceful, not exactly—there was something strange about the way he fought, like he was mimicking what he’d seen other people do. His steps were a little off. His weight leaned too far forward. But he was fast, and when the blade came down, it struck with precision.

Zevran blinked. “Well. That’s unexpected.”

Cordelia hated it immediately.

He didn’t fight like her—deliberate and trained, grounded. He fought like someone who had learned by instinct, not discipline. She could see the influence of his mother in the way he held still before moving, in how he never gave away his intent.

That night, she kicked off her shoes after dinner and threw them at the back of his head as they left the dining hall.

The next day, he switched her sword for a training one an inch too long, and said nothing when she stumbled in the first strike.

By the end of the week, they were sparring against each other. Daily. Unscheduled. Relentless. Every time one of them won, the other demanded a rematch. Every time one of them fell, the other made sure they saw the smirk.

The castle staff learned quickly to give them space in the corridors.

The horsemasters stopped letting them ride side by side after Cordelia kicked out at Kieran hard enough for him to fall off his horse.

Their tutors began assigning them projects simply to make them cooperate, only to regret it when one insisted on drawing the map of Thedas in chalk while the other redrew the borders just to be contrary.

Cordelia found herself annoyed by how clever he was. He understood magic even though he barely used it, after it manifested in him at a younger age than most magic-users. He read ancient Tevene aloud without stumbling. He knew how to sneak out of the solar unnoticed, and once he taught her the trick, they started daring each other to escape their lessons without being caught.

Kieran found himself frustrated by how much better she was with a blade. How determined she was. How she never let herself be outdone, even when she was tired, even when she clearly wanted to cry. And he found her voice, when she forgot to sound polite, surprisingly sharp. Witty, even.

They never spoke of it. But sometimes, when no one was watching, they sat in the shade of the stables and passed a canteen back and forth in silence, legs caked in dirt, arms bruised from the morning’s spar. Not friends. Not quite.

But something.

Then, one afternoon near the end of the season, when tempers ran hot and skin stayed flushed for hours under the sun, Kieran said something that pushed her too far.

They were in the training ring, and Cordelia had lost.

He didn’t look up as he said it, but his voice carried, light and cold as steel: "You'd think the daughter of two heroes would be better at this."

She froze. Her stomach dropped.

Heat exploded behind her eyes, white-hot and wild. Her chest tightened—her breath catching halfway through a scream she didn’t let out. She turned toward him, fists clenched, something building in her that she didn’t understand. Something that felt alive and furious.

The torch on the wall behind him flared—too high, too bright—and then burst. Glass and flame showered across the stone, and Kieran stumbled back, eyes wide.

The heat didn’t stop there.

Her hands were burning—not in pain, but with pressure, as if something were pushing outward from beneath her skin, desperate to escape. Sparks danced across her palms. Light shimmered in the air around her shoulders, warping the space, humming like a struck chord.

Cordelia gasped and dropped to her knees. She clutched her hands to her chest and bit down hard on her lip to stop the cry building in her throat.

Kieran stared.

Neither of them spoke.

He didn’t say anything—not when she shook, not when tears started to prick the corners of her eyes. Not when she scrambled to her feet and fled the room like something was chasing her.

She hid in the old chapel, breath hitching, back pressed to the cold stone.

She couldn’t be a mage. She couldn’t. She’d read the stories. She’d seen the Templars. The Circle wasn’t a place you left. Not truly. If her magic had manifested—if anyone else had seen—

She pressed her palms against the wall, trying to will the heat away. It was gone now. No fire. No sparks. But the echo remained. The sense of something sleeping just under the surface.

She didn’t know how long she had stayed there.

Later that evening, her mother found her.

Elissa sat beside her, saying nothing for a long time. Then, quietly, she pulled a cloth from her pocket and cleaned the soot from Cordelia’s fingers. She didn’t look afraid. She didn’t speak of Circles or Templars.

Only said: “We’ll keep it quiet. For now. You’re safe, my heart.”

And Cordelia, curled in her mother’s arms, wasn’t sure if she was relieved or terrified.

By the time the leaves began to turn, and Alistair returned to take his son back to Denerim, Cordelia had a scar on her shoulder from a practice staff, and Kieran had one along his ribs from when she’d thrown a book at him hard enough to knock him into a candlestick.

They didn’t hug goodbye.

They didn’t even wave.

Yet, Cordelia found herself strangely lonely in the years that followed.

Chapter Text

Something sharp pierced Kieran’s nostrils before he was fully conscious—acrid and sterile, the stinging scent of elfroot tincture and poultices designed to fight infection. The smell of alchemical precision, of fresh healing spells.

He inhaled too quickly, and the breath caught in his throat. His eyes opened with a sluggish flutter, the world above him swimming into focus.

Wood. Stone. The gentle sway of gauzy fabric overhead.

It took him a moment to recognize the canopy above, the old, carved oak, its edges softened by time. A polished ceiling beam he remembered tracing with his eyes as a child. Pale light filtered through drawn curtains, casting gold across the familiar stone floor.

Denerim.

He was in his old room.

That realization settled uneasily in his chest, more startling than comforting.

The weight of the blankets was warm and clean, the kind that smelled faintly of lavender and pressed linen, not wilderness and wet earth. He shifted and winced. His torso was bare save for bandages strapped tightly across his ribs, wrapped in neat, practiced layers. His arms bore the faint glow of recent healing magic, traces of burns, cuts, and bruises faded but not gone.

Someone had changed his clothes. Soft cotton breeches now clung lightly to his hips. The tunic he had been wearing was nowhere to be seen, likely burned or bloodied beyond repair.

The memories came next, staggering and fast. The darkspawn. The Fade rift. The overwhelming pressure in the air, the scent of rot and magic. The way his power had slipped out of control. The feral clarity that had overtaken him just before the fight turned. And—

The woman.

The fire.

He groaned and turned his face into the pillow with a muffled curse, heat crawling up the back of his neck despite the chill in the room.

He hadn’t even made it to Denerim before collapsing like some rookie out of the Wilds. Too much pride, too little restraint. And now someone had seen him stumble, had seen the prince of Ferelden bleeding and gasping in the dirt like a boy who didn’t know how to hold a blade or wield his own magic.

There had been something familiar about her, even through the haze of pain. The way she moved. The confidence in her stance. But his mind had been too frayed to place it. Magic like hers didn’t flare quietly; it had roared beside his own, consuming the battlefield. She had dropped into the fight like a firebomb from the heavens, cutting through darkspawn like they were parchment.

And she had saved his life.

Which, frankly, made everything worse.

He groaned again, deeper this time, and let the weight of it all sink into the mattress beneath him.

There was no way she hadn’t seen his face. No way this wasn’t already being passed around the castle halls. Kieran Theirin, son of the king, dragged into Denerim half-conscious, bleeding, and rescued by a stranger.

Maker help him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed with care, each movement slow, testing. His fingers pressed lightly into his side, tender, but no longer sharp with pain. The bandages held firm, the healing magic already well at work. Which meant he'd been unconscious far longer than he’d thought.

The room was too quiet.

He stood, stretched, then crossed to the tall windows along the far wall. Pulling back the curtains, he squinted into the afternoon sun as it spilled across the stone floor.

Below, the castle courtyard was alive with movement. Denerim was bracing for something. He could feel it in the pace, in the way orders were shouted instead of spoken, in the way every face was turned outward, watching the horizon.

A knock didn’t precede the voice.

“You’re awake.”

Kieran turned, sharply enough that his vision wobbled for a breath. He steadied himself on the edge of a desk and looked toward the doorway.

His father stood there.

King Alistair Theirin, war-forged and wearier than Kieran remembered, filled the frame, once more taking up too much space for Kieran's liking. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw tight—but it was the way he stood, hands half-curled at his sides, that made Kieran's stomach twist. 

“Father,” Kieran muttered, turning his back before the word could sour on his tongue. He crossed to the wardrobe, threw it open, and pulled out the first tunic his fingers brushed, soft grey, finely made, untouched by travel.

“How do you feel?” Alistair asked after a moment, his voice too gentle.

It landed wrong. That gentleness, like Kieran was something breakable.

“Never better,” Kieran said dryly, dragging the shirt over his head and fighting the grimace that pulled at his mouth as the fabric caught on the half-healed wound. “Truly, nothing brings a man more joy than being ambushed by darkspawn and nearly skewered by a hurlock before even making it to the city walls. All after being summoned back to the capital, of course. When I was perfectly happy in the Wilds.”

Alistair’s shoulders tensed, just slightly. “I would’ve sent an escort if I’d known how quickly things would fall apart.”

Kieran snorted as he tugged the hem of the tunic into place. “Forgive me if I don’t find that reassuring.”

He crossed the room, pacing now, restless, cornered by memories.

“I would have preferred to go north with Mother,” he said, too quickly. “To Arlathan Forest. At least there I’d have been useful. I hear Rook is quite competent. Maybe they need another companion to join the Veilguard.”

The words echoed. The silence that followed was louder.

“I thought you hated politics,” Alistair said softly.

“I do,” Kieran snapped, turning to face him. “But I’d rather face an Evanuris than spend another day drowning in the cage you built for me.”

Alistair flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his eyes not moving from Kieran’s. “You must understand why I named you heir. The banns demanded it. They threatened civil unrest. They wanted security, legacy, a name they could rally behind. If I hadn’t given it to them... they might have taken the crown altogether.”

“So you gave them me.” Kieran’s voice was low, bitter. “Without even asking.”

Alistair stepped forward, slow and careful. “There was no time to ask. There was pressure from every side. And your mother—”

“Don’t blame this on her,” Kieran snapped. “You can hardly share a room without arguing. You expect me to believe the two of you suddenly aligned behind the same cause?”

“Why do you think your mother brought you with her to Orlais?” Alistair snapped back, his anger rising to the surface. “She was preparing you to become heir long before you knew the reason. I am not the only one at fault.”  

Kieran took a step back. His hands were shaking, though he didn’t know if it was from the anger or the hurt, or maybe they’d been the same thing all along.

“You don’t get to ask me to understand,” he said, voice quieter now, but no less cutting. “You weren’t there for the first decade of my life. You don’t get to play the good father because it’s politically convenient.”

Alistair’s voice dropped again, rougher this time, a rasp at the edge of his calm. “Then what will it take, Kieran? Tell me. Because I’ve spent most of my time as ruler trying to protect a kingdom that’s unraveling and a son who hates me for doing it.”

Kieran met his gaze, and for just a heartbeat, something flickered in his chest. Something old. Something smaller than rage, but larger than silence.

Then he turned back to the window, fingers gripping the sill.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. 

He could tell his father wanted to reach out. To offer some sort of fragile peace between them. Instead, he heard Alistair leave the room after a moment’s hesitation. 

Kieran’s side began aching in earnest.

So much for a homecoming. 

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

A servant delivered his meal with barely a word, just a quiet curtsy and the soft clink of silver against porcelain as she set the tray on the table. Kieran offered no greeting in return. She was gone before he had even lifted the cover, her footsteps fading down the corridor like a sigh.

He ate quickly, not out of haste, but out of necessity. The last proper meal he remembered had been days ago, somewhere on the forest edge with nothing but dried meat and stolen sleep to keep him upright. His hands worked without thought, tearing bread, spearing roast fowl, drinking water like it might vanish. Only when the plate was clean and the hunger inside him had dulled did he push the tray away and stand.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting the room in warmth. He crossed to the mirror that hung above the old oak washstand and pulled his tunic over his head, the motion stiff with lingering soreness. He began unwrapping the fabric bound around his torso, breath shallow as the bandages unwound.

When the last loop fell free, he looked.

The scar traced a thin curve along his left side, just beneath the ribs. Not deep anymore, but still red, angry, and tight. A reminder. Morrigan had once told him scars were maps, that power never left the body without leaving a mark.

He laid a hand over it, fingers splayed, palm warm against the skin. Closed his eyes.

The magic came slowly. Not with the ease it once had. It surged at first, wild and eager, and he clenched his jaw against it, holding the reins taut. There was nothing nearby to lean on, no ambient well of power to temper the flow. It was all his. And lately, his magic had stopped obeying quite so easily.

It resisted him, then rushed forward like a river breaching a dam. Sweat gathered at his temples, his pulse spiking. It burned through him, not in pain but in effort, not unlike trying to lift something that had once been light but now felt impossibly heavy.

But after a breath, the ache in his ribs ebbed. The tightness faded. He opened his eyes.

The scar was still there, but no longer angry. No longer fresh. It had faded to pale silver, a thin crescent against his skin. He lowered his hand, exhaling slowly and steadily, his breath catching slightly at the fatigue that dragged in its wake.

Magic had never been hard. Not for him. Until now.

His amulet hung from its familiar place at his chest, the ruby at its center catching the firelight and throwing crimson reflections across the mirror’s surface. He touched it absently. It had once thrummed with quiet reassurance, a stabilizing force threaded through with his mother’s own magic. Now it felt... uncertain. Dimmer, somehow. 

His gaze drifted to the fire, flickering low in the hearth. He wondered what his mother was up to now. Was she with the now-famous Rook? He envied her. Not for the danger, but for the freedom.

He crossed the room and reached for the basin, splashing water over his face and neck, letting it run in cold rivulets down his spine. Then he dressed quickly: dark breeches, a simple linen shirt, and a loose outer coat of soft black with silver edging, less princely, more practical. His boots were already beside the door, newly polished and cleaned.

With one last glance toward the fire, he slipped from the room. He didn’t know where he was going. Only that he couldn’t sit still. 

The halls of Denerim stretched around him, stone and memory pressed into every corner. He hated how familiar it all felt—more familiar than the gilded ostentation of Orlais, more familiar even than the wild green chaos of the Korcari Wilds. As though no matter how stubbornly he denied his future, it had already laid claim to him.

By the time he realized where his feet were carrying him, he was pushing open the heavy oak door that led to the ramparts.

The air outside was cool and sharp, edged with the smell of iron and horses and distant rain. Kieran leaned against the stone, the chill biting through the thin fabric of his tunic, and looked down at the inner courtyard below.

Armored knights strode through the training yard with easy confidence, swords slung over their shoulders, shields flashing in the late afternoon sun. Squires darted between them like minnows in a river, ferrying supplies and weapons with grim-faced efficiency. A few knights had shed the gravity of duty entirely, flirting shamelessly with passing maids and the noblewomen who lingered near the garden terraces, laughing behind gloved hands.

Kieran watched them, arms crossed, the corner of his mouth twisting into a dry smirk. It was all a performance. One last grasp of normalcy before the darkspawn breached their borders again.

His gaze drifted lazily across the courtyard until a familiar head of dark blond curls caught his attention.

Soren.

His old boyhood friend. Or acquaintance, depending on who was asking.

Leaning against a pillar with the easy grace of a storybook rogue, smiling wide enough to blind anyone foolish enough to look directly at him. His armor was undone at the throat in that deliberate way that looked careless but was anything but, his hand braced on the pillar just above a woman’s head as he spoke to her.

Kieran’s eyes narrowed slightly. 

The woman wore travel leathers, the kind made for real roads, not for decoration. A loose shirt billowed under her fitted tunic, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her back was turned to him, one hip cocked in relaxed confidence, her head tilted.

Her hair caught the sun, lighter than Soren’s, almost a burnished gold. Kieran couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need to.

She was probably smiling.

They always smiled at Soren.

Kieran scoffed under his breath and turned, shoving his elbows against the cool stone behind him. He stared out over the horizon where the towers of the city stretched toward the distant hills, the sky bruising purple with oncoming rain.

The chatter from the courtyard drifted up faintly, the clash of practice swords and the low murmur of conversation blurring together. It should have been easy to ignore. It usually was.

Instead, his mind drifted back to the field of broken bodies and fire, to the surge of magic that had saved his life, to the voice that had snapped across the battlefield with contempt and humor alike.

"You’re welcome."

He exhaled through his nose, a short, humorless sound. He wondered idly where his savior was now. 

Chapter Text

9:43 Dragon

Early Spring, Denerim

Kieran had finally made a friend.

Sort of.

The boy’s name was Soren, a Bann’s son sent to court like so many others his age, to learn the ways of men who would one day rule parts of Ferelden. He was fourteen, golden-haired, and had the easy, careless confidence of someone who had never known true hardship. He grinned often, fought hard, and talked endlessly about things Kieran had long since grown bored of.

Still, he talked to him like he was just another boy. And after months spent among courtiers who bowed too deeply and spoke too carefully, Kieran found it refreshing enough to tolerate.

At least it was better than feeling completely alone.

The forests were a memory now, distant and fading. The heavy smell of wet earth and pine was replaced by the stony echo of Denerim’s great halls. Here, there were rules. Expectations. Lessons carved into parchment and tradition. Half the bannorn paraded through the castle under the excuse of swearing loyalty to the king, but Kieran knew it was more than that—they came to see him too. 

He spent his mornings at sword drills, afternoons serving in minor court duties, and his evenings roaming the castle steps with Soren, Jauffre, and a handful of other Banns’ and Arl’s sons. And whenever Cordelia Cousland crossed their path, the teasing sharpened like a blade drawn too fast from its sheath.

She was taller than she had been when he last saw her at Highever, though still lean and wiry with stubborn strength earned from endless training. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, and her boots were scuffed from the practice yard. She didn’t walk through the halls—she strode, daring anyone to get in her way.

Kieran remembered her being mouthy before. Quick-tempered. She hadn’t changed much. If anything, she was worse now, sharper, harder to ignore.

She had come to Denerim to spend the spring with the royal family, much as he had once spent a summer under her family’s roof. A diplomatic exchange, everyone called it, though Kieran suspected it was simply an excuse for the older generation to force their children into friendships they didn’t want.

It hadn’t worked then.

It wasn’t working now.

Cordelia trained harder than any of them. She was better than half the boys, faster with a blade than Jauffre, stronger in will than any of them. And that alone was enough to make her a target.

It started small. A comment from Soren about how her boots looked too polished, followed by kicking dirt onto them.

A sneering joke from Jauffre about how she swung a blade like she was trying to carry a tree.

And Kieran—Kieran, who should have known better—couldn’t resist joining in.

"Careful, Cousland," he drawled once as she passed. "Wouldn’t want to trip over that sword and embarrass yourself in front of real knights."

The others laughed, sharp and quick. Cordelia’s back stiffened, but she said nothing. She kept walking. The boys were lounging outside the training yard, leaning against the fence posts, their practice swords abandoned at their feet. 

Jauffre, never one to let a moment pass without making it worse, laughed. "Doesn't matter. Girls can’t be knights anyway."

The others chuckled.

Kieran, leaning lazily against the fence, added, "Maybe they’ll knight her for polishing swords instead of swinging them."

The laughter hit harder this time. But it cut off just as fast.

Cordelia stopped mid-stride. She turned—slowly, deliberately—and stalked back toward them. None of the boys moved. Not even Kieran. Cordelia let her sword drop from her shoulder into her hand, the point thudding against the dirt. Without a word, she closed the distance to Jauffre, who still wore that sneering grin.

And then she punched him square in the nose.

There was a sharp crack of bone and a howl of pain. Jauffre staggered back, clutching his face, blood streaming between his fingers, the others gaping like fish out of water.

Cordelia shook out her hand once, flexing her fingers.

"You can explain to the swordmaster why you were too slow to block," she said evenly, her voice calm despite the rage still simmering beneath her skin. “And by the way, girls can be knights. Just ask the Grey Wardens.”

None of the boys said a word as she turned her back on them and walked toward the yard. Kieran watched her go, feeling the heat rise in his chest, feeling something unsettled and sharp lodge itself under his ribs. The ground had seemed to hum when she stood there, fists clenched, magic trembling just out of reach.

It was the way she didn’t flinch when they mocked her. It was the way she never would. And that made it an even greater challenge for Kieran.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

Kieran had not known his father the way other children knew theirs.

He had not grown up beneath the steady shadow of a hand resting on his shoulder, nor learned by the easy warmth of a man who would call him son without thinking. His world had been shaped by the Wilds, by the low, endless murmur of trees in the wind, by the old magics Morrigan taught in hushed tones. His life had been quiet, powerful in its isolation. And he had never thought to miss what he had never been given.

Until now.

He stood half-shrouded in the shadow of the castle wall, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching as his father stood side by side with Cordelia.

The archery range stretched before them, sunlight slanting low across the packed earth. Cordelia’s bow creaked as she drew it back, the motion smooth and practiced. Beside her, Alistair mirrored the same movement, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as if they shared some secret joke.

Together, they loosed their arrows. Alistair’s strike was just off-center, on purpose or accidental, he was unsure. Cordelia’s arrow buried itself deep in the bullseye. Kieran watched the way Alistair laughed, unguarded and boyish, clapping her shoulder with a rough shake of pride, ruffling her hair.

It hit Kieran like a blade between the ribs. He turned away sharply, jaw clenched tight, the leather of his practice sword strap creaking in his grip. He could not bear to watch another moment of it—the easy affection, the effortless way they spoke, as if no one had ever thought to question whether Cordelia deserved it. She already had a father, parents in an outwardly loving partnership. Yet here she was...boasting the fact that she was everything he wasn't.

He remembered overhearing Alistair’s voice once, low and doubtful, when he had been just a boy hiding in the halls of Skyhold. "I thought he would be more... demonic." He remembered the way those words had rooted inside him, hollowing out a space where trust should have lived.

It wasn’t pride Kieran craved. It wasn’t approval.

It was to be seen at all.

Cordelia could laugh and miss a shot, and Alistair would muss her hair like it didn’t matter. Kieran could shatter a practice dummy with a single surge of magic, and the room would go still, eyes sliding away as if they'd seen something unnatural. No matter how hard he fought, no matter how cleanly he won, he would always be a son made by magic and desperation, not by love.

He pressed a hand flat to the cool stone of the wall, grounding himself against the hot, sick rage curling low in his belly. After a moment, Kieran pushed off and stalked away from the field, boots scraping against the gravel. His magic simmered just beneath the surface, restless and wild, a reminder of what he was, what he would always be.

And somewhere deep inside him, something older than anger whispered that he was not meant for places like this. That he would never belong within walls built for kings…only beyond them. 

The next day, with Soren and Jauffre in tow, Kieran waited for Cordelia to walk under the ramparts as she did every morning. Kieran crouched atop them, one knee braced against the weathered stone, his breath a faint mist in the chill air. Beside him, Soren and Jauffre stifled their laughter with poor success, their hands steady only by some miracle as they balanced heavy wooden buckets, the contents sloshing with each shallow breath.

It had not taken much to persuade Jauffre into this bit of mischief; he lived for it, reckless and grinning like a hound off leash, especially after Cordelia had struck him. Soren had taken longer to convince, offering token protests and a lopsided smile before giving in. 

Now they waited. Below, the castle stirred to life. Squires darted about with saddles and armor, knights loosened stiff muscles with long stretches, and the clatter of steel rang faintly in the mist.

It didn’t take long for her golden hair to reflect the morning sun below them. She moved through the courtyard with her usual crisp stride, her braid swinging against her back, her tunic and breeches neat despite the early hour. She was unarmored, her sword belted low at her hip, her new bow slung proudly over one shoulder, polished to a dark sheen. She was exactly where she always was at this hour, heading toward the practice yards with a purpose that brooked no interruption.

He gave a slight nod. Soren and Jauffre tipped the buckets.

The world held its breath for the span of a heartbeat.

Then the blood fell.

Pigs’ blood, thick and dark, rained down in heavy torrents. It struck Cordelia with a wet, sickening splatter, soaking her from crown to boots, matting her braid to her shoulders, staining her leather tunic until it gleamed dark and wet. Her bow sagged uselessly beneath the weight of it, ruined in an instant. She staggered under the unexpected blow, a gasp tearing from her throat, sharp and raw.

The boys' laughter erupted like a flood. Soren and Jauffre were already fleeing down the stone steps, howling with delight, their boots clattering wildly against the ancient stone. 

But Kieran remained. He leaned leisurely over the edge of the ramparts, elbows propped casually on the worn stone, and met Cordelia’s gaze as she lifted her face toward him.

For a long, charged moment, they stared at one another.

He saw it all play out in the space of a breath—the shock, the confusion, the creeping realization—and then the spark of pure, righteous fury that ignited in her grey eyes like steel catching fire. Cordelia narrowed her gaze, her whole body stiffening like a hound about to spring.

Kieran smiled lazily, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He raised two fingers in a mocking salute, a gesture full of insolent triumph. And then he turned on his heel and bolted after the others, his laughter echoing off the stone.

Behind him, he could already hear the rapid beat of Cordelia’s boots pounding across the courtyard, a furious storm gathering in his wake.

Chapter Text

The previous day’s events had left Cordelia with a restlessness she couldn’t shake. Her limbs ached. There was a heat under her skin, something coiled and unsettled. She had woken before dawn and hadn't stopped moving since, as if motion might loosen the tension binding her muscles and help her forget the low, constant humming at the edge of her thoughts. It felt like a song she didn’t know the words to, half-heard and half-felt, and she didn’t like how it clung to her.

She’d pushed it aside as best she could, throwing herself into anything that required her hands: checking her gear, walking the perimeter of the inner grounds, polishing her armor, sharpening her sword. Anything to keep from thinking too long about what had happened. 

Anything to keep herself from standing still. And to keep from thinking about him.

She clenched her fists and exhaled, dragging herself away from the window where the cool breeze did nothing to settle the fever behind her ribs. Somewhere in the castle, Kieran Theirin was alive, breathing, recovering. Because of her.

Her father had been speechless when they had found her there, kneeling in the mud, hands pressed against Kieran’s side, her magic crackling like a brand in the air around them. Zevran had opened his mouth—likely to scold her for disobeying orders—but whatever words he had found were swallowed back down. Her mother had said nothing at all.

But then again, there wasn’t much to say when your daughter came back dragging the unconscious heir to the Fereldan throne.

She remembered the look on King Alistair’s face—how he had dropped to his knees without ceremony, gathering Kieran’s limp body into his arms with a tenderness that twisted something sharp in Cordelia’s chest. She had stood frozen, watching as the men hoisted Kieran onto a horse, blood dripping down in slow, terrible rivulets.

Every memory she had of him was tinged with bruised egos and bruised shins, sharp words and sharper glances. He had been difficult, arrogant, and clever in the most annoying ways. And now he was here. A man, not a boy. 

Cordelia tore herself from her thoughts with a frustrated sigh. She stalked across her chamber again, boots scuffing softly against the polished stone. The guest quarters were generous, filled with fine linens and carved wood, but today the stone walls seemed to press inward, the ceiling too low, the air too heavy despite the window thrown wide to the spring breeze.

Her parents were in council with the king again. Reinforcements were arriving by the hour—the scattered remains of the Inquisition’s forces, the arls, the banns, summoned from across Thedas. She had grown up on stories of the Inquisition’s might, of Laelia Lavellan and her power to shape the very sky, of knights and battlemages who could hold the tide of darkness at bay with sword and spell alike. She had dreamed, once, of being such a figure. Not a lady at court, smiling politely in the shadows of lords, but a shield between her people and the storm. A flicker of excitement stirred at the thought of meeting the Inquisitor at last—a living legend from her childhood stories—but she quickly buried it, reminding herself that now was hardly the time to nurse a foolish admiration for someone she didn't know.

Cordelia yanked open the door to her chamber and strode out into the hall without a second thought, boots striking the stone floor in quick beats. As she entered the courtyard, knights stripped off armor by the practice rings, laughing and shouting over the din, while squires bustled past with arms full of saddles and battered shields.

Cordelia moved through the crowd with quiet purpose. Her boots rang against the stone as she crossed to the rack of crossbows near the old armory wall. Her fingers brushed over the polished stocks and iron bolts, searching for a weapon that felt balanced.

