Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Evelyn Trevelyan never had the notion of a life without injustice, but this was excessive.

It was like they were all flowers connected to the same root, blooming simultaneously the moment some biological imperative in the plant’s essence decided it was spring. She woke up in the middle of the night, at the same second as every single mage in the vicinity of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Perhaps just like every magic-user on the continent.

There was the feeling of someone pressing a scalpel in her mind and slicing deep, opening a protective film which differentiated herself and the world. No pain or fear. Evelyn was too confused to do anything but ride the sensation through. For an amazing, monstrous moment, she thought she understood what Andraste felt on her execution pyre: torn between both the Maker and the physical world.

Then she was pulled back, back through the Veil even though Evelyn didn’t recall crossing it to begin with. Thudding sounds could be heard outside the large tent she shared with other mages- the ones who weren’t ranked high enough in the abolished-Circle hierarchy to earn a room in the temple, but held enough political clout that their presence at the Conclave would add more weight to the mages’ position. Evelyn’s existence was a disgrace to House Trevelyan as a byproduct of a mage and templar’s illicit affair. Despite this, many within the family held a soft spot for her, most prominently her cousin. Former-First Enchanter Josephus was intending to use that affection to sway Evelyn’s uncle, Knight-Commander Barclay, to support leniency for the mages.

Evelyn’s cot neighbour summoned a light wisp and she winced, turning away from the glaring brightness which encompassed the tent. A loud voice, rough with sleep and confusion complained. Even with her eyes closed, Evelyn could tell when the light pulsed twice before being banished. A meek ‘sorry’ was uttered in apology.

Searching blindly for her hose, Evelyn dressed her lower half, adjusting part of her chemise, and stumbled outside. She stopped at the entrance.

“What. The fuck?” a mage behind her said when he, too, looked up.

Evelyn might have called it beautiful, if she ignored the foreboding feeling in her stomach. A green, white, and blue sunset laced the sky, if one replaced the sun with a mass of white, high in the air, pulling at smoke and clouds to form the suggestion of a tornado. Emerald spread out from the point of chaos, brightening the sky to such an extent one could see in what was once pitch dark. Teal spread out like fissures the further the green was from the centre, as if whatever happened had cracked the mantle of night to partially reveal day.

That didn’t cause fear. The floating and quickly falling segments of rock in the air did. The biggest pieces were dropping down first. Evelyn watched in dawning horror as a wagon-sized chunk of stone smashed into a nearby tent.

“Get-- get all the mages,” she said, pulling the man's arm to get his attention. “We need to be safe.”

He was one of the Orlesian ones her group met up with on their way. The one whose name had too many vowels. Not snooty, though. He quickly caught on during the journey that while Evelyn didn’t have rank, she had the respect of most of her peers. When news of the dissolution of the Circle of Magi spread to the Ostwick Circle, she was one of the ones who prevented the reaction from turning into a massacre.

The Orlesian stared wide-eyed at her before stepping back and into the tent. Evelyn herself headed further out into the encampment. Except for around fifty of the most important figures, the majority of their people there for the conclave had set up makeshift lodgings around Haven. A year previous, templar quarters would have surrounded the mage-designated area. Now, the templars were situated directly opposite from where Evelyn was.

She power-walked to where she held a vague notion they set up their tents. Running would have been quicker, but a desperate voice in her head said that running would make her suspicious, a target. It was not wise for a mage to run recklessly in the Circles. If they did, templars would deem them a troublemaker- in reality, a convenient scapegoat for any other troubles. The trouble currently happening was dangerous, uncontrollable, and obviously magic. Even if Evelyn and her people had nothing to do with it, they were already scapegoats. Evelyn could only control how much ire would be directed at herself.

It was too quiet, she thought, even as she heard the cackle of flames and increasingly frequent shouts for help, for friends, for information. The stones in the sky weren’t originally on fire, however their landing caused a blazing ring of orange and sometimes green upon impact.

Evelyn stretched out a hand to redirect the fire eating up a tent in her path. The blaze eagerly leaped toward her like a famished dragon, faster than she was prepared for. An instinctive crossing of her arms drove the fire to her left. She didn’t have time to ponder why it reacted so aggressively. A lot of mysterious things had already happened in the last half hour. Evelyn only made a mental note to deal with future sky-created fires through water.

Indistinguishable from other tents at a distance, the templar area was thick from lack of magic when she drew closer. Spell purges were as frequent as heartbeats; Evelyn felt as if someone were squeezing her insides every second. Still, she tread on. Her uncle was at the temple, hopefully doing better than the people outside. (She was going to ignore the fact that the tornado of light in the sky was situated in the same direction as the temple.) Evelyn still had her cousin. If she got to him, he could possibly protect her and her mages when accusations came.

The templars were in various stages of armour, running around to put out fires with the snow and save people crushed by the debris. She peered at their hardened faces, flinching away when she spotted a familial, non-family face. If anyone recognized her as a mage, there was no telling what they would do in their panicked, angry state.

“Maxwell!” Evelyn shouted again and again.

The sharp orders and returns of surrounding templars seemed to drown out her words.

A desperate cry came from her right. “Evie!”

Usual irritation at the nickname was pushed aside as Evelyn turned to search her surroundings. Templars and mages didn’t give each other nicknames. To their peers, yes. Not a templar to a mage nor vice versa. There was no rule against it, just an implicit understanding to not get too close to the enemy, not publically. One couldn’t be friends with a person who had so much power over them. Maxwell ignored that rule, reasoned he could get away with it because they were family, although legally a mage had none. Over the years, Evelyn had picked up sensitivity to the annoying name of ‘Evie’, simply from how it so blatantly defied convention.

She found him bleeding in the slushed snow. A large piece of stained glass had impaled his shoulder. Stained glass was a rare thing to see, much less falling from the sky. Evelyn had only ever seen the art in the ostentatious Ostwick chantry. She immediately reached out for it.

Maxwell jerked back. “Don’t. It’s in deep.”

“I can heal it.”

“Before I bleed out?” came the doubtful reply.

Evelyn couldn’t help her huff of exasperation. In the Circle she had only ever dealt with minor injuries. Living outside of it quickly introduced her to healing major wounds and poisonings. Templars had a strong resistance to magic, but it wasn’t anything an experienced mage couldn’t handle. The problem would come from the area they were in. Twenty layers of spell purges were like twenty kilograms of rocks on her shoulders. They moved farther away to a less inhabited area.

Taking out the shard brought forth a grunt of pain from Maxwell. She pressed down on Maxwell’s other shoulder to get him to kneel and bring her a better view of the damage. Healing magic was a lot like blood magic. How Evelyn imagined it to be, anyways. She wasn’t a blood mage, couldn’t imagine being one without also remembering the greedy look on a templar’s face when she endured the Harrowing. It had turned to disappointment when he realised she wasn’t possessed.

Evelyn felt Maxwell’s lifeforce, incredibly strong since they were so close and he was bleeding. Then, she gave a strong yank at the magic within her, compelling the two forces momentarily together. Pale green light erupted and a strange feeling of lightness came upon Evelyn before her back hit hard snow.

She had put too much power into the healing spell. Like some sort of inexperienced apprentice. Belatedly, Evelyn came upon the thought that the magical catastrophe they were in might have affected the magic in the air.

“Well,” Maxwell said, “you did heal it.”

“Yes, I managed that,” she echoed, staring at the frenzied sky.

Another round of stone rained down. With it, tangible fire. A light landed between them, emitting such a strong green glow it screamed ‘magic! I am magic!’. Maxwell responded with a spell purge. No effect. Unknown magic then. Yet, something called her to it, like a siren.

It was as if the chaos above had shaken even the stars from their footholds and one had fallen to where Evelyn and Maxwell sat.

Her reckless cousin reached out.

“Don’t--!”

—

In Kaaras’ defence, he would have avoided stepping on it if he knew the mess it would bring.

The lightning-pain-agony which dragged him into unconsciousness had disappeared when he resurfaced. Instead, a stretching sensation bothered his senses. It felt like someone had cut a hole in the sole of his right foot and was slowly extracting every bit of bone and blood they could.

Kaaras dearly hoped everything was just a long nightmare. He didn’t know how he could cope if what he saw was a reality: ruins of ash and fire instead of a great temple. The thought made him want to curl up and he pulled at his leg. The grip around his ankle tugged back. A snarl which sounded more like a whine let loose from his throat and he kicked back.

“I would appreciate it,” came a clipped tone, “if you held still while I saved your life.”

The uncomfortable sensation began anew. Maker, he hated magic. Even healing was like someone trailing a nail down his spine.

‘It’s because you’re untrained,’ an ex-Circle turned mercenary mage had once said. ‘You don’t know how to use your own magic so your body is hostile to everything else.’

Untrained his ass. He never became a maleficar, did he? It wasn’t his fault no one wanted to train a Vashoth, not even the apostate who pointed it out. As if getting better control of his magic would turn him into a Saarebas, a mad dog who only knew how to kill.

Opening his eyes revealed a dirty stone ceiling. Despite being inside, Kaaras could still feel the outside cold in his bones. The cot he was lying on dug into his shoulders, clearly having been intended for a human. Charred flesh and fire still lingered in his memory.

“Where am I?” he asked, voice hoarse.

The light from the window hinted at it being day. When they finally stopped fighting the demons near the temple, understanding it was futile since the weird green portal in the air, which suddenly appeared in front of them, kept on popping them out, the sun was just beginning to rise. Five of his men had been with Kaaras, the others were assigned nightwatch inside the temple. Everyone liked a big, bad ‘Qunari’ mercenary to glare intimidatingly at would-be evildoers, but they were never pretty enough, trustworthy enough, to be there during the meetings. Thus, they were assigned the last shift and a tentative prediction that nothing would happen during the night. Nothing had cost the Valo-kas mercenary company fifteen lives.

“You’re at a guardhouse, a few kilometres away from Haven,” the elf at the foot of his cot said. “Your companions are with the other mercenaries and soldiers, helping out where they can.”

“Most of my people were at the temple.”

The elf paused his magic and looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I know they must have been dear to you.”

Kaaras looked away from the sincerity in the slate-coloured eyes. Death wasn’t a rarity for a sword-sell. He had dealt with the death of companions before. None with such a great, sudden number though. It was hard to comprehend. He didn’t think he would be able to truly understand until he saw the bodies, yet he doubted there would be anything distinguishable in the devastation.

There was a female drawf who sat on a cot a couple metres away. A surface dwarf if the tan was anything to go by. Her short, choppy haircut framed a face which currently held a wry smile.

“At least you’re still alive, hmm?” The Tantervale accent was unmistakable. Why did a Marcher dwarf bother to go all the way to attend the conclave? She didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m Malika. Your friends said you’re called Kaaras. I’m glad to finally be introduced to my poison buddy.”

“What buddy?” He couldn’t hide the hesitation in his voice. Kaaras was a warrior, not a rogue. Toxins were things he usually steered clear of.

Malika’s next words stole the breath from his lungs. “You know, since we’re both magically poisoned.”

“It would be inaccurate to call it a poison,” the elf spoke up.

“Why not? It’s inside us and we’re dying from it all the same.”

The heaving shudder of the sky interrupted any reply. Pain laced up Kaaras’s foot and he could see Malika’s own face twist. Her inner wrist glowed a green he was beginning to get sick of, the colour spreading through her veins and stopping at the elbow. He turned to see the same thing happening to his own leg. Three pulses of pain later, each accompanied by brief light reaching his inner thigh, and the glowing faded.

“That,” he breathed, “is what’s killing us?”

The elf spoke up again. “No, not if I have anything to do with it.”

In the following silence, Kaaras regarded the stranger working on his foot. He usually thought elves had a softer quality about them, even the males, but this one, this one had little attractive attributes about him at all. Bald with an uncommon tallness that was apparent even when kneeling, the elf pulled and twisted the green magic in his foot.

“...Right, I-- what was your name again?”

“Solas.”

—

He would have chosen to go deaf, if Mahanon were given the choice (but choice was a luxury to his kind twice over).

When the conclave explosion had blown Mahanon on his back, a fragment of the sky had decided without asking to land on his face, right at the intersection of his jaw and his left ear. He should not have thought of it as a violation, not when he knew the meaning of the word, but his mind could only describe it as that.

The magic ripped him open to his core, spreading out all he was and could be. Mahanon was a green dawn streaking across the sky, the lurching rise of a sylvan’s aged branches, pure water trickling and then crashing down in the dark of an underground cave. He was a single entity condensed in the smallest raindrop, he was also an ancient storm beating down the earth to shape his desires.

It was a heady feeling, literally in his head, and Mahanon lay there on the frozen ground, letting the magic ride through him. It was always better to endure these things than fight back.

The sky swelled, unnatural colours colliding into each other in comforting, indistinguishable shapes. Half a memory, half a fantasy came to Mahanon: his mother’s soothing, unintelligible lullaby in the deepest part of night. Her scarred hand on a head that had not been touched yet by cruelty. It was a song Mahanon could never grasp, neither the kindness of its shape nor the broken vi’dirth words that his mother secreted away even when the rest was taken away.

When Mahanon relearned the vi’dirth, curling his words with a Planasene accent instead of ancestral Brecilian, he still could not find the melody nor its meaning, no matter how many lav’vun and gen’vun he visited in his missions. Now, Mahanon knew the meaning, heard it clearly from the winds singing in a vi’dirth that dropped like stones in his heart.

At sky-touched stone in white night

As the snow lay on the ground

Stood a youth-torn half-formed Dalish boy

Seeking answers in mountains found

His mother stood beside him and said

"You'll win my boy, don't fear."

Mahanon mumbled along and the belly of the sky grew closer to him. Close, but closer still and he would fall in.

A third voice cut through the air- no, a sharp continuous sound. Whining.