She was so focused on the task at hand that she didn’t notice the footsteps behind her until a hand braced itself lightly against the wall beside her head, and a shadow fell across her. Cordelia turned, her hand instinctively tightening around the crossbow—only to find herself face to face with a stranger.

No, not quite a stranger.

He smiled down at her, easy and unhurried, golden hair tousled by the wind. His leather armor clung to the lean, strong lines of his body, the laces at the throat undone. His eyes were a vivid, startling blue, bright even in the fading light, and there was a warmth in them—a sparkle that suggested he found the whole world just slightly amusing.

"You always had good taste," he said, his voice low and warm, nodding toward the crossbow in her hands. "You’ll have the best aim on the field, no doubt."

For a moment, Cordelia could only stare, caught off guard not only by the suddenness of his presence, but by the unthinking familiarity of it, the way he spoke to her like they had known each other for years. 

"You—" she started, narrowing her eyes, taking in the curve of his smile, the way his golden hair curled stubbornly at his temples despite the neat cut.

And suddenly she saw it.

The boy from years ago, the one who used to steal her favorite practice swords and dare her to race him across the battlements, who had laughed like mischief itself and left a trail of broken hearts behind him even before he was old enough to understand what it meant.

"Soren?" she breathed, half in disbelief. 

His grin widened. "Took you long enough, Cousland."

Cordelia stepped back, still clutching the crossbow like it might shield her from the sudden rush of memory. He had changed. Gone was the lanky boy she remembered. In his place stood a man, broad-shouldered and self-assured, every inch of him comfortable in his own skin.

"You grew up," she said before she could stop herself, her voice flatter than she intended.

Soren laughed, easy and unbothered. "It happens. But so did you.”

Cordelia snorted despite herself. She took note of the maids who passed him, their faces flushing pink beneath hurried smiles, the way even a few young squires straightened their shoulders, casting admiring glances his way.

He shifted closer, lowering his voice into something warm and conspiratorial. "Come on, Cousland," he murmured, a glint of mischief lighting his blue eyes. "Come steal some sweetcakes with me. Like old times."

Cordelia scowled before she could think better of it. "Was that before or after you spent every waking hour trying to bully me?"

Soren laughed, easy and unrepentant, the sound curling around her. He cocked his head, golden hair falling into his eyes as he gave her a slow, infuriating smile.

"I only bullied you," he said, tone dropping just slightly, "because I fancied you."

Cordelia’s breath caught, heat flaring high in her cheeks. Her nostrils flared in betrayal of the calm she fought to keep, and for a heartbeat, she didn’t know whether she wanted to bite back with a razor-edged retort or spin on her heel and leave him standing there.

Soren, of course, made the decision for her.

He stepped back with a graceful, careless ease, walking away with a backwards gait, his grin boyish and infuriating. He lifted one hand in a lazy wave and winked at her.

Cordelia’s hands tightened into fists at her sides as she watched him go. She turned back to the rack of crossbows, her pulse hammering against her throat, and selected a different weapon almost blindly, barely feeling the polished wood beneath her fingers.

If he thought she would fall at his feet just because he smiled and winked and spoke with that easy, golden boy confidence, he had another thing coming. She slung the crossbow over her shoulder and strode away without looking back.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

Laelia Lavellan had the sort of presence that commanded a room. Even more so than the king himself. 

There was no fanfare when she entered, no trumpets or pageantry, and yet the hall stilled as if a queen had passed through its doors. Whispers hushed. Movement slowed. Even the torchlight seemed to pause in reverence, casting golden flares across her metallic prosthetic arm as it caught the light. The former Inquisitor wore a high-collared tunic of deep emerald green, its cuffs clasped with golden fastenings that shimmered like gilded leaves. Her woollen leggings were dyed to match, tucked neatly into tall, dark boots that clicked with sharp precision against the stone. It was not court finery, but neither was it armor. 

Her long auburn hair was woven into loose braids at her temples, the ends curling gently down her shoulders. Pointed elven ears peeked through the tendrils, unmistakable and unapologetic. There was a quiet authority in the way she held her chin, in the way her green eyes swept the room.

At her side stood her husband, Cullen Rutherford—Commander of the Inquisition once, though his name had not graced official titles in some years. He was as tall as the stories said, his shoulders broad beneath plain leathers, his expression unreadable. Together, they were something out of a storybook: an elf who had held the sky in her hand, and the commander who followed her through fire. 

Cordelia stood near one of the tables along the wall, arms loosely crossed, doing her best not to look as awestruck as she felt. Her attire was simple but deliberately chosen—an embroidered charcoal-grey tunic cinched at the waist, dark trousers tailored to movement rather than beauty, and slightly heeled black boots that clicked softly with each step. She remained rooted where she was, watching as Lavellan spoke to the king, her head bowing slightly in greeting. Her Vallaslin was a beautiful pattern of vines curving up her cheekbones like wings, shimmering with a pearlescent gleam with every tilt of her chin.  

A familiar presence shifted beside her, and she glanced to the side to find her father leaning against the wall, one boot braced lazily against the stone. He swirled the wine in his goblet with casual ease, though Cordelia noted the way his eyes missed nothing in the crowd.

He didn’t look at her, but smiled faintly. “What troubles you, mi corazón?” Zevran asked, his voice light as ever, though it lacked the usual flourish.

Cordelia hesitated. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she replied, “It feels as though our lives are about to change forever.”

Zevran hummed low in his throat, neither agreeing nor denying. His gaze drifted across the chamber to the soldiers in polished armor, to the nobles gathered beneath the chandeliers. “You were young when Corypheus made his bid for godhood,” he said at last, quieter now. “Too young to remember the panic in the streets. The Fade opening above your head. I had hoped you would never need to see such a time again.”

Cordelia didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened at her sides.

“But,” Zevran continued, tilting his head in thought, “the tales from the north suggest we have champions still. If half of what is said of this… Rook is true, then perhaps Thedas is not so lost.”

Cordelia’s gaze shifted across the room to her mother. Elissa stood near one of the long tables, deep in quiet conversation with a fellow Grey Warden—an older man with a deep blue cloak and a face lined with exhaustion. Her mother’s brow was furrowed, her expression drawn.

“Mother was unsuccessful in her quest to cure the Calling,” Cordelia said, not as a question, but a statement she had long suspected.

Zevran’s smile faded. He exhaled slowly through his nose and gave a small, reluctant nod. “Yes,” he said, voice soft. “Maker willing, we have plenty of time to continue the search. It can be done, so hope is not yet lost. ”

“But the nightmares have started again,” she murmured, almost to herself. 

Zevran was quiet for a long time. Then, with sudden brightness that felt almost cruel in its cheer, he lifted his goblet and said, “Then we must hope Rook and their Veilguard do what legends are meant to do—save the world and take the credit.”

Cordelia raised a brow at him. “You always pretend not to worry,” she said softly.

Zevran leaned closer, brushing a kiss against her temple as if she were still a child in leathers too big for her. “It is the gift I give to those I love, mi vida,” he murmured. “I worry enough for all of us. But if you see me afraid, you might start to be. And that,” he added with a flash of teeth, “would be very inconvenient.”

Cordelia huffed a laugh, faint and bitter. She noticed that the guests were beginning to take their seats. Stewards moved through the hall like shadows, ushering nobles and commanders toward the long table that bisected the space. There was no great dais here, no rigid hierarchy in the arrangement. King Alistair had always eschewed pomp in favor of warmth and camaraderie. Still, Cordelia’s eye caught on the chair beside the king, which was decidedly empty.

Laelia Lavellan sat on the other side of the king, her husband gallantly taking her chair out for her as though he had done so a hundred times before, and Laelia touched his arm softly as she spoke, a natural gesture. 

Cordelia turned her gaze away before she lingered too long. She moved toward the center table where her parents were already settling. Elissa nodded her head to the seat next to her, her grey eyes warm as she looked at Cordelia. Cordelia took her seat without a word. Her father dropped into the chair on Elissa’s other side with his usual grace, already cradling a goblet in one hand and flashing an easy smile toward a passing servant.

Cordelia folded her hands in her lap and tried not to fidget. The evening felt too slow, like a storm about to break but refusing to.

“Is this seat taken?”

Cordelia turned and found Soren standing there, hair windswept. He wore his formal tabard over leather armor, the colors of Amaranthine stitched proudly into the breast, though his expression remained boyishly crooked.

“It is now,” she said dryly.

He gave her a grin and settled in beside her, tugging his chair closer than strictly necessary. Cordelia resisted the urge to shift away.

“I must say,” Soren murmured as he adjusted his plate, “you clean up well, Cousland. I thought you only wore armor and scowls.”

Cordelia arched a brow, reaching for her goblet. “And I thought you were just a knight. Have you always been this annoying, or is it a skill you picked up in court?”

Soren laughed, low and warm, the sound easy between sips of wine. “Not just a knight,” he said, glancing sidelong at her. “Did no one tell you? I’ve inherited Amaranthine.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Cordelia said, tone softening despite herself. 

He shrugged, though she caught the flicker of something heavier beneath the nonchalance. “My father fell ill last winter. It took him fast. The bannorn ratified my claim just after the solstice.”

Cordelia studied him for a long moment. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s strange. I trained for knighthood, not diplomacy. I’d rather be in the sparring yard than some war table, arguing over grain tariffs. But duty is duty.”

Cordelia tilted her head slightly, surprised by the honesty in his tone. She was about to speak—perhaps to offer sympathy, or perhaps to remind him that the life of a noble wouldn’t be easy for any of them—but the words never left her lips.

The great hall doors swung open with a bang.

A sudden hush fell over the nearest tables as every head turned toward the entryway. The guards didn’t move to announce the arrival. No steward heralded him with title. He didn’t need it.

Kieran Theirin strode into the room like a storm.

He was tall—taller than she remembered—with his dark hair loose and unruly, falling in damp waves around his face. His high-collared tunic was half-laced, as though he had been in a hurry to dress. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, voice carrying without effort, rich with dry amusement. There was no trace of apology in it.

He walked directly toward the high table with long strides, toward the empty chair beside the king. Alistair gave a faint sigh as his son approached, though he didn't comment.

Soren gave a soft chuckle, low enough that only Cordelia could hear it. Her jaw tensed. She didn’t look at Soren. Her eyes were fixed on Kieran as he dropped into his seat, looking perfectly at ease, as if he hadn’t nearly died the day before, as if he hadn’t been dragged in from a battlefield with blood slicking his ribs.

If it were possible, he was even more obnoxious now than he had been in their youth, and Cordelia dreaded the moment she would have to pretend niceties once more.

Chapter Text

9:45 Dragon

Kieran tolerated Soren at the best of times.

What he couldn’t tolerate were the words that came from Soren’s mouth.

“She’s cute,” Soren said, one day, as if it were the most ordinary thought in the world. A shrug accompanied the words, casual as the snow falling outside the window.

They sat together in the royal solar, surrounded by worn books on Thedas’ wars and a fire that crackled against the chill. Outside, frost painted the edges of the glass in twisting silver lines. Their tutor had retired for a short while, hoping the two boys would at least skim the chapter on the Fourth Blight before she returned. But history, as ever, was dull—especially when one’s mother had retold it in bedtime warnings and bitter reminiscences.

Kieran didn’t look up from the pages in front of him. “Would you find a wyvern cute?” he muttered. “Or a darkspawn?”

Soren raised a brow. “Two vastly different things. And neither of them has hair that looks like sunshine itself.”

A sharp flicker of power sparked at Kieran’s fingertips. He curled his hand beneath the table, clenching it until the pulse of magic stilled.

“It’s Cordelia ,” he said, dumbly.

“I know,” Soren replied, still watching the window with an idle smile. 

Kieran didn’t answer. He didn’t have words for the feeling in his chest, only that it tightened every time Cordelia walked into a room, and knotted like a noose whenever she didn’t.

She had arrived in Denerim two months prior, staying through the winter at the king’s request. Her parents had gone on a mission, something so secretive that his father hadn’t shared the information with him. And so Cordelia had been left in the care of the court, which mostly meant she trailed after her tutors, sparred with the guards, and offered Kieran scathing commentary on his posture.

They hadn’t spoken much since the pig’s blood incident two years earlier. Not properly. There had been side-eyes and biting remarks in the corridors, but the kind of war that cooled instead of burning. Kieran had liked it that way. Distance was easier.

And now Soren was watching her from the window like a lovestruck fool.

Kieran didn’t like it.

He leaned over slightly, casting his gaze past Soren’s shoulder to the scene below. Cordelia was in the yard, mid-swing with that oversized blade she insisted on dragging everywhere, her hair tied back high, whipping around her face like a banner in battle. Her personal guard circled her with a stern expression on his face, barking instructions that Cordelia took with grim-faced determination.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. But everything about Cordelia bothered him. 

Not the swordsmanship itself, though that, too, was ridiculous. She was a mage. One of the more gifted ones he’d seen, in fact, which annoyed him to no end. She could have reduced those guards to ash with a flick of her hand. But no—Cordelia had to fight like a knight, had to grind her knuckles into the dirt to prove a point no one had asked her to make.

His eyes drifted to the gleaming hilt of her sword. He wondered, idly, just how furious she’d be if it were to suddenly go missing.

The thought sat there, quietly wicked.

Then Kieran glanced at Soren, still moon-eyed and silent beside him.

And that’s when the plan began to take shape.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

Kieran waited.

Perched silently on the iron balustrade outside Cordelia’s balcony, he remained cloaked in feathers and shadow, wings tucked close, talons curled around the wrought iron. Raven form suited him more than most of the shapes Morrigan had taught him to master. He was light. Unnoticed. Free.

Cordelia’s chamber was dimly lit, the light bouncing off the walls from the fireplace. Her silhouette moved in front of the tall, mullioned windows like a restless ghost, pacing, pausing, fuming. He could almost feel the tension rippling off her, could see it in the way her hands fisted at her sides when she finally stilled.

Her sword had been too easy to steal. She hadn’t even locked the case that held it. He’d flown in, seized the hilt in his talons, and vanished without a sound. But it didn't take her long to notice its absence.

She turned sharply toward the window as if sensing the eyes that watched her. Then she looked out toward the lake. A faint glow shimmered across the ice just beyond the castle walls, cold and pearlescent, flickering like a reflection of stars. It pulsed softly across the frozen surface, the illusion Kieran had so carefully crafted clinging to the sword. 

She narrowed her eyes.

Kieran bristled slightly on the railing. She was supposed to be confused. Maybe unsettled. At most, mildly impressed by his cleverness. Instead, she muttered something furiously into the glass—and then said his name. He couldn't hear it, not exactly, but he didn’t need to. He felt the venom in the shape of her lips.

Of course, she would know it was him.

She vanished from the window. A few moments later, she emerged below, storming out through the side courtyard gates with her cloak slung haphazardly over her shoulders, gloves half-pulled on as she marched toward the lake like a soldier heading to battle.

Kieran launched from the railing, wings beating once to catch the current as he swept overhead, low and silent against the night sky. Below, Cordelia’s boots crunched over the frost-blanketed path, her breath curling in the cold, white mist against the blue-black dark. She reached the lake's edge, paused only to scan the glowing shape on the ice, and then stepped forward.

Kieran circled once above her, uneasy. The sword wasn’t far from the bank. Just a few paces. He’d chosen the spot carefully—close enough to tempt, far enough to make her think. The lake had frozen solid a week ago. The servants said so. 

Cordelia moved toward the center of the glow, her posture rigid with fury. Her braid swayed behind her, the tail of her cloak catching on the ice as she walked. Her steps were deliberate. She didn’t even draw magic to her palm. 

On her third step, the ice cracked.

The sound split the air in a jagged, raw crack that echoed through the trees and bounced back off the castle walls. Kieran’s wings faltered mid-beat.

Below, Cordelia froze.

Then the ice gave way. She fell without a sound. The dark water swallowed her whole, and the light vanished.

Panic slammed into him. He dove. His raven shape twisted through the air like a dart, form slicing through the wind, and in the blink of an eye, he hit the snow, feathers shifting, bones stretching, magic coiling around him as he landed and became a boy again.

No. No, no, no.

“Cordelia!” he cried. 

Her name tore from his throat as he skidded across the frozen shore and flung himself flat across the splintered ice. His elbows burned from the scrape of snow and frozen stone, but he crawled forward until his chest met the edge.

Nothing. No movement. Only the black mouth of the water, and the faint whisper of cracking ice beneath his weight. He slapped a palm to the surface and hissed through his teeth, calling on his magic with everything he had. Power rushed to his hand, hot and volatile, and he forced it to obey, melting the ice in a controlled burst around the hole.

Steam hissed. He plunged his arms into the water. Freezing agony rushed up his limbs. His teeth clenched. Not far enough. He pushed his head past the icy surface, attempting to see beyond the darkness. 

His hand met something solid.

He gripped her wrist hard, locked his jaw, and pulled. She didn’t move at first, her cloak tangled, her limbs too heavy with cold. But he hauled her anyway, inch by inch, her arm slick with ice and water. She was dead weight.

He leaned back, braced his boots, and gave a final wrench. She came loose with a sickening slosh of water and fabric, breaking the surface with a gasp that barely sounded like breath. Her face was pale, her lips tinged blue. Her eyes fluttered but didn’t open.

“ Cordelia, ” he gasped, dragging her onto the bank, kneeling in the snow with her in his arms. He didn’t care about the cold anymore. He didn’t care about the sword.

He had done this.

And if she died… He couldn’t even finish the thought.

She felt too light in his arms, limp and cold, as if the water had stolen more than just her warmth. Kieran scrambled to his feet, his soaked boots slipping against the frozen bank. He adjusted his grip, cradling her against his chest, her sodden cloak dragging along the snow as he turned toward the lights of the castle, now glowing like a beacon through the fog that clung low across the courtyard. The wind howled at his back as if urging him to move faster.

He didn’t remember the journey from lake to gate—only the rhythm of his boots pounding the frost-slick stone, her breath a faint, fluttering ghost against his collarbone. His magic pulsed beneath his skin, erratic and useless. 

By the time they reached the doors, the castle was in chaos.

Voices shouted. A steward called for blankets. Servants lit every hearth fire. Cordelia was taken from his arms by strong hands—maids and soldiers and the castle’s healer converging on her like moths to flame. Cordelia was rushed past, vanishing into the inner halls in a blur of cloaks and wool.

She was gone before he could even speak her name.

Kieran didn’t follow.

He stood at the castle threshold, drenched to the bone, water pooling around his feet. The melted snow soaked through his trousers. Scrapes stung across his knuckles, blood welling thin and bright. His hair hung in dark, dripping curls, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. His chest heaved with every breath, though the air was still and quiet now.

Every face that passed—stewards, knights, frightened servants—averted their gaze.  They knew he had done this.

Kieran stared down the hall where they had taken her, the echo of boots and shouted names still ringing in his ears. His stomach twisted the moment his father appeared, rushing to his side and clutching his shoulders, checking him for injury. The sudden touch of hands on his shoulders made him flinch violently.

"Kieran," his father's voice cut through the haze, rough with fear.

Kieran met his father’s eyes only for a moment. Alistair’s hands were firm, checking his arms, his collar, his sides, brushing across damp fabric in search of wounds. His fingers lingered on the raw skin of Kieran’s knuckles, where the ice had scraped them to blood.

“You’re shaking,” Alistair said, too quickly, too urgently. “Are you hurt? Kieran, talk to me.”

But Kieran didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He barely felt the warmth of his father’s cloak being draped over his shoulders. He barely noticed the castle around him, already retreating into whispers. He only felt the weight of what he had done, pressing in from every side like the lake itself had followed him to the surface. 

Alistair’s voice was gentler now. “Let’s go, son. Before you freeze.”

But Kieran didn’t move. Not until his father’s hand, warm and steady, curled around the back of his neck and steered him slowly, wordlessly, into the flickering torchlight of the corridor.

Chapter Text

“What of you, Cordelia?” 

Cordelia blinked, dragging herself out of the reverie she hadn’t realized she’d fallen into. Soren was looking at her with a quiet, unassuming patience, so at odds with the boy she remembered from her childhood. It was almost unsettling.

She straightened slightly and glanced at him sidelong, a faint crease between her brows. “What was that?”

“How long will you be in Denerim?” he repeated, his smile easy, tone light, though his gaze lingered a little too closely.

Cordelia let her shoulders shift in a small shrug. “I suppose as long as my mother has need of me here,” she murmured. “Though Castle Cousland is well fortified, I doubt she’ll want to remain away for long. The Arl is acting in her stead.”

Soren gave a thoughtful nod, leaning forward slightly on one elbow. “We can only hope that the darkspawn threat is less dire than we think,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Though, in Amaranthine, we mostly receive threats from sea—pirates and smugglers. Thankfully, nothing our army cannot handle.”

Cordelia made a quiet sound of agreement, more habit than conviction. Her eyes, though, had drifted away from him, down the long table where goblets shimmered and firelight danced in the reflections of polished platters. 

Kieran lounged with deliberate ease in his chair, his head tilted as he murmured something to Laelia Lavellan. The Inquisitor laughed quietly, her hand brushing her husband’s as she leaned back, and for a moment, Cordelia saw Kieran as he must appear to others: charming, composed, radiant with the same dangerous sort of beauty as his mother. She noticed the way his jaw looked more defined than it had in their youth, the lines of his face sharpened and set by time. His shoulders were broader, his posture less coiled, though no less unreadable.  As if sensing her attention, his eyes shifted and landed on her.

Cordelia didn’t move. She held his gaze for one breathless second, trying to find something there. Recognition. Remorse. Surprise. But there was nothing in his expression but a detached curiosity, the sort one might give to a new courtier they were trying to place.

She looked away first.

Her chest tightened as she focused on her untouched plate, the burn of humiliation clawing at her throat. There was a high probability he didn’t even recognize her. Soren remembered her without hesitation, but then again, Soren always paid more attention than he let on. Perhaps that was why she tolerated his presence, even now, even after everything.

The scrape of a goblet drew her attention back to the head of the table. King Alistair had risen, regal in posture but with weariness pressing behind his smile. He lifted his cup, and the room fell still, all chatter fading beneath the quiet weight of his voice.

“I thank you all for joining me here in light of recent events in the north,” Alistair began, and his tone, though warm, carried steel beneath it. “As we speak, scouts are reporting darkspawn sightings and evacuating at-risk villages to the city. So far, there is no activity on our borders, but the threat of Fade rifts is increasing—enough to rival the events of twelve years ago.”

A chill slid down Cordelia’s spine.

“I urge you all to mobilize your forces,” the king continued, eyes sweeping the length of the table. “The Bannorn, Orzammar, the Dales; our allies prepare for what comes. The unrest in Antiva and Tevinter grows. And yesterday, near Fort Drakon, we suffered a grave loss. We mourn the fallen. And we honor those who endure.”

The silence that followed was immediate and complete. Hands lifted goblets in a quiet salute. No voices spoke over the moment. Cordelia raised her own chalice and let the moment settle heavy in her bones. She could feel the eyes of generals and advisors flicking across the room, each no doubt wondering how long this fragile calm would last.

The king lowered his own cup and set it gently back onto the carved oak before him. “Please eat,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And take solace in this night. We do not know how many we will have before the fight inevitably comes to our door.”

He sat with a weary exhale, and Cordelia caught the way his gaze lingered across the table—on her mother, seated in steel and silence. Elissa met it with the smallest of nods, something exchanged between them in that glance. The words made the pit in her stomach twist and deepen. A single night of peace. And who could say when the next would come?

She would be ready, she told herself. She had to be. Her blade was sharpened, her armor cleaned and laid out, each strap and buckle tested. Tomorrow, she would visit the castle’s alchemist and restock her lyrium reserves, despite her mother’s disapproval. The arcane drew sharper, deeper when fueled, and in war, hesitations cost lives. Maybe she was preparing just to stave off helplessness. Maybe she only wanted something tangible to hold when the shadows pressed in. But preparation was armor in its own right.

Movement at the head of the table caught her eye. Alistair was leaning toward Kieran, saying something low and deliberate. Cordelia’s breath caught when the prince’s gaze flicked up, grazing past Soren and settling—inevitably—on her. Two faint patches of color rose in his cheeks. Then he turned away and murmured something in response to his father, whose jaw tightened visibly with disapproval.

Cordelia didn’t need to hear it to know the shape of the exchange. Alistair had just told Kieran what he wouldn’t have wanted to know. And it involved Cordelia and a sword.

“He’s possibly still bitter about the time you magicked his hair off in front of a comely maid,” Soren said, his voice a whisper laced with laughter, as he leaned a little closer.

Cordelia raised an eyebrow and huffed softly. “And I haven’t forgotten the bucket of blood you dropped on my head.”

Soren gave a theatrical wince. “Ah, yes. The golden years of our childhood cruelty. If it makes you feel any better, I do recall you nearly pushing Jauffre off the west tower when he insulted your swordwork.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes.

Soren chuckled. “Then there was the time you put almonds in my breakfast. I was sent to the healer with hives.”

Cordelia paused, sipping from her goblet with deliberate nonchalance. “I didn’t know you were allergic.”

Soren’s eyes narrowed. “Then why almonds?”

“To mask the taste of the licorice root,” she muttered into her drink.

Soren blinked. “What in the Maker’s name for?”

Cordelia cleared her throat, cheeks warming despite the chill in the great hall. “It... has a laxative effect.”

There was a beat of silence as realization dawned. Soren stared at her, open-mouthed, before bursting into laughter loud enough to draw startled glances from down the table. Her mother arched a brow. Her father grinned around his wine. The Inquisitor, seated beside the king, cast a brief, curious look their way, and Cordelia wished she could vanish under the table.

“You,” Soren managed between wheezing chuckles, “are something else, Cordelia.”

She took a long drink from her cup, pretending her face wasn’t ablaze with humiliation. The attention wasn’t even the worst of it. No, that would be the way she caught Kieran looking at her again from across the table, as if the sound of laughter—or perhaps the sight of her not being miserable—irked him in some way.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

By the end of dinner, Cordelia’s only grip on sanity was knowing a warm bed was in her future, and a hot, strong cup of tea.

As the final course vanished and the king pushed back from the table, Cordelia was ready to bolt for the door. Alistair murmured something to Jauffre, who had appeared at his elbow with an important-looking missive, and with that, the evening was officially concluded. Kieran had vanished halfway through dinner, and Cordelia found she could breathe easier in his absence, though she had little appetite. 

She was halfway to the side hall when she heard the scrape of a chair behind her, followed by the purposeful sound of boots.

“Allow me to escort you to your rooms,” Soren said, falling into step beside her with a half-smile that was all white teeth and practiced charm. He offered her his arm, more out of habit than expectation.

Cordelia did not take it.

Soren continued, undeterred. “I thought it would be chivalrous. Old traditions, and all that.”

She almost shot back a rude retort, but stopped herself when she caught the familiar weight of her mother’s gaze from near the hearth. Elissa was watching her like a hawk, a slight tilt to her head that was all approval and silent nudging as she retrieved her cloak. Cordelia bit back a sigh.

Her mother might have faced down archdemons and survived the Fade, but when it came to matters of the heart, she was still an incurable romantic—and her father was even worse. She could practically hear the conversation they would have later, murmuring over wine and firelight: They look so well-matched, don’t they? It’s about time Cordelia courted someone.

“Fine,” she relented, voice low and tight.

Soren grinned, clearly pleased, and fell back a step. “Then give me just a moment,” he said easily, “so I can pay my respects to your parents. Wouldn’t want them to think I was abducting you.”

Cordelia winced. Exactly the wrong thing to say. Elissa’s expression brightened immediately as Soren turned back toward the dining hall, her eyes practically sparkling with encouragement. Zevran raised his glass in a lazy salute. 

This was a mistake. Cordelia turned swiftly down the nearest corridor, hoping to get a moment’s peace before Soren returned.

“I was wondering who Soren’s new courtesan was.”

The voice came from the shadows behind her—silken, disinterested, and barbed with lazy cruelty.

Cordelia halted mid-stride, every muscle in her spine tightening as though she’d been struck. She turned, deliberately, like a drawn bow pivoting toward its mark. Her pulse kicked up, cold and sharp beneath her collarbone, but her expression held steady. Barely.

Courtesan. The word clung like oil. The nerve.

Kieran stood half-shrouded in the alcove between two tall, arched windows, his body framed by the shifting light of a nearby torch and the silver wash of moonlight bleeding through the glass. One arm was folded across his chest in studied indifference. The other toyed idly with the edge of his coat, fingers tracing the black fabric with a casual, predatory rhythm. His eyes—green and gold, always a little too bright to be comfortable—almost glowed.

Cordelia took a breath, slow and measured, and smoothed her expression into one of perfect, court-trained composure. “How nice it is to see you again, Kieran,” she said, her voice even and almost pleasant.

A flicker of surprise passed through his expression, there and gone in a breath. She imagined he’d expected her to flare like kindling. She imagined he wanted her to. But she wasn’t a child anymore. She had learned to temper the fire until it burned just under the surface, waiting for the right strike.

“How’s your injury?” she asked, voice just shy of sweet. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you bled out quietly in your rooms.”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, I see you haven’t changed at all. Still as sharp-tongued as ever.”

“A simple thank you would suffice.”

Kieran leaned one shoulder against the wall, as if this was all terribly exhausting. “Thank you,” he drawled, “for saving me from an injury I would’ve survived anyway. Barely an inconvenience.”

“You were half-dead.”

“I was halfway through a spell. I had everything under control.”

“You collapsed.”

“And yet, here I stand.”

She stepped forward. “I could’ve left you to bleed out in the dirt.”

Then, with a chuckle that sounded more like a growl in his throat, he replied, “I was prepared to thank a beautiful maiden for saving my life. Too bad you don’t quite live up to that.”

“You—”

“I don’t think the castle can handle your battle of wits this time around, friends,” came a smooth, intervening voice from the side corridor.

Soren approached at a leisurely pace, his smile bright and oblivious to the tension in the air, or perhaps deliberately ignoring it. “Good to see you, Kier,” he added, with the ease of old friendship. “Been well?”

Kieran didn’t so much as blink. “As well as one can be after being ambushed by demons and nearly gutted by darkspawn.”

“Ah, yes,” Soren said, casting Cordelia a sidelong glance. “I heard about that. How fortunate we are that some people actually listened to their instructors.”

Cordelia didn’t respond. She was still staring at Kieran, insulted, who offered Soren a nod and a too-pleasant smile.

“Don’t mind me,” Kieran said, the words dry as flint. “I have duties to attend to.” He turned his gaze to Cordelia one last time, slower now, and added, “Enjoy your…walk.”

And then he was gone, slipping into the shadows with the soundless grace of someone who had grown up slipping between the Veil and the world.

“Friendly as ever,” Soren said lightly beside her, and Cordelia wasn’t sure if he meant it or if he was trying to smooth away the tension that still buzzed under her skin like static. She didn't miss the implication in Kieran's voice. That she was reduced to nothing more than a plaything for someone like Soren.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she turned sharply on her heel and strode off down the corridor toward her chambers, the taste of something bitter lingering at the back of her tongue.

Chapter Text

Kieran had long since grown accustomed to playing a part.

He became what others saw in him: a cruel, shallow princeling, all sneer and swagger and inconvenient bursts of power. And after a while, he stopped pretending otherwise.

It was easier that way. Easier to let them call him strange or spoiled or dangerous, than to admit that sometimes, he didn’t know where the line ended between who he was and what the world had made of him.

What was Kieran Theirin, if not a question answered by other people?

His gaze skimmed the dining hall, the laughter and clinking of cutlery fading to static at the edge of his thoughts. He noticed Soren speaking to a fair-haired noblewoman, possibly the one he had spotted earlier in the day. From what he could tell, she was pretty enough, though he was sure Soren would break her heart before the night was over. That was what Soren did best.

Across the table sat Laelia Lavellan, the former Inquisitor herself—mythic, poised, radiant. She hadn’t changed much in the years since they’d first met, when he was nothing more than a boy still growing into his skin. The weight of her presence was quieter now, tempered since the loss of the Anchor, but not diminished. If anything, the absence of that blinding power made the strength beneath it more precise.

Laelia Lavellan sat slightly forward, her elbows braced on the carved edge of the high table, fingers curled around a silver goblet. Her presence had always been composed, but now there was something tighter beneath the surface, an urgency that hadn’t been there before. Her voice, though soft, carved cleanly through the low murmur of the banquet hall.

“The reports out of Arlathan Forest are becoming harder to ignore,” she began in a soft voice to the king. “Lace Harding—one of my oldest scouts—has been feeding me reports from the north. They came across a small town in Arlathan last week; D’Meta’s Crossing.”

Kieran didn’t look at her directly, but his gaze shifted subtly in her direction. He saw his father’s shoulders tighten beside him, the way Alistair’s jaw set ever so slightly. 

Laelia’s voice dropped. “The Evanuris conducted a blood ritual there. A full release of the Blight.”

The words landed like lead.

“There were no survivors,” she added, her tone grim. “Harding said the trees are blackened. The ground itself hums with corruption, and there are rumors that an Archdemon was spotted moving in the deeper reaches of Arlathan.”

Kieran stilled.

“Whether it’s Elgar’nan’s or Ghilan’nain’s, we don’t know.”

Laelia’s eyes flicked briefly toward him at that, but she didn’t linger. 

“Morrigan has been keeping me updated on the Veil Jumpers’ movements,” she went on. “They’re doing what they can, Rook and the others. But this isn’t a contained threat anymore. We don’t know what the Evanuris are planning next.”

Alistair exhaled, rubbing his knuckles against the curve of his jaw. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “And the Dread Wolf?”

“He’s not behind this,” Laelia said quickly, firmly. “We know that much. He’s been imprisoned in the Fade since the collapse of his ritual. Harding said…that Solas formed a bond with Rook during the ritual, so that he can contact her in dreams. That’s how we know he's in the Fade. But now, there’s talk of Minrathous falling entirely to the Venatori. The Free Marches are burning and swarmed with darkspawn. The Antaam are pushing further into Orlais than they ever have. So, I would like to take my forces to the Free Marches to assist—they are suffering the worst of it.”

The scrape of his father’s goblet against the wood barely registered in his ears. His attention was beginning to drift as they spoke of logistics and sending aid to the Free Marches. He pushed a piece of venison around his plate, ignoring the pain in his side where the wound still ached beneath the healed skin.

Blood magic. Archdemons.

The words echoed in his skull, fading into dull static. He tuned them out, picking at his food with the tip of his fork, each scrape of metal against ceramic piercing through the haze of his thoughts. He didn’t want to think about the Evanuris. He didn’t want to think about the wild, ancient thing that stirred in his bones whenever the Fade rumbled or the Blight thickened in the air.

“You should speak with Cordelia.”

Kieran blinked, looking up. His father had turned toward him slightly, voice pitched low enough that the others wouldn’t hear. “Cordelia?”

Alistair tilted his head toward the far end of the table.

It took him a moment to place the name with the woman. He followed his father’s gaze, and then his stomach sank.

Of course. Of course, it was her. For Makers' sake. Why did she have to be here? 

He hadn't recognized her at first glance—Cordelia sat beside Soren, her posture taut and composed even as she tried to drown in her goblet. The firelight kissed her features, picking out the grey of her eyes, the faint flush blooming across her cheekbones. She had changed. On the surface, at least. He recognized that look on Soren’s face, though. The open admiration, the easy charm, the way he leaned in just slightly as if she were gravity itself. He scowled.

“And perhaps thank her for assisting you with the darkspawn.”

Kieran felt his face heat in embarrassment, and he looked away quickly. He scoffed under his breath, shifting in his chair. It had been her all along. What a fool he was. She would never let him forget this. Unless she had somehow miraculously changed in the years since they had seen each other, she would lord it over him. 

“I was perfectly capable of holding back the darkspawn.”

Alistair didn’t reply. Just made a sound that could only be described as disappointment. 

It didn't take long for Kieran to excuse himself. He longed for solitude. For peace and quiet. This was not that. But something stopped him from wandering far. There was a question lodged behind his ribs: why had she saved him?

He’d dragged her out of a frozen lake once, but he’d been the reason she fell in. Surely she remembered. Surely she still held that against him. 

When she finally emerged from the hall—alone, the first to slip away—he was already waiting in the corridor beyond the torchlight, hidden in the familiar hush of the alcoves. She paused near one of the sconces, the flame painting her features in shifting gold. Her shoulders rose with a long, deliberate inhale, her eyes closing briefly as though collecting herself.

She looked… tired. Not just physically. There was something frayed about her. A crack in the armor.

He noticed her blood first, as he always had. It was vibrant with life, a powerful well of magic, similar to what he had once seen in the Inquisitor.

He didn’t like how it called to him. So, he opened his mouth and did what he did best: he insulted her.

“I was wondering,” he drawled from the shadows, “who Soren’s new courtesan was.”

The words landed like a slap. Intentionally.

Cordelia stopped mid-step, her spine going ramrod straight, and turned with a slowness that sent a bolt of tension straight through his chest. Her expression was unreadable. Controlled. But her eyes—those storm-grey eyes—flashed with something sharp.

Good. That, at least, was familiar.

He didn’t mean it, of course. He never did. But Cordelia had always been proud, and pride made the best target. Pride cut deepest. And if he could bait her into a fight, maybe he could stop thinking about the way her magic tasted like silver flame, or the fact that she had risked her life to save his. 

The words became a shield. The same way they always had.

Until Soren’s voice intruded—smooth and affable and completely out of place, diffusing the tension with ease and charm.

A spar interrupted. Just as well.

Kieran said nothing more. He turned and vanished into the dark with the quiet, practiced grace of someone who’d spent his life walking between shadows.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

In the dream, Kieran walked a path of shattered stone, each step echoing into nothing. The world had been leeched of color—sky and earth the same ash-grey hue, shadows stretching long and thin across a horizon that did not end. There was no wind, but the air shifted restlessly around him, thick with the scent of rot and old blood.

Tendrils of Blight slithered beneath his boots, thin as veins at first, curling like smoke across the broken cobblestones. But the farther he walked, the thicker they became—slick, oozing, pulsing with something half-alive. They moved with him, not in response to his presence, but as though they were part of him. They followed his footprints like water chasing a river’s course, flowing out from his very blood.

And behind him came the darkspawn.

They did not roar or howl in this place. They crept. Dozens of them. Their eyes glowed dimly in the mist, hollow and hungry, heads cocked in reverent attention as they tracked his path like hounds scenting their god.

Kieran turned, searching for a landmark, a way out, and as if at his behest, it evolved. The grey mist ignited. Buildings roared into existence, half-formed, ablaze. The city was burning.

Denerim.

He recognized the outline of the Alienage gate, half-melted and warped by flame. The statue of Maferath had cracked in two, its broken head lying in the street like a toppled idol. The sky churned above, red and swollen, and the air screamed with the sound of people dying. Cries for help. Screams of children. Steel on bone.

And at the center of it, he stood untouched. The fire did not burn him. The smoke parted around him like a veil. His hands were coated in black blood. His staff pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat that was not his own. And when he looked down at his reflection in a pool of shattered glass, he saw his eyes gleaming gold and monstrous—his mouth twisted into something that didn’t belong to him.

A voice curled from the shadows.

“You will become what they fear most.”

It bloomed inside his skull—old, resonant, and cruel.

“You are not meant to be a servant of this world. You were made to stand above it.”

Kieran staggered back from the reflection, only to find the glass melting into flesh—faces pressed against it from beneath, twisted in silent screams. He could not look away.

“They will never trust you, no matter how many battles you win. They will never forget what you carry. What you are.”

The darkspawn bowed behind him now. Kneeling. Waiting.

The Blight thickened, flowering outward like roots from his heels. Where once there was fire, there was now silence. The city had gone still.

Ruined. Empty. And in the silence, the voice whispered again, closer this time.

“But you can choose another path. Shape the world in your image.”

From the heart of the smoke, a shape emerged. Not a man. Not quite a dragon. Something caught between, shifting, ethereal, pulsing with voidlight.

Urthemiel. The soul inside Kieran recognized its likeness. Not as it had been, but what remained. A soul unbound. It stepped toward him, formless, faceless, and touched his chest with one long, clawed finger.

Kieran fell to his knees.

“You could change everything,” it whispered, soft as breath. “But first, you must choose what you truly are. Weapon. Warden. Tyrant. Or salvation.”

As the Blight surged upward, climbing into his skin like a second soul, Kieran screamed.

When he jolted awake, his hand was already at his throat, fingers curled tightly around the pendant that hung there. He traced the gem’s surface, its edges warm against his skin, as if it too had stirred from uneasy dreams. Nausea coiled low in his gut, a sharp tang of metal clinging to his tongue like blood. He lay motionless, eyes open to the dark, as his mother’s voice echoed through his mind until the first pale light of dawn crept across the floor.

“What you carry will call to them. Do not let it sway you.” 

Chapter Text

Kieran enjoyed three days of rare solitude and uneasy peace, refusing to let his mind stray to the politics at play above him.

He was deep beneath Denerim, in the stone belly of the royal keep. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing the faint shimmer of scars along his forearms. A low pulse of arcane energy hummed through the room, quiet as breath.

Before him stood the eluvian—one of his mother’s, restored through long hours of effort and bursts of reckless intuition. Its surface shimmered faintly, a mirror too deep for its frame, its swirling depths alive with the heartbeat of the Crossroads. He’d nearly stabilized the anchoring runes, finally isolating the energy bleed that had made the portal flicker unpredictably. He pressed a fingertip against the edge of the glyph he'd been reinforcing, magic coiling gently around his knuckle.

His focus wavered.

It had been three days since he'd last seen Cordelia.

Not that he was counting.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to re-center his attention on the glowing pattern beneath his hand. But the words he’d thrown at her in the hall echoed back too clearly, as sharp as if he’d just said them. He grimaced. It had been cruel. Petty. He could still picture the way her expression had frozen, just for a second, before she masked it behind that perfect Cousland composure.

Why should he feel guilty?

She had all but interrupted his childhood, trailing behind his father like some shining protégé while Kieran had been left to study in Orlais and wherever else Morrigan was needed at the time. The Hero of Ferelden doted on her daughter, Alistair praised her swordwork, and every noble in the palace seemed to see Cordelia Cousland as the second coming of Andraste.

And Kieran? He had been a curiosity. A liability.

Even after seven years apart, the first thing she had done—before speaking a word to him—was save his life.

He didn’t know how to reconcile that. Even if she hadn't known it was him. 

He shook the thought from his head, dragging his attention back to the magic beneath his fingers. The eluvian shimmered, flickering at its edges. He adjusted the angle of the rune stone, drawing a line of blue flame across the surface in slow, careful patterns.

“I thought I'd find you here.”

The voice carried across the stone with familiarity, followed by the sound of boots on the stairs. His hand faltered only slightly.

Kieran didn’t look up. “Are you here to tell me mother would disapprove?” he asked dryly.

Alistair stepped up on the raised platform before answering with another question. “Are you trying to redirect your mother’s eluvian to Arlathan Forest?”

Kieran paused, just a beat. “No.” 

Yes , that was exactly what he was trying to do.

Alistair let out a quiet, skeptical breath. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”

“This will make it easier for her to reach us if there’s something urgent,” Kieran pointed out, turning back to the eluvian. He lifted a slim tool—elven-forged, tipped with a glowing crystal—and touched it gently to the glass. It shimmered in response.

Alistair ascended another step and sat on the edge of the platform below the mirror. His arms rested loosely on his knees. “I think you’re avoiding everyone.”

Kieran eyed him sideways. “It's what I do best.”

"We could go riding," Alistair suggested. "Like old times."

Kieran didn't answer, only twitched his fingers in a circular motion as he remained focused on his task.

“Will you talk to me?” Alistair asked after a few long moments of silence, his voice quieter. “Something bothers you. Have the nightmares returned?”

Kieran didn’t meet his gaze. He set the tool down carefully beside him. “No.” The lie felt clumsy in his mouth. “It’s just the noise. The castle. I’ve been in the Wilds too long.”

“I—” Alistair opened his mouth to reply—but the stone beneath them shifted with a sudden, grinding groan.

The first tremor was low and deep, rising through the floor in a wave that made the tools rattle on the table. Kieran tensed, one hand on the frame of the eluvian. The mirror rippled violently.

He nearly lost his footing as a second tremor hit—sharper, closer—and this time the vibrations made one of the crystals shatter in a cascade of blue sparks.

“Shit,” Kieran muttered, stumbling back as the eluvian flared wide, its surface pulsing with unstable energy. For a heartbeat, it looked ready to drag him into its depths. He steadied himself, breathing hard. Dust rained from the ceiling in a fine, choking mist. Bits of mortar fell like snow from the archway overhead, and somewhere behind the stone, the deeper bones of the keep groaned in protest.

Alistair was already on his feet, scanning the ceiling. “Stay here,” he ordered, turning toward the stairs.

Kieran shot a dark glance at him. “Of course not, Father. You need someone to have your back.” 

A flicker of a grin touched Alistair’s mouth, gone as quickly as it came.

Kieran turned back to the eluvian, the surface still pulsing with lingering magic. Raising one hand, he swept it across the glass, his palm sparking with cold blue flame. The runes responded immediately, folding into silence as the mirror’s light dimmed and faded. The gateway sealed with a soft hiss, leaving behind a pane of cold black glass.

Kieran exhaled slowly, his magic settling. He reached for the staff propped against the wall, its headstone already alive with soft light. The sound of raised voices filtered down the corridor—shouts, orders, the warning bell beginning to toll.

By the time they emerged into the main hall, chaos had bloomed. Guards rushed to their posts, couriers darted past with scrolls clutched in their hands, and the wail of a horn echoed off the stone.

Jauffre rounded the corner at a near run, his expression grim. “Your Majesty!”

Alistair stepped forward. “Report.”

“A fissure’s opened outside the western gate,” Jauffre said quickly. “A deep one.” 

Alistair swore under his breath. “Where is Commander Rowan?”

“He has already ridden out to investigate,” Jauffre answered. “But there is no confirmed breach into the city.”

Something sharp pierced Kieran's eardrums, a ringing that reverberated in his temples. He inhaled sharply, flinching. His head snapped to the side, eyes scanning the room, searching for the source—but no one else reacted. Not a single flicker of discomfort passed across their faces. His father stood a few paces away, brow furrowed as he listened closely to Jauffre’s report, nodding grimly. 

Kieran’s stomach dropped, a cold, weightless sensation as the sound intensified, threading down his spine and curling beneath his ribs. He turned and broke into a run, the decision as instinctive as breathing. His boots struck the stone floor in quick succession, echoing through the halls as he wove through the corridors of the keep. He barely registered his father’s voice calling after him, distant and sharp, fading behind him as he took the stairs two at a time. The air grew colder the higher he climbed, thinner, and the pounding in his chest wasn’t just from the exertion.

As Kieran reached the western spire, his breath came fast and uneven, each inhale scraping against the tightness in his chest. The rumbling beneath his ribs grew stronger with every step, not from the tremors that still echoed through the keep, but from something inside him. 

He vaulted up the final steps and crossed to the high wall of the spire. Bracing his hands against the edge, he leaned forward and scanned the horizon beyond the Palace District, past the rooftops and spires of the city, toward the western road.

And there, in the distance—just where the river fed into Denerim’s heart—he saw it.

A vast rupture split the earth open like a wound. Jagged edges framed a chasm so deep it seemed to bleed light, not from any natural source, but from something buried beneath the world. That light pulsed red and sickly, a glow that twisted the air around it, warping the shapes of the trees near its edge.

Kieran climbed onto the narrow lip of the tower wall, his boots scraping against the stone as he balanced on the edge. The wind caught at his hair and tugged at the hem of his coat, but he didn’t flinch. Below, the city was in motion—armored figures darting through courtyards, messengers on horseback galloping through the gates. The air vibrated with the kind of stillness that came just before a storm.

He stood there for a heartbeat longer, staring down at the figures below, the breath caught in his lungs. Then he inhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

He jumped.

The wind roared against his ears as he plummeted, the tower falling away behind him. Someone shouted from far below, startled by the sight of a figure diving from the spire. 

Mid-air, his form shimmered. Magic surged beneath his skin like lightning as his body rippled, reshaping in an instant. His limbs drew inward, bones hollowed and realigned, and a sharp burst of feathers replaced skin. When he opened his eyes again, they were sharper. The world had turned brilliant and cruel, full of light and motion.

His raven form sliced cleanly through the air, wings wide, though he was closer to the ground than he would have liked. In the stable yard, a flash of someone golden-haired strapping the saddle to her horse with tight, efficient movements. She didn’t startle when he passed overhead, though he could have sworn he caught the upward flick of her eyes and the faintest roll of them skyward.

He angled his wings, catching a rising current as he banked westward, the sun casting long shadows across the palace rooftops. The air tasted metallic. 

Even from this height, even from this distance, he could see them.

Darkspawn.

They poured from the chasm like rot from an open wound, crawling and skittering across the torn earth with unnatural urgency. Where the darkspawn marched, shadows followed. Not cast by the setting sun, but something else entirely. Darkness rippled in their wake, stretching unnaturally across the ground, swallowing light as if the Blight itself began corrupting the air. The air was thick with the metallic tang of magic, each breath laced with something ancient and wrong. Kieran felt it settle in his bones—the unmistakable pull of the Evanuris, like a distant echo vibrating through his very blood.

Below, the road churned with dust as his father’s soldiers galloped toward the breach, pennants snapping in the wind, blades drawn. Kieran’s heart clenched. 

What you carry will call to them.

He never should have come to Denerim. 

He had doomed them all.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

“We’ve established outposts near the breach,” Commander Rowan was saying, his voice steady despite the tension that hung in the war room.

Kieran stood just to the side of his father’s high-backed chair, hands clasped behind his back. The chamber was quieter now with Lavellan gone; she had departed for the Free Marches to rally forces to the former Inquisition’s—now reformed—banner. With the growing number of attacks across Ferelden, Alistair’s forces were stretched thinner by the hour.

“The darkspawn haven’t attempted another attack since our last push,” Rowan continued, gesturing to a crude map marked with tokens of troop movements. “But we’ve had more sightings near neighboring villages. They strike quickly and retreat just as fast. It’s... strange. Almost calculated.”

Alistair’s brow furrowed. “Have we heard from Orzammar?”

“No, Your Majesty,” came Elissa Cousland’s voice from across the room. Her arms were folded, and her eyes—those sharp, storm-grey eyes—missed nothing. “We received a raven a week ago, but nothing since. If we don’t hear more soon, we’ll need to send scouts through the Deep Roads. If the darkspawn have doubled their numbers beneath the surface…”

“They may already be under siege,” Rowan finished grimly.

Alistair rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Something we can ill afford. In the meantime, send word to the Circle,” he added, his voice low. “We need more mages to contain the breach. Any that can be spared.”

Rowan bowed his head. “We’ve nearly completed the civilian relocation to the eastern quarter. The city is growing crowded, but safer behind the inner wall.”

“Then we’ll hold that line for as long as we must.” Alistair stood, his voice lifting to the rest of the chamber. “That’ll be all for now. We reconvene at dusk.”

The clatter of armor and low murmurs followed as the gathered officers dispersed. Jauffre stepped in as they were leaving, whispering something in Alistair’s ear. The king gave a quick nod, then gestured silently to Kieran.

They left the war room together, walking side by side through the quiet stone corridors of the royal wing. It wasn’t long before they reached the king’s private chambers. Alistair paused at the threshold to speak with Jauffre while Kieran entered the adjoining sitting room.

Morrigan stood near the tall windows, back half-turned, a porcelain cup cradled in one long-fingered hand. The sharp scent of Orlesian tea filled the air, bracing and bitter. She didn’t turn at first, though Kieran knew she had sensed him long before he arrived. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the windowpane, dark hair braided back, robes flowing behind her.

“Mother,” Kieran said quietly.

Morrigan turned her head at the sound of his voice, her eyes flicking over his face. The frown came instantly.

“You’ve not been sleeping,” she said, her voice almost accusing. 

Kieran said nothing. His fingers found the pendant at his throat, rolling it absently between his thumb and forefinger. 

“You’re having the dreams again.”

He couldn't lie to his mother. Not when her eyes saw everything he would rather hide. 

Morrigan’s jaw tightened faintly. She turned to face them fully, just as Alistair stepped inside. “We are running out of time. The Evanuris have begun their advance in earnest. They’ve bound at least two dragons to their will. Twisted by blighted magic.”

“So soon?” Alistair looked up sharply from pouring himself a glass of Fereldan brandy from the decanter.

“They attacked Minrathous and Treviso,” she replied, voice low. “Rook and her companions were only able to get there in time through the Vi'Revas. The Shadow Dragons did what they could in Minrathous while Rook and her allies defended Treviso, but the Venatori overthrew the Archon’s Palace in the chaos. The capital of the Tevinter Imperium is now under their control.”

Kieran’s hand stilled on the pendant.

“I will be traveling north,” Morrigan continued. “Inquisitor Lavellan and I will speak with those who remain loyal to our cause. But the rumors are true. This is no mere resurgence. This is a Blight meant to finish what the last five failed to do. The Evanuris have not taken the field themselves, however, which means they have greater plans that are yet to be revealed to me.”

Alistair set down his glass with a quiet thud. “And how do we fight something like this?”

“You feel it, do you not?” Morrigan asked. “You must take up your sword as Warden once more, and fight back the darkspawn. It seems as though the Evanuris are drawn to Rook and her connection to the Dread Wolf, but I cannot say that they won’t be drawn here.”

“To me,” Kieran said quietly. 

Both his parents turned to him.

Alistair’s expression darkened. “I thought the soul of Urthemiel was contained.”

“As long as he wears the pendant, it is,” Morrigan said, her tone edged in steel. “I shaped it using Mythal’s power. It suppresses the call of the Archdemon within him and prevents him from inadvertently calling upon its power source.”

Kieran stood still, the heat of their gaze heavy on him. He had grown used to this—his parents speaking about him as if he were not in the room. As if he were some weapon that needed tending.

He let them argue about his safety. About his fate. About the risk.

Because in the silence that followed, a voice rose in his mind.

You are not meant to be a servant of this world. You were made to stand above it.

Chapter Text

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The bowstring bit lightly into Cordelia’s fingers as she drew again, her breath steady but tight. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. She loosed the arrow with a sharp exhale.

The thud of impact echoed down the range, off-center.

She narrowed her eyes. Drew another. Let it fly.

Worse.

With a growl of frustration, she lowered her bow, barely resisting the urge to throw it to the dirt. Instead, she yanked the tie from her hair, letting the hair unravel. A few strands clung to her brow, where the chill of morning did little to soothe the heat burning beneath her skin.

The training yard was mostly empty at this hour. Only a few guards moved in the distance, their armor clinking faintly as they circled the perimeter. Beyond the high walls, the city buzzed like a hive on the edge of collapse—noble whispers, shifting allegiances, and the rising fear of another Blight. And here she was. Pacing like a caged animal, firing arrows into straw men.

Cordelia scoffed and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. What was the point of all her training, of sleepless nights poring over spellcraft and battlefield reports, if they intended to keep her locked in a stone keep?

She turned toward the bow rack with sharp, irritated movements and hooked her weapon onto its peg.

The king had begun calling on mages from the nearby Circle to assist with the breach—an urgent summons, an opportunity to act. And Cordelia had been left behind. Not forbidden, exactly. No such order had been spoken outright. But after she’d saddled her horse and ridden out, only to be intercepted at the gates by her mother, the meaning had been clear. Not you.