Gaze reluctantly breaking from the dense magic high above him, Mahanon’s grey eyes rolled around for the source. There, at his left a large russet-coloured war hound sat politely but with complaint. Mahariel’s dog.

A coldness that had nothing to do with the environment seeped into Mahanon as he remembered the reason why he was in the Frostback Mountains. The suddenness of his movement when he sought to get back on his feet brought forth a headache and ache from the left half of his face. Mahanon gripped his head, crouching, and set his thoughts in order.

Mahariel had done something, of course. Or the creature they were hunting had done something which she did not (could not?) prevent. Mahanon needed to get up and help her, run up and up the mountain once again to the shemlen temple and- he did not know. A quick glance up revealed the changed sky did not change back to expected night.

The dog broke its whine with a sharp commanding bark resonating within its muscular torso. Arrogant, that beast, just like he imagined its namesake would be.

When Mahanon had heard for the first time the title Mahariel gave to a simple shemlen animal, he could not stop a sharp inhale of offence but chose not to comment, still too over-awed by her reputation. Time wore away his reservations and on a warm autumnal evening smelling of smoke and spiced apples, Mahanon had pointed an accusing finger at the beast (a crime the dog would never forget) and said: “Blasphemous.”

This was spoken in the Common Trade Tongue instead of their usual vi’dirth as the Dalish did not have a word for what he meant, not when it was a fellow Dalish doing the sacrilege.

Mahariel, occupying herself with letting her dark hair down from the trappings of its braided bun, made a show of rolling her eyes. “It is just a name. Are you a da'len, still scared of our people’s stories?”

“I would call you a heretic,” he said jokingly, “if you weren’t a hero.”

“Just be truthful, and call me hunted.”

Fen’Andrem.

Mahanon stood up. Answers would be in what was left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

—

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Maxwell said to himself.

If the guard overheard him from the other side of his jail cell, Maxwell would swear to the Maker that he was speaking to the wall. Not that his jailors did not already know he was dumb as stone. When he recounted how he just picked up the glowing bit of magic now stuck to his right hand, Cassandra ‘Right Hand of the Divine’ Pentaghast raised one thin eyebrow and repeated his words back to him. Slowly.

Maxwell would have taken a year’s worth of Templar recruit hazing to wipe that look from his memory. He knew it was not the worst of his problems, although his pride was in pieces, much like a certain temple. Merciful Andraste! Even being in this musty smelling cell was not too bad. His innocence of maleficar evildoing was quickly established and him being shut away was more to guarantee the magic leeching at his hand would not harm any passerby.

What troubled Maxwell most was Evie. When they took him away to be investigated, Evie was also dragged by other Templars, presumably to also be questioned. She was innocent and knew how to handle herself against angry men with swords, but that did not assuage Maxwell’s panic. All it took was one slip of anger.

He wondered if that was what happened in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. One simple, malicious thought by a mage and an explosion. Everyone dead. Everyone important dead. Divine Justinia V dead. First Enchanter Josephus dead. His feather de–

Maxwell turned sharply from the wall and walked towards the bars. Light from torches off the walls allowed him to clearly see the face of his guard, a brown-haired, moustached man with a slight form covered in Orlesian armour. No one he recognized. Maxwell hoped Evie had a friendly Ostwick Templar at her interrogation.

“Whatever this is,” he waved his right hand, its green light momentarily breaking his gaze, “it doesn’t seem like it will start setting fire to our surroundings. We have much better things to be doing than standing in this shack.”

The guard shifted. “That’s for Seeker Pentaghast to decide.”

“But you know I’m right. There’s people out there right now who need our help. And we should. I want to help them.” Maxwell softened his tone to be more personable. “What’s your name?”

Just before Maxwell could hear the guard’s answer, an echoing bang of the front door broke through their moment. Angry yelling in an unknown language accompanied the sound along with the clanking of armour and feet being dragged. Maxwell peered his head to look.

Three suits of armour broke its huddle to push a slight figure down to the floor. Shoulder-length black hair might have convinced him it was a woman the Templars were handling if not for the low, furious voice that was still doubtlessly hurling creative insults. Insults in Dalish, Maxwell realised as he took in the facial markings of the elf. It looked like a child drew squiggles all over the elf’s face, thin lines reminiscent of roots scrawled mindlessly across his cheeks and chin. In the centre of his forehead, low to the bridge of his nose, thicker straight lines ran vertically before branching out in what could be seen as a tree.

A templar pressed his knee to the elf’s back, forcing insults to be replaced by shallow panting in order to preserve breath.

“The only reason we haven’t killed you where you lay is so that we can draw out the truth of your plans and the devastation you’ve wrought,” came the voice of a strong accent. Seeker Pentaghast had come in after the rowdy group, looking just as intimidating as when Maxwell first met her.

When pressure released enough to properly speak, the elf wasted no time. “Vaatak Darba fi 'albak!”

One of the templars hit him on the head, but was stopped from taking it further by the rise of Seeker Pentaghast’s hand.

“So you can speak Nevarran,” her voice turned wry, “or at least curse in it. Now tell us in Common about your Mark.” She unsheathed her sword and positioned its point underneath the elf’s chin, turning up to show the left side of his face. “This one right here.”

As if powered by the dramatic air, green sparked from steady flames to a roaring fire, momentarily covering the elf’s face. Maxwell’s own hand burst into mind-numbing pain and he could not help but release a grunt of discomfort. Surges of the power had been happening intermittently, but he had been too focused on the scene before him to brace for it. The elf stayed silent until he could meet his interrogator’s eyes again.

“It’s probably magic.”

Seeker Pentaghast’s expression became even more grave after the joke. “Explain it.” She pressed the tip of her sword deep enough for a shallow cut.

“The magic is probably the same kind that’s eating up the sky right now. But beyond that, I can’t say. I don’t know," the elf said quickly.

Scoffing, but letting her sword fall, Seeker Pentaghast replied, “You expect me to believe that? A mage, a Dalish mage sneaking up the mountain to the scene of the crime- and you had nothing to do with any of it?”

“If I were your enemy, I wouldn’t have regretfully stopped to save your men from getting torn apart by demons.”

Maxwell gripped the cell’s bars tightly. Demons were afoot. Was that because of the hole in the sky or were the mages… Either way, a normal person did not stand a chance against demons or abominations, much less soft-hearted Chantry officials and ambassadors with their uncalloused hands.

“That doesn’t mean you’re on our side,” Seeker Pentaghast said. “Or that you weren’t involved in this.”

“It means he’s useful to us though,” a new voice called out and Maxwell turned his head to spot a red-haired woman motioning for the Templars to release the elf.

During his own interrogation, he had heard a guard call her ‘Lady Nightingale’ and Seeker Pentaghast referred to her as Leliana.

The Seeker continued looking steadily at the elf. “If he’s willing. If his intentions are true.”

“I want the sky to be fixed as much as you do.”

“I doubt that,” Seeker Pentaghast scoffed, but she turned her back and took out her keys to slot one of them into the lock connected to Maxwell’s cell.

Finally, to be free. Maxwell retrieved his own sword which had been placed tantalisingly up against the nearby wall. “How do we do that though? It’s not like we have a needle and thread to patch it right up.”

Seeker Pentaghast’s gaze drew down to his hand. “You’ll see.”

“I’ll get the others,” Lady Nightingale said and left.

Maxwell stopped to hold out his hand to the elf, who still kneeled on the floor. It would do well to make an ally of something who had the same ‘condition’ as him. The elf eyed him wearily but took his hand all the same.

“I hope they didn’t rough you up too much,” Maxwell said. It was not a lie, but not one full of concern either. Templars could be so much worse than the light head smack that was given. “I’m Maxwell of House Trevelyan.”

“I’m Mahanon,” he said, “of Clan Lavellan.”

—

Malika had wished for something like this when she was a young little dwarva. Not exactly this (her imagination was not that good), but like the sky opening up with its monstrous energy, like an apparent wrongness so heavily felt that even topsiders and humans could realise the horribleness of gaping air, like pulling, dragging, lifting your body away from the solid, safe ground into the unknown.

Yes, Malika with all her dreams to become sun-touched, had unfortunately wished for something like this. She was not myopic enough to think all this death and devastation came from her simple wish. However, Malika was self-centred enough to blame the Ancestors for sticking her with a piece of the decaying sky. A good deal of them were deep lords in their life and it was just like them to be petty enough to curse her for stepping out of rank by going to the surface.

Malika did not know what the three Marked strangers next to her had done to deserve the same fate.

The Qunari seemed downright tormented that magic managed to stick to his foot like nug shit. She thought for a moment he was a mage himself, what with the heavy metal staff of his, but he did not use magic to fight, just good old hard whacks, and when she saw Kaaras fluidly use his superior strength to punch a shade in the face before side kicking it into shadow vapour, Malika solidly labelled him a warrior. And well, not to stereotype, it just certainly explained the thought process it took for him to get a Mark on his foot.

“I thought it was fire,” he had said heatedly. “You’ve seen the green flames all around, right? And what else would you do except stamp it out?”

“I can see why you’d do it, but when you tell this story to others it wouldn’t hurt to embellish,” Varric said. He was the other dwarf in the party, not the other shady one though. That co-title belonged to Mahanon.

When Solas finished taking a look at Maxwell’s Mark and reached for Mahanon’s face, the Dalish had flinched so suddenly that he nearly backed up far enough to step off the cliffside.

“I apologise,” the healer(?) said. “It was rude of me to try to touch you so abruptly. I do think you should have that Mark looked at. It causes you pain, doesn’t it?”

Mahanon raised his lips in a half-snarl. “I have not slept in forty hours, my face feels as if it is being continuously sliced with a sword, and this,” he spread his arm out to the wide expanse of white ground before them, “is my third time going up this fucking mountain. No matter how benevolent your intentions, I’m in no mood to be poked and prodded.”

“Third.” Cassandra drew out the word. “We caught you when you were on your second attempt. So what was the first?”

The annoyance in Mahanon’s expression suddenly cooled and he looked at Cassandra consideringly, not saying a word.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Malika said in a breezy manner to dispel the tension (it would not do for a non-demon fight to break out this high up). “He’s a spy.”

Everyone looked at Mahanon then, who was sullenly glaring at her with such obviousness that it was proof then and there her words rang true. Rogues like her tended to have a knack for spotting others in the shadows.

“That answer was not far from your mind, durgen’len, perhaps you just wish to cover up your own tracks?”

Malika no longer cared about her cover, not when she was in something so above her pay grade. “Yeah, I’m a spy too.” She made a dramatic hand sign and winked. “Beloved daughter of House Cadash, disposable tool to the international Carta.”

Varric made a face. Good. It would be embarrassing if everyone reacted to her introduction with faces as blank as Maxwell’s. Honestly, her opinion of him went down at his display of ignorance. What kind of Templar did not know the supplier of fifty percent of their isana? Everytime the Templars did their ritual of snorting up some blue dust and thanking the Maker, they should additionally be thanking the Carta for getting it into their hands in such a timely and (relatively) cheap manner.

Kaaras started, “So two spies in the party. Unless someone else wants to join in?” No one took him up on the offer. “One is for the Carta, the other I’m guessing is with the Dalish?”

“Surely you don’t think I would be the lapdog of any shemlen organisation.”

“What do I know of spies? You could even be Ben-Hassrath.”

“Enough,” Cassandra said. “The more time we waste, the more demons spill forth from each tear in the air.”

They continued up the mountain, saving a patrol in the process and taking their turns to close all the fade rifts they came across. It was an unpleasant feeling, like having all her blood and air sucked right out of her. Malika was relieved she could hand that duty off to other people. Dwarva were not meant for magic.

Maxwell was the one with the easiest time closing the rifts, even better than the mage. Another thing he should be thanking the Carta for.

Kaaras, when asked to pull his weight, very dramatically looked down at the ground. “It’s on my foot.”

They did not ask him for any more magical help after that, but he would have to find a way to do something, balance on one leg maybe, when they got to the big rift, the Breach.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was in ashes. It took all of Malika’s strength to not voice that joke. The Seeker in their party seemed hot-headed and she was not willing to test how much immunity the Mark gave her from friendly fire.

The sneaky one, Leliana, met up with them at what used to be the entrance. She was accompanied by a few soldiers and… a marbari?

“All of you made it. Thank merciful Andraste.”

The dog barked and ran, heading straight for Mahanon. Malika tensed; mabari were trained war dogs, perhaps this one was trained to attack surly elves on sight? However the animal simply slowed down and circled him, pressing itself up against him like a cat.

Mahanon said something to the dog in his elf language, tone part affectionate, part annoyed.

“He knows you,” Leliana said, surprise and quick-witted understanding forming on her face. “You know Mahariel. You even know that she’s here- what she was doing.”

Cassandra's expression turned sharp. “Mahariel. The Hero of Ferelden.” She glared at Mahanon. “You knew about her and you didn’t tell us.”

“I told you about myself,” Mahanon replied, “but don’t expect me to give up my people.”

“That’s… fair.” Cassandra’s look lost its edge and she glanced away. “You didn’t know how much time we spent looking for her. How much the Inquisition- how I-” she cut herself off and glanced at the dog prancing between both red-haired woman and dark-haired elf. “We have her pet. But where is the Grey Warden herself?”

Malika had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She watched as Mahanon hesitantly darted his eyes in the direction deep into the temple.

“No!” Leliana shouted. “Oh, for the love of Blessed Andraste, no.” She sprinted inside.

Everyone ran to catch up to her before being firmly separated by demons and more rifts. When they met again Leliana was standing still, overlooking a grand and desolated room where a strand of the Breach reached down in the middle. Contrasting green glow of magic and red light of the surrounding rocks threw shadows on her hollow-eyed look.

There was a buzzing feeling under Malika’s skin, a familiar ickiness that had nothing to do with the Mark on her wrist. She recognized the feeling of isana, any dwarva could. A closer look at the red rocks gave way to a deep, unpleasant feeling that crawled around in the back of her throat.

“Careful,” Varric said, laying out an arm to block any further movement. “You don’t want to get anywhere near red lyrium. Trust me.”

Leliana’s dull voice broke through the air. “There’s Grey Warden armour beneath the rubble. Multiple sets. How many were in her cohort?”

“It was just us two,” Mahanon said softly enough that Malika had to step closer. “The last Grey Warden to join was Anders a few years ago and he left just as quickly.”

Varric suddenly sighed.

Cassandra turned to him. “So when Anders left Kirkwall, he was with the Warden. Interesting.”

“Not really. I don’t know what they got up to. Being tied up and interrogated kept me busy.”

“Enough,” Leliana ordered. “We need to do what we came here for and deal with the Breach. Anything else,” she swallowed, “will come later.”

Maxwell set his gloved hands on some piece of not-yet-ruined bannister and tilted his head up. “It looks non-hostile at least. We just point our Marks up and make it go poof?”

“Not quite,” Solas said. “The Breach appears to be in a temporary stasis. In order to close it for good, we will have to change it from its dormant state.”

Which meant more demons. Great.

—

Between the death and dying state- a song. (It plays continuously.)

Mahariel woke up and woke up again. Up from the downy mattress and silk sheets of the Royal Palace’s canopy bed, mouth dry and numb, opening her eyes for the first time a month after Urthemiel’s death. Eyes staring at pale wooden beams as the white noise of a cooking fire crackled in the background, the air still scented of healing potions and magic Asha'bellanar used like a scalpel after she plucked a bare-faced elf maiden and future-king off an Ostagar tower. No face because she was just a da'len back then, throat tasting like decay and blight and lyrium, knees on the ground, choking on a vow she was forced into while two men older and stronger than her lay dead at her feet. The dead heralded her birth always, dead father and dead wolves surrounding the Sabrae gen’vun, the famine of winter driving beasts to consider an elf in labour easy prey.

Mahariel never prayed, not when Leliana taught her the Andrestian chants and custom out of amicable culture exchange, not when Hahren Paivel showed her how to form the words of the gods she belonged to, not to Urthemiel even when she wished with all her heart to heal the dragon of the Blight instead of kill it. Fen’Andrem do not pray; they just run from the Lone Hunter.

She was looking up at the falling sky or maybe down at the dawning abyss. Air cut at her skin as she flew. Emerald light blinded until it was too late and Mahariel knew what would happen a heartbeat before she met the ground.

Bodies, at a high enough velocity, did not bounce. They went splat. Mahariel did not hear a splat, she heard cracking. Then she lay there, oddly naked like a newborn. There was a lot less blood than a normal birth though, from what she could feel trickling out of her anyways. Mahariel desperately focused on breathing despite all the hurt because she had the misfortune to land on her torso instead of her head.

In the distance, Mahariel heard a singular canine howl.

Chapter Text

Mahariel dug her fingers into the darkness of oblivion for as long as she could. It hurt to have a consciousness, to feel the pain of her body with every breath, so she tried not to. Melody wrapped around her dream-like thoughts, twisting and winding into memories and emotions.

Tanned hands pressing a knife between the ribs of a deserting man. The smell of lava-heat, polluted blood, and sheer living desperation. Bursting joy from being reunited and welcomed back into the arms of her people. Elongated reptilian wings with skin so thin one could see the way blue blood travelled across the entire appendage.

She remembered sleeping, as strange as that sounded, sleeping and singing and waiting for something to come. Mahariel was broken, both in the mundane sense where every sentient being had their cracks and chipped parts and also in a deeper capacity; there was something shattered, again and again. And again, she put herself back together, but not meticulously.

Something tried to stop her this time- a corporeal emptiness reaching out with large hands to take Mahariel’s fragmented thoughts and songs. No. She tugged what she could closer to her, hoarding it.

The sun heating her back as she looked at a sky so large, it was as if she were a sea-captain surveying the endless ocean. Raining despair and sorrow exploding in her chest from heedless death and violence. Faces of the elvhen, pressing against her mind so quickly that each new expression replaced the other within the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. Male, female, fearful, loved, shouts of praise, curses for vengeance. Mahariel watched all of them with the detachment of a child playing with ants.

There was another theft from the invisible being. Mahariel imagined snarling and growling like a predator protecting its young. She tensed, no longer preoccupied with sewing her precious memories together, and listened carefully for a dissonant chord.

There!

Her body reacted; adrenalin flooded her veins, snapping dark eyes awake and reaching for air with a gasp. There was a figure peering over her. Automatically, Mahariel blocked with her left forearm and shot her right hand out to search for a weapon. A dull thud reached her ears, gaze catching momentarily how her hand bounced back from a log wall than actually feeling the impact.

The figure reached out again. Mahariel’s kick fumbled within the confines of the blankets covering her lower half, and the being managed to wrap a steady, warm hand on her shoulder.

“No!” she spat and the thing- elf, immediately retracted.

Mahariel backed up until her back hit a wall, pressing herself into the corner of the room. Wildly, her eyes darted around, taking into account the lack of weapons and people, but little else.

The elfin held his hands up and said something in a rough, sharp language. Mahariel shook her head in disagreement.

“You do not touch me. Not there. Ever.”

Nothing else was said for a while. She breathed heavily from surprised exertion until crackling pain beat her sides at the same rhythm as her lungs. Abruptly, Mahariel stopped breathing to lessen the ache, glancing down at herself to tentatively press her sore hand against the wrappings around her abdomen. Her chest was completely bare, which would have been cause for concern if the reason why were not so obvious. At her sternum and a little to the left, bright green light pulsed from within.

Mahariel watched utterly entranced at the stuttering flashes of light. She could tell it was deep inside, hollowing her out with its brightness and shining through like the way a drum could not contain its thud thud thud when a hand beat against skin. The light settled into a slower pattern while she controlled her breathing. Mahariel wondered what a person would hear if they pressed their ear to her heart. Perhaps that was what the person was finding out.

“I mean you no harm.” Slowly, he enunciated his words. “My only intention is to help you get that magic out.”

Mahariel raised her gaze to observe him. Her first thought was that he was small- a candle fully contained in its wick laying in the miles long ashes of a forest fire. She would not have been able to explain the reasoning for that notion if asked. The impression fell away quickly, like spotting a bird of prey flying above the overhead greenery. Secondly, she thought that he seemed sincere. Mahariel was not in any direct danger, not now. She relaxed.

“I am pride,” he continued.

The elfin was bald and pale, sitting on a chair facing the bed. His gaze was sharp with decisive knowledge, but tempered by concern. The clothing he wore was simple and homely, although she guessed from the grip of his hand that what lay underneath was an athletic, lithe build. No horns and not a hint of purple on him. He had the normal amount of eyes as well.

“You are not usually how pride looks.”

Confusion flickered on Pride’s face. Mahariel looked away to observe the room more closely. Nothing about it looked familiar. The structure seemed well suited to trapping heat and for that she was thankful. Her hair brushed against her arms as she turned her head- another possible sign that she was safe. Captors did not let down and comb out the hair of their captives.

“May I?” Pride said and gestured to her chest.

Again, Mahariel shook her head.

He drew back and placed his hands in his lap. “It’s dangerous, you know. There are others who have your condition. They experienced recurring pain until I could stop it from killing them.”

“I am in pain,” Mahariel admitted. “I had a difficult reunion with the ground.”

Pride huffed out a laugh. “Yet another thing that should have killed you. But this is nothing so simple that can be fixed by a healing potion. No one has seen this sort of magic in ages.”

“And it could kill me. Is that so terrible?”

Alarm drew across Pride’s expression. “Do you not wish to live?”

“It’s not like that- that I want to die,” Mahariel said carefully. “I just think… the price of survival can be very great. What will I be after you’ve ripped that part of me out or added something in? Are you prepared for the consequences of that?”

Even if it risked her death, Mahariel hesitated to immediately put herself in a stranger’s hands. Not again. She had seen time and time again the cascade of consequences beget from a driving need for survival. Sometimes those results were good, sometimes they saved a nation. In that same victory, Mahariel had swallowed the Blight and despite the peace it brought, still she could not remove the mourning of having a part of herself taken. When the Grey Warden Duncan offered her a chance to survive the poison within her, it did not return Mahariel to her former self, but placed another step further from what ‘Mahariel’ once was.

There was silence as Pride thought through his next words. Distantly, she heard scraping against wood.

“You are-” Pride started but was drowned out by sudden high-pitched whining and what could only be thick claws against boards.

A muffled voice could be heard from outside the door. “What’s wrong with you, impatient beast?”

With a thud, the door burst open to reveal another figure and a rapidly approaching dog. Mahariel gasped and lurched forward despite the ache, because this, she recognized this. Her mouth opened to form the shape of his name-

(Mahariel eyed the short-haired dog, really only a puppy, and clutched the device in her hand. The kennel master had taken one look at her long ears and ordered her to muzzle the animal, pushing her through the gate.

—

The three of them left a ruined Ostagar, the weight of the world on their shoulders. In the distance came a dog’s warning bark and the sharp shiver down her spine which signalled darkspawn.

—

“How odd. We now have a dog and Alisair is still the dumbest one in the party.”

“Very funny. I can see how living completely isolated in the wilds has affected your social graces.”

—

In the dark of night, the dog was Mahariel’s only companion as she kept second watch. She hesitantly petted him on the shoulder.

“You don’t know what I’m saying when I speak in my language. No one does anymore,” Mahariel said in the vi’dirth.

The dog tilted its head by a fraction and gave neither confirmation or denial.

“That’s okay. You wouldn’t understand if I spoke in the trade tongue either.” She leaned closer to the animal. “This can be our secret language then. You call me Mahariel and I’ll call you-”)

“-Fen'Harel.”

The mabari jumped in Mahariel’s bed, wagging its butt and breaking its heavy panting with excited yips. She wrapped her arms around him, having to readjust from his constant movement.

“Mahariel!” came a voice full of pleased surprise.

For a wild moment, she thought the voice came from Fen'Harel himself before looking up at a male Dalish with relief in his eyes. She smiled on instinct while confusion tugged at her. Mahariel knew him, but her memory was slow in telling her how. It was as if she were in a forest filled with anything from tall, ancient oaks to recently planted saplings. And now Mahariel was expected to find a leaf.

The elfin turned to Pride. “How long has she been awake?” he said in Common.

“Only just recently,” said Pride with a perturbed expression as he looked at Mahariel hugging her dog. (Oghren, of all people, had been the most disgusted at her closeness with the dog. That could have been due to jealousy after the Saddle Incident.) “We have been discussing the merits of letting me stave off her magic-induced mortal demise.”

“I-” Mahariel hesitated, the Common word suddenly awkward on her tongue. “Where are we? What happened?” She blinked and suddenly she knew his name. “Mahanon.”

(Mahanon was not the name his mother could give him, nor the name he grew up with in the Circle. She asked him once what name they used to call him by. He then proceeded to list every elf-slur and insult Mahariel knew, including many she did not.)

“I was hoping you would tell me that. After you left, I walked halfway down to Haven before the temple exploded and hit me with the spell’s after effects. Now,” he gestured toward the open door, revealing snow and more simple log buildings, “the sky has a bunch of holes in it, not to mention the Breach.” As he turned his head to peer out, a dark sickly hue stood in contrast to the pale of his throat. His left jugular and surrounding veins seemingly held a soft glowing green instead of blood.

“Breach?”

“It would be easier to show you.”

When Mahariel moved to get off the bed, she hissed at the sudden reminder of pain in her side.

Mahanon looked over at her with concern. “Did Solas not heal you completely?”

PrideSolas cleared his throat. “Evelyn, Maxwell’s cousin, was able to stabilise her physical condition. We thought it best to hold off any further magic in case it interfered with the volatile mark on her heart.”

“Is it really that bad? The only pain I have been feeling comes from my ribs.”

“It doesn’t hurt at all? I couldn’t even drink water until Solas did whatever to syphon off the excess.”

“I woke up when he was in the middle of doing,” she waved a hand vaguely, “it. Maybe I had a quick recovery.”

“I doubt that. But if you aren’t feeling any effects from it and are intent on declining further examination, we will have to wait for the situation to develop,” Solas reluctantly said.

“Also,” Mahariel said, having positioned her front behind Fen'Harel, “can I have a shirt?”

—

After they found clothing for her to wear and Solas left, Mahanon switched to the vi’dirth. “Are you okay?”

“Excluding the ribs and unknown magic in my chest?” She raised an eyebrow.

“I mean you and how you’re feeling. You walked out of the Breach, presumably a doorway to the Beyond, and fell fifteen metres.” Mahanon sat on the now empty chair.

“It’s different, a little. I don’t know in what way.”

Mahariel knew she was being vague. Before, she was very invested in convincing a stranger not to poke around in her insides. Now she had to settle into her skin and did not find the expected comfort. The difficulty in memory did not help. She eventually realised who Mahanon was, but the lapse was alarming. They had met eight years ago and were occasionally in contact up until four years ago when they began travelling together. There was no guarantee Mahariel would remember what she forgot the next time.

“You’re still the same, you know.” Mahanon leaned forward and his green eyes stared at her with gravitas.

(Those same eyes with that same spirit in a different time and place. Echoing crying and feeling blood fire-hot slip through her hand clutched to her neck. Fear she had not even felt when she was on the roof of Fort Drakon, but gripped her heart so tightly.

“You are not a demon. I say this time and time again. You are not.”)

She turned to face Fen'Harel. “Can I have some time to recover?”