She walked the length of the castle grounds, boots crunching softly over gravel, the wind slicing in from the east. It carried the sharp scent of salt from the Amaranthine Ocean, crisp and biting where it kissed her exposed skin.

For all that had happened, Denerim was too quiet. She’d heard the reports—the same ones everyone else had. The darkspawn that had emerged from the chasm hadn’t launched a full assault. They retreated when the soldiers pushed back, slipping into the earth like shadows. Last night, there had been movement along the southern wall, and her father had been sure the darkspawn were waiting for something, or testing for weaknesses. Cordelia didn’t like it. She had seen the way they whispered over letters by candlelight, their faces drawn tight with concern. These weren’t the darkspawn they had faced during the Blight of their youth. 

Cordelia had almost made it back to her room without interruption when she spotted a familiar flash of honey-blond hair rounding the far corner of the corridor. Her stomach dropped.

She immediately pivoted, quickening her pace back the way she came—but the telltale rhythm of bootsteps behind her only grew faster. She didn’t bother glancing over her shoulder. Soren’s legs were longer, and he caught up with irritating ease.

“Hello, Soren,” she muttered without looking up, her voice flat.

“Ah,” he said brightly, not missing a beat. “So you did see me.”

“I forgot something in the training yard,” she lied, her tone clipped.

“Will you be riding to Redcliffe with your mother?”

She stopped short. Soren, caught off guard, stumbled into her back and instinctively grabbed her shoulders to keep her upright. She swatted his hands away and turned to face him, a frown forming.

“Why are they going to Redcliffe?” she asked sharply.

“They’ve requested aid from the King,” Soren said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Your mother and some of the Wardens are riding out to assess the threat and reinforce their defenses.”

Cordelia’s frown deepened. “What about the breach outside Denerim? The King’s forces are stretched thin already. Why would she leave now?”

Soren’s expression softened, just slightly. “The reports out of Ostagar are growing worse. The darkspawn are moving east. If Redcliffe falls, the refugees will have nowhere to go. And they don’t have the strength to withstand a seige.”

Cordelia bit the inside of her cheek. Her mother hadn’t said a word about this. Not over breakfast, not in passing. Nothing.

She folded her arms. “Well, I doubt I will be going with them.”

Soren raised a brow. “Since when have you been one to follow orders, Cousland?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t pretend like we’re friends, Soren.”

That shut him up.

She turned and strode off, her new destination clear. If her mother wouldn’t tell her the truth, Cordelia would find it herself.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to go far. Her mother stood just outside the war room, her voice low and measured as she spoke to Oren, who leaned against the stone wall with his arms crossed.

Oren looked every bit the soldier he was. Ten years her senior, but younger than her mother by just enough that people often mistook them for siblings rather than nephew and aunt. He shared her mother’s height and dark, windswept hair, the same hard jaw and steel-grey eyes that Cordelia had inherited.

Elissa murmured something low to Oren, too quiet for Cordelia to catch. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he passed, offering a nod that might have been encouragement—or sympathy. She wasn’t sure which.

Her mother’s expression was already set when Cordelia stepped closer, her mouth a thin, measured line. She looked as though she had been bracing for this exact conversation.

“Cordelia,” Elissa said, voice composed but not unkind. Her eyes scanned her daughter’s face, reading every flicker of emotion. “I was on my way to tell you. But I see someone beat me to it.”

Cordelia didn’t waste time. “Do you plan on taking me with you?”

“I want you to remain here,” Elissa replied without hesitation. “The king will need someone he can rely on.”

Cordelia’s brows lifted faintly. “And Father?”

“He’s riding with me. Oren will part ways with us before we reach Redcliffe. He’s heading to Orzammar. We’ve had no word from our dwarven allies, and that silence troubles me.”

Cordelia gave a slow nod. There was little point in arguing. Her mother had always wielded her calm like a blade—measured, precise, unyielding. She could be as loving as she was exacting, and Cordelia had learned early that debates with Elissa Cousland were rarely won.

“You’re not going to fight me on this?” Elissa asked, tilting her head. Her voice was neutral, but a crease had formed between her brows.

Cordelia offered only a thin-lipped smile and a slight shake of her head.

What she didn’t say, what she let sit quietly behind her eyes, was the shape of a plan already forming.

If the darkspawn and blood mages were tearing across the Free Marches, if Rook truly was holding the North together, then maybe that was where she needed to be. Maybe she could do something meaningful. Maybe she could leave Ferelden to those who had always acted like it was theirs to save.

She didn’t need permission. Just a horse, a quiet hour, and a head start.

“We leave at first light,” Elissa said, her gaze narrowing slightly. She studied her daughter for a moment longer, as though peering straight through her. “You’re in the safest place in the kingdom, Cordelia. Denerim won’t fall. I’m not sure I can say the same for Redcliffe. I’ll send a raven when we arrive.”

Cordelia nodded once, her voice low. “Of course.”

Before either of them could say more, a king’s guard approached with quiet urgency, armor clinking softly as he bowed his head in greeting.

“My lady,” he addressed Cordelia.

She blinked. “Yes?”

“The king requests your presence in the war room.”

Elissa turned slightly to observe her daughter’s reaction, her face unreadable, though a flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Cordelia resisted the urge to scowl.

“Best not keep him waiting,” Elissa said lightly. 

Cordelia had the distinct and creeping suspicion that her mother knew exactly what this was about. She’d have wagered her most prized possession, her sword, that this was just another clever tactic to keep her pinned in Denerim. Elissa Cousland was too cunning, all silk-wrapped steel and long-laid traps, always that one step ahead of Cordelia.

She followed the king’s guard into the war room, her boots falling soft against the stone. What she hadn’t expected was to see King Alistair already there, leaning over the war table with a half-furrowed brow—and opposite him, lounging with casual insolence in a carved chair, sat Kieran. He was looking down at an orb in his palm, a small tool in his other hand that he seemed fixated on. 

Cordelia masked her dismay at his presence with a thin breath and bowed with careful civility as the door shut behind her.

“None of that, Cordelia,” Alistair said with a casual wave. “Thank you for coming.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Kieran, who didn’t so much as look up. If he noticed her at all, he made a show of ignoring it.

Is the crown prince now privy to every meeting? she thought. She supposed it made sense. And yet, something about it rankled.

Still, she stood tall, hands clasped behind her back, and asked the question already burning in her chest.

“Will I be allowed to help with the breach?” 

The hope bled into her voice before she could stop it. 

Alistair hummed, glancing back at the map. “Even if your father hadn’t threatened me with poisoned daggers if you so much as stepped near that breach, I’m afraid not,” he said lightly. “It’s best left to those with... specific experience in blighted matters.”

Cordelia’s jaw tightened, her gaze dropping to the map. She noted every marker, every carved figurine denoting troops or danger. Her eye caught on a silver dagger plunged into the heart of Kirkwall, ominous and precise.

“I do have a task for you,” Alistair added, his voice dipping into something softer. “If you’ll accept. Something more important than the breach, really.”

Cordelia lifted her gaze slowly, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

Alistair didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze flicked toward Kieran—who, despite himself, finally glanced up at that through long lashes.

“I require a royal guard,” Alistair began, tone careful. “Someone who can act as a protector to the crown prince.”

Kieran’s head snapped up. Cordelia’s eyes widened.

“Excuse me?”

“Me?”

They spoke at the same time, her voice stunned, his full of scorn.

Kieran was already rising to his feet, moving around the war table like he couldn’t get there fast enough. He stopped beside her—only because she happened to be in his way—and faced his father head-on.

“Absolutely not,” he said, hands curled at his sides. “I don’t need protecting.”

“You are the heir to Ferelden,” Alistair replied calmly, though he pinched the bridge of his nose like someone used to this argument. “You need someone watching your back. Cordelia is capable, well-trained, and I trust her implicitly.”

“She’s the size of a firesprite,” Kieran snapped, gesturing broadly at her.

Cordelia turned toward him, brows raised. “I’m sorry, do I need to be seven feet tall to drive a blade into someone’s ribs?”

Kieran looked down at her, full of disdain. “I don’t need a protector.”

Cordelia folded her arms. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be there for the company.”

“Enough,” Alistair barked, holding up a hand. The room fell into reluctant silence. “Maker’s breath. You’d think we were arranging a wedding.”

Cordelia and Kieran both recoiled at the same time.

Alistair continued, voice smoother now, but still resolute. “This is not a punishment. It is a responsibility. One that I would only entrust to those I believe are capable of surviving what comes next.”

There was a long pause.

Cordelia looked down at her boots. Kieran stared at the map like he could burn holes in it with his eyes. Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Alistair leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. “Cordelia. Will you accept the post?”

Cordelia hesitated. Then, with a breath: “Yes. I’ll do it.”

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

The stone wall was cold against Cordelia’s back, the chill seeping through the thick wool of her tunic. She stayed perfectly still, willing the fatigue in her bones to remain buried, watching with dry, stinging eyes as her parents prepared to leave.

In the quiet, pre-dawn courtyard, the world seemed to hold its breath. Her mother spoke in hushed tones to a courier while fastening saddlebags to her warhorse. Her father adjusted the cinch on his mare, giving the beast a soft pat on the neck before glancing over his shoulder toward the gate. Their movements were efficient, like they’d done this a thousand times before.

But Cordelia couldn’t shake the feeling that this time was different.

She had hardly slept. The news out of Ostagar had turned to rumor, and rumor into unease. The Blight felt like it was pressing in on all sides, inching closer with every hour. She’d dreamt of smoke and blood, of the dead walking through fog.

She blinked it away. The air was still sharp with cold, the sconces along the walls burning low and flickering. In the distance, the horizon had begun to soften—the faintest blush of rose creeping up into the night sky, heralding dawn.

She spotted her father breaking away from the horses, his steps quiet and slow. Zevran’s usual easy charm was absent, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. 

Cordelia quickly looked away, arms crossing tightly over her chest, her shoulders tense. Zevran stopped in front of her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

“Be safe,” she murmured, barely audible.

Zevran’s voice dropped to something quieter. “I don’t like leaving you here.”

“Then don’t,” she said, more sharply than she meant to. Her throat tightened. “Take me with you.”

He smiled again, sadder this time. “You know we can’t. Redcliffe is vulnerable, and if the roads are worse than we think—”

“I can fight,” she cut in, lifting her chin. 

“I know,” Zevran said softly. “But your place is here.”

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow, warm and steady.

“We’ll see each other again, mija,” he whispered. “You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

Cordelia nodded, jaw tight, but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t, with the knot that had formed in her throat.

He gave her one last look before turning and rejoining her mother, who had already mounted beside Oren. Elissa smiled sadly at Cordelia, unable to say goodbye herself, and Cordelia merely raised a hand.

She stood there, unmoving, as the party rode into the waking dawn. Cordelia watched their silhouettes grow smaller, swallowed by the shifting hues of sunrise. The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed against the castle walls, then faded into the stillness.

Her lip trembled despite herself. She bit down on it and took a long, slow breath, bracing her shoulders as if the act alone could hold her together.

She had practically lived in Denerim as a child. These halls, this keep, the cold stone of its walls—it was all familiar. It wouldn’t be so different this time.

Except, this time, there were darkspawn at the gates, and the world felt like it was cracking apart beneath her feet. Not only that, she had been given a task. A royal appointment from the king himself. Cordelia Cousland, sworn guardian of the crown prince. A role she had neither asked for nor expected. 

She sighed heavily, breath clouding in the morning chill. Her mother and the king had absolutely conspired against her. She could see it now, clear as sunlight through frost. Between her mother’s unreadable smirks and Alistair’s unconvincing innocence, it had all been laid out before she even stepped into the war room the previous day.

They had known she would try to leave. Known she would find a way to chase the fight to the Free Marches, or wherever else she thought herself most useful. So they gave her something she couldn’t walk away from.

A duty.

Cordelia clenched her fists at her sides, then forced them to loosen. They knew her too well—far better than most ever would.

She turned on her heel, her boots scraping against the stone, and made her way back into the keep. She had a role to play. A duty to fulfill.

But Maker help them if Kieran made it difficult.

If she were honest, Cordelia had absolutely no idea how a royal protector was meant to act. There had been no formal instructions. No guidelines. Alistair had simply dropped the title on her like a weight and expected it to anchor her in place.

She was exhausted, but she doubted she could sleep even if she tried.

Fine, she sighed, dragging a hand through her hair.

She didn’t bother strapping on her sword—what danger could possibly befall the crown prince in his own wing of the palace? Instead, she went to her room and swiped a book from her bedside table before making her way through the familiar halls. She knew exactly where Kieran’s quarters were. As a child, she'd made it her mission to leave string traps and alchemical powders outside his door, all timed perfectly to ruin his day the moment he stepped into the hall.

Now, she found herself in that same corridor, though it felt smaller than she remembered. A large stained glass window rested between two massive tapestries, and beneath it, a cushioned bench built into the stone. Cordelia settled into the window seat, curling her legs under her as esrly morning light filtered through the glass, casting soft rainbows across the pages of her book.

She read until the lines blurred, her eyes burning from exhaustion. The tightness in her chest hadn’t faded since her parents rode out, and at some point, she realized tears had streaked silently down her cheeks. She wiped them away angrily and kept reading, letting the words distract her.

She didn’t even realize she had drifted off until fingers tugged sharply at her hair.

“First day on the job, and you’re already leaving much to be desired,” came a voice above her—dry, irritated, and unmistakably Kieran.

Cordelia blinked up at him, half dazed and squinting through the light. Her mouth was dry. Her neck ached.

She scowled. “Yes, well, it’s not like you provided a handbook.”

Kieran arched a brow, unimpressed. He turned on his heel without another word, robes whispering against the stone floor. Cordelia snatched her book off the ground and scrambled upright.

“Perhaps you should go sleep instead of following me,” he said without looking back.

She didn’t answer. She just followed.

He didn’t stop for food, nor speak another word as he led her down corridor after corridor, deeper into the belly of the keep. Cordelia kept pace, her boots echoing against the flagstones. She began to wonder if they were headed to the dungeons—until they stopped before a heavy oak door bound with iron.

Kieran pushed it open and stepped inside.

The chamber beyond was large and circular, carved into the foundations of the palace. But it wasn’t the size that stole Cordelia’s breath—it was the mirror. The eluvian stood in the center of the room like an ancient sentinel. Tall, elegant, inlaid with silver and ancient elvhen glyphs. Its glass shimmered darkly, like a pool of ink lit by some distant, buried star.

Cordelia’s mouth parted slightly. She had heard stories, of course. Her mother had spoken of Morrigan’s travels through mirrors like this one. But hearing and seeing were two very different things.

“You’re just... keeping one of these under the castle?” she asked softly. 

Kieran ignored her. He climbed the dais with long strides, rolling his sleeves past his forearms. With a single motion, he raised his hand and swept it across the surface. A flare of emerald sparks jumped from his fingers, lighting the glass like lightning on a storm-dark sea.

Cordelia stepped closer, eyes wide.

Kieran didn’t explain. He dropped to a crouch beside the base of the eluvian and opened a worn satchel. From it, he withdrew an array of strange tools—some delicate and silver, others clearly magical in nature. He set to work immediately, muttering under his breath, absorbed entirely in the mirror’s intricate frame.

Cordelia hovered nearby, momentarily forgotten.

She looked at him—truly looked—and saw how pale he was in the dim chamber. The way the shadows beneath his eyes seemed permanent now. His jaw was clenched, movements precise but brittle, as though held together by force of will alone.

Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t just maintenance.

Cordelia folded her arms across her chest, shifting her weight. Her voice, when it came, was softer than before, laced with hesitant curiosity.

“Could this lead to Redcliffe by any chance? Or to… the north?”

Kieran didn’t look up. “When I get it to work, yes,” he snapped, irritation clipped and sharp.

Cordelia rolled her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose. Patience, she reminded herself. He was always like this—prickly and defensive, especially when he was doing anything remotely arcane.

She wandered to the far wall and sank onto a bench, resting her elbows on her knees. Maybe she should just go speak to Alistair and tell him she’d rather muck out the royal stables than babysit someone who treated her like a fungus under his boot. 

Her gaze drifted across the table, and something caught her eye. A crystal sat among Kieran’s scattered tools, nestled inside a shallow dish of ash and metallic shavings. At first glance, it looked like any magical focus—translucent, smooth, faintly humming with residual energy. But one edge of it shimmered with an unnatural red sheen, as though bleeding light.

Cordelia tilted her head, curiosity piqued. She reached out.

“Don’t touch that,” Kieran snapped, whipping around so quickly she flinched. “Are you mad?”

She pulled her hand back instinctively. “It doesn’t look like red lyrium.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” he growled. “But it’s volatile. You can’t just go poking around magical experiments like they’re trinkets on a merchant’s stall.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Patience.

“Well,” she said flatly, rising to her feet, “you’re clearly in no danger here. And I’m not going to sit around being glared at. I’m going to the kitchens.”

Kieran didn’t respond. Just grunted, already turned back to the eluvian, muttering under his breath as the mirror flickered faintly in reply.

Cordelia left without another word, her boots echoing sharply in the hall behind her. She felt foolish—embarrassed and useless. She wasn’t made to stand around doing nothing. She needed action. She needed to matter.

Maybe she could still catch the king and tell him she’d changed her mind. She’d rather ride patrol in the Brecillian Forest than spend another hour sitting outside Kieran’s room while he brooded into magical artifacts.

But, as she reached the upper halls, Cordelia noticed something strange.

Servants had abandoned their tasks, clustered near the windows in uneasy silence. Nobles stood in small groups, staring through the high glass panes with expressions that ranged from confused to frightened. Cordelia frowned and craned her neck to see past them, but couldn't quite catch what had drawn them to the view.

Without thinking, she turned and made her way up to the nearest rampart.

The moment she stepped into the open air, her breath caught in her throat.

The sky had changed.

What should have been a typical cloudy Fereldan morning was now drenched in unnatural color. The clouds were no longer grey and rolling—they were blackened, bloated things that churned like rot. And above them all, casting its glow over the city like spilled blood was a deep, pulsing red light that stretched across the sky.

Cordelia gripped the stone ledge as nausea twisted in her gut.

The Blight was well and truly here. Which meant things in the North were more dire than they thought.

Chapter Text

“Yes ,” Kieran whispered, the word catching faintly on the air as the eluvian flared to life, the surface rippling in a steady, glass-like shimmer, unmarred by the flickering instability that had plagued it for days. The magic held, at last.

He looked over his shoulder as he got to his feet, half-expecting Cordelia to storm in again with that mixture of skepticism and duty that had infuriated them since they were young, but the room remained his own for now. Without a second thought, Kieran approached the large mirror slowly, listening to the low, resonant hum. It had been years since he had last stepped through one, and even then, only as a child. He barely remembered the journey, only flashes of his mother’s hand around his wrist, the sensation of weightlessness, the blinding flicker of stars folding in on themselves. 

He stepped through the veil of glass and light, and the world changed. The air grew still and thick around him, touched with magic so dense it tasted like metal on his tongue. Pathways of shimmering stone stretched into impossible horizons, suspended in a vast void that pulsed with ancient energy. Floating islands of collapsed architecture hung in the distance: bridges that led to nowhere, arches that framed nothing. Light came from no sun, but from within the very fabric of the realm itself, soft and dreamlike, as if it remembered a dawn that had long since died.

Kieran exhaled slowly. He had read of the Crossroads, of course—fragments of Tevinter scrolls, transcripts from Dalish Keepers, even notes in his mother’s hand—but nothing had prepared him for the scale of it…and the sense of being watched. 

He walked forward, boots echoing. The spirits came into view gradually, shifting silhouettes, translucent and pale, flickering at the edges of his vision. They clung to the perimeter of the path like frightened animals. Kieran slowed, frowning. There were more than he would have expected. Dozens. Perhaps more. They crowded near the foundations of the ruins as though seeking shelter.

Eventually, the path narrowed and curved around a pillar wrapped in gold-veined roots. Beyond it, nestled within the center of a raised platform, was a structure unlike anything he had seen before. Shaped like a flower held eternally in bloom, its metallic petals curved upward, cradling a floating orb suspended above a cradle of silver vines. The orb was smooth, opaque, and glowing with a soft inner light that pulsed, slow, rhythmic, almost like a sleeping thing. Undoubtedly Elvhen in nature. 

Then came the footsteps. Hurried, as if the person were running. Kieran spun around, raising a cupped hand in which a small flame nested. 

For the love of Andraste.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he flicked his hand in a careless gesture, the flame extinguishing. Cordelia was flushed as she hurried over to where he stood, her eyes alight with a fierceness that made him take an unconscious step backward. 

“You know,” Cordelia said, with narrowed eyes. “I don’t relish the thought of keeping you safe, in all honesty. But, by the Maker, would it make my job easier if you didn’t wander into ancient mirrors when there are darkspawn at our gates!”

Kieran lifted a brow, dropping his hand. “A job that is nothing more than ceremonial. A way to keep you out of trouble, as it were. Now, why don't you take orders like the good little girl you are and go.”

He almost enjoyed the way her face screwed up in anger, the tips of her ears reddening. 

“Or what?” Cordelia snapped. “Are you going to try and kill me again?”

Kieran’s mouth dropped open. “I was not —”

“Sister.”

They both startled at the voice. Kieran whipped around to the orb that was now lit up in a silvery glow, his hand lifting instinctively. He didn’t quite mean to touch it, but something about the orb pulled at him. It flickered. And then, suddenly, the voice rang out from within, clear and sharp, echoing across the Crossroads. It was a masculine tone, deep, imperious, yet somehow still melodic. It carried the weight of command, and something colder: divinity .

“Sister,” it repeated, not ungently. “ Apply your craft to Lusacan; you need not drown in your grief.”

Kieran didn’t realise he had taken a step back until his shoulder collided with Cordelia’s. 

Another voice followed, higher, venomous, laced with fury. “Razikale was mine. The mortal girl with the wolf’s scent must pay for this.”

“The fall of Weisshaupt has broken their lines,” the first voice replied. “The old alliances splinter. Even the Grey wardens scatter like frightened deer. What is left of them, that is. Soon, you will have a new archdemon, and the world will be shaped anew.”

Cordelia gasped beside him. 

Weisshaupt. The seat of the Grey Wardens fallen at the hands, or will, of the Evanuris. He was listening directly to them. Elgar’nan. Ghilan’nain…the ancient gods who had once ruled over immortal beings. He knew it in his very bones.

“And yet,” Ghilan’nain seethed, “the Dread Wolf still works against us.”

There was silence. Then: “He will be ours, eventually.”

Kieran didn’t breathe. Every muscle in his body was taut. Then Elgar’nan’s voice shifted as if he were no longer addressing Ghilan’nain. The orb’s glow flared.

“I see you,” Elgar’nan said, his voice no longer calm, but edged with something darker. 

Kieran shifted slightly in front of Cordelia. But what the god said next sent a jolt of fear through him, a panic more intense than he had ever known.

“June’s creation.”

Kieran’s breath caught, and perhaps it was a good thing that someone had followed him in, because Cordelia grabbed his arm and all but dragged him from the voices. He shot another look backward at the now-dark sphere before his legs finally remembered how to work, and they ran.  

The path warped beneath his feet as the Crossroads responded to his terror; edges blurring, steps widening, stone bleeding light with every footfall. The spirits shrank back further as he passed, some dissolving entirely into the ground. The eluvian shimmered ahead, its surface no longer serene, but chaotic, pulsing with energy as though resisting his return.

“No, no, no,” Kieran hissed under his breath.

They reached the dais and dove through the portal in a flash of fractured light. He landed hard on the chamber floor, the breath torn from his lungs as the magic spat him back into reality. His hands scraped against stone, his palms stinging with impact. Cordelia landed in a similar heap beside him, turning onto her back with a groan. 

The eluvian flickered one final time behind them, whining with unnatural sound, before its light dimmed into silence. He forced himself upright, his limbs trembling as he stumbled from the dais, every muscle in his body still clenched with the weight of what he had just heard.

Elgar’nan had sensed him somehow.

The fall of Weisshaupt. The Archdemon Razikale…dead. 

“Kieran,” Cordelia said urgently as she got to her feet. “We have to tell the king. It must have just happened—no ravens will have reported on this. No one would know. ” 

Kieran snatched his cloak from where it had fallen. He didn’t answer her; he was too shaken. Instead, he all but ran from the chamber until the chill of the castle halls bit at his sweat-damp skin. As he reached the main level, a gust of wind forced its way through a window left ajar, bringing with it the stench of smoke and something unnatural. He slowed as he approached. 

Outside, the sky had become fire.

It was not the ordinary crimson of dawn, nor the molten gold of late evening, but a bruised, bleeding red that saturated the heavens, painting the clouds in unnatural hues of black and rust. Lightning danced along the horizon in jagged streaks, illuminating the skyline in grotesque flashes of light, as if the sky itself were being split open.

I see you, June’s creation.

Kieran flinched as if struck. There were whispers in the corridors; servants and nobles alike crowding toward the windows, their voices tight with alarm, but Kieran pushed through them, unrelenting. They ascended swiftly, Cordelia's footsteps behind him light but urgent, her breath uneven as she hurried to match his pace. By the time they reached the war room, the tide of chaos had fully taken hold. 

Kieran crossed the threshold and inclined his head toward the king, his voice low but clear as he announced, “Father.”

Alistair turned, the lines on his face cut deeper with worry. 

“Yes?”

“We have something to report.”

Something in Kieran’s tone made Alistair still. He glanced to Jauffre with a single nod, and the seasoned squire stepped forward to close the doors behind them with a heavy thunk that sealed the room from the outside world, the noise of the keep dulling somewhat. 

Kieran did not hesitate. 

“Weisshaupt has fallen.”

Alistair stared at Kieran for several long moments, and in that silence lay the tension of a thousand battles and the weight of every sacrifice the Wardens had ever made. When he finally spoke, his voice was level, but lined with disbelief.

“How do you know this?” he asked, quiet but firm. “The First Warden recalled the Grey Wardens to Weisshaupt weeks ago. It would have been fortified.”

“I repaired the eluvian,” Kieran said simply. “And I went through. The portal led me into the Crossroads, and there was… an artifact. It allowed us to listen to the gods, and they spoke of Razikale’s death and Weisshaupt. As if it were already done.”

“‘We’?” Alistair asked. 

“I heard it too,” Cordelia answered softly. “It sounded as though Rook and their allies had attempted to defend Weisshaupt, but they failed.” 

Alistair, without a word, reached to his hip, drew the dagger he had carried since his days as a Warden, and drove it down into the heart of the map, the steel sinking into the parchment just over Weisshaupt’s marked location.

“I believe you,” he said softly, though his voice was grim. “If what you heard is true… then the Wardens are scattered. The last bastion of their order is gone.”

Cordelia’s voice came next, low and afraid. “Then who stops the Blight?”

Alistair did not look at her. “We hope,” he said, “that Rook and the Dread Wolf succeed where we cannot…despite this loss. The timing is not ideal, however, if we are to defend ourselves from what's to come.”

He turned to Kieran again and handed him an unsealed missive, creased at the corners, the wax slightly smudged with haste. Kieran opened it without ceremony and read, the words urgent and succinct:

Your Majesty,

Ostwick has fallen. Antaam forces are advancing swiftly along the Ferelden coastline. Vigil’s Keep is now in their path. Kirkwall stands, but barely—Aveline Vallen leads the defense.

I have met with Rook in the north. They continue to resist the Evanuris with all the strength they can muster, but the gods press harder with every day that passes. Our options grow fewer. Our allies bleed. But we endure.

Prepare your forces. Denerim may be next.