A great sigh released from Mahanon; Mahariel could feel it move strands of her hair. He assented, but warned her he would tell Leliana she was conscious after an hour. That was time enough to reach the door for a little fresh air. Mahariel did not leave until five minutes after Mahanon did. The ache in her side was annoying, but did not prevent her from exploring as long as she went slow. She arranged her hair so that it could cover her ears.

Mahariel crossed the doorway and looked up.

Oh. It really was the Fade. Writhing shades of green shuddered in the air like seeing the skin of a monstrous creature through waterfall mist.Within just a few seconds, Mahariel hyperfocused on it, automatically straining her senses to capture everything about it. Almost, she could feel it like an animal passing her by, close enough to share its body heat. Mahariel stilled so completely, she could feel the blood rush in her head and the softest rhythmic beat of something in the background.

A deep, sudden bark shattered her trance and Mahariel flinched back, being tugged sharply back into the present.

“Calm yourself. It’s not like I’ll fall in.” Or fall out again.

Mahariel followed the inner walls of the settlement, mentally comparing its current bustle of worried-looking servants and soldiers to her spooky and silent first time stepping within the gates. On the quest for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, Leliana had taken the time to condense all of her Chantry teachings about Andraste and the Maker into sporadic lessons that lasted a fortnight. Those conversations would often last hours as Morrigan never shied away from expressing her opinion and poking holes into Chantry-approved history and philosophy. However, the lesson about the Exalted Marches was rather brief.

Although Leliana’s devotion was apparent, she had never pushed the teachings of Andraste onto the group that formed to combat the Blight, something Mahariel had tensely expected before she fully settled herself among the humans. Sabrae shiva'dehlen sentiment about the Chantry was mainly deliberate indifference, unwilling to spark bitter hate against an organisation so much larger than all the shiva'dehlen combined, and yet also reluctant to forget the elven blood that soaked the Dales and all other areas where Dalish presence was too much of an eyesore for shemlen. So she was never told to despise followers of the Chantry, unlike Zathrian’s shiva'dehlen, but she learned to hold trepidation when in the presence of shemlen wearing armour engraved with a sword of flames.

When Mahariel passed the open gates of Haven, she spotted two large red tents signalling the Templar Order’s presence, unsurprising considering the nature of the Divine Conclave. She turned from the area as quickly as she could with her injury. Despite her lack of vallas’lin, Mahariel was not a child and she did not move out of fear from horror stories told around a campfire.

The Mage-Templar War had gone on for officially a year and it was a little over two years since Anders took matters into his own hands to remove the sword of the Templar Order from the neck of the Circle of Magi. Mahariel had not deliberately involved herself in what she considered a largely human conflict, but nearly all the times she fought battles involving Templars, they had been on opposite ends of the line.

There were other armed persons about- guards of dignitaries, mercenaries, members of organisations she knew not, walking the paths on their way to do whatever one did when the sky fell apart. For an instant, Mahariel was ten years younger, wandering around the battle encampment of an Ostagar filled to the brim with soon to be dead soldiers.

But Ostagar did not have a tavern. She stopped at the side of the entrance, listening in on people’s heated conversations along with the back-and-forth between the chef and servers. The situation was grim: supplies were scarce because most of them had been blown up or stolen, in multiple places maddened spirits poured out of ‘rifts’ with little way to contain them except for battle, and no one knew why any of this was happening in the first place.

A group to the back was huddled in front of a map, placing pieces of bread to mark locations. It caught her eye that one of them was a Qunari, a regular one with horns, although his tablemates were not of the same ilk. Perhaps they were adventurers with their own mission to save the world.

Mahariel left when the minstrel started singing. Further along the path was a collection of buildings that passed as the village’s business district. The shop to the right had a new sign swinging in the cool mountain breeze.

(She had stepped in there once, looking for supplies and answers.

“If the place is this dead all the time, it’s a miracle of Andraste to still be in business,” Alistair whispered.

The only notable thing in stock was a pair of Antivan leather boots which, considering the completely isolated mountain village they were in, was suspicious.

When Mahariel, the shopkeeper’s blood still warm on her cheek, unlocked the backroom, the frozen, pale-eyed corpse of a Redcliffe knight stared unknowingly back at her.)

The walk back to the room Mahariel woke up in was uneventful. The building had been a home for someone, holding the essentials of a bed, stove, and chamberpot. From the leftover dust of a hurried cleaning, she doubted anyone had lived in it for a long time. She touched a deep cut in the wood that made up the front face of the building. It was possible that Mahariel had killed the last inhabitant herself after she declined the Disciples of Andraste’s request to destroy the sacred ashes and they reacted aggressively.

The temperature of the room had mellowed while she was out and Mahariel fed more wood into the stove. A while after, her moment of rest was interrupted by yet another person calling her name.

“Mahariel!” Navy cloth and red hair flashed against Mahriel’s vision before she was enveloped by a hug around her shoulders. “Thank the Maker you’re alive- the Creators even.”

(“Did you see this in the vision your Maker sent you?” Mahariel tried not to make her words sound cruel.

She sat loosely hugging her knees on the wide open platform that was the derelict road of Caridin's Cross. There was no use to put in the effort of hiding, Mahariel and Alistair could sense the stinging presence of any blighted creature within a kilometre. It was how she knew Alistair was five metres away, staring blankly at the ruins. Sometimes Mahariel could hear it as well, the thriving mass of darkspawn she was connected to humming like a swarm.

The lava flowing under the road let her see clearly each bit of darkspawn brain chunk Leliana picked out of her hair, blighted blood transforming the colour from vibrant red to black mud. Mahahriel did not know why she bothered. The entire party was covered in diluted gore, everyone too tired to set up for a proper washing when more darkspawn would find them soon. It would take four more days to return to Orzammar.

Despite leaving the Dead Trenches, the echo of Shale’s squish, squelch from stomping her gigantic stone body on freshly birthed genlocks echoed in the heat-rotten air.

Leliana’s reply was quiet. “The Maker’s presence is everywhere. But here, I think he has forgotten this place.”)

A short whine and clicking of claws against wood drew Leliana from the embrace. She crouched down and patted the dog on its head.

“And I’m glad to see you too, Fen'Harel. You were so smart to find me in the mountains, even if Mahanon is still complaining that you abandoned him at the first sign of trouble.”

“He’s loyal,” Mahariel defended, “but just to me.”

Leliana stood up and looked her over critically. “I’m glad you made it, but absolutely astounded that you did. What were you even doing to have you falling out of the Breach?”

“Well-”

“Wait,” Leliana put her hand up. “As much as I am aching to know, you’ll have to explain it anyway at the meeting.”

“I don’t recall signing up for a meeting.”

“Mahariel.” Stern blue eyes prevented her from making any more complaints. “We searched for a year. Denerim. Kirkwall. All the Dalish clans we could find. But you were gone. No one knew if you were even alive.”

Mahariel sat down on the straw bed, Leliana following after her. “Did you check the Deep Roads?”

The time spent there would only account for less than half of the recent year. She supposed they had only looked at the shiva'dehlen near Kirkwall, Ferelden, and perhaps Antiva. In the Dales, she rarely saw humans who could spread word of her whereabouts.

“Oh, of course the Deep Roads.” The severe sarcasm in Leliana’s tone made Mahariel tense. “You, who abandoned the Commander of the Grey title as soon as the dust settled on Amaranthine, were just diligently fighting darkspawn in some lost thaig. I should have picked up a wandering hurlock and sent it on its way to give you the message that mass war was breaking out all over the south.”

“I am already injured. You don’t have to cut into me even more.”

Leliana’s gaze lowered to her chest. “Does it hurt? The Anchor, not the fall.”

“Not at all, although I am told that is unexpected.” Mahariel self-consciously rubbed her sternum. “Why is it called the Anchor?”

“It brought you down to us, didn’t it?”

—

Leliana brought in another chair so they could eat porridge at the desk opposite the bed. It was a simple, grainy porridge with a little too much water. Mahariel would have been content with rations from her pack, but her camp supplies were worryingly nowhere to be found along with her armour and weapons.

The conversation drifted to lighter subjects under tacit agreement to ignore the ogre in the room which would be handled in the ‘meeting’. A natural lull followed Leliana’s recount of Wynne’s passing and Mahariel thought of another mage companion from the Blight.

“Morrigan says ‘hi’ by the way.”

Leliana snorted. ‘Not to me. You maybe. What woods did you manage to find her little hermitage in?”

“There’s no hut. She wanders a lot now,” travelling through mirrors. “You’re right, though,” said Mahariel. “Morrigan did not send her greetings, but Darrian Tabris did.”

At the time they met Darrian, he was a jaded young elfin, bitter over events in Denerim’s Alienage. The Blight did not soften his outlook on life and Morrigan found a kindred spirit in cynicism. When Mahriel met them by chance in the Fields of Ghislain, she saw maturity had softened the aggressiveness of their pessimism, although did little to dilute it.

“I wish them the best. Perhaps one day we can all meet up and take a drink for those whose adventures finally ended.”

Mahariel smiled at the idea. “It would have to be in Denerim, of course. I would also have to go back down in the Deep Roads for Shale.”

“It could be done,” Leliana said. “But not today. Come.”

They walked slowly to the Chantry building while Leliana pointed out various details and aspects of Haven. Even before the Breach, the village had plans to hold something significant and Mahariel had the unfortunate suspicion she was being set up to be involved in the activity.

Upon dismissing her dog and entering the stone building, a male echoing voice could be heard bouncing off the walls.

“--thing, I thought the Warden was the Ferelden king?”

A distinguished Antivan voice replied, “There were technically seven Grey Wardens involved in the Fifth Blight. The one you’re likely referring to is the Hero of Ferelden, crowned that title by King Alistair.”

“I’m pretty sure the Hero was a dude, though,” said a Marcher accent. “I would have actually cared if it were a woman.”

“If this is the quality of information their spies have, I actually feel sorry for the Carta.” That one was familiar.

“It seems she’s an elf. Is she one of yours? It didn’t look like she had the face…?” A fifth voice trailed off, likely in favour of making a gesture.

Mahanon answered, slightly annoyed, “She is a Dalish, if that was what you were asking.”

Leliana opened a wooden door which must have had the thickness of paper and they stepped into the room which centred a long table perfect for standing around. A crowd looked back at them.

“Well don’t let me stop your gossiping. We can wait until you all deduce how many heads she has too.”

Cullen scoffed.

(He was crying when they found him on the fourth floor of Kinloch Hold. Unlike his comrades who either fell to the temptation of spirits or by the blade, Cullen sat huddled in a corner, mutely listening to the venom-sweet whispers of a possessed mage.

The girl’s cracked voice repeated ad nauseam the despair and death which led to her body’s current state of a sunken-eyed gaze and vessel without hope. She was wrapped around him like a lover, cradling his face gently with the tips of her fingers forever stained red from clawing at merciless solitary confinement walls.

After Mahariel finished dealing with enraged Templars, after Alistair had enough of killing the brothers-at-arms he learned sword-skill from, after Wynne burned the last of the possessed order members who once made holy vows to cut down abominations, the girl-spirit stood up from the floor, docile as a lamb.

“Destroy my body as many times as you would like, I will always be here- in the weak and the wounded.” The thing that used to be Solona Amell then bowed her head, letting auburn hair fall away to reveal a sickly-pale neck fit for a sword to cut through.

He was not crying in Kirkwall.)

“You’ve kept us waiting here long enough; it’s best we get started with what happened at the Conclave.”

Ten heads turned to look expectantly at Mahariel.

Mahariel’s mind came up blank. What happened? What happened? That beast of memory remained elusive from her senses. She tried to map out the reasons for the explosion like how a cartographer drew the outline of a forest, but Mahariel was too close to the trees.

(A woman’s yelling, the curling engraved lines on a heavy sphere, blight singing in her veins.)

“Perhaps we should start with introductions.” Leliana said.

She recognized half of the people there: Leliana, Mahanon, Cullen, Varric, and Solas. The two women were Josephine Montilyet, an ambassador from Antiva to Orlais, and Cassandra Pentaghast, a member of the Seekers of Truth, which along with the Templar Order had made up the old Inquisition. Apprehension drew down Mahariel’s back after Leliana deliberately highlighted that the two Chantry forces used to punish mages were there.

(Maharon reached forward, gesturing towards the assassin in front of him. The man stopped, eyes turning white, and blood leaked out from his tear ducts. He turned around to use two thin daggers against what were once his allies.)

The three others- a Vashoth mercenary by the name of Kaaras, a ‘merchant associate’ dwarf with a knife-sharp smile, and a young man pressed exactly into the mould of a Templar- along with Mahanon had been affected by the magic of the Breach, seemingly in a similar way as Mahariel. A brief explanation by Solas followed on the Breach and how their Marks could be used to close Fade rifts.

Leliana introduced her as ‘Mahariel of the Dalish Sabrae clan- the Hero of Ferelden’. It had been three years since Mahariel set foot in the Sabrae gen’vun.

“It is rather a long story,” Mahariel began when everyone once again looked to her for answers.

“Tell us everything,” Cassandra said. “Start at the beginning.”

She thought on the beginning of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Andraste’s resting place. “Seven Magisters Sidereal once entered the Fade to-”

Sudden fake coughing erupted from Mahanon. “In more recent times,” he corrected, “we came across a group of Grey Wardens in Orlais that were acting strange.”

“Yes,” Mahariel recalled. “They attacked me. I went into the Deep Roads to find answers.”

“And what did you find?” asked Leliana solemnly.

Mahariel shook her head. “Not a lot. Just that whatever affected them was unnaturally created,” according to Grey Warden standards anyway. “It was foreboding, so I tracked them to the temple. They-” she paused, another memory brushing against her mind.

(Mahariel pressed the right-side of her battle-flush face to the cool stone wall of the temple.