—Inquisitor Lavellan

He lowered the letter, the parchment crackling faintly between his fingers. When he looked up, his gaze met his father’s, and in Alistair’s eyes he found determination and the tempered weight of decision. 

Ostwick has fallen.

Weisshaupt…fallen.

Cordelia stepped forward. He felt her fingers brush his as she plucked the missive from his hand, the touch feather-light. She began reading in silence, her expression darkening with each line.

“You said you fixed the eluvian,” Alistair said at last, the words spoken softly, not in question but with the commanding stillness of a man who already knew what must come next.

“I did,” Kieran replied.

Alistair’s jaw flexed as he crossed to the map, eyes scanning the breadth of Ferelden as if he could see the roads choked with refugees already, the darkspawn seeping out from the poisoned depths of the Deep Roads. “Can you prepare it to connect directly to another location?”

Kieran didn’t hesitate. “I can.”

“Then prepare it for Redcliffe,” Alistair said, his voice sharpening with purpose. “We begin evacuating civilians at first light.”

Kieran’s brows furrowed. His hands curled loosely into fists at his sides. “So, that’s it?” he asked, incredulous. “You’re already conceding ground? You think hope is lost?”

Alistair turned back to the map, fingers ghosting over its worn surface. He ignored Kieran's objections altogether. “You’ll be going with them.”

Kieran blinked and then scoffed. “If you hope to seal the eluvian behind us and not let the darkspawn pour through it, then you need me here. I’m the only one who knows how to stabilize it with so many passing through.”

“One of the palace mages will be more than capable, I assure you,” Alistair said without looking at him.

Kieran took a step forward, heat rising behind his eyes. “And what about you?” he snapped. “Will you be like one of those famous Rivaini pirates I’ve read so much about? Stay behind and go down with the ship, sword in hand and heroic last words ready?”

Alistair’s mouth thinned. His voice was iron when he replied. “First and foremost, I was a Warden before I was King. I will stay until the last possible moment, as is my duty. I will not abandon it.”

For a moment, Kieran looked at his father not as the King of Ferelden, not as the man the people revered and soldiers saluted, but as the stubborn, idealistic fool who had forced him to come back to Denerim only to push him away again. Yet, he didn’t argue, though Maker knew he wanted to. He gave his father one last, bitter look before turning on his heel and striding from the room without another word.

Light footsteps followed him.

“Go away, Cordelia,” he growled, his voice low and cutting as her steps fell in perfect rhythm with his own. The relentless pattern of her pursuit made his headache bloom anew.

She didn’t answer, of course. She just followed like a silent shadow, a mabari in human form. It only irritated him further.

They reached his quarters, and Kieran stopped short, pivoting so quickly that Cordelia nearly collided with him, her shoulder grazing his chest. He stared down at her, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

“Why in the Maker’s name are you here, Cordelia?”

Her reply wasn’t what he expected. Her voice was soft, but unwavering. “What did it mean?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“ ‘June’s creation,’ ” she repeated, carefully. “It saw you, Kieran.”

He paused, if only for a second too long. “Did it?” he said at last, his voice light, almost dismissive. “Perhaps it saw you . The little Cousland prodigy.”

Cordelia’s gaze didn’t waver, but her expression cooled, her grey eyes hardening.

“You need to tell your father,” she said, low and fierce. “Or I will.”

He grabbed her arm as she turned, his grip tight. “You will do no such thing.”

Cordelia tilted her head, lips curving into a sharp smile. “Too bad there’s no frozen lake this time of year, isn’t it?”

That made his mouth twist, and the words burst forth, vicious and raw, before he could stop them. “Ah,” he said, mockingly thoughtful. “So you are still that pathetic little girl, desperate for the attention of anyone who would give it. Desperate to earn a place you were never meant for. How it must burn , knowing that the Hero of Ferelden’s daughter wasn’t even considered for the Veilguard…they chose strangers instead. And why? Because your legacy doesn’t matter.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, her voice was quiet, but it hit harder than a slap. “And you’re still that scared little boy,” she whispered, “who can’t stand the thought of someone else being more powerful than you.”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. His lip curled. “I see you haven’t changed at all,” he hissed.

“And you never grew up,” she replied, her voice cold as the northern winds.

He didn’t let her say more. He turned on his heel and slammed the door shut in her face, the sound echoing in his ears. Perhaps he had just proven her point. Reacting like a child. 

A scared, broken child.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

The one thing Kieran truly missed about living in his father’s castle was the baths.

Not the cramped copper tubs of roadside inns or the freezing streams of the Wilds. Here, he could sink into steam and silence, oils of juniper and sandalwood filling the air. It didn’t have the freedom of a forest lake or the raw heat of a volcanic spring, but it offered something more: solitude and comfort. He sighed and sank deeper beneath the waterline, closing his eyes. Something told him hot baths would soon become a luxury again, one more comfort stripped away by war. A final indulgence before the world unraveled completely.

When he finally emerged, he wrapped himself in a thick robe, his damp curls clinging to the back of his neck. For the space of a breath, he let himself pretend that was all it would take to forget the voices in the eluvian, to forget the gods whispering through the veil, to forget the look on his father’s face when he’d said the words: Weisshaupt has fallen.

But as soon as he opened the door to his chambers, the illusion shattered.

There was a presence in the room, a familiar scent that informed him before he saw her. Besides that, there was only one person brazen enough to sit in his private quarters like she belonged there.

“Do you make it a habit of trespassing into other people’s chambers?” Kieran drawled as he stepped into the sitting room, the hem of his robe trailing behind him, still damp.

Cordelia didn’t even bother to look up. She was seated in one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth, a book resting across her lap. Her legs were crossed, her hair pulled back into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. She looked calm. Serene, even. As if they hadn’t nearly torn one another’s throats out the day before.

“I made your father a promise,” she said lightly, turning a page with the same care she might give to adjusting a dinner napkin. “And I intend to keep it.”

Kieran scowled, running a small towel through his hair. “And how, exactly, did you get a key?” he asked, already making a mental list of punishments for Jauffre, should he be the culprit.

Cordelia lifted a small leather kit from her pocket, flicking it open with one hand. Tiny lockpicks gleamed from within its depths. “Tricks of the trade,” she said. “My father taught me many things. One of them being how to slip through places unnoticed.”

“Ah,” Kieran said, voice as dry as winter wood. “And here I thought you were a knight. Not a thief.”

She didn’t answer. She simply took a sip from the cup of tea resting on the side table and yawned.

His eyes narrowed. “Did you drink my tea?”

Finally, she looked up. Her grey eyes roamed slowly over him, from the tips of his bare feet to the curls dampening his collar. She gave him a look that could only be described as appraising, and she had found him lacking. He didn’t like it, not one bit.

“Yes,” she said at last. “You put too much sugar in it.”

“Then make yourself useful for once and fetch me another. Take it to the eluvian chamber,” he snapped, the prince in him bleeding into every syllable. He shoved open the door to his bedroom with more force than necessary, muttering under his breath as he disappeared inside.

He liked solitude. He liked the Wilds. He did not like someone trailing after him, questioning his every move, drinking his tea, and reading in his favorite chair. It was unsustainable. It was maddening.

By the time he emerged, dressed in soft, worn leather trousers and a dark, laced tunic that clung comfortably to his frame, the room was empty. Thank the Maker. Perhaps if he walked out naked next time, she wouldn’t make a habit of it...not that there would be many days left to test the theory. Not if the skies were any indication. The reminder was on the horizon as dawn broke, the sun blood red as it crested the rise, and he hurried down to the bowels of the castle to the eluvian room, grabbing his staff as he went. 

Cordelia, ever intrusive, was already there.

She stood beside his workbench, elbow-deep in the organized chaos of his tools, turning the specially-made elven conduit between her fingers like a trinket, squinting down its center with a scholar’s curiosity but none of the reverence. Kieran didn’t slow his pace as he crossed the chamber and snatched it from her hand in one fluid motion.

“Do you mind ?” he muttered, not waiting for a reply as he strode toward the eluvian’s polished frame.

He hadn’t told his father that he had never successfully redirected an eluvian away from the Crossroads.. But he had studied. He had read, and read again, every scrap of parchment his mother had entrusted to him, traced the ink of her diagrams until the strokes were burned into memory.

And besides, he wasn’t just his mother’s son.

June’s creation.

His soul was linked to the god who created the eluvians after all. 

He paused just long enough to note the ceramic cup perched on the small stool beside the dais. His heart lifted briefly—until he realized the mug was empty, long cooled from yesterday, likely left there after some long-forgotten tea break during his last failed attempt. He exhaled sharply through his nose, lips tight. Of course, she hadn’t brought a fresh one. He cast a glance toward Cordelia, who had resumed her seat against the wall and now appeared wholly disinterested in anything beyond her nails.

Yes, his words yesterday had landed. She was retaliating in that infuriating, petty way of hers, with apathy masquerading as decorum. Suppressing the urge to mutter something wholly unprincely, Kieran returned to his workbench and unfurled a sheet of parchment. The map was rough, drawn from memory and stitched together with the knowledge of the eluvan network. His eyes roamed the inked latticework of potential routes, searching until he found what he needed: a buried elven ruin just outside of Redcliffe, ancient and dormant, but still intact. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, inhaling the metallic scent of Fade energy lingering in the room. He reached forward and placed his palm flat against the eluvian’s surface. He was not a Veil Jumper; he didn’t use devices or Fade-tuned artifices to navigate the magic. Instead, he found the route from Denerim to the new location, picturing it in his mind’s eye.

His work was a science, but it was also willpower. He summoned the image of the ruin to his mind: the spires lost beneath tangled roots, the altar stones sunken into centuries of moss and soil. He could see it. He willed the eluvian to see it.

I see you, June’s creation.

The voice was like a bolt of lightning driven into his skull. Kieran gasped, stumbling back as the surface of the eluvian pulsed with wrongness. A shock of emerald light seared through the chamber as his balance gave way, and he fell hard to the ground, the breath driven from his lungs.

Behind him, Cordelia’s voice came, infuriatingly calm. “Are you hurt?”

His face heated. “No, obviously not,” he hissed, dragging himself to his feet.

“That’s unfortunate.”

Kieran’s fists clenched at his sides. He reminded himself that rising to the bait would not aid the people of Ferelden.

The gods might be watching, might even be trying to worm their way into his thoughts, but they would not stop him. He pressed his palm to the glass again, forced his mind past the voice, past the eyes that burned in his thoughts, and found the thread. The Fade responded as he bent it, reluctant and clawing. His chest burned. His limbs trembled. But he pushed, following that tenuous string of connection as it wove its way through magic and memory toward the location he had chosen.

It hurt. Why does it hurt?

The string was almost there. It frayed. It stitched back together. It reached.

Kieran felt a surge of triumph as it attached. His eyes flew open. The eluvian flared to life, its surface settling into a smooth, rippling mirror of golden-blue. Behind him, Cordelia’s voice rang out again, as if completely oblivious to the struggle he had just endured. “The civilians are being evacuated by sector. Your father is starting with the Alienage.”

Kieran exhaled through his nose, low and tight. “Fine,” he said, the word clipped, as he straightened with more effort than he cared to show. “Advise the Commander that they’re permitted to scout the area before the first wave of evacuees is sent through.”

The pull of fatigue gnawed at his bones, not unlike the echo of spellburn after too many hours without rest. It reminded him, unpleasantly, of his fight with the demons in Brecilian Forest. His hand rose to his chest instinctively, fingers curling around the pendant beneath his tunic. The metal was warm to the touch, pulsing softly. 

“And what will you do?” Cordelia asked.

He didn’t answer her question. “The portal will be stable as long as the travelers are staggered.”

Something in his voice must have warned her off from pressing further. She said nothing else, and he turned away before she could search his face for more. Soldiers were already descending the stairs as he passed, preparing for the evacuation point. It would be busy enough that he could escape for a moment.

He made his way to the outer wall overlooking the gardens. The space had once been a sanctuary for him. As a child, he’d spent hours hidden among the rose vines and crumbling statues, tucked into the silence of blooming hedges while his tutors searched for him in vain. But now, the gardens felt like a graveyard, and he was content to watch from above even if everything had an odd crimson sheen. 

Kieran leaned forward, resting his elbows on the stone ledge. He lowered his head until his brow pressed into the crook of his arm. He felt like shit. Worse than shit. Like he’d downed five bottles of Soren’s infamous Orlesian liquor and tried to walk a straight line through a Fade rift, his limbs were leaden, his thoughts scattered.

“Escaping your new guard dog?”

Soren’s voice rang out behind him, casual and familiar, as if he were a demon summoned by Kieran’s thoughts. 

“You could say that,” Kieran muttered, voice muffled against his tunic sleeve.

Soren stepped up beside him, his elbow settling beside Kieran’s on the stone as he leaned in slightly and nudged him. “You should stop being so hard on her,” he said, quiet and uncharacteristically serious. “From what I’ve seen, the two of you could be friends.”

Kieran scoffed, though it came out more as a breathless huff than any real rebuttal. His whole body ached too much. “We’re at war, Soren. Friends aren’t a priority.”

“Isn’t that all the more reason to have them?”

Kieran lifted his head enough to glare sideways, the look dry and biting. “Did I tell you how peaceful the last twelve months of my life were in the Wilds?”

“I refuse to believe it,” Soren replied smoothly, not missing a beat. “Your life is anything but peaceful. It’s your nature.” He flashed a lopsided smirk, then turned to lean back against the ledge, arms folded as he looked out over the castle grounds. “You missed me. I’m a superb conversationalist, after all.”

Kieran straightened slightly, his gaze sliding to him. “You were never a good conversationalist.”

“Liar.”

Kieran huffed again and looked back down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “Was there a reason you followed me?”

Soren turned to face him more fully now, the light catching in his pale hair and the faint scar that curved along his jaw. “You looked unwell. I was simply checking on my friend.”

“Like Cordelia, I’m sure you were following orders,” Kieran muttered. “Like usual.”

“You wound me, Kier,” Soren said, his voice heavy. “How many times do I have to tell you—”

An explosion tore through the air.

The sound ripped across the castle, the ground beneath their feet shuddering.

Kieran snapped to attention, hands gripping the weathered stone of the rampart wall. With a shared glance, they ran together, instinct driving their movements as they dashed to the far end of the battlements, boots striking hard against the stone. From their vantage, they had a clear view beyond the city’s edge.

The western wall had been blown apart. Red, bulbous vines threaded over the rubble. Shadows writhed and poured through the gap.

“No,” Soren breathed beside him. 

“We need to evacuate as many civilians to the keep as possible,” Kieran said slowly, the horror rising in his chest. His magic throbbed beneath his skin, unruly and raw from overuse, but he had no choice. He would burn himself out if he had to. Innocents would die if he stood idle.

By the time they made it to the entrance of the keep, the space swelled with the first waves of evacuees. Some clutched children to their chests. Others stumbled, bloodied from falling remnants of the quake, carrying family members. The air was filled with the keening sound of fear. Behind him, Soren was already being assisted by a squire while Commander Rowan bellowed orders over the chaos. The castle no longer slept. It braced for siege.

Cordelia was at the center of it all, ushering people forward. She had a small elven child on her hip, the child’s face streaked with tears as Cordelia tried to calm her, before passing her gently to another evacuee and jogging toward Kieran the moment she spotted him. Her sword was at her hip now, though she wore no armor.

“Your father has already ridden out to help,” she said, slightly out of breath, panic sharpening her words.

“What sector was next?” Soren asked, his voice grim as he adjusted his grip on the reins.

“The Market District,” Cordelia replied quickly. “Then the Palace District.”

Soren nodded, accepting the reins from a wide-eyed junior squire. “Then we save as many as possible,” he said. “I’ll find the king.”

Kieran gave him a tired, crooked smile, more gallows humor than genuine mirth. “Ah, not if I get there first,” he quipped, then disappeared in a sharp exhale of arcane smoke and feathers, his form twisting into that of a great black raven.

It was a terrible idea.

The transformation hit him like a punch to the gut. His magic surged and screamed in protest, and for one agonizing moment, it felt as though his bones had liquefied and then snapped back into shape at the wrong angles. His wings beat the air erratically, skipping a beat as he faltered mid-flight, pain lancing down his back like hot iron.

He forced himself higher, air buffeting against him as the city opened beneath him. Through his transformed eyes, he saw the chaos below: streets choked with smoke and people, soldiers rallying, darkspawn carving bloody paths where the guards had not yet reached. His hearing, now tuned to every shift in the wind, caught the pounding of hooves.

Cordelia and Soren raced past the castle gates, their figures cutting through the streets, matching golden hair flying wildly about their heads. They would follow him straight to chaos. 

Kieran gathered speed, flying straight to where the fight seemed the thickest. Flames licked at rooftops where buildings had begun to catch, the western district now a jagged, broken wound in the city's side. He followed the scent of blood, the rumble of battle, until the clash of steel on steel drew him to the epicenter—the street where the King of Ferelden stood, his blade slick with darkspawn blood. 

A hurlock collapsed at Alistair's feet, still twitching where his blade had severed its spine. Without missing a beat, he pivoted, slashing the belly of a genlock that had lunged in from the side, viscera spilling in a grotesque arc. But Kieran saw what his father couldn’t…another darkspawn flanking him from behind, axe raised, jaws slavering.

Kieran angled his wings and dove.

He crashed to the ground in a burst of energy, strong enough to split the earth beneath his feet. His body twisted violently as he resumed his human form mid-impact, knees buckling, lungs burning. Pain lanced through his chest, but he shoved it aside, raising his staff in a single motion. 

A spear of ice roared into being in the air before him, pure and sharp. He flung it with a cry, the projectile drove through the genlock’s throat with a wet crunch. The creature staggered, gurgling on its own blood, before it slumped to the ground in a heap of mangled armor and clawed limbs.

Alistair turned just in time to dispatch the last of his immediate attackers, then caught sight of his son.

“Kieran!” he barked, striding through the wreckage. His hand clamped down on his arm, firm and urgent. “You need to get as many civilians through the eluvian as you can. Go!”

Kieran opened his mouth to respond, breath still ragged, but before he could speak, Alistair shoved him roughly backward just as a deep, bone-shaking roar erupted from the street beyond. The hulking silhouette of an ogre surged through the breach in the city wall, its twisted horns dripping ichor, its muscles rippling beneath thick, patchworked flesh. It let out another roar, loud enough to make the earth vibrate, and lowered its head as it barreled forward.

A soldier was seized mid-charge, plucked from the ground as though he weighed no more than a stuffed doll in a child’s hands. The ogre’s grotesque jaws clamped down in a single, horrific motion, rending the man’s head from his shoulders with a sickening crunch. Kieran raised his hand, summoning the well of power coiled inside his chest, and hurled a wave of kinetic force toward a cluster of advancing darkspawn. The blast scattered them, their twisted bodies colliding with stone and crumbling mortar. His breath rasped in his ears, loud and uneven, every inhalation a reminder that his body was fraying at the edges. Around them, the city burned, its towers silhouetted against the sky, now an inferno of bleeding red and curling smoke, yet each precious heartbeat carved another moment of escape for the civilians behind them.

But his chest ached with every movement, magic gnawing at his bones, and the air smelled of iron and rot, strongly enough to turn his stomach. 

Drawn by the flare of magic, the ogre twisted its mountainous frame toward him. It's one good eye locked on Kieran, and with a guttural roar, it swung a massive, clawed hand through a knot of nearby soldiers, tossing them aside, then it lowered its head and charged.

Kieran raised both hands, magic crackling to life as he cast a shielding spell a breath before impact. The ogre’s blow slammed into the barrier with brute force, sending him skidding backward across the stone street. Before the beast could strike again, Alistair surged forward with a battle cry, launching himself onto the ogre’s back. He planted his boots against the creature’s bristled hide, sword raised high as he drove the blade down between its shoulder blades. The ogre shrieked in fury, thrashing violently, but even with a full-grown man clinging to its spine, it remained fixated on Kieran. 

He stumbled as he backpedaled, casting another spear of ice. The projectile struck true, embedding into the ogre’s collarbone, but it only enraged the monster further. He threw another. Then another. Each one sapped more of his strength.

Two riders broke through the smoky haze, horses galloping hard, now caught up to him. Soren dismounted fluidly, drawing his sword and placing himself instinctively at Kieran’s side.

Cordelia did not slow. Instead, she shifted in the saddle, her torso lowering until her head hovered inches from the ground. She swept her blade outward in a lethal arc, the steel singing through the air before it struck the ogre’s leg. The tendons snapped with an audible pop, and the beast let out a monstrous howl as it collapsed onto one knee. 

Alistair held fast, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. He twisted the blade and tore it free, then drove it downward again, burying it to the hilt into the ogre’s spine. At the same moment, Soren charged in, plunging his weapon into the creature’s exposed throat.

Cordelia had already dismounted, landing beside Kieran with effortless grace. Kieran hunched forward on his staff, rubbing his chest absently. 

"I see you’ve learned some new tricks," he rasped, looking at her sideways. 

Cordelia tossed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, her sword balanced easily on one shoulder. Her expression shifted in an instant. Without hesitation, she raised her free hand and released a concentrated blast of energy just past his ear. The magic scorched the air, and Kieran felt the heat graze his skin as it tore through the stomach of a darkspawn, too close for comfort.

"And you," she said coolly, “are still terrible at watching your flank.”

They turned together, their gazes drawn to the west, where another gout of corrupted energy erupted skyward. The sky split with a pulse of red light, and an ominous rumble shook the ground beneath their feet.

Kieran’s gaze snapped toward his father, eyes wide with alarm. “They’ve breached another wall,” he said, the realization sinking in.

“Fall back!” Alistair bellowed, his voice ringing out over the chaos. Soldiers scrambled to obey, struggling to disengage from the tide of darkspawn that surged forward with renewed fury. Kieran stood his ground just long enough to throw another spear of ice, the shard exploding against a snarling hurlock’s chest with a sharp crack of freezing magic.

But the spell’s release was like a beacon. Every darkspawn head turned. As one, the creatures paused mid-slaughter, their dead eyes snapping toward him with unnatural unity.

“Go, Kieran!” Alistair shouted, voice ragged now, fear clawing at the edges. He shoved Soren roughly toward him. For a heartbeat, Kieran locked eyes with his father and saw unadulterated panic in their depths.

What you carry will call to them.

“Get on!” Cordelia’s voice rang out. She had remounted in the fray, her horse spinning in tight, nervous circles. One arm was extended toward him, her hand open and waiting, eyes locked on his.

Kieran grasped her hand and vaulted up behind her in a single motion, the thrum of power beneath his skin making every movement feel strained and sluggish. His heart pounded, and just as the darkspawn lunged, Cordelia spurred the horse into motion.

A rusted blade whistled past his ear, missing by a hair’s breadth as the horse surged forward. Kieran almost slipped, his balance gone as a wave of pain lanced through him. He clutched Cordelia around the waist as she ducked low over the horse’s neck, guiding them through the crush of bodies and carnage.

The burning was becoming unbearable. It started just below his collarbone in a sharp, pulsing heat that ignited down his flesh. His breath hitched. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, the pain so intense it blurred his vision.

Frantic, he reached beneath his tunic, fumbling for the pendant that hung around his neck. His fingers closed around it, and he cursed. The metal had gone blisteringly hot, adhered to his skin like a brand. He grit his teeth and yanked, taking a layer of scorched flesh with it, and nearly dropped the pendant from the sheer agony of contact. He held it up with a trembling hand, his other arm wrapped tightly around Cordelia as they galloped toward the safety of the keep.

In the ruby of the pendant, small, spiderlike cracks had begun to form.

Chapter Text

9:45 Dragon

The Winter Solstice in Highever was usually a cold, bitter affair, the sort of celebration one experienced with frost-nipped cheeks and fingers buried deep in woolen mitts. But in Denerim, the festival unfolded in warmer hues, if not in temperature, then in spirit. Though the wind still bit at exposed skin and the cobblestones held a persistent chill beneath booted feet, the streets had come alive with a kind of infectious joy that wrapped itself around the city like garlands of evergreen. No heavy drifts or treacherous sleet here, only thin dustings of snow that sparkled like ground glass underfoot, and ribbons of color draped from eaves and market stalls. Part of which was attributed to the castle mages, who kept the streets clean and clear, especially on days when celebration was out in full.

Cordelia had often imagined what it would be like to roam these streets freely, not as a noble Cousland under the ever-watchful eyes of guards and tutors, but as a girl. Just a girl, indistinguishable from the others who now wandered the Winter Market with cheeks flushed from cold and laughter, hands warmed by spiced cider and honeyed confections. Her parents were far away in the Anderfels, chasing legends and desperate remedies for the Calling, and though she missed them, she was determined not to spend the day mired in longing. So she had done something thoroughly unadvised: she had slipped from the castle without her guard, dressed plainly, with no identifying crest. It was reckless…but it was wonderful.

Vendors shouted over one another, their voices rising alongside the live musicians who played in the streets. Children darted between legs, shrieking with delight as they chased each other through wafts of roasted chestnut and crackling sausages. Cordelia moved among them in a fine woolen dress of forest green, devoid of the ostentation that would mark her as nobility. Her hands were gloved in fur-lined leather, her boots soft and scuffed at the toes. A braid hung down her back, the light strands woven with bright ribbon to match the Solstice colors, and when she passed a stall selling candied nuts, the vendor smiled at her as if she belonged.

She paused to accept a warm cream bun from an elderly woman wrapped in layers of wool, exchanging a few bronze bits with murmured thanks. With her prize in hand, she meandered toward a stall overflowing with hand-wrought jewelry; silver filigree glinting beside gemstone pendants and delicate brooches fashioned in the shapes of stags and dragons. Her mother wasn’t one for finery, but perhaps, Cordelia thought as she shifted her bun to one hand, a simple piece might suit her. 

She leaned forward to inspect a thin silver bracelet engraved with twining ivy, her breath fogging in front of her face. And then— smack. The bun vanished from her hand with a slap so swift and unceremonious that it took her a full second to register what had happened. She spun around, scandalized, her mouth falling open. Two cloaked figures darted away into the crowd, after quite obviously throwing something deliberately at the food in her hand. Her eyes narrowed as she hiked her skirts just enough to give chase.

She didn’t have far to go. Down a narrow alley, flanked by barrels and cast-off wreaths, two teenage boys stood catching their breath, hoods drawn low. One leaned against the wall, laughing softly, while the other bent over, hands on his knees. Cordelia stormed up behind them, arms folded across her chest, and planted herself firmly in their path.

“You owe me a cream bun,” she declared, her tone sharp enough to cut steel.

Soren’s head whipped up, his expression transforming from smug to sheepish in the blink of an eye. “Maker’s breath, Cordelia,” he said, straightening. “We didn’t know it was you.”

“No?” she echoed, eyes blazing. “Do you make a habit of hitting pastries from strangers' hands, then?”

“Well,” Soren began, rubbing the back of his neck, “you don’t normally wear dresses. Or ribbons. You look… girly.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits, her foot tapping out a slow rhythm of judgment. “It’s a festival. I’ll wear what I like.”

“She looks silly,” came the muttered remark from the other cloaked figure, who had been conspicuously silent until now. Cordelia didn’t even need to see his face to know. 

“Now, now, Kier,” Soren said, stepping between them. “Why don’t we go buy the lady a replacement bun?”

“You do whatever you want,” Kieran muttered, turning away. “I’m going back to the castle.”

“Suit yourself,” Soren called cheerfully. He reached out and ruffled Cordelia’s hair like she was still ten years old, then turned and walked backward down the alley, grinning over his shoulder. “Come on, Delia. Leave the grumpy prince to sulk in peace.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes and smoothed her hair, but followed, resisting the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She stuck her tongue out at Kieran for good measure, ignoring the pointed glare he shot her in return.

“Don’t mind him,” Soren said with a nudge of his elbow. “He gets like this after he returns from Orlais. I’m sure the two of you could become friends while you’re here, and then the three of us can mess with Jauffre.”

“So he can throw pig’s blood on me again?” Cordelia said with an arch of her brow.

Soren grimaced. “A bad joke. Should we call a truce?”

At some point, Soren had snatched a floral crown from a nearby table, made from the kind of flowers that only bloomed in the cold. He held it out to her with a dimpled grin, and Cordelia took it from his hands, putting it on her head. 

“Truce.”

9:52 Dragon - Present

An echoing shriek marked the end of the darkspawn at Cordelia’s feet as she drove her blade deeper into its throat, the corrupted flesh parting beneath the steel with a sickening ease. She gave a sharp twist of the hilt before yanking the weapon free with a wet, visceral sound, one that made her stomach lurch, despite everything she had already seen. Blood, thick and nearly black, splattered across her boots and stained the dirt at her feet.

She staggered back a step, chest heaving as the adrenaline gave way to a wave of nausea. Her fingers tightened reflexively on the hilt of her sword, the blade slick with gore. Around her, the battlefield was settling into an eerie quiet. Soldiers moved through the smoldering wreckage of the alleyway, dispatching the last of the darkspawn stragglers with grim efficiency. The ringing clash of steel had faded to short, brutal strikes that signaled a finality to the wave of attackers.

Cordelia turned slowly, her gaze sweeping over the remnants of the skirmish. Crumbled walls, broken carts, and corpses littered the path behind them, some twisted and scorched beyond recognition. The stench of blood and rot hung heavy, choking out the scent of the once-thriving market square. What had once been a place of trade and laughter was now nothing more than a battlefield. Something crushed beneath her feet, and she paused to see a bloody, crushed wreath of flowers beneath her boot. She stared down at it, feeling an odd sense of detachment as ash drifted from the sky like black snow.

She wiped her brow with a shaking hand, her skin smeared with grime and soot. Her arms ached from tending to the wounded, her knees bruised from kneeling beside the dying, her voice hoarse from shouting orders to fleeing civilians. She’d been here for hours, ushering people toward safety, toward the promise of sanctuary behind the castle gates until the darkspawn attacked again. With every new wave of desperate refugees, the promise of safety rang more hollow.

“The darkspawn retreated back to the pit,” came Soren’s voice beside her, quiet but steady. He offered her a cloth, and she accepted it with a nod, attempting to get the ash off her skin. 

“Thank you,” she murmured. “And the civilians?” 

“Kieran is at the eluvian,” Soren answered, his gaze flicking toward the keep’s silhouette in the distance. “He’s keeping the portal stable. The panic’s made everything harder, but we’ve moved most of the inner districts. You should go back to the castle…you’ve done more than enough. Get some rest, Cordelia.”

She exhaled slowly and turned toward the castle just as Soren moved away, his strides purposeful as he went to aid a woman picking through the rubble, her hands bloody from clawing at stone in search of someone she had lost. Cordelia’s eyes stung, not just from smoke, but from exhaustion pressing hard behind her skull. Her arms throbbed from swinging her sword, her palms blistered, and her thoughts scattered. Each step toward the keep was an effort, but the long walk gave her space to breathe, however shallowly, and to sift through the chaos tangled in her mind.

Soren had been right; she needed rest. She wouldn’t be any use to anyone if she collapsed mid-evacuation. And Maker help her, it might only take one more ogre crashing through the walls to end her story for good.

Wasn’t this what she had wanted? To be a knight, to stand tall in battle, to fight for something bigger than herself? But now, with the air thick with ash and the cries of the wounded echoing down broken streets, that dream felt like a child’s fantasy. Glory was a distant thing. All she could see now was the corpses, the children clutching bloodied hands, the despair.

Some of their forces had already been dispatched to Redcliffe. The north was under siege. No one else was coming. Denerim was lost—Cordelia knew it, even if no one had dared speak the words aloud. It had never truly been her home, not the way Highever had been, but she had spent enough of her childhood within these stone walls to mourn it all the same. Now, all that remained was to get as many people out as possible.

Still, a part of her couldn’t ignore how convenient it all seemed. Ever since they’d overheard that conversation through the eluvian, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling. As if merely drawing their attention had somehow invited an attack. And not just any assault, but one executed with the strange precision the darkspawn had begun to exhibit.

Then there was Kieran. It wasn’t the King they’d targeted…it was him.

Why?

Cordelia shook her head as she entered the open grounds outside the castle, the distant ringing of bells mingling with the low rumble of panic that seemed to saturate the very air. Tents had been erected hastily, their canvas walls rippling in the cold breeze, each one packed with the injured, the frightened, and the displaced. Rough barricades of wood and debris marked the perimeter, and the guards posted at them bore expressions carved in fatigue and soot.

The moment they spotted her, she was waved through without question—her status plain in her bearing and the blood on her clothes. She moved with purpose, threading her way through the overcrowded halls, not toward rest, but toward the one place she might still be useful: the eluvian chamber. 

The closer she drew, the louder the noise became; desperate cries and angry voices echoed through the stone corridors. When she arrived at the chamber entrance, the sound was nearly deafening. A crowd had gathered in the stairwells and beyond, civilians packed shoulder to shoulder, the line to the mirror stretching beyond sight. The air was thick with fear and unrest, the scent of unwashed bodies and singed cloth sour on her tongue. Children cried while their parents shouted, demanding answers. The guards did what they could to corral them into manageable groups, but order was fraying, the eluvian dark and lifeless.

Cordelia’s gut twisted as she stepped in front of one of the guards, her tone clipped. “Is there an issue?”

The man’s helmet was skewed, and his face was pale beneath it. “The guard on the Redcliffe side has prevented refugees from going through temporarily. For safety reasons.”

She gave a tight nod of acknowledgment, though her heart sank. Her blood felt cold in her veins. Were they under attack, too? If Redcliffe fell, the entire evacuation effort would collapse. What then?

Cordelia didn’t stay to dwell on it. She turned and made her way back through the keep, threading through the tide of panicked citizens and soldiers alike. Her hair had come loose, long strands spilling from the tie. She shoved them back with a trembling hand. Her limbs ached with a dull, persistent throb, her muscles tight with exhaustion. She hadn’t known her body could hurt in so many places, or that weariness could nest so deeply in the marrow.

Two days had passed since Cordelia had ridden back to the keep with Kieran clinging grimly to the saddle behind her, after chasing him down with Soren to get to the heart of the initial onslaught. Since then, he had been helping to ferry civilians through the eluvian to Redcliffe, while Cordelia had been assisting with the defense and evacuating civilians to the inner city. There had been no real sleep, only short, dreamless lapses into unconsciousness between cries for help and the howls of darkspawn in the distance. 

When she reached the door to Kieran’s quarters, she knocked once and waited. Knocked again, but there was no answer. She tried the handle, finding it unlocked. At least she wouldn’t need to pick it this time, though she knew well enough that Kieran would be furious with her if she barged in…she found she didn’t care.

The room was unlit and cold, the hearth long dead, casting the furnishings in blue-gray gloom. At first, she saw nothing unusual until her eyes caught the pair of boots sticking out from behind the couch. Panic surged through her. She rushed forward and rounded the furniture, only to find Kieran lying sprawled on the floor, face down, motionless.

“Kieran?” she said sharply, dropping to her knees beside him, hands already at his shoulder.

He didn’t stir. She shook him harder.

He groaned, voice thick and muffled. “ Do you mind ?” he slurred, turning his head slightly. “Can’t a man get some rest?”

Relief warred with anger in her chest. “I thought you needed healing,” Cordelia snapped, exasperated, though her hands were trembling.

“What I need,” he grumbled into the carpet, “is two days’ sleep and my mana back. Not healing.”

“Then why is there blood on the floor?”

He let out a theatrical sigh and turned his face away. “Begone, mascot of my ill fortune.”

Fed up, Cordelia grabbed him by the arm and rolled him onto his back. He made a noise halfway between a groan and a whimper but offered no resistance.

“Ow. Why are you so strong?” he mumbled, clearly too drained to lift more than a protest.

Her frown deepened. The front of his shirt was torn open, the fabric frayed as if clawed. The skin beneath was a raw, angry red, and in the hollow of his chest, a burned, bloody mark marred his pale skin. 

She caught the glint of crimson near his shoulder. A pendant lay beside his head, the chain looped messily across his neck. She picked it up, feeling a strange resonance hum against her skin; the red gem at its center was cracked, delicate fissures like spiderwebs branching across the surface.

“Get up,” she muttered, returning the pendant to his collarbone.

Kieran’s strange green-gold eyes tracked her sluggishly. “Why? Have they allowed the eluvian access again?”

“No,” she said, voice tight. “Which I’m sure you can tell me all about once I heal you.”

“I told you, I don’t need healing.”

“What happened to your chest?”

He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “An accident is all.”

Cordelia lifted the pendant again, letting it sway before his face. “Does it have something to do with this?”

“I exerted myself too much, and it burned me,” he admitted with a sigh. 

“What does it do, exactly?”

“It keeps my magic in check, and that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

She narrowed her eyes but let it go.

“You look like shit, by the way,” Kieran muttered, sitting up with a wince.

“You’re one to talk,” she shot back and slapped her hand over the wound before he could protest.

He inhaled sharply, but she had already closed her eyes, her focus narrowing to the flow of magic between her hand and his body. Healing was not her specialty, but she had learned the basics well—taught by a tutor willing to give her more than the Circle ever would have, thanks to Alistair’s protection and the new world forged by the Inquisition.

Her power was gentle, like fog creeping across a moor, tendrils of silver mist threading through veins and sinew, searching for the source of the injury. She felt her magic seep into the wound, knitting torn flesh, steadying his pulse, which seemed to beat faster than a normal human’s. She withdrew after a long moment, feeling slightly dizzy.

Kieran swallowed thickly and opened his eyes, dragging himself upright to lean against the back of the settee. Cordelia's gaze flicked briefly to his chest—the wound had vanished, leaving behind only a patch of angry, inflamed skin. The pendant, cracked and glinting faintly with residual power, had settled back against his skin, half-hidden beneath the open folds of his tunic. He caught her staring and, with a scowl that barely masked discomfort, tugged the fabric closed with uncharacteristic self-consciousness.

“You’re going to drain yourself dry,” Cordelia murmured with a weary sigh, brushing a strand of soot-streaked hair from her cheek. “Not that I care, but it is my duty to ensure your safety, and we are stuck with one another, whether we like it or not.”

“Your thinly veiled contempt really warms my heart,” Kieran said with a sardonic raise of his brow.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. She was too tired to spar properly, verbally or otherwise. “The evacuation is our priority, and we can’t stabilize the portal if you’ve consumed all of your strength.”

“And?” Kieran’s voice was flat, his exhaustion unmistakable. “If you remember, I was trying to regain my mana when you interrupted me.”

“You were face-down on the floor. That’s hardly resting.”

“My eyes were closed.”

“Regardless,” she snapped, voice fraying at the edges, “lyrium potions will only give you a small boost, and I imagine that won’t be enough. Can you take off the pendant and see if it helps?”

“No.”

“I’m trying to help,” she said warily.

“I can’t take it off,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Then maybe we can try something.”

Kieran’s eyes narrowed in caution. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Cordelia ignored him, plowing forward. “Mortalitasi use their abilities to drain the life force of their foes, and blood mages use blood to do so, either from their own source or those around them.”

“Are you really giving me a lesson right now?”

“What if mages could also siphon mana from each other? Rather than life force.”

Kieran frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

“I take my duty seriously,” Cordelia repeated, sitting up straighter. “So, if I were to let you borrow my mana, you could stabilize the portal more easily, without exhausting yourself. Or… whatever the amulet around your neck is doing to you, and we can get the civilians out faster.”

He looked down at the pendant, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His fingers brushed it absently, thoughtfully. Finally, he sighed. “Fine,” he relented. “But I’m not touching you until you clean yourself up.”

Cordelia gave him a look of flat disbelief. “Oh, please, are you really deterred by a bit of dirt?”

“You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror today.”

With a huff, Cordelia stood. “Fine,” she snapped, mimicking his tone mockingly, and stalked off toward the adjoining bathing chamber.

“I didn’t mean in my room,” Kieran called after her, but she ignored him.

In the bathing chamber, the mirror offered no kindness. Ash clung to her cheeks, soot darkening the skin around her eyes where she had squinted against the crimson light of the sky. Her braid was coming undone in greasy, tangled knots, and dried blood—some hers, most not—streaked her arms and throat in flaking rivulets. She grimaced. 

The basin’s cold water bit into her skin like ice, her fingers trembling as she stripped off her tunic and leaned over the ceramic bowl. She left the chest binding on and tipped the small pitcher, letting the icy water cascade down her hair, soaking the filth until it could be worked through. 

“You know, I think—” Kieran’s voice came from the doorway and cut off abruptly. She heard the unmistakable sound of him choking on air. Cordelia glanced at the mirror and found him facing the wall, stiff as a statue, back turned to her.

“I’m not naked ,” she said flatly. “Maker, are you a Chantry sister?”

His ears went red. He made a strangled noise and backed out hastily. She returned to her task with a roll of her eyes, finishing her quick wash. A soft thump hit her back. Turning, she saw Kieran’s retreating form and a folded bundle of cloth on the floor.

A clean tunic. Huh.

Cordelia took it without comment and did what she could with the soap at the vanity, scrubbing her arms and neck again before re-tying her hair into a high bun. It didn’t matter that she still smelled faintly of smoke and iron; this was the best she was going to manage.

When she emerged into the main room wearing the clean tunic, Kieran was seated cross-legged on the floor before the newly built fire. The flames danced across his features, casting shifting light over his tired face. He stared into the hearth like it held the secrets of the Fade.

Cordelia sat beside him, mirroring his posture with a sigh as her muscles protested. “Why did they stop allowing civilians through?” she asked, her voice low.

“I got a good number out before some darkspawn hit the Redcliffe side. Minor, I think, but they didn’t want to risk it. The eluvian opens a little ways outside the city. Which is why I was getting some much-needed rest before I had to ferry more people through the portal.”

Cordelia arched a brow. It wasn’t often he offered explanations so directly. Perhaps he truly was tired.

“Well then,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair over her ear. “Should we get started?”

She held out her hand to him. He hesitated, his gaze flicking between her face and her outstretched fingers, something unreadable in his expression. When he didn’t move, she sighed and started to rise.

“Fine, if you don’t want help, I am going to go to sleep.”

“No, I—”

She paused mid-motion. He didn’t finish the sentence, but he reached out, meeting her hand with his. His fingers remained straight beneath hers, barely touching, as if even that slight contact was more than he could tolerate.

Now what?

She sat still, suddenly uncertain. Her idea had seemed plausible in theory, but now? She had no idea how to initiate a transfer of mana. He would have to siphon from her, right? 

“I think—” she began, but her words were cut off by a sharp, sudden jolt.

It felt like something slammed into her chest and gripped her heart. Her breath caught, and her body stiffened for a moment. Then came the warmth…slow and strange, radiating from her chest outward in curling tendrils to her fingertips. Her eyelids fluttered closed. Her magic responded instinctively, willing and giving, pulled along a thread that was not hers. After a moment, she attempted to slow the flow of mana, tugging it back somewhat, controlling it. 

But that was when something shifted. It was as though massive hands, cold and unseen, clamped down on her skull. Cordelia gasped, trying to pull away, but the force held her fast. An eye—a massive gold, slitted eye, flashed in her mind. She tried to tear her hand away from Kieran’s, to stop whatever it was. 

And then, without warning, everything went black.

The next thing Cordelia knew, someone was shaking her shoulder. Her head throbbed as she groaned, blinking through the haze in her vision, unsure how long she had been unconscious. The face that came into view was all too familiar. Soren crouched beside her with one brow arched, wearing an expression that was part concern, part exasperation.

Her eyes drifted to the side, and her breath caught when she saw Kieran lying beside her on the floor. He was just as still, though his chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths. Their hands were still clasped together, fingers loosely entwined. Cordelia jolted and tore her hand away from his as if it had burned her.

“When I told Kieran to play nice with you,” Soren said, straightening and offering her a hand, “this wasn’t exactly what I expected the natural order of events to turn into.”

She took his hand, allowing him to help her sit upright, but the moment she moved, nausea surged through her. Cordelia pointed weakly at the wastebasket near the desk, urgency sharp in her eyes.

Soren reacted instantly. He dove for the bin, knocking a stool aside with his boot, and shoved it beneath her face just in time. Cordelia leaned over and vomited, her body heaving with effort. It was mostly bile, splashing over crumpled parchment and torn paper. Soren rested a hand on her back, offering comfort while she caught her breath.

Kieran groaned behind them and rolled onto his side, his arm still outstretched.

“I came to tell you,” Soren said after a pause, slipping back into a more serious tone, “that the commander on the Redcliffe side has given us leave to continue sending refugees through the portal.”

Cordelia kept her head down, breathing through the nausea. Her stomach felt like it had turned inside out.

“I can ask them to hold off longer if you need more time,” Soren added, quieter now.

“No,” Kieran said from behind them. “In fact, I feel more than rested.”

Cordelia lifted her head, casting a sidelong glance at him. To her irritation, he really did look better. The shadows under his eyes remained, but his eyes had cleared, the sickly pallor in his skin mostly gone. Whatever they had done, it had worked. At least for him.

“Well, that’s just perfect,” she muttered. “I’m going to… go.”

Her legs shook as she stood, her muscles sore and uncooperative, still holding the wastebasket. She moved slowly toward the door, each step a protest from her overtaxed body. As she stepped into the corridor, she caught part of the conversation continuing behind her.

“You’re impossible, Kieran,” Soren was saying. “You need to stop pushing yourself so hard. You remember what your mother said.”

“My mother isn’t here, Soren,” Kieran replied, his voice low and tired. “Besides, don’t you want to make it out of here alive?”

“Don’t you?” Soren asked quietly in return.

Cordelia didn’t wait for the answer. She eased the door closed behind her, the latch clicking softly into place.

Chapter Text

Kieran got to his feet slowly, his limbs still tingling from the lingering charge of power that thrummed beneath his skin, and deliberately chose to ignore the pointed question Soren had thrown at him like a weapon meant to lodge deep in his conscience.

He felt… alive in a way that was foreign to him now, something he had not truly experienced in what felt like months, perhaps even years. There was a warmth still coiled in his hand, the echo of raw mana humming through his veins like fire and light stitched together, the threads of it pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. It wasn’t the replenishing sip of lyrium or the subtle restoration of rest; it was full, radiant, complete. It made him feel as though the world could not touch him, as though nothing within the Fade or without could stand before him.

The moment Cordelia’s hand had touched his, he had felt it begin. The flow of magic from her to him had been like standing beneath a waterfall, her mana cascading into his very soul. It hadn’t taken effort. She had let him in, even if she hadn’t meant to, and something inside him had recognized the opportunity before either of them could stop it. He hadn’t needed to think; he had simply drawn from her, as easily as breathing, as if some deep part of him had always known how. As if his very nature had been waiting for this moment.

And in that moment, he hadn’t worried. He had felt strong again.

Until, of course, she had started to resist. Until she had tugged on their tether, trying to slow the connection, trying to reclaim her strength. It was then that he remembered she was not a well of infinite magic. She was a person. One who had offered help despite their animosity. And he had taken, unthinking.

Kieran frowned as the thought settled in his chest. He wondered, idly, if he had hurt her, drained her too much, too fast. But she had gotten to her feet, unsteady though she was, and had walked away. Still, he stared down at his hands, fingers flexing open and closed, as if waiting to feel some sign of regret crackling in his knuckles. Instead, there was only silence in his blood.

"You’ve always been self-destructive, Kieran," Soren said from behind him, voice low but sharp, each word chosen with purpose. "Do not drag Cordelia down with you."

The words were not delivered with anger, but with something worse. Disappointment. They cut all the same.

Kieran stood still for a moment longer before letting his signature scowl settle over his features like a mask. He turned his head slightly, his voice thick with contempt. "Do not tell me you haven’t left your boyhood obsession in the past, Soren," he sneered, narrowing his eyes as if the mere mention of her name in Soren’s mouth disgusted him.

Soren didn’t even flinch. He simply stared at him, the firelight flickering across the angles of his face. “Cruelty has never suited you, Kieran,” he said quietly. “Isn’t it time you stopped using it to hide?”

Kieran didn’t answer as Soren turned on his heel and left, the door slamming behind him with finality. Silence settled over the room. Kieran stood there, staring at the space where his friend had been, his throat tight with guilt. But there was no time for sentiment, not when the city still needed him, when people were still waiting for salvation he was supposed to help deliver.

He stepped slowly into the bathing chamber, the stone cold beneath his bare feet, his limbs heavy with the aftereffects of both power and shame. Stripping off his shirt, he faced the mirror above the washbasin, the surface still flecked with soot and water droplets from Cordelia’s earlier use. The glass reflected a stranger. Hair damp with sweat clung to his forehead and curled around his jaw, longer now than he preferred, and dark stubble shadowed the lower half of his face. His eyes looked darker, hollowed.

The burn across his chest had faded from Cordelia’s healing spell, but a blotchy flush remained where the pendant had seared him, the red mark stark against his pale skin. The chain lay against his collarbone, quiet now. He filled the basin with water, the liquid shockingly cold even against his already-chilled fingers. Cordelia’s tunic still lay beside the tub, half-folded and stained with soot and blood. His gaze caught on it before he could look away, a flicker of memory seizing him. 

Muscles pulled tight beneath skin that seemed too soft, the curve of her spine like a blade waiting to be unsheathed.

He scowled and turned away. Ridiculous. He had lost his mind.

Kieran plunged his head into the cold water and held it there, welcoming the sting in his scalp, the burn in his lungs. When he emerged, he gasped slightly, the rivulets of icy water racing down his back, helping to shove the thoughts from his mind.

He took his time removing the stubble on his jaw, letting the blade scrape away the weight of the past day. It didn’t matter how he looked, but this wasn’t vanity; it was control. A man could lose everything, but he could still choose how he faced the world. A mask of order in a world descending into chaos.

Once dressed, he stepped back into the sitting room, now quiet save for the crackling hearth. His eyes drifted to the rug where he and Cordelia had sat, where her magic had become his for a brief, astonishing moment. He hoped they never had to do it again. He didn’t like the idea of being indebted to Cordelia Cousland. Though…perhaps the energy coursing his veins was worth the consequence. 

Since his arrival in Denerim, it seemed all he had done was walk back and forth from the eluvian chamber, a living tether between the doomed city and whatever fragile hope awaited in Redcliffe. Day after day, hour after hour, he had been trapped in the same repetitive cycle of stabilizing the portal, organizing evacuees, and absorbing the tension of everyone around him like a sponge grown too saturated to wring out.

So many had already died. The walls of Denerim had held, but only barely. And yet, despite the endless tide of loss and fear, the number of people moving through the eluvian each day was more than Kieran could have anticipated. It was as if the entire city had become fluid, pouring itself into the mirror one soul at a time. 

It took him only moments to reactivate the eluvian. The ritual was second nature now, even easier with the strange replenishment of his mana. The glass shimmered to life with a pulse of green light, and suddenly the room was awash in color and motion. His vision felt strangely acute, the world around him unnaturally vibrant. Kieran stood at the top of the dais, the cold light of the eluvian reflecting off the walls behind him, watching the lines of evacuees winding through the chamber. These were the Castle District civilians, and many of them, he noticed, carried far more than they could reasonably manage—boxes of trinkets, satchels bursting with fine fabrics, gilded heirlooms cradled like children. Even now, with death pressing in from all sides, people clung to their luxuries as if they might barter their way out of destruction.

If the darkspawn followed the same pattern as before, he estimated they had perhaps a week left; precious days before the next full assault breached the inner walls. His father’s forces had held the line well enough, closing off the outer rings of Denerim and forcing the darkspawn to retreat into the pit each day. The cycle had become predictable, an uneasy rhythm of assault and withdrawal.

At least, that was what the reports claimed. Kieran, of course, had not seen it with his own eyes. He had been too tethered to the eluvian to participate in anything but its defense. Not since the day he had joined the front lines and drawn the attention of every darkspawn within a mile. His father had scolded him with the fierce, breathless anger of a man terrified beneath the surface, and Kieran could not quite shake the thought that Alistair knew. Knew that whatever was tethered to Kieran’s soul was more prevalent than ever.

He tried not to dwell on it. Not when Alistair was storming down the far stairwell into the chamber, his boots striking the stone in a pace that brooked no delay. Kieran’s eyes flicked toward the movement immediately, watching as the crowd parted for the king like a tide, the voices of those gathered reaching a crescendo before fading into tense murmurs. His father inclined his head toward the far end of the room, indicating with a flick of his fingers that they should speak somewhere quieter. Kieran stepped down from the dais without a word, moving to meet him.

Commander Rowan trailed closely behind, all hard edges and sharp glances, voice crisp as he barked orders to nearby guards. He waved two through the eluvian to clear the path, and seconds later, they returned from the other side, giving the all-clear for the next group of civilians to begin moving through the portal.

“You look as though you have news,” Kieran said when they reached the edge of the chamber, his tone level but wary.

“Another hole has opened outside the city,” Alistair said, wasting no time. “We are running out of time.”

Kieran’s frown deepened. “I thought we had another week of evacuations.”

“If the darkspawn converge on us all at once,” Alistair replied grimly, “we won’t have that luxury. Which is why we’re preparing to move some of the remaining civilians out on foot.”

Kieran blinked at him. “That seems dangerous.”

“It is,” his father admitted. “But it’s the only hope we have of getting the rest of the population to Redcliffe before the city falls. The eluvian can only carry so many, and there’s no guarantee it won’t become compromised.”

“And what part am I to play?” Kieran asked, already sensing the shape of the answer.

“You will continue ferrying civilians through the eluvian,” Alistair said with finality. “And once the last wave is through, you will go with them.”

There was a flicker of something strange in his father’s voice—trust, perhaps, or resignation. Kieran raised an eyebrow. 

Alistair’s mouth twitched. “Once you're safely through, I’ll be following the rest of the evacuees on foot. With the remaining guard.”

Kieran gave a single nod. “I won’t argue.”

Alistair’s brows lifted faintly. “But?”

“But…you have to take Cordelia with you.”

“I take it you still aren’t getting along.”

“You could say that,” Kieran muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “But the woman can’t help playing heroics. She will be better suited to help you.”

Alistair gave a nod, firm and without hesitation. “Done.”

That single word caught Kieran off guard more than it should have, his brow arching slightly. It wasn’t the agreement itself, but the ease of it, the lack of pushback. If anything confirmed that the king and the Hero of Ferelden had orchestrated this entire situation—shoving him and Cordelia together under the pretense of duty—it was that. His parents had always believed more in action than speeches, and this reeked of quiet manipulation disguised as royal order.

“Excellent,” Kieran grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll tell her myself.”

“How long can you stabilize the portal?” Alistair asked, pointedly ignoring the barb.

Kieran tilted his head slightly, closing his eyes for just a moment, reaching inward the way he’d been trained to since childhood. He probed the flow of mana inside him, the aftertaste of Cordelia’s energy still lingering faintly, like the echo of lightning in his blood. “All day,” he replied simply, without hesitation.

Alistair gave him a long look. “Don’t push yourself. The royal mages are here for a reason.”

“Understood, Father.”

Kieran turned without waiting for further instruction, his footsteps light on the ancient stone as he returned to the dais where the eluvian stood, its surface still alight with the soft, magical sheen that shimmered like water caught in sunlight. He reached out, placing both hands on the carved frame, fingers splayed against the cold glass and metal. The mirror thrummed faintly beneath his touch, pulsing like a living thing.

He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and fed his magic into it, in a slow, controlled pour. The energy responded easily this time, as if his body had stopped resisting the act. There was no sting along his collarbone, no burn rising through his lungs, no tremble in his limbs. Instead, it was smooth and effortless.