“There is suffering in your past - your suffering, and the suffering of others.”)

“The singing from the walls,” Mahariel switched her sentence and looked at Leliana. “Do you remember?”

“The what from the walls?” Cassandra said, unimpressed.

Josephine made a surprised sound. “Some of the pilgrims say that if you press your ear to the wall of the inner sanctum, you will hear Andraste’s voice singing the Chant of Light. I thought it was just a rumour though.”

“There is lyrium under the temple,” Leliana said, then tipped her head and corrected herself. “There was. We checked it out when it was refurbished- a giant deposit. Some of the dwarves thought that lyrium had been built into the walls as well. But it didn’t seem polluted then.”

“The Song I heard this time was different; it came from a ball…” Mahariel trailed off as she tried to rake through her memories. Distantly, someone expressed complete confusion.

It was a nonexistent mother’s hand combing through her hair- a broken melody which brought forth drowning anguish from her heart and a yearning for unity in the jaws of fate. The beautiful grief called urgently for rectification. It touched her mind and asked to split it open, unmake her, transform her. Mahariel had heard that Song everyday for a year. Voided godhood.

“Are we in a Blight?” Mahariel’s loud question cut off side conversation from the others.

“No.” Leliana said it like a command. “Don’t ask me that. You would know if we were more than any of us.”

It was dead silent as Mahariel carefully sorted her thoughts.

“It is just that- Urthemiel sang the same.” The Old God who was woken up through unnatural means.

Mahariel slapped her hand on the wooden table before her when memory hit, interrupting someone’s mutter of ‘And who in the name of the Maker is Urth-’.

She had this dream before.

(In that place where dragons went to die, a woman maddened twice over taunted her.

“Ah, but perhaps the Warden would like to hear how it was that the Father began the Blight?”)

Mahariel was getting the shape of the forest. Unfortunately, it was on fire. She made sure to put it in words everyone would understand.

“A darkspawn utilised the power of the blight to tear down the sky.”

It took five whole seconds of silence for people to process her words.

Then a waterfall of sound echoed throughout the rooms of Haven’s Chantry. The general comments of disbelief were drowned out by pointed questions directed towards Mahariel to explain some aspect of her statement or provide more detail. Mahariel stayed her tongue, overwhelmed by the sudden outpouring of distraught anger and uncertain confusion. She also needed time to dissect the words she blurted out thoughtlessly herself.

‘Darkspawn’ was an oversimplification of all the dangers that a creature like the Architect, like this new magister, certainly possessed. This one was able to utilise the Calling to control the Grey Wardens, much like how an Old God drew forth regular darkspawn and unleashed their violence onto the world during a Blight. But instead of genlocks crawling out of fissures of the earth, demons had dripped down from cracks in the sky. Somehow. And Mahariel still had no idea what the green magic was.

Ssssscreeeeek!

Cullen had drawn forth a dagger from his side and scrapped the edge of it all along the stone wall behind him. The ear splitting screeching deafened everyone’s ears, forcing them to halt their voices in favour of wincing.

“I know everyone is confused,” his voice rang with all the authority of Kirkwall’s Knight-Captain, “but yelling over each other like witless recruits isn’t going to help anything.” He gestured the blade towards Mahariel and stabbed it deep into a bare portion of the table. “You. Explain. Now.”

Annoyance ignited on the oil of her own unease. Mahariel earned her rogue title much more by dexterity of hand than cunning of silver tongue, and her wit tended to sharpen into a knife meant for others, not herself. “I actually thought it was rather simple to understand.”

Maxwell’s laughter came like thunder. “She’s mad! Maker’s Blood, she hit her head on the way down or maybe this is a new demon of insanity.”

“Elgar'nan give me strength,” Mahanon pressed his hands on the table and leaned towards Maxwell with an intense glare. “Dirthamen should rip out your useless tongue.”

With all the tiredness of someone who had unwillingly been in too many bar fights, Malika cut in, “Let’s keep the insults in Common, just so no one feels left out in the offence.”

“Even if we ignore the idea of singing darkspawn, she fell from the Fade naked as a babe!” shot back Maxwell. “Has no one thought about the implications of that?”

And then for a horrible, silent moment, everyone did. Everyone thought of the stranger that came from a hole in the sky which poured forth demons and destruction. Everyone thought on the Fade, its place of existence so dissimilar from their own, and all the types of beings who inhabited it. Everyone thought about Mahariel.

“Having darkspawn involved would explain the blighted lyrium all over the ruins,” Varric’s level voice reasoned out.

Mahariel shot him a look of gratitude. Having an accusation turned on her person was startlingly unsettling, like the warning feeling of lighting touching her back before a mage’s energy barrage. She knew there were terrible, unnatural implications to her survival. No one should have been able to survive an explosion which took out an entire temple. No one should have been able to survive killing Urthemiel.

(In the early summer of the Brecilian Forest, a ten-year-old Mahariel raised her hand, waiting with only slight impatience for hahren Paivel, the storyteller and children’s teacher to the gen’vun of Sabrae shiva'dehlen, to call on her.

“Umm,” she stumbled through her words, the Common half-swallowed up by her accent. “What is the difference between a spirit and a demon?”

Paivel absently tapped his fingers against the metal Templar shield he held, lost in thought. Likely, he had only expected the children to obediently nod to his stern lecture about getting too close to certain shemlen as they did every year when the gen’vun travelled close to the Teyrnir of Gwaren. It was a little bit confusing to hear the familiar speech in Common, but Paivel said words like ‘abomination’ with such gravitas that it was apparent understanding how shemlen viewed the denizens of the Beyond was of vital importance.

After a while, Paivel said it in simple words: “A demon is a strong spirit; it often cannot be controlled. Humans fear it.”)

Some of the humans feared Mahariel. Mahanon did not and neither did Solas, wherever he came from. Varric’s poker face gave the impression he had dealt with much worse situations. Malika was trying very hard to give the appearance she was unbothered. Kaaras was openly baffled.

The new humans expressed varying signs of agitation. Cullen had a look of reminiscence on his face, hand lightly resting on his sword. Mahariel had two high-ranking representatives of the Chantry’s Sword Arm wondering if she were a demon. Her gaze landed on Leliana’s and stayed there. On her face was a look of unwavering trust and faith, light eyes never flickering with shadows of doubt. Unconsciously, Mahariel relaxed her tensed muscles.

“If I were to walk outside this Chantry right now, I would see the Breach,” Mahariel said steadily without breaking eye contact. “On the night of the explosion, I walked into the sanctum and saw a man over two metres tall with blight and red lyrium burnt into his skin. He stood in a ring of influenced Grey Wardens along with a woman in Chantry robes and headdress.”

“Divine Justinia,” Cassandra said quietly.

Mahariel’s piercing gaze flicked to the Seeker. “I disrupted the ritual by beheading the man. Then, I landed on the ground.” She blinked. “Hard.”

“So the explosion and Breach was a backlash to an incomplete spell sacrifice. But what was their goal in the first place to need such destructive magic?” asked Kaaras.

“I did not ask him. I will tell all of you this:” Mahariel took the time to meet the eyes of everyone at the table as she spoke her next words, “I met a darkspawn of the same type ten years ago. He was highly intelligent and managed to locate the sleeping Old God Urthemiel and wake him- causing the Fifth Blight.”

“And what type of darkspawn is this- to be sentient like a man and have magic capable of wielding the blight?” Mahanon’s voice held a slight theatricality to the question, already knowing the answer.

“The one I spoke to called himself the Architect. His original title was ‘Pontifex Maximus et Arcitectus Operum Decorum’.” Her accent probably ruined the intended lyrical cantor of ancient Tevene. A year of intense study with Avernus made Mahariel literate enough to read his letters, written in the dead language Tevene academics preferred, but not fluent in speech.

Leliana, ever devout and knowledgeable of Chantry lore, translated: “The Supreme Bridge-builder and Architect of the Works of Beauty. One of the ancient Magisters Sidereal who breached the Golden City.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. The situation was overbearingly grim. A pall of existentialist dread hung over the room and people retreated to their thoughts, battling with the hope that everything was not lost and the looming awareness of blighted reality. Mahanon had sombre frustration written across his features. No doubt the situation they were now in would forestall goals with the Dalish. Leliana was breathing deliberate even breaths, concentration intent on her face as she thought of possibilities and plans.

The only one who was not in their own head beside Mahariel was Solas. His assessing look was with the experience of someone who came across many types of people and the self-assurance that he could influence matters with a few wise words in select ears. It distinctly reminded her of a similar look she sometimes received from Dalish Keepers, before her achievement in Nevarra spread and the weight of their hopes lowered their heads. Mahariel met his gaze without challenge, as clear as a mirror. Whatever he wanted to see, let him. The truth of her experience and power of her abilities would decide her course.

“If this is true…” Cullen said. He did not continue his sentence.

Varric spoke, reluctance dragging through his voice like digging up rocks from the sea, “It just might be. By any chance, do you recognise the name ‘Corypheus’?”

Mahariel shook her head.

“Right. So there could just be another Magister Sidereal walking around Thedas.” He was not enthused about the prospect. Varric proceeded to launch into a quick tale about a secret Grey Warden prison in the Vimmark Mountains, occasionally allowing for comments from Cassandra.

There were very few interruptions from the others. The information told within a span of two hours was overwhelming and likely shattered the foundations of some people’s beliefs on what was real.

“You say that Hawke defeated Corypheus in the end,” started Josephine after the retelling, “so the darkspawn at the temple could not have been him. Could it have been the Architect? Or one of the others?”

“The one I saw was not the Architect. It would have been another or still Corypheus. I once saw the Architect fall in battle, but he did not stay down. The blight has a way of making its own immortality.” From hearing Cassandra’s pointed note about Larius, Mahariel was certain Corypheus remained alive, possessing the Grey Warden through blight magic like a corrupted Old God, even if he was uninvolved in the Breach. She did not tell that to the group. It would bring up questions better left unasked about Mahariel herself as a vessel for the Blight. Or worse.

“This Architect,” said Cassandra, “what do you know about him? How did you two meet?”

“I met him when I was clearing up the darkspawn threat around the Arling of Amaranthine, shortly after the Blight. He sought to control the darkspawn,” in a way. Saying the word ‘free’ would not get any positive reactions. “But learned that waking up the Old Gods was not the best option. I did not spend a lot of time with him. After the revelation of some of his actions, our relationship was… not friendly.”

That was all Mahariel hoped to say of what she learned during the Darkspawn Civil War. As much as she disagreed on the Architect’s ideal union of darkspawn and other races, his lack of direct malevolence and extreme difficulty in locating him, much less permanently defeating him, left the her and the darkspawn in an ambiguous ‘occasional ally until they are enemies’ relationship. As someone who had lived in some way for over a millenia, the Architect could easily wait until Mahariel died if he saw her as a threat to his plans. Her best chance at foiling his blighted machinations lay in setting the foundations of a strong defence and preparation that would last even after her death.

In reality, Mahariel had sent extensively detailed reports to Weisshaupt and then proceeded to ignore all summons to the fortress. The Grey Wardens’ reaction to Anders’s union with Justice was to kick him out of the order. She did not intend to risk them finding something even more displeasing in her.

“So this is real?” Malika said. “Like, really real?” Her voice grew louder with distress. “We have two people saying ancient Tevinter magisters exist and one might be possible for the hole in the sky and we accept it like that?”

“I believe it,” Solas’s smooth voice replied. He did not expand on his words, letting his statement ripple through the sentiment of the group.

Mahanon was next. “As do I. They are both correct.”

“I have seen Warden Mahariel fight for her life and the life of all innocents against darkspawn and demons alike. She would not lie about something like this,” said Cullen.

“While we will have to verify what information we can,” Cassandra said, “there is an undeniable ring of truth in their words.”

Leliana reached out and held Mahariel’s hand. “And I believe them. You. Always.” She turned back to the group and nodded at Cassandra. “Even if we don’t know what darkspawn we’re fighting against, our plan of action is clear.”

Cassandra moved and slammed a large tome on the table. The amalgamation of Chantry symbols on the cover sent a chill down Mahariel’s spine.

“We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. As the Inquisition.”

Chapter Text

Kaaras asked what the Inquisition was.

“The Divine provided us a directive before the Conclave: to gather people who can do what must be done and unite them under one banner.” Cassandra tapped the tome. “The Inquisition protects people from the tyranny of magic. For eight hundred years it allied with the Chantry, but now stands alone in its authority to deal with magic threats. And now we must act,” she looked meaningfully at Mahariel, “led by an Inquisitor.”

Dread covered Mahariel’s tongue. “No.”

“No?” said a confused Leliana.

Mahariel was bewildered they would even ask. “No!”

“It would be better if we discussed this matter privately,” Cullen interrupted with a stern look towards the rest of the group.

Mahanon looked at Mahariel in askance. She shook her head and he let himself be led out the door along with most other people. After a minute the room felt breathable with only Mahariel, Leliana, Cullen, Cassandra, and Josephine. They waited until the sounds of footsteps faded away.

Leliana was polite. “Why no?”

“Why yes?”

“Why. Not?” said Cassandra. Annoyance crossed her face shortly when she realised she was sucked into a two-word argument.

“You are the Left Hand of the Divine,” Mahariel said to Leliana. She gestured to Cassandra. “Right Hand of the Divine.” Then she pointed at Cullen and said simply: “Templar.” Mahariel spread out her hands. “How do three humans of high positions in the Chantry not have the experience to lead an organisation between them?”

“They’re– the Chantry is in shambles,” said Cullen.

“You have more experience than any of us in dealing with the consequences of Tevinter magisters,” Leliana explained. “The new Inquisitor must be more than a master in the military, the political, or in espionage.” She gestured to Cullen, Josephine, and herself. “They need to be able to inspire others, rally people- powerful, capable people, to give their loyalty and support. You did that during the Blight and I see you are more than capable of doing it now with Mahanon.”