He stood there for several seconds more, letting the power anchor into the mirror’s structure, until the eluvian glowed with a steady brilliance that promised stability for hours to come.

“Have the royal mages monitor it,” Kieran said, turning to one of the nearby King’s Guard. His voice carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed, even if he rarely sought power for its own sake. “Send for me if there are any complications.”

With that, he stepped away from the eluvian, brushing a few specks of dust from his sleeves as he turned back toward his father, his voice quieter this time. “I’ll help you prepare,” he murmured.

Alistair hesitated, just for a breath, as if trying to read more in his son’s posture than Kieran was willing to show. “Are you sure?” he asked, his brow furrowing with the ever-familiar crease of concern. “Your mother was worried about you straining yourself—”

“I’m fine, Father.” The reply was curt, but not unkind.

After a long moment, Alistair’s expression shifted, and for the first time in days—perhaps weeks—a faint half-smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was tired, and deeply lined with the weight of command and impending defeat, but it was genuine.

“I don’t suppose you know the spell that can enchant my weapon to catch on fire? I always liked it when Morrigan did that. But don’t tell her I said it.”

Kieran’s grin, this time, was real. “I thought you’d never ask.”

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

Kieran wasn’t a petty person. No—that was a lie. He absolutely was.

Which was exactly why he now found himself standing outside Cordelia Cousland’s chamber, a room tucked discreetly near the guest wing but unmistakably more luxurious than any of the other visiting quarters. One room away from the royal family’s own wing, in fact. It was a choice that said more than Alistair ever would aloud. Kieran supposed it made sense. With the way the king doted on her, Cordelia might as well have been born of royal blood.

He didn’t bother knocking. A flick of his wrist, a quiet murmur of power under his breath, and the lock clicked open, the door creaking inward with a whisper-soft groan. The room beyond was cloaked in shadow, the hearth dark and cold, the silence stretching long and undisturbed.

He moved past the long settee and nearly missed the form curled up on it. Tucked beneath a blanket, Cordelia lay still, so motionless she could have passed for one of the departed. Kieran stopped beside her, blinking slowly as he took her in. She was tucked in tightly, her body folded in on itself, limbs curled, breath shallow and soft. Her hair was loose, cascading over the pillow in tangled waves of pale gold, strands catching what little light filtered in from the window. She looked… different like this. Younger. Softer. Her face, usually pulled taut with focus and irritation, was slack with exhaustion. In sleep, she was stripped of the steel edge she wore like armor. The girl he had once known, all those years ago, lingered beneath the hardened exterior.

Kieran studied her in silence. Her face was pale, her cheeks still smudged faintly with soot, and her fingers were curled against her chest like she was clutching something invisible in her dreams. Her long lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheekbones, and her lips were slightly parted, breath steady and slow. She looked… peaceful. Serene, even. He wasn’t sure he liked it. It unnerved him, just a little.

He poked her cheek. She didn’t stir.

Kieran glanced toward the window, noting the deepening shadows that signaled evening’s slow descent, though it felt as though the sun never rose with the darkspawn’s strange magic upon the world. It had been a few hours since she’d left his room after their… experiment. He wondered briefly if she had suffered more from the magic transfer than she let on. The cost of that kind of exchange could be unpredictable—especially for someone unused to sharing their mana with another. For all her pride, Cordelia didn’t have the same depth of magical training he did. He should probably leave. Let her sleep. 

Instead, he turned toward the hearth and cast a small flame spell, setting the carefully arranged wood alight with a low roar. The light cast long shadows across the walls and painted the room in warm hues of orange and gold. 

He wandered toward the bookshelf, which was sparse but not empty, and pulled out a volume at random. The cover was slightly cracked from wear, and the spine was barely holding together. He returned to the armchair and settled into it, casting a sideways glance at Cordelia before cracking the book open.

Varric Tethras. Hard in Hightown.

Of course, she would read this kind of drivel. Still, he didn’t set it aside. He wasn’t sure why he was still here, if he was honest with himself. There were other things he should be doing—reports to read, magic to prepare, an entire evacuation to oversee—but the quiet had grown comfortable. And there was something oddly satisfying about the idea of being the one to witness her waking, especially when he told her she couldn’t dog his steps anymore. That would be worth the wait alone.

Oddly enough, he didn’t feel tired. The borrowed mana still thrummed through his body like a second heartbeat, subtle but steady, giving him the illusion of invincibility. He knew it would wear off, and that his body would eventually crash from the extended strain, but for now, he was alert. Too aware of everything around him to even consider sleep. So, he read. The fire crackled softly, the book rested in his lap, and time passed like water through his fingers.

It was a subtle sound—a breath, a sigh, a shift of limbs—but Kieran immediately looked up. Cordelia rolled onto her side with a soft groan, her brows twitching before her eyes blinked open groggily, slowly adjusting to the firelight.

His gaze met hers, calm and unblinking. She stared at him through slitted eyes.

Then, in the span of a heartbeat, she moved.

A flash of silver caught the firelight as the dagger left her hand, flying toward him with deadly precision.

“Maker—” Kieran swore, jerking sideways as the blade sliced through the air. He deflected it with his forearm, the metal grazing fabric and skin alike, too fast for his magic to respond. He didn’t even have time to get a shield up before Cordelia was on him.

Her hand closed around his throat with alarming strength, her fingers digging into his skin. She pressed her knee against the cushion, pinning him in place, her weight balanced just close enough to his groin to be threatening—far too close for comfort in any regard.

Kieran froze, hands raised in surrender, his brows lifted in disbelief as he looked up into her blazing eyes.

She eased up on his throat, though her hand lingered, her fingers still curled against his skin as if her body hadn’t yet caught up to her waking mind. She blinked rapidly, dazed, as though shaking off some haunting vision. Then, with a jolt of movement, she shoved herself back from him, breath ragged, one hand flying to her temple as if her skull ached from the inside out.

Kieran remained still, his hands half-raised in caution. She looked paler than usual, with her eyes too wide and her breathing too sharp. He started to lift a hand toward her, instinct overriding logic, but she swatted him away with a sharp flick of her wrist, as if even the proximity of concern irritated her.

“I could have killed you,” she hissed, lifting her head suddenly, her face flushing as memory hit her like a slap. Her eyes darted to his arm, and she flinched. There it was—the wound she had inflicted—deep and clean, a perfect line of pain down his forearm. Kieran followed her gaze with a mild sort of detachment, raising the limb so he could study it properly. Blood flowed freely, thick and red, soaking the sleeve of his tunic and beginning to drip onto the upholstery beneath.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he murmured, his voice low and dry as he rotated the arm casually, more concerned with keeping the mess off the chair than the fact he could see bone through torn flesh.

“For the love of Andraste,” Cordelia exclaimed, straightening in a rush and disappearing into the adjoining chamber. She returned moments later with a cloth in hand and dropped to her knees beside him, pressing it hard against the gash, her fingers surprisingly deft despite their trembling. Up close, Kieran could see the strain written across her face: the deep hollows beneath her eyes, the lines of fatigue carved into her skin.

“Are you unwell?” he asked in a flat tone.

She glared up at him, her brows drawn so tight they nearly met in the middle. Her hands didn’t falter as she worked to stop the bleeding, but her jaw clenched before she replied.

“If I am unwell, it is because of your repeated stupidity,” she snapped, yanking the cloth tight and tying it off with a rough knot. “I don’t have the energy to heal you.”

That admission clearly cost her. She sat back on her heels, looking winded by the effort. Her breath came in shallow pulls, and her hand twitched faintly at her side.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he said lightly, and for once, it was true. There was no throb, no sting, only a curious numbness, as though the pain had chosen to bypass him entirely. It was disconcerting more than anything.

Cordelia gave him a look of sheer disbelief, mouth parting slightly as if she meant to argue before she thought better of it. Her hand went to her head again, fingers pressing hard into her scalp.

“You’re insane,” she muttered, her tone edged with a frustrated sort of awe. “And if you drop dead, I’m not mourning you.”

“That makes two of us.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to say it—the look she gave him afterward made something shift inside his chest, something uncomfortable. She blinked slowly, as if parsing whether it was a joke or something else entirely. 

He cleared his throat. “Hand,” he said, lifting his own and offering it palm-up between them.

Cordelia stared at it like it was a viper, suspicion radiating from every inch of her body. Their eyes locked for a brief second, the tension thick between them, before she relented. She placed her hand into his.

Her skin was cool, her fingers limp in his grip. She looked resigned, almost defeated, shoulders sagging as her eyes drifted closed. He could feel the weariness radiating off her in waves—like the embers of a fire slowly dying out. This time, he didn’t pull. He pushed. 

It was difficult at first, like pouring mana through a clogged funnel. Her body resisted, instinctually recoiling from the unfamiliar sensation. But gradually, it gave way, and the energy began to flow, slow and steady, like a gentle current moving from his core to hers. He kept the exchange brief, cutting it off as soon as he felt her magic stirring to life again. Anything more and they might both collapse.

When he opened his eyes, Cordelia was watching their joined hands with narrowed suspicion.

“I suspect you know more of mana siphoning than you let on,” she murmured, her voice quiet but sharp with accusation. She pulled her hand from his, not ungently. 

“I read a lot,” was all he said in reply as he unwrapped the cloth from his arm. It was no surprise when he wiped the wound clean and found little more than a faint scar, like a wound aged by years instead of minutes.

“How did you do that?” Cordelia whispered.

“I suspect it’s something to do with the siphoning.”

“What, like blood magic?”

He shook his head. “No, although in theory, it is quite similar. I would need more proof before I can understand it completely. Do you feel any different?”

She looked briefly startled by the question and pushed herself to her feet with a deep breath, brushing her hands on her thighs as though trying to rid herself of the question entirely.

“I feel better than I did,” she admitted, cautious and reluctant. “But I suspect you were sitting in my chambers for a reason.”

“You mean a reason other than getting stabbed? Potentially.”

“Tell me.”

Kieran hesitated. The moment between them, whatever it had been, felt like a fragile ceasefire born from necessity rather than understanding. 

He sighed. “More darkspawn have converged outside the city. They suspect we don’t have much time left to get the civilians to Redcliffe, so they will be evacuating on foot as well. That includes my father, and as many able-bodied people as they can muster. The wounded and children will be prioritized through the eluvian.”

“And?”

“You will guard my father and head to Redcliffe. I imagine it will be as soon as the morning.”

“Why me?”

“You have a sword and the temperament of a provoked bear. I’d say you’re perfectly suited.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoed, almost without thinking.

Cordelia turned her back to him, twisting her hair up and securing it with deft fingers. He averted his gaze, pretending not to notice the flash of bare skin across her lower back as she raised her arms.

He cleared his throat again and rose quickly from the chair, his voice quiet as he moved toward the door. “Good luck.”

She said nothing in return.

As he stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, a strange sense of disquiet stirred in his gut. He shook it off. There were things to prepare.

And little time left to prepare them.

Chapter Text

Tearstone Island, 9:52 Dragon

Ancient beings stood on the precipice of change. Above them, the sky twisted with clouds dark as ink, and the ground pulsed faintly beneath their feet, as though responding to the will of those who had once ruled it all, before Fen’Harel refused to heel. 

Elgar’nan’s voice broke the stillness first, his tone measured and cold. “It seems we were led astray by the Dread Wolf. Not all of our brothers and sisters are gone from this world.”

“Tell me. Who do you sense?” Ghilan’nain asked in a hoarse breath, her face still bearing the scarred remnants of the encounter in Weisshaupt. 

“It is fragmented, but a part of June lives on in the form of Urthemiel. He is trapped within the soul of a mere mortal in the South.”

“Then we must free him. He shall devour where Razikale cannot.”

Elgar’nan clicked his tongue. “We must continue our plans on Tearstone Isle, sister. Haste is not needed; I will ensure the city falls. The darkspawn will bring him to me. We need only wait.”

“And when he joins us?”

“Then you will have a new Archdemon and be immortal once more.”

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

Zevran Arainai had always taught his daughter the importance of a gut feeling. It was something he spoke of with the casual weight of experience; truth, as lived by a man who had evaded death more times than most people had drawn breath. The trained assassin in him, which was sharpened and tempered by decades of near-misses and clean kills, meant Cordelia wasn’t raised like a mage or a Grey Warden. She was something in between. She could swing a heavy longsword, command fire to arc through the air with the flick of a wrist, but she could also slip a dagger between ribs without making a sound, pick a lock blindfolded, and once even lifted a purse off a Bann’s belt at a winter ball just to prove she could.

Awareness, precision, and instinct. These were sacred things, according to Zevran, who often said that trusting your gut was the difference between seeing the sunrise and becoming a corpse in the mud. A gut feeling had saved his life more times than Cordelia could count, usually accompanied by a roguish grin and a harrowing tale. After his defection from the Antivan Crows over twenty years ago, there had been no shortage of assassins sent after him—some to finish the contract on the Hero of Ferelden and Alistair, others simply to punish the former Crow who had dared walk away from his oath. Zevran survived them all. One by one, he had outmaneuvered and outwitted each assassin sent to take him down. Eventually, no one in the Crows dared to touch the contract again. 

It was that same instinct, his sacred gut feeling, that rose now in Cordelia like a fist closing over her chest, subtle at first, a dull unease crawling along the edges of her spine. 

Outside the Palace District, the procession was almost ready to depart; the area teeming with movement. Soldiers mounted and armed, civilians clustered with bundles of belongings too heavy for the road ahead. Cordelia stood on the threshold of the royal keep, her eyes darting through the moving crowd from her vantage point. Goosebumps peppered her neck, and her hands shook slightly as she pulled on her gloves. After a moment, she turned on her heel and re-entered the keep, the feeling of unease growing stronger with each passing second. If anyone would take her gut feeling seriously, it was Alistair, who was still inside with the Commander, possibly waiting until the last final moment to depart…like a Rivaini pirate captain, as Kieran had said.

By the time she rounded the corner to the great hall, where Alistair stood in full armored regalia, a stench hit her nostrils. Something sharp and putrid, enough to make her stomach churn. It was then that she noticed Alistair’s back stiffen, his head snapping upwards as if hearing something the rest of them couldn’t. 

“Everyone,” Alistair shouted. “Brace yourselves!”

A rumble began, subtle at first, a vibration beneath their boots, soft enough that it might have been imagined. Then the stone beneath them groaned with pressure it was never meant to hold, and the earth seemed to shudder as if exhaling from its very bones. Cordelia stumbled, instinctively grabbing the wall to steady herself.

“What is happening?” Someone cried nearby. 

Cordelia didn’t need to hear the answer. The keep, the last stronghold of Denerim, was breached.

Cordelia drew her sword in one smooth motion, the steel whispering free of its sheath. She could see the king running towards the doors to where the rumbling seemed the most violent, soldiers moving quickly to follow. 

Another quake rippled through the ground, harder this time. An explosion sounded from beneath her feet, and she gasped in realization; the darkspawn weren’t just attacking the keep, they were coming up from beneath it. And she knew exactly where they would be targeting…the one place where magic was flaring the brightest: the Eluvian chamber.

The odd, insistent tug in Cordelia’s chest tightened without warning, and she barely had a moment to brace herself before the world split apart beneath her feet. The floor erupted with a force that felt as though the Maker themself had struck the foundations of the keep with a fist. A violent blast of concussive energy tore through the stone, hurling her backwards with brutal speed. Her breath left her in a single, stunned exhale before her head collided with the far wall, a sickening crack reverberating through her skull as her vision immediately swam with disoriented color and stuttering light.

She slumped to the ground, ears ringing, every limb heavy and unresponsive. The world pulsed behind her eyes as she forced herself to lift her gaze through blurred lashes.

A piercing, impossibly bright beam of pure white, threaded with searing gold and eerie green, shot like a spear through the very heart of the keep, ascending through shattered stone and ruptured air, climbing toward the sky with the wrath and brilliance of divine judgment. It was not the golden warmth of healing magic, nor the violent crackle of elemental fire. Cordelia's breath caught in her throat as she stared, transfixed, the beam so intense it burned its shape behind her eyelids when she blinked. The sheer power of it, raw and uncontrolled, pushed at her senses.

A sound followed, one that was inhuman and deafening. It seemed to echo from everywhere at once; from the walls, from the stone beneath her, from inside her own skull. 

Groaning, Cordelia shoved herself upright, limbs trembling, her fingers groping for purchase on the jagged remnants of the half-collapsed wall behind her. Every part of her body screamed in protest, but she grit her teeth and forced herself to rise, blinking through the sting of sweat and grit that clouded her eyes. Her chest heaved, lungs laboring as if the air itself had thickened in the wake of the blast.

Just a few feet from where she’d landed, an enormous slab of the roof had collapsed, its weight gouging into the floor and forming a cracked, jagged barrier that separated her from the corridor she’d entered through. Dust and fine debris swirled in the air, and the room was lit in erratic pulses by the flickering remnants of the beam, casting strange, warped shadows across the wreckage.

She stumbled to the edge of the stone slab, half-climbing it, looking for a way out, only to stop cold as her gaze landed on what lay next to her. The castle’s inner chambers had collapsed inward in a spiral of destruction, forming a vast crater that descended down into the bowels of the fortress. Rubble piled in unstable heaps that teetered on the edges of the crater, while fractured staircases jutted out like broken ribs from the ruined skeleton of what had once been a stronghold.

She peered through the rubble of the fallen ceiling, seeing figures getting to their feet on the other side. Hope flared in her chest.

“Maker, what was that?” Commander Rowan’s voice called out, thick with disbelief and irritation, as he climbed over a fallen beam, his armor scratched and dusted white.

Alistair appeared beside him a moment later, his hair disheveled and his cloak torn at the hem. 

“Alistair!” Cordelia called, her voice rasping from the dust in her throat. 

It took him a moment to see her through the gap in the rubble that separated them. He broke into a run, picking his way through the debris until he stood directly across from her, separated only by a thick slab of collapsed ceiling and twisted beams. His face swam into view through the jagged hole—just his eye and part of his cheek, the rest blocked by the ruin between them.

“Cordelia, are you harmed?” he demanded, his voice tight with concern.

She shook her head, pressing her palm to the rough stone to steady herself. “No. But I’m stuck. It looks like the only path open is down.”

Alistair cursed beneath his breath, glancing around quickly before dropping to one knee, trying to shift a piece of stone. “We’ll get you out,” he said. “Hold on.”

“No,” Cordelia said firmly, though the echo of her voice in the ruined chamber made it sound far away, faint even to her own ears. “You need to go. Evacuate while you still can.”

“You’re as stubborn as your mother,” Alistair muttered in exasperation. He didn’t stop trying to dislodge the rock.

Cordelia’s skull ached. “I’ll find Kieran,” she added, soft but certain. “We’ll meet you in Redcliffe.”

That gave him pause. She saw the moment his hands stilled, the flash of emotion crossing his face. Kieran was his vulnerability, the piece of his heart that no duty could shield. Cordelia felt a brief, strange flicker of triumph. If Alistair could get out of Denerim in time, then all wouldn’t be as lost as they thought. 

“Do you have a weapon?” Alistair’s voice was quiet but firm. 

Cordelia met his gaze with a sharp nod and answered with a crisp, “Yes, sir.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You promise me you will get out of here, Cordelia,” he said finally.

“I promise,” she replied without hesitation, her voice steady despite the thunder of her pulse. “I’ll find Kieran, and we will get out of here.”

There was a pause, then Alistair turned, steel in his spine as he barked orders to his men. “Move out,” he called, and the soldiers obeyed, their figures fading into the shifting shadows beyond the shattered keep. “We can only hope Kieran got most of the remaining civilians to safety before the blast.”

The clatter of armor faded, boots scuffing against stone and rubble as the last of them passed through the ruined corridor. Cordelia stood alone now, with only the rhythmic thundering that sounded below to keep her company. With a breath drawn deep into her lungs, she turned and approached the jagged edge of what remained of the floor.

The descent was treacherous, nothing more than broken ledges and loose stone, the remnants of what had once been a regal room now reduced to ruin. She crouched low, sheathing her weapon and easing her way downward with slow, deliberate movements, her back pressed to the wall for balance. The sound that guided her steps grew louder, no longer a distant thud but an echoing boom—like some massive force hammering endlessly at stone, vibrating through the wreckage. She slipped on a loose stone, skidding down a few feet before latching onto a large beam and gasping as her shoulders strained at the effort. Trying to calm her breathing, she kept moving until the feeling in her chest became a tangible thing, as if a tether was pulling her. 

And then, at last, the path opened into the eluvian chamber, or what remained of it.

Cordelia froze at the threshold, breath catching as her eyes struggled to take in the devastation. The floor was slick with blood, bodies strewn like broken dolls across the chamber—soldiers, townsfolk, and darkspawn—all collapsed in death, some charred beyond recognition, others twisted in agony. Smoke clung to the air in choking wisps, the acrid scent of magic and ash burning at her throat.

At the heart of the ruin, pulsing with eerie calm amid the carnage, was a dome of white light. It shimmered with translucent wards, a barrier of layered spells that hummed, resonating with each beat of power that rippled across its surface. And surrounding the dome, like carrion drawn to the scent of life, were dozens of darkspawn. Their clawed hands and jagged weapons battered the magical shield with a mindless, relentless fury. Screams rose from their throats in a discordant wail, their bloodlust aimed squarely at whatever lay within the light.

Kieran had to be in there with the eluvian. The barrier stood strong, and that meant he was alive. 

Without another breath wasted, Cordelia unsheathed her blade and called forth the fire in her blood. Magic surged to her fingertips as she sent out a roaring arc of flame, a blaze that cleaved through the nearest cluster of darkspawn in a column of searing heat. Those in its path ignited like dry kindling, their howls morphing into shrieks of agony as they collapsed into smoldering piles of armor and bone. The others turned on her instantly, eyes gleaming with that foul, feral hunger that darkspawn carried, their snarls rising in pitch as they charged.

She met them head-on. Steel sang as her sword danced, her movements sharp and deadly. She was a whirlwind of motion, ducking beneath the swing of a war axe, her blade slicing across the thighs of a genlock before she pivoted to plunge her weapon into the gut of a second creature. With her free hand, she summoned fire again, sending a burst of magic crashing into a pack of shrieking spawn, their bodies flung back by the force. The power tore through her, drawing on strength she could hardly afford to spare, but she pressed on, step by step, blood-slick boots carrying her closer to the shield.

The monsters pressed in tighter, their numbers seemingly endless. A massive hurlock lunged at her, its blade flashing, and she twisted away…but not fast enough. Pain flared across her cheek as the edge grazed her skin, a line of fire blooming beneath her eye. Blood dripped from her jaw, and the darkspawn howled louder, their frenzy doubling at the scent of it.

Cordelia stumbled, breath ragged, vision narrowing. She summoned one final wave of kinetic energy, throwing her hands wide to shove the nearest enemies back. It was enough to give her a few more precious seconds. But her limbs felt like lead, her lungs clawing for air.

And then, just as one of the towering darkspawn lifted its sword above her, ready to strike, something yanked her backward. She was ripped from the mouth of death and thrown into the waiting sanctuary of the dome. The darkspawn’s sword came crashing down, striking the magical shield with a flash of light and a shriek of energy, sending brilliant sparks cascading over the barrier.

She landed hard, breath knocked from her lungs, the world tilting as she hit the ground with the unmistakable shape of a body cushioning her fall. Her shoulder slammed into something solid, a ribcage, judging by the sharp grunt she heard. There were legs braced to either side of her, tense with strain, and an arm locked tight around her waist.

“I’m touched that you would come back for me,” a voice groaned next to her ear as the arm fell away. Cordelia flipped onto her knees, sword still gripped tight in her hand, and found herself face to face with Kieran. He fell on his side, clutching his ribs, his face pale with pain.

“I have a feeling I didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Cordelia muttered, her gaze flicking up toward the dome’s ceiling as she idly put her hand over her chest. Kieran blinked at her, as though puzzled by the comment, but the thudding of fists and blades on the barrier pulled both their attention.

“Why haven’t you gone through the eluvian, Kieran?” she demanded, voice sharp. 

He followed her gaze to the mirror, its surface dormant, its frame pulsing faintly.

“I shut it once the last of the survivors made it through,” he replied, staring upwards now, sweat beading at his brow.

“Then what?” she snapped.

“Well,” he said wryly, “I was fortunate enough to have my savior come after me, wasn’t I?”

Cordelia narrowed her eyes. She had long suspected he had a death wish. Now, she was certain of it. “How long can you hold up the shield?”

Kieran closed his eyes, wincing. “Not long. I’m running on fumes.”

Cordelia pushed herself to her feet, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she looked through the faint shimmer of the dome. More darkspawn were spilling into the room now, pouring through holes in the floor. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice shaking.

Pacing for a heartbeat, she tried to formulate something that resembled a plan. Her heart pounded in her ears.

“Can you get the eluvian open again?” she asked suddenly, already holding out her hand.

Kieran blinked at it, clearly surprised, but didn’t argue. He reached for her hand with a ragged breath. The moment their fingers touched, the tether snapped into place. Magic rushed between them in a steady stream. Kieran’s color returned almost instantly, his chest rising more evenly. Cordelia felt her own reserves drain in response, and she pulled her hand away before he could take too much. She needed whatever was left of her strength. 

He got to his feet. “I assume you have some harebrained plan.”

She gave him a scathing look. “Start it. I'll take over the barrier.”

He turned to the eluvian, placing both hands on the ancient frame. His palms began to glow, magic pooling outward in crackling arcs of green and gold. Cordelia lifted her hands as well, reinforcing the dome as best she could. Sweat poured down her back as the strain overtook her. Her body screamed, but she held fast, watching the dome vibrate violently under each strike.

Thin, splintering fractures spidered across the surface.

“Hurry!” she cried.

Kieran didn’t respond, his focus too deep. A final surge of power arced from his hands, and the eluvian flared to life. “It’s ready!” he shouted.

Cordelia gasped, her arms shaking from the effort. “Go through. I’m right behind you!”

She didn’t look to see if he obeyed, trusting him to listen this once. Then she dropped the shield.

The sudden collapse stunned the darkspawn just long enough for her to throw both arms wide. With a ragged scream, she summoned everything she had left, pulling from the stones themselves, from the broken walls and shattered beams overhead. The force of it surged up, the debris rising above the darkspawn.

She brought her hands crashing down.

Stone rained from the heights like a meteor shower. What was left of the ceiling collapsed in great chunks, pulverizing the creatures below with sickening, final thuds. Dust and ash exploded upward in a choking cloud. Cordelia hit her knees, breath heaving, magic spent, even as the debris continued falling around her. 

“Cordelia!”

Her eyes snapped open. Through the chaos, a hand reached toward her—Kieran, framed by the glowing portal.

She lunged. Their fingers clasped, and with one final, desperate pull, he dragged her through the veil, and everything went dark.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

Something wet struck Cordelia’s face. She gasped sharply, the breath burning on its way in, and her eyes flew open to a sky fractured by shifting green leaves and the brightness of the sun. A face hovered above her, backlit and haloed in light, blurry at first, but then it sharpened into Kieran’s, his features pinched with uncharacteristic concern, golden-green eyes narrowed as he looked down at her.

“Are you alive?” he asked, voice low but edged with tension.

Cordelia scowled, the expression stiff on her battered face. She smacked his hand away as it reached to poke her cheek. “Yes,” she snapped, the word raspy. “What happened?”

Kieran exhaled and dropped heavily to sit beside her, groaning as if he’d aged twenty years in the span of minutes. “Well,” he muttered, voice dry, “if there was any hope of rebuilding the castle, it’s now squashed. You brought down the entire ceiling. I should tell the authorities.”