Mahariel shook her head. “We have similar goals.”

“But that’s not true for every companion you’ve had. Not at first,” said Cassandra. “Some even tried to kill you until you convinced them to fight on your side and risk their life.”

Mahariel wondered what the tale of Zevran propositioning her for his safety had twisted into. “You ask for so much more than to gather companions at my side.”

“And we will give much much more back,” Leliana passionately said. “Our resources may be small now, but already the Inquisition has infrastructure and talents that would have been sorely appreciated during the Blight. Imagine if ten years ago we had an army beholden to only our commands, the diplomatic ties to gain actual assistance from other countries, and the intelligence network to take down internal threats, stopping civil wars before they even happen. That would have changed everything.”

If they had detected Loghain’s betrayal before Ostagar… Mahariel could only send forth a pedantic remark. “And yet we needed none of that to defeat Urthemiel.”

“Perhaps you do remember looking down from the top of Fort Drakon and seeing an entire coalition of armies fighting darkspawn along with you?” came Cullen’s wry voice.

“Yes. With me.” Mahariel set her palms on the table and leaned forward towards Cullen. “When I stepped into Kinloch Hold, bearing four hundred year old Grey Warden treaties that I could not even read, the Templar Order did not uphold the loyalty they promised. They said, ‘No. Not unless you cleanse this tower with mage blood.’” Just because she was watching for it, there was the slightest flinch from Cullen when Mahariel threw his words back at him. She did not bother to continue with how ultimately her mercy towards the mages removed the support of the Templars.

“And it was not just Kinloch which held no regard for an ancient organisation that vows to ‘do what must be done’.” With a sharp yank of her shoulder that brought a burst of ache from her side, Mahariel took out the dagger Cullen had embedded in the table. “From Orzammar,” she pressed the tip of the knife into the table and dragged it slowly against the wood horizontally, deep enough to cut a discernible groove, “to Denerim, no support was attributed to the Grey Wardens until I placed the crown on their king’s head.” Not to mention that Zathrian’s shiva'dehlen would not have helped them if Mahariel were not Dalish herself, if Zathrian had not been like an uncle to her, regardless if the wolves had been taken care of.

The Inquisition wanted her not just for the fact that Mahariel was a dragonslayer, but because she was a kingmaker. It was part of the reason the Dalish looked to her as well. However, the Inquisition had been under the Chantry for a little less than a millenia and having both hands of the former Divine in it was a guarantee the ‘eye’ in the organisation’s crest would see through a distinctly religious lens. Mahariel did not want to create a weapon which could be used against her.

(Anora’s deep aquamarine eyes regarded Mahariel shrewdly. Despite her technically imprisoned status, the dowager queen stood tall without the hunching secrecy of someone about to break out. Ornate furnishings benefiting the estate of the Arl of Denerim stood in shadow.

“The ring of your actions these past months have resounded so clearly that even Denerim hears it.” Her scrutiny flitted to the companions behind Mahariel. “In such a short time, you have amassed a great many people who will do more than die for you- they will kill on your command. They will leave others to die by your orders.”

“Are you afraid of that?” Mahariel asked. In order to sneak in, she had to pin back her ears and cover them with a bonnet.

Anora’s gaze was steel. “No. I wonder if it will be your downfall.”)

“You ask for me to be willing to do that for the Inquisition. For the sword arm of the Chantry. As a Dalish.”

Finally, realisation dawned on Leliana’s face. “We are not asking you to lead an Exalted March!”

“Are you not? If it turns out, somehow for some dog shit reason, behind the scenes an elf is responsible for this entire thing, would you not expect me to leverage the full force of the armed Chantry in response?”

“You would let someone who nearly tore down the sky get away with it because they’re an elf?” Cassandra’s disapproval was evident.

If Mahariel was going to play the hero a second time, she would have preferred another Blight instead of hypothetical arguments about the nature of justice. She took a deep breath. “We are here: us, the explosion, war, because holy warriors called for the death of all Kirkwall Circle mages due to the actions of one person. I am not holy. I am not the Andrastian light to guide your sword.” Mahariel let the knife fall from her grip and back onto the table. “My call of justice does not always end in death, even for those with blood on their hands. Is that what you want for an Inquisitor?”

Cassandra did not shy away from Mahariel’s challenging stare. An intense consideration stayed on her face. The seeker no longer viewed Mahariel as the Hero of Ferelden, embodying an abstract idea of order and righteousness. She saw the truth- that flesh and blood stood before her. Real people were so much more disappointing than the myths others worshipped.

“Yes.”

“What.”

Singular laughter echoed in the room. “If that was your attempt to be seen as a poor leader, then it was a spectacular failure,” Leliana said. “You forget that I travelled with you during the Blight. I saw the weight of the decisions you made and the miraculous outcomes. If I didn’t think you with your mercy were not fit to be Inquisitor then I wouldn’t have searched for you at all.”

Mahariel did not have an answer to that. She should have said ‘no thanks’ and walked out of the room at the beginning. Leliana was horribly convincing.

“Perhaps it would be best to spend some time contemplating the position,” Josephine said. “This is a big task and shouldn’t be decided hastily. Think about it, talk to others, finish healing your body. The new Inquisition can wait just one more day to form.”

Although the offer of a break was a relief, the fact that it was said by a master diplomat was not reassuring to Mahariel’s wavering conviction.

—

Evelyn Trevelyan was one of the only mages who did not scatter to the safety of the four winds after the explosion. Her brown hair was tied in a messy bun and she walked quickly with purpose within the medical tent. Although the way she conducted her magic when healing spoke of the Circle’s training, she did not wear any type of robe to signify her status as a mage, opting for a practical earth-coloured kirtle. Given the vortex of strange magic in the sky, it was a wise choice.

There were not too many people beyond the privacy curtain where Evelyn conducted her exam. The explosion was responsible for the majority of suspected dead, claiming lives quickly and leaving behind either corpses too melted into the ground to move or just ash. The largest wound the people of Haven had was composed of grief and fear of the unknown.

Immediately Evelyn’s gaze was drawn to the Anchor when Mahariel removed her undertunic. It continued to pulse in time with her heart, but the green light had dimmed to only be discernible if she pulled the fabric taut against her skin. Evelyn’s inspection was quick with the detached air of a professional who had seen it all before. Likely, she had her time to stare openly when she healed the major damage Mahariel suffered from the fall.

Mahariel resisted from recoiling when Evelyn pressed cold hands against her side. It was not Mahariel’s first time being healed with magic, she had been lucky to undergo most of her dangerous adventures with a mage at her side, and it was not the worst wound to be healed while conscious. The familiar humming invasion of magic slowly entering her body was still discomforting. When the spell completed with a sharp, sudden twist, Mahariel could not stop her reaction.

A deep, instinctual part of herself flinched and Mahariel became acutely aware of the sensation of blood spilling out of her. So great was the feeling that she could discern even the smallest parts of something. Green magic shot out at Evelyn like a cornered dog snapping its jaws. Her hand was already far away from Mahariel and Evelyn stepped back.

“That happened too, the first time. Solas had to reign in it, but it doesn’t seem as dangerous as before.”

So even if the magic in her heart was not lethal to her, Mahariel still needed to do something about it or risk hurting others. Annoying. Solas would know the solution since he helped the others. Which likely meant letting him tear away that inner part of her that he had tried to do before. Fate was tightening its noose around Mahariel.

She took a steady breath and tentatively pressed her sides. “Thank you, especially for all the trouble it’s been.”

“It’s no problem at all,” said Evelyn. Her voice had a soft, enchanting quality that made people want to listen. “If you’re anything like the others, I’ll be thanking you soon for getting us out of danger.”

Mahariel kept quiet while she dressed herself. She needed to find her gear, firstly for the armour. She had worn a basic leather and cloth ensemble which kept her reasonably warm as she trekked across the lower Frostback Mountains- better protection against all types than the tunic she had on. Mahariel had bought the armour from a trader who was making her way to Val Firmin. Her previous set was too ruined with darkspawn blood from her trip to the Deep Roads to be inconspicuous.

Returning to the lodgings she woke up in, calling it hers felt too permanent, left little clue to where Mahanon was. There was no pack or sword in there either. Hopefully, her belongings were just stashed somewhere in the Chantry by Leliana or hidden away by Mahanon. Maxwell had said she fell out of the Breach naked, which did not bode well, but Mahariel tried to convince herself that it was some strange turn of speech that was not at all related to how she was wearing clothes that did not belong to her. If the explosion had been fierce enough to disintegrate leather and silverite swords, then why was she unharmed excluding injury from the fall?

Mahariel stepped out of the building and whistled for her hound. He was a pretty independent creature and while Haven was a slightly larger settlement than the shiva'dehlen he was long accustomed to, it was still of a size suitable for him to patrol or wander. Since they were in Ferelden, there was little worry he would come across someone who did not like mabari.

After a minute, the dog appeared. Mahariel crouched down and patted him. “Let’s go find our friend, okay?”

With an excited yip, the pair went off. When they stopped at the foot of the Chantry, Mahariel grew worried she had been too lax in her wording of ‘friend’. Mahanon had been a near constant companion to them for a long time, but Leliana journeyed with them when the dog was little more than a puppy. The dog sniffed and sneezed at the steps before bounding away deeper into the village.

Eventually they ended up at the Singing Maiden tavern, a place somewhat more inhabited than the last time Mahariel looked in. An excited bark added to the minstrel’s lively tune and the dog ran towards a person tucked away in the corner of the open room who was most certainly not an elf.

“So the hero rises from the ashes of Andraste’s temple, just when Ferelden needs her the most,” Varric dramatically announced when he saw Mahariel approach. He closed a notebook he was writing in.“The entrance was quite something, although you need more practice on the landing.”

Mahariel just as dramatically rolled her eyes. “Next time I will be sure to grow wings and gracefully find a place to perch.” She sat down across from him. “Leliana being here makes sense, but Haven is like two weeks away from Kirkwall.”

“Just one if you cut through Orlais,” said Varric. “Our resident Seeker magnanimously ‘escorted’ me here to speak at the Conclave about Hawke. She was actually a contender for the Inquisitor title until you showed up.”

“She could still be one. You heard my ‘no’ just as clearly as the others.”

Varric made a sound of disagreement. “I wouldn’t do that to her. She’s dealt with enough mage fuckery for a lifetime.”

“So is it my turn now? You forget that I was there as well when it happened.” Mahariel was more than just there. She lost a lot of blood and tears dealing with the mage who started it.

“Yeah, but Ferelden’s your territory. Just think of it as having more than enough experience to save the day.”

Experience. Again, that reasoning for why she should don the title. Mahariel had been a twenty year old who only ever killed deer and the occasional boar before meeting Warden-Commander Duncan. She was sure one of the youngsters with a Mark could do a half-decent job.

“Do you think Kirkwall prepared us for dealing with this Breach?”

“Well,” Varric started, attitude losing its joviality as he lost himself in memory, “nothing blew up in Kirkwall, but the demons are familiar enough.”

Mahariel looked around at those seated closest to them and spoke quieter. “Last time we were fighting against the Templar Order though.”

“This won’t be an Exalted March. Not if you’re in charge; you won’t let it.” At Mahariel’s surprise, Varric continued with the air of someone admitting guilt but not actually being guilty at all, “I might have lingered in the Chantry after Curly ordered us all out. Those rooms really echo, almost as if they were designed with great acoustics in mind.”

“Fixing the Breach is not synonymous with joining the Inquisition. We could do it without them.”

“Hmm,” Varric pretended to consider. “No. I couldn’t. I don’t think you could do it alone either.” He looked at her with humour. “In the end, every wolf needs a pack.”

The ‘wolf’ laying on the floor next to them whined. Mahariel pointed an accusing finger at the hound.

“You just brought me here to beg for table scraps.”

—

After giving in and feeding her dog, despite Mahariel’s reasonable suspicion that Leliana would have already taken care of the matter, they left the tavern. Throughout the village they wandered, seeming to be spurred on not by Mahanon’s scent trail, who was still nowhere to be found, but by the excitement of a dog meeting new people. It was inevitable they ended up at the stables, where horses were not the only animals there.

Two large, white mountain dogs creating slush from the snow happily ignored Malika Cadash’s attempt to play fetch with them. Mahariel’s own dog ran up to join them with the familiarity of having met before.

“Are they yours?” Mahariel asked.

Malika threw down the branch, the gleam of her Mark glinting off the bright surroundings, and looked back up at her. There was a separated, blocky tattoo underneath her left eye- typical of casteless dwarves.

“As much as I would love giant dog children that are bigger than me, sadly not. They’re search and rescue dogs that couldn’t rescue their own owner from demons,” she said, full of dark irony.

“Well if there’s any saddles left in here,” Mahariel knocked on the stable wall she leaned against, “you could turn them into rideable dogs for you and any other dwarf around.”

Malika’s slate-coloured eyes went wide. “By the Stone, you’re a genius. I see now why they want you as the big boss.”

“I’m sure you have good ideas as well. Maybe you could take the role.”

Mouth twisting into a self-deprecating grin, Malika answered, “I’m not much of the diplomatic sort. It’s smoother for the Inquisition if no one important hears what I say.”

“So you’re a part of it? There’s nothing back at home you would rather be doing?” Mahariel was not so agreeable when the call of adventure entered her part of the forest.

“Well, ‘home’ is a bit-” Malika made a gesture with her hands to indicate something very small. “There’s not a lot of love in the Carta. A lot of blood and lyrium, sure. But a good merchant knows when to grab the better offer and here- it’s better.”