She turned her head sharply to look at him, wincing as the movement made the pounding behind her eyes spike. “Are you insane?”

“I think so,” Kieran groaned, dragging a hand down his face before flopping onto his back in the grass, staring up at the branches above them.

“You gave me too much mana, didn’t you?” Cordelia muttered, raising a hand to the back of her head. Her fingers encountered dried blood, thick and caked in her hair, and she hissed quietly as she probed the tender, raw skin beneath.

“No need to thank me,” he replied, voice muffled by his sleeve. “Really. My generosity knows no bounds.”

Cordelia sat up with a grimace, her body sore and her muscles trembling from the last remnants of exertion. She wiped at the blood on her face, though there was no deep gash, only tender new flesh where something worse had been. He had healed her.

“Where are we?” she asked after a pause, scanning the space around them. It was quiet here, unnervingly so. No screaming. No darkspawn. Just birdsong, and the sound of leaves rustling in a warm breeze. A stream murmured beside them, its water clear and cold, bubbling over smooth stones. The air smelled of earth, moss, and flowering things.

Kieran followed her gaze, eyes flicking up toward the canopy above. “I couldn’t latch onto Redcliffe,” he said, voice softer now. “I was running low. So it took us to the one familiar place left in my mind.”

Her brow furrowed. “Is this the Wilds?”

“Had an eluvian mirror here,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him with a sweep of his arm. “It shattered after we came through. But yes. Welcome to my home.”

Cordelia turned, and for a moment, she simply stared. Across a small meadow ringed with thick trees, half-hidden by tall grass and ivy, stood a modest cottage: stone-walled, thatch-roofed, and weathered by time. Wildflowers crept around its foundation. It looked like something from a dream, a place untouched by war or ruin.

For a fleeting moment, Cordelia could not bring herself to blame Kieran for choosing to live here, buried in the stillness of the Wilds, far from the choking streets and crowded noise of Denerim. The very air felt heavier, richer, thick with old magic and the scent of moss and damp loam. 

Kieran stood with a long, deliberate sigh, the kind that said he had already grown tired of the silence, and took a few slow steps toward the cottage before pausing. With a roll of his eyes, he cast a glance over his shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”

Cordelia groaned and shoved the heels of her hands into her eyes, as if she could grind out the exhaustion that lived behind them. Maker’s breath—getting to Redcliffe was going to be even harder than she’d anticipated. Still, she rose to her feet, every bone in her body creaking in protest, and began trudging after him, one sore step at a time. Her joints felt like they had rusted into place, and her muscles carried the weight of every swing of her sword and every burst of mana spent.

Kieran reached the wooden door of the cottage and placed a single hand on it. A faint flare of silver-blue light shimmered across a sigil etched into the wood, pulsing once like a heartbeat, and the door creaked open, as though the house itself had recognized its master and made way for him. Cordelia blinked at the enchantment, then stepped into the threshold as the hearth roared to life on its own, casting golden light across the stone floor. Candles flickered into flame one by one along the walls. There wasn’t a single speck of dust, as though the place had been lovingly tended, not abandoned for weeks.

“That’s… interesting,” she muttered, eyeing the living space, lined with strange books and even stranger artifacts. It was, objectively, a brilliant piece of magic. But she would die before admitting it.

“My mother lived here for many years,” Kieran murmured behind her, his voice oddly quiet. “I simply inherited it. That, and the magic she imbued it with.”

Cordelia raised a brow. “Does your magic cottage have a bathing chamber?”

“Not quite to the standards you’re used to,” Kieran replied, grimacing slightly. “I usually bathe in the stream nearby. But there’s a tub in the room next to the bedchamber. The house should be able to provide warm water if you ask it nicely.”

“Yet you opt for streams?”

“There’s something freeing about it,” he said with a shrug. “You should try it sometime. Might loosen up your uptight attitude.”

Her expression flattened into a scowl. “I also need clothes.”

“What you’re wearing seems fine to me,” he said blandly.

Cordelia looked down at herself with a scowl. Blood-slicked armor, sweat-stained tunic, dried gore crusted beneath her bracers; she looked and smelled like she had crawled out of a crypt. Her sword was still coated in blackened blood, and she hadn’t even cleaned it yet. That was going to be a nightmare.

Kieran sighed as if she were being overly dramatic. “Help yourself to whatever you need in the bedchamber.”

Before she could offer a biting retort, he’d already vanished outside again, the front door left wide open. Cordelia let out an inarticulate sound of frustration before stomping toward the bedchamber. To her surprise, it was nothing like she had imagined. The space was quiet, cozy, and deeply personal…too neat for someone like Kieran, she thought. The walls were lined with staffs and trinkets, shelves filled with heavy tomes, gleaming stones, delicate feathers, and vials of preserved herbs. Drawers lined the far wall, and a small table overflowed with maps, parchment, and something that might have been an unfinished alchemical experiment.

She picked up one of the feathers—a long, iridescent plume that shimmered blue and violet—and held it to the light, momentarily mesmerized. She was still staring when footsteps sounded behind her.

The trunk at the foot of the bed creaked loudly as Kieran wrenched it open. She jumped, startled, and quickly replaced the feather.

He tossed a tunic at her, barely looking. “I forgot I can’t stroll around naked anymore while you’re here,” he muttered. “And stop poking around in my things. Maker, you’re worse than a magpie.”

Rolling her eyes, Cordelia took the tunic without a word and slipped across the hall. The bathing room was simple but functional: a wide metal tub, a few shelves of neatly arranged towels and soaps, and soft light flickering from enchanted lanterns on the wall. She shut the door behind her and touched the edge of the tub lightly.

“How do you work?” she muttered, uncertain if she should attempt summoning water herself. Her mana reserves were still uncomfortably low, and casting anything more than a basic spark felt like it might knock her out cold. But even as she considered it, a low hum filled the air, and the tub began to fill, steaming water pouring in from nowhere at all.

Cordelia let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Thank you,” she said quietly to the room. 

She began wrestling with her armor, trying to undo the buckles at her back. After several futile attempts, including nearly dislocating her own shoulder, she swore under her breath. There was no squire. No assistant. No one to help her out of this gods-damned armor.

Well. No one but him.

With a groan, she stomped to the front door and began walking toward the meadow, tugging her braid loose as she went. She caught sight of the stream glistening ahead and quickened her pace.

“I need help—” she called out, but froze mid-step, letting out an audible squeak.

Kieran’s back was to her, shoulders bare, water glistening on his skin. He turned sharply at her voice, startled, and she immediately averted her eyes, lifting one hand to cover her face.

“If you wanted a peek, you could have just asked,” he said, though irritation clearly undercut the sarcasm.

“No!” she half-yelled, her voice mortified. “I, uh, can’t get my armor off.”

“So now you want me to undress you.”

Cordelia’s face went red. “I can’t reach the buckles on my back. And you’re the only person here who can help me.”

There was a long, dreadful pause. “Well, I don’t have a towel.”

She covered her face with both hands now, heat burning in her ears. “I won’t look. Just help me before I have to sleep in my armor.”

“Not a bad idea,” he muttered under his breath, but she heard the water shift as he climbed out, footsteps light over the stones. She kept her eyes tightly closed as he approached, her hands still over her face.

“These ones?” he asked, jolting her slightly as he tugged at the buckles.

She nodded mutely.

With hands that were clumsier than she expected, he loosened the buckles at her back, the armor slipping from her waist. Without waiting for her to ask, he undid the ones on her shoulders as well, and the whole thing sagged against her.

“Thanks,” she whispered through her hands, already halfway to fleeing. She didn’t wait to hear his response before she walked briskly back to the cottage, only looking at where she was going through the gap under her hands until she was a safe distance away to remove them entirely.

Wasn’t she the one who had called him a nun not too long ago? And now here she was, flustered, red-faced, stammering like a maiden in a bard’s tale who’d caught her first glimpse of bare skin. A prude in every imaginable sense of the word.

Inside, she dumped her armor haphazardly in the center of the floor, scabbard and all, and made no attempt to tidy it. Her embarrassment chased her, and she wasted no time slipping into the tub the moment she returned to the bath. The heat of the water wrapped around her like a balm, pulling a long sigh from her lips. She ducked under completely, soaking her hair, and came up gasping slightly, scrubbing at the dried blood and sweat on her skin. She found soap, lathered quickly, and lingered far longer than necessary, partly to soothe her sore limbs, mostly to delay facing Kieran again.

When she finally dried off and dressed in the tunic he had given her, which was too long, more a shift than a shirt, but mercifully clean, she used the leftover bathwater to scrub her ruined clothes as best she could. When she padded back outside, he was already sitting at the small table near the hearth, something turning over in his hands.

She bypassed him without a word and stepped out into the fading light, hanging her damp clothes over the short wooden fence near the herb garden. When she returned, he silently pushed a mug toward her, steam curling from the surface.

She took the seat across from him, fingers curling around the warm ceramic. “What do we do now?” she asked softly, voice hoarse.

“Ostagar and the Hinterlands lie between us and Redcliffe,” he said, equally quiet. “And from what we know, those areas have seen the worst of the darkspawn. If there’s no eluvian…we’ll have to travel on foot. But first, we need to replenish our energy and mana, or the darkspawn will end us long before we make it through the Wilds, let alone the Fade rifts.”

“Promising,” Cordelia murmured, sipping her tea.

Kieran rubbed his cheek. “It might still be light outside, but I need rest. And so do you. Take the bed—I’ll stay out here.”

Cordelia hesitated. “Kieran,” she said, her voice firmer now. “The magic you used earlier. The one that destroyed half the keep…what was it?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then turned toward the hearth. “Something I am sure I’ll come to regret later.” There was a beat of silence, stretched just long enough for her to sense the weight in the room shift before he spoke again. “Did my father make it out?”

The question was faint, and she knew he had been waiting to ask since they arrived here. “Yes,” she answered. “I felt something wrong before we were going to set off for Redcliffe, and I went to find him. Then the darkspawn came, and I got separated from him. But he’s fine, he made it out. All of the darkspawn were coming after you, anyway.”

“Hmph,” Kieran pursed his lips. 

Cordelia watched his jaw flex, his teeth grinding behind his expressionless mask. “I think,” she began carefully, her voice lower, “that you shouldn’t use your magic for now.” She didn’t miss the twitch in his brow, the defensive set of his shoulders. Still, she pressed on. “I noticed something odd when they first breached the city, and again in the eluvian chamber. It’s like you’re a beacon, and after what we heard in the Crossroads…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cordelia,” Kieran snapped, rising too quickly to be casual. His tone wasn’t cruel, exactly, but there was a sharp edge to it. “But if it helps, I doubt I will be able to cast anything more than a small flame for the foreseeable future. What happened in that chamber sapped me of everything I had.” He didn’t look at her as he added flatly, “Now, feel free to retire to the bedroom and let me rot in peace.”

Cordelia’s jaw tensed, irritation flaring bright and hot in her chest. She felt her hackles rise instinctively, ready to argue, to jab back with a scathing remark, but she didn’t have the strength for a fight. Instead, she stood silently, lifted her mug, and crossed the room with measured steps, pausing only when Kieran called after her.

“And don’t touch my stuff!”

“Such a child,” she muttered under her breath as she shut the door behind her, the sound more satisfying than it should’ve been. Just to spite him, she let her fingers drift along the rows of books that lined the far wall, her touch light, brushing over the spines. Most were immaculate and well-kept. But one stood out: the pages worn soft from use, the corners dog-eared, the spine cracked from repeated readings. It was clearly beloved, and clearly not recent.

She smirked to herself and plucked it from the shelf, tucking it under her arm as she padded barefoot to the bed. The sheets were crisp, smelling faintly of cedar and wildflowers, and she settled beneath them with a sigh that seemed to drain the last vestiges of tension from her limbs. She opened the book in her lap, the soft rustle of parchment oddly soothing, and took another slow sip of the tea that had gone comfortably lukewarm in her hand.

With a start, she realized it was filled with short stories. Fairytales. She skimmed them, landing on one that had a makeshift bookmark in it. It told the story of a girl raised alone in a tower deep in the Fade, kept apart from the world by a mysterious enchantress who claimed it was for her protection. Seasons passed, and the girl grew clever and restless, dreaming of freedom beyond her stone cage. Suitors came and failed, driven back by thorns, by illusions, by the girl’s own fear. 

'It was not a prince who came for her in the end, but a shadow in the shape of a man, cloaked in strange magic and silence. He did not climb to her aid. He set the tower ablaze and called it freedom.'

She closed the book, unsettled. The room around her seemed to sense her unease, and the candles responded in kind, flickering out with a soft puff of air. Shadows crept in to take their place, and Cordelia burrowed deeper beneath the covers, eyes slipping shut as she finally surrendered to sleep.

Chapter Text

Kieran didn’t like people being in his space, least of all his bedroom. He lay uncomfortably on the floor beside the hearth, back aching against the thin blanket he'd laid beneath himself, another tangled around his legs and pulled over his stomach. He stared up at the wooden beams above, shadows from the firelight flickering across them. It wasn’t the first time he’d chosen to sleep by the fire; he’d done it often enough over the years, lulled by warmth and the comfort of solitude. But never with another living soul sharing his roof, aside from his mother in his younger years. 

Granted, he had brought her here. And, admittedly, she had saved his life. Again.

He had kept himself steady, composed, for as long as he could. But now that the quiet had settled and no one could see him, pain and exhaustion crept in, blurring the edges of his vision. His heart raced in his chest, too fast, shallow, fluttering like a trapped bird. He struggled to draw in a full breath, and his fingers tingled until he reached for the amulet tucked beneath his shirt. He drew it out, holding it up so it caught the firelight, the chain glinting against the skin of his palm. The crimson gem now bore a jagged crack that ran through its center like a lightning strike. Before, it had only been fractured, and now it was nearly split in two, held together only by the delicate metal band encasing it. The power within the amulet was fading, flickering like the dying embers beside him. It looked like blood suspended in crystal, and in a way, that’s what it was.

He would need to find his mother, and soon. She was the only one who knew how to repair it, how to reinforce the protections laced into the magic. Without her help… Kieran didn’t know what would happen, especially to those near him. 

Always wear this, Kieran. Promise me.

He had, and then she had left him. Under the guise of safety, of course. She had claimed it was for his own good, that she couldn’t risk bringing him closer to danger, and that’s why he had to go to Denerim rather than join her in the North. But now, after everything, he knew better. She hadn’t trusted him to control it. Hadn’t trusted him not to become what the world feared he might be: a liability.

He was the reason Denerim had burned. He knew it, felt it in his marrow. The darkspawn hadn’t been drawn to the people; they had been drawn to him. Elgar’nan had seen him, and Urthemiel, buried somewhere deep inside, had stirred. Something ancient had taken notice. And now… now he was no longer sure what he was. A blight against his own kind. A walking omen. A vessel. A threat.

Maybe he should stay here, in the Wilds, and let the darkspawn come for him, if they must. Maybe that would be enough to keep the rest of Thedas safe. But then there was her. Sleeping soundly in his bed, unknowingly sharing shelter with something dangerous.

Sleep pulled at him eventually, slow and heavy. His body surrendered, even if his mind refused to quiet, and in the dark, the dream returned.

Blood stained everything, the earth, the sky, the shallow river running red through a field of corpses. The bones of the fallen jutted up like spears, limbs twisted, faces locked in silent screams. Above him, a bloodred moon hung in a sky choked with ash. His feet were bare, streaked with filth and blood, and he walked alone through the carnage, hollow and stripped of self, his body only a shell. He didn’t need to ask what had caused this. He already knew, deep down.

“Give in, host,” a voice whispered close to his ear. “We can rejoin our brother and sister.”

Kieran didn’t stop walking. “You’ll only kill me if I do.”

“No,” the voice purred, crooning sweet as rot. “You will rise. You will become what you were meant to be.”

The sound came then, the snarling of darkspawn, loud and ravenous. From the shadows, they emerged, sprinting toward him, their eyes lit with unnatural fire.

“Give in,” the voice said again, louder this time, harsher. A command.

He turned to run, but it was too late. They were on him. Claws and teeth tore into his flesh, hands dragging him down, suffocating him in pain and blood. He didn’t even have time to scream.

Kieran woke with a sharp gasp, hand already clutched around the amulet at his chest, sweat slick on his skin, and the fire burned low beside him. 

What am I going to do?

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

Kieran woke again to the sound of ceramic clinking and slow, measured footsteps padding across the wooden floor. He inhaled deeply, muscles protesting the motion as he stretched his arms overhead, joints cracking. Blinking away the remnants of fractured dreams, he sat up onto his elbows and squinted toward the source of the noise. Cordelia stood at the small kitchen bench, back to him, stirring something over the wood stove with slow, methodical movements. The kettle began to whistle, and she lifted it, pouring the contents into two mismatched mugs.

The sight filled him with unease. Not because she was armed or shouting, or even glaring at him—which was how he was more used to seeing her—but because she looked, just for a moment, like someone used to domesticity. Dressed in an oversized pair of his old trousers that sagged at the waist and the tunic he’d given her the day before, she looked nothing like the woman who had thrown a blade at him a few days prior. He didn’t think Cordelia Cousland even knew how to boil water, let alone cook breakfast.

She turned around with a bowl and mug in her hands, clearly not expecting to find him watching her. She startled slightly. “Oh,” she said, voice quiet. “You’re awake.”

With hesitant steps, she approached and leaned down to set the bowl and mug on the low table beside the settee. Her hair fell across her face as she bent, curtaining whatever expression might have flickered there. She straightened without a word and returned to the counter to collect her own meal, retreating to the dining table with her spine straight.

Kieran swallowed, tongue dry, his body aching from neck to ankle. He moved stiffly to his feet, the groan that escaped him half-swallowed. It felt like he hadn’t shifted once during the night, and every inch of him ached from battle and magic use. He glanced down at the bowl waiting for him, then lifted it wordlessly and crossed the room to join her at the table.

“I found the dried oats,” Cordelia said, not quite meeting his eye. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Kieran shrugged, his gaze sliding past her to the cabinets above the counter. He stood once more and opened one of the doors, retrieving a half-empty glass jar of honey. Without a word, he pushed it toward her across the table, the motion as casual as it was deliberate.

“Thanks,” she muttered, accepting it with a brief glance. She took a small spoonful for herself, then nudged the jar back toward him.

He took it and scooped out three generous spoonfuls into his bowl, stirring absently. The tea she'd made looked dark, likely over-steeped and bitter, and he plunked another glob of honey into that too, watching the amber swirl as it dissolved. Neither of them spoke for a moment, the only sound the quiet clink of spoon against ceramic and the occasional creak of the old wooden chairs beneath them.

“How long was I asleep?” Kieran asked, his voice hoarse. He took a bite of the oats, forcing it down with a neutrality that was almost convincing. They were edible. He supposed that counted as a small miracle.

Cordelia swallowed a mouthful of her own. “Nearly a day,” she said. “I haven’t been up for long myself. I went outside to check for any sign of darkspawn or the Fade rifts you mentioned. When there wasn’t any immediate danger, I cleaned my armor and weapon.”

He nodded slowly, blinking with heavy eyes. His body was still begging for more sleep. He took a large gulp of the tea she’d made, less bitter than he expected, and waited for the sharpness of caffeine to do its work. He reached inward, into that quiet space behind his ribs where his magic usually pulsed strong and ready. But today, it barely stirred.

“I won’t be much use to you if we leave today,” he admitted after a long pause, attempting to strip the irritation from his tone. “I need at least another day of rest to restore my magic.”

Cordelia didn’t even look up. Her spoon clinked gently against her bowl as she stirred. “I told you,” she said, voice flint-sharp. “You shouldn’t use your magic at all.”

A flicker of annoyance sparked in his chest. “And if we’re attacked?” he shot back. “Am I supposed to do nothing but watch you save me again?”

She snapped her head toward him so quickly he thought for a moment she might hurl her bowl at him. “You were raised as a prince,” she said, her tone cutting and fierce. “Have you grown too lazy to use a weapon? I know what you’re trained in, Kieran. We took the same classes.”

Kieran narrowed his eyes.“I have not grown lazy,” he said tightly. “You should know that by the way you were staring at me yesterday.”

Her mouth dropped open, scandalized. “I was not.” And then, a second later, as if compelled by her own outrage: “Besides, it’s not like there was much to see.”

He scoffed, then the corner of his mouth curled upward. “So you were looking. Pervert.”

That did it. Cordelia stood so abruptly her chair screeched against the floor, fire blazing behind her eyes and twin spots of color blooming high on her cheeks. For one heartbeat, he thought she might slap him outright. He didn’t flinch, just raised a brow, daring her. She stalked around the table instead, stopping close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin.

She looked down at him like a woman evaluating how best to scrape something unpleasant from the bottom of her boot. “The sooner we get to Redcliffe, the sooner I can get rid of you,” she hissed, voice low and furious. Then, without warning, she slapped her palm onto his forehead.

The magic slammed into him with the force of a blow. Kieran jerked, nearly tipping back in his chair, stunned as the sudden jolt of energy surged through the bond between them. It was raw and sharp, poured through without finesse, but it was real, and it bolstered him. He felt it hum in his bones, quickening something in his veins. Then her hand was gone. He blinked, disoriented. But he didn’t miss the way her fingers trembled as she withdrew, curling into her tunic in a failed attempt to hide the cost.

“You’re welcome,” she muttered, not meeting his gaze. She spun on her heel and strode to the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough that one of the candle flames guttered out.

Kieran let out a slow, weary sigh. He slumped in his chair, elbows on either side of his bowl, and dropped his head into his hands. For a long moment, he just sat like that, shoulders curled inward, breath quiet and shallow. 

Cordelia’s abandoned bowl and mug still whispered with heat, faint curls of steam rising from the oatmeal. Kieran stared at them for a moment, guilt coiling in his chest. That guilt, sharp-edged and inconvenient, was what finally made him move. He stood, gathering the bowl and mug carefully, and made his way to the bedroom door. He knocked with his elbow, the porcelain warm against his skin. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, the faint rustle of blankets.

“What do you want?” came her voice, dry and unimpressed.

“You need to eat,” he said flatly. “And I don’t like wasting food.”

There was a pause, and then: “Leave it on the floor.”

He resisted the impulse to curse at her through the wood, swallowing the retort that rose unbidden. Instead, he crouched, set the bowl and mug gently on the floor, and stepped back. “I’m going outside,” he announced, though it wasn’t really for her benefit. She didn’t answer anyway.

He returned to the other room, grabbed a towel and a bar of soap from a carved shelf near the tub, and stalked out into the late morning sun, muttering under his breath as he did.

“That fucking woman.”

He let the quiet of the Wilds envelop his annoyance, the kind of quiet that could only exist in a place so ancient it had forgotten how to care about the affairs of mortals. He followed the river downstream, letting the wind cool the heat blooming under his skin, until he reached a small pond encircled by trees and low flowering brush. His sanctuary within a sanctuary.

He undressed slowly, hissing as sore muscles protested. His shirt was the first to go, tossed into the pond with a careless flick of his wrist, followed by his trousers. They sank into the water with a soft plop. Grabbing the soap, he waded in.

The pond was cold, wrapping around him in an icy embrace that stole the breath from his lungs. He shivered once as his body adjusted, reaching for his thrown-in clothing. With methodical movements, he dunked his clothes beneath the surface, scrubbing them clean with the soap before laying them across a flat, sunlit boulder to dry. He dunked himself next, scrubbing at his scalp until the suds floated on the water.

As he scrubbed the soap into his skin, he took a moment to look down at himself. 

‘It’s not like there’s much to see.’

The memory needled him, and Kieran looked down at his body as if it had betrayed him. He’d trained every day of his life, wielded weapons, studied magic, and maintained discipline in both mind and form. He knew she said it to simply hurt his feelings, but he poked his stomach regardless, the toned muscle beneath the flesh. 

With an exaggerated sigh, he dropped beneath the water, floating on his back with only his face above the surface. His ears were muffled, the world distant. The sun dappled through the canopy overhead, warm against his cheeks. He didn’t know how long he lingered there, his eyes closed as he drifted. 

That was until a sharp scent hit his nostrils. His ability to sense blood picked up something nearby; it tasted oily and wrong in his mouth, not quite the level of wrongness of the darkspawn, but something bad nonetheless. 

He bolted upright in the water, eyes scanning the trees. He staggered out of the water, half-hopping as he struggled to pull damp trousers up his wet legs. His balance failed, and he cursed under his breath, yanking the fabric up with all the force he could muster. Just as he reached for his tunic, a scream tore through the air.

Cordelia.

Kieran was already running before the sound finished leaving her throat. The terrain blurred as he sprinted back toward the cottage, his bare feet pounding the ground, the scent of unfamiliar blood growing stronger with every step. It filled his nose, clawed at his nerves, until the trees parted and the clearing came into view.

She was surrounded. Three men, rough and unarmed, ringed her like wolves circling a halla. One was already reeling back, clutching his face where she’d punched him, his form crumpling into the dirt. Another had her pinned to the cabin wall, choking her with one hand as she fought, legs kicking, fingers clawing at his wrist. The third loomed nearby, a dirty blade drawn. They laughed as she struggled, hissing at them even as she gasped for air.

Kieran’s eyes locked on the axe resting near the stacked firewood. He picked it up as he stalked towards them, fingers closing around the worn handle, and without breaking stride, he threw it. The weapon spun through the air and struck home with a sickening crunch, embedding in the skull of the man choking her. He dropped like a sack of meat, and Cordelia collapsed to her knees, gasping for air.

The third man turned, startled, but he was too slow. Kieran was on him in an instant. His fist connected with the man’s face, breaking something that crunched wetly. The man fell back, his blade dropped, but Kieran followed him down, pinning him, hands closing around his throat. The world narrowed to a tunnel. Red haze clouded his vision. All he could feel was the blood pumping beneath his fingers, the resistance of bone, the pressure as it gave.

He didn’t even hear Cordelia until her hands were on his arm.

“Kieran,” she said, urgent. “He’s dead. Let go.”

He gasped, as if surfacing from deep water, and stumbled back, off the body. The ground reeled beneath him, heart still thundering in his chest. He looked to the side and saw the man she had hit—the first one—lying still and lifeless. She had killed him, too.

“What were you saying before?” Kieran rasped, voice dry and dark. “About me being lazy?”

Cordelia stared at him for a moment like he’d gone mad, and then something broke in her. She threw her head back and laughed. She laughed so hard that tears began to spill from her eyes. He didn’t think it was joy. It was the kind of laughter that came after too many days of being emotionally and physically drained, after death and near-death and everything in between.

“Thank you,” she managed to gasp between breaths. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if—”

Kieran turned away, suddenly nauseated. “What were you doing outside?” he snapped. “I should have mentioned the wards only protect from inside. I...”

Cordelia raised a hand, wiping her eyes with the other. “I just wanted to sit outside for a moment,” she murmured, voice soft. “I couldn't get back to sleep, so I stole one of your novels.”

Kieran dragged both hands down his face, exhaling hard as his gaze drifted to the corpses.

“You should go retrieve the rest of your clothes,” Cordelia said, her voice low, staring down at the ground. “I’ll start digging a hole.”

“Don’t bother,” he replied, voice dark. “I’ll burn them. Just... go inside. Please.”

If she was surprised by the word, she didn’t show it. She just nodded, arms folded around herself as she turned and trudged back into the cottage without another word.

Kieran turned to the bodies. He didn’t check their pouches, didn’t care who they were. They had crossed a line, and now they would be ash. He dragged each of them, one by one, into the trees, away from his warded home, and piled wood, leaves, anything flammable over their twisted forms. Then he returned to the cottage in silence, retrieved flint and striker, and returned.

The fire caught quickly. He stood before it, watching the flames consume them.

And when it was done, when all that remained was bone and soot, he turned back toward the pond, walked straight in with his pants still on, and submerged himself.