Out in the cold, rural village of Haven, once home to deadly cultists and a walk away from demons flowing out of the Fade, the concept of answers and a return to peace laid in the Inquisition. This truth, Mahariel had to finally admit it to herself. Still, it did not erase what she had been committed to doing before meeting the Grey Wardens in Orlais. Finding Mahanon to discuss matters was paramount.

Mahariel’s dog ran off after being given direct order to find Mahanon ‘the elfin this time’. She half-jogged after him, rather tired of speaking with new people all day.

—

Back at the village centre, the people went about their business quietly, speaking in sombre tones if they had to speak at all. There was a slight contrast in behaviour between those who were in the mountains because of the Divine Conclave and those who had decided years before to live the rest of their lives close to Andraste’s ashes. Despite misfortune and violence, the world went on and food needed to be set on the table. Villagers went about their day while those who had outside connections, but were not important enough to gain access to Chantry communications, surrounded a small building. A hastily created sign in front of it advertised courier and transcription services for two silver.

Fen'Harel sat at the side of a long building being used for storage, prime spot for keeping watch over the area’s activity. He was next to an elfin.

“Warden,” the mage greeted, his demeanour calmer than those around him.

Mahariel tried to keep the annoyance off of her expression. She shoved a length of her hair out of her face to be behind her ear and greeted: “Solas.” Next, she tilted her head down at her dog. “If you’re just going to play around then maybe I should replace you with one of those fluffy search dogs, hmm?”

A pitiful whine was given in reply.

“Go to my room and have a time-out,” Mahariel said. When the dog dejectedly walked away, she looked back up at Solas, trying not to give the air of a harried mother with an unruly toddler. “I thought Fen'Harel would bring me to someone else.”

“I gathered. While Ferelden does much to praise the intelligence of their mabari, I must confess that I find it difficult to believe yours will reflect on its actions,” Solas said. His gaze had wandered to the animal languidly walking away and his expression softened.

Mahariel knew without a doubt that the dog to her back was mournfully looking at him with puppy eyes. She opened her mouth, but then shut it before she voiced her reply. Mahariel looked over at the elfin before her again.

He was taller than her- a rarity. Angular, distinguished features like his were not a trend in the shiva'dehlen Mahariel had visited and it was uncommon for a trained mage to put on the muscle indicated by his width. His clothing was nondescript travelling garb suited for the weather, not that she would have expected a robe branded in a certain circular insignia. Mahanon’s Circle treated speaking the vi’dirth as proof of savagery, something to be burned out to make room for the fertile soils of civilised knowledge.

His necklace was a leather cord tied around bone.’Wolf,’ Mahariel’s mind supplied automatically. The hairs on the back of her neck raised and tension creeped along her shoulders as if she were prey hunted by the beast itself. Fen’Andrem.

(Battle and fire down her throat. Cool waters submerging her body. Everything was golden, once. War chants could be turned into screams which turned into laughter and the song-)

“Whom were you seeking?” Solas said. “Perhaps I saw them walk past.”

Mahariel looked off to the side, blinking away the wetness in her eyes that formed from staring too intensely. “Mahanon. But I do not think he would be near this crowd. I remember you speaking from before. Your accent was strange- as if you were yelling at me.”

“Perhaps it is the Dalish who speak too quietly.”

That cryptic answer did little to soothe Mahariel’s mind. “Is there a reason you know our language? No Keeper who had any claim to you would let you wander this far alone.”

His fluency and lack of facial marking pointed towards banal’valas, but the stereotype of that group did not fit with his nonthreatening demeanour.

The corners of Solas’s mouth turned down. “By taking bed in ancient ruins and lost battlefields, I have dreamt the fall of empires and the will of thousand-year-old spirits. Did you think the patchwork culture of the Dalish was the only way to chance upon the words of elvhen?”

Mahariel did not let her confusion at Solas’s sudden affront show on her face. Talking to him was like navigating a forest she had only walked through once. Blindfolded. And somehow her question earned her the whack of a branch hitting her head. The Brecilian Forest’s Grand Oak sylvan spoke in less confusing riddles than him.

“So you learned an ancient dialect,” she said with sarcastic awe. “Likely not from the forest east of here- their way of speaking was so much prettier. It must be northern, but not as north as Arlathan itself. You do not mimic their prideful cadence.” Mahariel elongated her vowels when she spoke in the vi’dirth, imitating the haughty way elves in the far north-east tended to speak.

Once and only once had Mahariel been to the Arlathan Forest, occupied with her quest to join enough shiva'dehlen together to form a political unit Antiva, that is to say the Crows, would recognise. The elves there claimed to have been in the forest since Elvhenan, barely recognizing the ‘child-like’ Dalish as kin. They sucked and had called Mahariel shemlen. She still refused to eat mushrooms because of what they put her through to earn their alliance.

Belatedly, she supposed that explained his odd choice of name. Mahariel wondered if ‘Pride’ before her would be just as disdainful as ‘Valiance’ she met five years ago.

Solas’s eyes were startled wide, but he still had the wit to answer her. “Thank-you for not mistaking me for one of them. It takes a special type of personality to match Arlathan’s arrogance. I have only seen it in the especially young and reckless.” He looked at her up and down in expectation, lingering on her bare face, and Mahariel knew then the sword was at her throat. “In my dreams I see the Dalish brand each other with blood writing. They claim it is a rite of passage for children who have gained the maturity of adults. Was I mistaken?”

“No,” Mahariel said. She repeated the word, tearing out any sense of annoyance in favour of something subdued. “No, you were not mistaken.” Let us be done with immature insults. I yield. “The summer in which I could take the vallas’lin was the year of the Blight. The winter before then was when the Grey Wardens took me.”

“But you returned to your kin afterwards. Surely your Keeper would have allowed you the honour of vallas’lin then?” There was a sense of something in Solas’s question, too faint to be deciphered.

(Lying down in grass damp from early morning rain. The chill of closing autumn pricking her skin. Rhythmic clink, clink, clink of the mixing stick hitting against wooden bowl. Swirling wetness of blood and herbs and lyrium forming ink meant for her face.

Keeper Marethari kept her movements in time with her continuous prayer to Mythal, but the words split into misty background noise. Mahariel listened to the soft singing of lyrium and the corrupted notes held within her own blood.)

Mahariel had given many reasons to those who asked a similar question over the years. All of them were true to some extent, yet none of them stated the truth she came to realise after stepping into the once familiar arms of her kin: that while the life meant for her in the Sabrae gen’vun remained faithfully the same, Mahariel did not fit, because instead of being a young Dalish girl treading the path of an accomplished hunter, she was now the Blight and the victory of spilled blood and the gold on rulers’ heads.

“Being with the Grey Wardens saved my life, but at the cost of my old one,” Mahariel said. “No matter the amount of blood on my face, I cannot erase the act of joining their order and the consequences which came of it. So I declined even the attempt.”

“Consequence,” Solas drew out the word. “You make it sound inevitable- the becoming of a Grey Warden, the death of an archdemon. What comes after that?”

Mahahriel gave a pointed look at the sky. “More trouble from magisters, a new ancient organisation meant to fight it, perhaps there will be another once-worshipped god as well.”

Solas took a step back, hands clasped behind his back, and turned his face up towards the Breach. “The hero is the same, rising from the ashes of destruction to save us all.”

The harsh sigh from Mahariel had him looking sharply back at her.

She gave a circular motion with her hand. “No, go on. Tell me how a Dalish with an obvious apostate friend is able to command Chantry forces without them turning on her.”

“No doubt your reputation and bond with the former Left Hand of the Divine will protect you.”

“Not everyone has such power to protect them from the Chantry. They promise me an army, however it was an army of Templars which necessitated a Divine Conclave in the first place.” Mahariel became contemplative. “As Inquisitor, I would not let them force unwilling mages back into the Circles. But my ears represent the elves and the Dalish do not deserve to be dragged into that kind of war.”

Again, disapproval showed in Solas’s form. “The hypothetical of Dalish injury confines you. It is a noble thing to fight for the freedom of the chained, yet disappointing when the hold of one’s own people strangles justice.”

Okay, this guy also sucked. Mahariel could not control the twitch of her scowl. “The injury of my people is already a fact. We called ourselves revas’elan once, those who walked towards their freedom, before Orlais unsheathed its holy sword in the Dales. I do not want the last song of the elves to be my keening from the choices I made.”

Mahahriel knew well the notes of loss and death. In the month of Matrinalis, when the Sabrae gen’vun neared the end of its annual visit in the Brecilian Forest, Zathrian would always end the celebration of the All-Mother with the same dirge.

The Fall of the Dales was a wound that could not heal from Zathrian by the grace of his daughter’s protection, and it was a knife he pressed to the souls of all elven who would hear him, wanting in his own way to protect others from the horrors of his experience.

When the matters of the Fifth Blight led Mahariel to complete Oren’s vengeance and spell, the gloom of cultural death that watered the trees and sylvans of the forest evaporated with Zathrian’s own passing. The next rainfall that came was a cleansing hope for the future. Mahariel was not going to drown her people in a deluge of sorrow because of her actions.

“I overstepped. It was not my intention to dismiss all that the elves have suffered.” Just as quickly as it came, his displeasure withered into an understanding.

What a confusing, though not unwelcome, response. It seemed both of them had the nature of accidentally stepping on the other's toes.

Mahariel looked away. “I understand you feel quite strongly about this as a mage. Are you joining them?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the Chantry. “You saved the lives of four people capable of closing Fade rifts; they would treat you well.”

The look on Solas’s face was too reminiscent of when Cassandra gave her resolute ‘yes’.

“Perhaps. If you were Inquisitor- I would.”

—

There was a small collection of homely buildings right near the gate, one of them being the place Mahariel woke up in. Their single rooms were the most modestly sized dwellings she had seen around the village, but having both a stove for heat and a raised mattress spoke of comfortable luxury.

The refugee situation in Haven was not as bad as northern Ferelden during the Blight- its waves of darkspawn being preceded by waves of those who had lost their homes due to the corruption and bloodshed. There would be no hastily set up encampments of the newly found destitute placed at the outer edges of towns, like the one Mahariel, Alistair, and Morrigan had found themselves in when they stopped at Lothering.

Yet Haven was a place meant to be sustainable for the chosen few Disciples of Andraste. Its layout spoke of a thousand year old decision to be large enough to hold a population that would not die out, but small enough to dash hopes of becoming a town. Pilgrims and former Conclave attendants made the area crowded, which made Mahariel all the more thankful Leliana had managed her a room for herself. Although that could entirely be due to the fact that no one wanted to sleep next to someone with dangerous, unknown magic inside of their body.

Mahanon stood outside the building situated to the left of hers, holding a broom. Her dog barked excitedly in greeting.

“Wow! You found him,” exclaimed Mahahriel with cutting enthusiasm. “It only took you two hours to search a two kilometre radius.”

She rolled her eyes when she received a proud bark in reply.

“Were you looking for me after your argument with the Chantry people? I was in here.” Mahanon shifted his broom handle to tap the wall of the house behind him.

“You were in there the whole time?”

“Entirely.”

Mahariel threw up her hands. “I’m giving him up for adoption. Do you want Fen'Harel?” She scoffed at the pitiful whine she heard below.

“He hates me. That’s probably why you had such a hard time in the first place.” The words were true. Even food bribes did not soften the dog's temperament towards him. “But let’s talk at your place if you want something from me.” Mahanon titled his chin towards the entrance of his building. “My roommates are a very curious Qunari and a Templar.”

Back at her place, both of them sitting on the bed, Mahariel placed her hands to cup Mahanon’s face, careful to avoid his Mark.

“My dear kin,” she said, “tell me that I should not be Inquisitor.”

Mahanon looked at her solemnly. “You should without a doubt become the Inquisitor of the Inquisition.”

Exhaustion flooded Mahariel, perhaps even relief. The weight of her rejection was gone now that even someone like Mahanon agreed with her leadership of a Chantry-linked organisation. It was an ideal reaction, Mahariel thought glumly as she flopped on the bed, now staring at the ceiling. She would have been upset if he did not want her to help.

“Why?”

“Because you are Fen’Andrem,” he said apologetically and rubbed her hand in consolation. “Fen’Andelan. The last time you saved the world, the quickling king of Ferelden gave you the Brecilian Forest and the Arling of Amaranthine. I’m half-tempted to hope you save Orlais. It would solve our Dales problem.”

Mahariel turned her head to study the sickly magic polluting Mahanon’s blood, winding around his neck and ear like a serpent set to strangle him. “I’m sorry. The Wolf of Misfortune bit your face in his attempt to have me suffer.”

“Worry not. I’m still handsome.” Mahanon half-smiled. “I’m surprised you gave in so quickly. You spoke so resolutely with the quicklings.”

“Was everyone listening in on our conversation?”

“Just me and the dwarves. And every single person who was in that Chantry for normal reasons.”

It was decided that Mahariel would stay. She would stay in Haven and build up the Inquisition and close the Breach. The idea was simple but not easy.

They discussed what it would mean for the elves and the mages. In times of crises the shiva'dehlen had the policy of isolating themselves even further, an action that occasionally led to more disadvantage than benefit. Mahariel had managed to build up a fragile power for the Dalish and returning to their old ways would send the momentum of progress to a screeching halt.

Their most fragile position was in Antiva, making it necessary to send a person or reminder to the north-eastern shiva'dehlen to continue its amicable alliance with the Crows despite an odd looking sky. Such a journey to the north would be long, especially since Briala locked most of the eluvians from the Dalish.

However, both of them were chained by a magic that did not allow them to travel alone without question. Mahariel and Mahanon tested the length of their leash when they walked back into the Chantry.

Leliana stood in the backroom that had held their previous meeting. She was conversing in depth with Josephine about the political dealings of Ferelden nobility, shifting through papers strewn so widely across the table that they covered half of a map of southern Thedas. When they entered, Leliana stopped mid-sentence in a complaint about the Arling of South Reach’s unreasonably high roads tax and raised her eyebrows.

“Yes?” she said.

Mahariel swallowed her petulance at having to recant her fervent rejection not even a day later. “Yes.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Josephine. “Oh, this makes things so much quicker.” She shifted through the papers. “If you could proofread a few of these letters here - any factual corrections or meaningful words to move people’s hearts - we could have missives asking for recognition from Redcliffe and Vigil's Keep out tonight.”

“Huh.” Waving her hand at the table, Mahariel was falsely cheerful. “You already started without me!”

“We always had faith in you.” Josephine’s smile was sincere and understanding at how quickly the situation seemed to develop. She attempted to hand Mahariel a stack of papers.

Mahariel took a giant step to the side. “We just dropped by to tell you we are going out for a bit. I buried our supply bags somewhere up the mountain and Mahanon was not able to retrieve them when the Templars accompanied him down.” There was a stifled snort from Mahanon when she said ‘accompanied’.

Leliana was aghast. “Right now? The sun will probably go down before you return. Not just the two of you. Tomorrow at first light we can send a few soldiers to help.”

“It is just two bags and it looks like it’ll snow overnight. Our previous tracks will be covered unless we go now.” Mahariel had not once looked at the sky today and thought about the future weather. “Mahanon knows how to summon a light anyways.” She moved her arms and turned slowly as if she were leaving.

“Wait!” said Leliana. When Mahariel moved in a complete circle, she continued. “At least take a full party. There are demons about and not all of them stay at the Fade rift they come from.”

“Cassandra would know these mountains more than any other. As for the fourth…” Josephine hesitated. “Perhaps Solas for more light?”

“No,” said Mahariel immediately. She was not in the mood to get into another misunderstanding. When others looked at her, she latched onto the first excuse she had. “Our fourth is Fen'Harel.”

Leliana vetoed the decision. “Our options of available companions for you should be restricted to those who would be accepted in a duel.”

“Eamon was just afraid to have a Teyrn be publicly beaten by a mabari,” Mahariel said. The Landsmeet would have been so much more entertaining if her first choice as champion were selected. “Fine. We will take Maxwell. A Templar can fight decently against demons.”

—

“So. Umm. I’m sorry I called you a demon.”

Mahariel kept her eyes ahead, watching her hound sniff his way back to where they placed their stash as they headed up the mountains.

“Hmm,” she said in contemplation after enough time of suspenseful waiting. “I had forgotten about that comment.”

She looked to Mahanon, who did not hide his smirking amusement at Maxwell’s reaction.

“What I said was out of surprise. I know you’re not one.”

“Am I not? I did fall out of the Breach.” Mahariel turned her head left to look at him while they walked, genuinely curious.

“Well-” She could see how Maxwell’s mind whirled to come up with an inoffensive reply. “You’re human though, an elf. And Lady Nightingale knew you.”

“That is true; very good,” Mahariel said with the coaxing of a teacher. “I could be possessed by a demon though. They do not usually go for non-mages, but most non-mages do not have an Anchor for a heart.”

Maxwell paled underneath his helmet.

A tired scoff came from the back of the group. “You’re being teased. I know what possession looks like,” said Cassandra, gaze travelling from Maxwell to Mahariel, “and our Inquisitor is not possessed.” Her words lingered on the title, still new.

Mahariel wondered if such a very accomplished Seeker of Truth had ever met someone like Wynne.

A flock of white-coated rams sprinted across the party’s path. Everyone reached for their weapons as if they did not hear the beating of their many hooves a moment ago. Mahariel rubbed her thumb against the belly of her hunting longbow, entertaining and then quickly dismissing the thought of bringing something back for dinner. Even if she were able to guilt Maxwell into carrying it, Cassandra seemed the type to disapprove.

“This talking darkspawn you mentioned, the Architect,” the Seeker said after a period of time, “he did not die in battle and Varric’s Corypheus possibly didn’t as well. If this one can’t either, how do you suppose we will defeat it?” It was clear Cassandra had thought a lot about what was revealed at the meeting.

“I know a warden who researches how the blight works. I will ask him.” Mahariel needed to contact Avernus about his findings on red lyrium anyways. “We will find a way to stop him. The fact that I already killed him once shows he is far from invulnerable.”

“You sound so sure. This is just another Tuesday for you, isn’t it?” Cassandra asked with a little bit of wonder in her voice.

Kill one old god and suddenly everyone thinks you can move mountains and recreate skies.

“No. I’m just really good at dealing with darkspawn.”

They hurried up the mountain as the darkness of night and the unknown followed on their heels.

Chapter Text

They retrieved the bags and returned to Haven without any demonic encounters, indicating Cassandra’s and Maxwell’s presence was unnecessary, but proving Mahariel and Mahanon could not move without others watching.

When night fell, a clear one without any hint of snow, Mahariel offered to share her building with Mahanon, who declined. In order to properly control the Inquisition, they would need to form ties with other people instead of secluding themselves to their own kind as the Dalish were wont to do.

The next day came with a late start. Mahariel washed herself and her dog with soap from her pack. She brushed out her dog’s fur, checking him for injury and doing a quick runthrough of preventive care. Finally, she fed him the last of her cured meats while she had onion bread. When they journeyed out again, the Inquisition would provide them fresh supplies.

In the grand scheme of things, the only irreplaceable item Mahariel lost to the Breach was her Joining amulet, a sentimental accessory that gave her the habit of reaching towards the blighted phylactery whenever she was nervous. If she did it now, people would assume she reached for the Anchor. The other jewellery she had was safely contained in her bag.

One lively night, full of song and mead and victory from returning Highever to Elissa Cousland, Leliana had taken Mahariel to the side and slightly slurred, “Just this once, we must do something about your hair. It’s too beautiful to only know simple buns.”

What happened next was a meandering lesson on Orlesian hair politics and an off-centre braided chignon. Mahariel did not revisit the attempt until they got to Denerim with its streets gushing forth waves of shemlen and its strict, restrictive social classes, and its elven alienage. In Denerim, she had not been Grey Warden, attempting to trade favour for alliance to fight the Blight. She had not even been elfan as she knew it, child of the forest and descendant of a fallen kingdom. Mahariel had been ‘knife-ear’, southern sister to her northern slave siblings. She was the many indistinguishable faces in the slums, the hunched over back of those who always bowed, the inconsequential blood spilled by a regent’s soldiers.

Mahariel could not clip her ears, elongate her face, thicken her body to obtain the respect afforded to humans, but she could reject the subservience pushed onto the non-Dalish. So she did not bow to nobles or even kings and she spoke without deference to those who thought themselves her superiors and, when there was need to, she dressed however she wished, ignoring the rules on what non-nobility could and could not have. On the steps of Ferelden's throne, Mahariel had a silverite chain of Orzammar diamonds embedded in her hair like stars as she brought Loghain Mac Tir to his knees.

She took full inventory of her items, bringing out the chain and a couple Antivan hair pins that Zevran gifted the last time they were at the Palace of the Kings. However, it was the thick deep red ribbon, patterned in delicate lyrium runes, that she chose to weave into her hair, forming a braided updo that produced some volume at the top and ended in a small bun at the nape.The vibrant colour would distinguish her from farther away, reducing chances she would be unconsciously dismissed as a servant.

When Mahariel went out with Cassandra, she had been hastily given a slightly too large set of leather armour which she now ignored alongside the longbow. Her two knives would have to do if there was trouble in Haven. She headed to the Chantry, reluctantly set on assisting with Josephine’s paper diplomacy.

The sounds of a heated conversation could be heard as Mahariel went through the antechamber and entered the nave. She made a mental note to never discuss anything secretive in the building.

“...and you put your nascent Inquisition into the hands of demons and apostates, Seeker.”

“I put it into the care of someone who already saved the world, Chancellor Roderick,” came Cassandra’s annoyed reply.

“Allegedly. Blights last hundreds of years, not one.”

“Do not preach to us about how long the Blight should have lasted,” Leliana snapped. “I was there. Cullen was there. Your pathetic talk of conspiracies has no hold here.”

The male voice grew incensed. “You think there is no conspiracy? No plot? The Divine is dead, demons fall out of the sky, and now you let the holy sword of the Chantry be wielded by a dwarf, two savage elves, and a Qunari.”

“And a templar from a noble Marcher house,” Cullen said, wry. “That fact isn’t very convenient for your case.”

“Of course if you want to make a charge that House Trevelyan was involved in a scheme to assassinate the Divine, I will be glad to let them know,” Josephine’s delighted voice cut in.

Mahariel entered the room. Five humans looked at her.

“Please speak louder so that even people outside might know your objections.”

“Ah,” Chancellor Roderick sneered. He was a middle-aged man dressed in the white and red cloth of his occupation. “There she is. Like a phoenix birthed from the ashes of our faith. A herald of woe.”

“It’s ‘Inquisitor Phoenix’ to you.”

Roderick turned and pointed an accusing finger at each of the advisors and Cassandra. “The clerics will hear about this!” He stormed out.

The tension in the room dropped as soon as he left.

“That was not the ideal reaction to announcing the Inquisition.” Cassandra rubbed her forehead.

Leliana shook her head and organised papers on the table so that it showed the map of southern Thedas fully. “His opinion barely matters. Chancellor Roderick may now be the Grand Chancellor by virtue of being the surviving chancellor, but it’s the clerics opinion we must court.”

“I thought the Nevarran Accord was broken,” said Mahariel, remembering the conversation she had with Cassandra while retrieving her bags. “Why do we need the recognition of the Chantry at all?”

“Men would readily follow us if they knew we were on the side of the Maker,” said Cullen, Templar and former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall.

“The Seekers of Truth may have started out secular, but our faith has been what’s allowed us to strike true,” said Cassandra, Right Hand of the Divine.

“More than sealing the Breach, we do this to avenge the unjust death of Divine Justinia and every other innocent. Our quest is holy,” continued Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine.

“The Chantry, weakened as it is, has a great deal of resources and good will from nearly every nation in Thedas,” finished Josephine, who was probably Andrastian.

Sighing, Maharien conceded the fight was lost before it began. She began holding up fingers. “Okay. We gain the approval of the Chantry’s clerics. We seal the Breach. We close every Fade rift there is. We kill the Magister behind this entire ordeal. Am I missing anything?”

“We write a personal letter to the King of Ferelden asking for support,” Josephine said while handing her parchment and a quill.

Mahariel resisted the urge to groan; her handwriting was atrocious.

The rest of her morning and lunch was spent in the war room, pouring over potential plans and pending letters addressed to anyone who had the men, resources, or influence to help the Inquisition. Cassandra and Cullen left to deal with both the people who wanted to leave Haven as soon as they could and those who were willing to fight in their own way against mystical darkspawn plans.

On the wall across from the door they covered up Cullen’s dagger marking with lists of attendants who had been present at the Conclave, names crossed off to mark the dead and notes added to the side. The official records did not list all the names of servants or guards and so additional papers were put up. It was seven tenths a bulletin of the dead, but some of the notes verged on a suspect list as well. Sneaking Grey Wardens and an ancient Magister into the Temple of Sacred Ashes required insider information and eyes deliberately looking the wrong way. Leliana put up a list of her agents, Chantry officials like Roderick, and those who had been in the room when Mahariel revealed what happened before the explosion.

Ignoring the paranoid fact that her and Leliana’s own name was on the list, Mahariel said, “Solas is suspicious. Why was he at the Divine Conclave in the first place?”

“Just to check things out,” replied Leliana. She gave an understanding look when Mahariel scoffed. “I know. I had someone watching his every move until you said this was all due to a talking darkspawn.”

“Don’t let my words stop your distrust. Apparently he can walk around freely in the Fade whenever he takes a nap.”

“I heard about that. It’s also a big coincidence that he knows how to keep the Marks and Anchor from killing their hosts. You should keep an eye on him,” Leliana continued. “He’ll be useful to have in the field when dealing with the rifts and you’re good at getting people to trust you with their secrets.”

Well, that backfired.

Later on, Cassandra led Mahariel outside the Chantry to be face to face with what seemed like every single person in the village. Banners depicting a shining eye over a sword were unfurled. Walking up the steps to meet her was Cullen, dressed in full armour, including a lion helmet with furred mane. It was the fiercest and most ridiculous she had ever seen the man.

He took off the helm to let his authoritative voice ring out fully across the masses. The speech which followed was clearly one created by a hardened commander, prepared to send forth his soldiers to fight an uncertain battle. Yes, times were tough, and he did not say specifically how tough they were, but everyone gathered here today was strong enough to combat the darkness as long as they worked together, as long as they did not cower, scattering to their own petty ambitions, led by fear. Every man or woman, every human or elf who stayed with the Inquisition was on the side of righteousness. Cullen spoke of victory with the assurance of a prophet.

(Blond hair slightly overgrown from his standard Templar haircut, Alistair rang out his voice in challenge to the surrounding nobles as he bestowed upon her the forest that generations of her People had already laid claim to in blood and the water of birth.)

Mahariel did her best to look severe and formidable in her commoner garb without shoes. It was really not the time to appear uncomfortable in a surprise investiture dedicated to her.

Next to speak was Leliana, who perhaps did not have the strength of a warrior’s open boldness to booster the crowd’s resolve, but had the eloquence of a bard to touch their hearts and the assiduous teachings of the Chantry to form a weapon with her quotes of the scripture that could pierce any doubts of their faith. It was also very clearly rehearsed. Irritation at being ambushed with ceremony straightened Mahariel’s spine. Last night, Josephine had said in passing about needing to establish the power of the Inquisition quickly. Was that really all the warning given or had Mahariel been too busy figuring out how to avoid dealing with letters to listen?

There was talk of the Blight, its hardships and how it now paralleled the hardships current and future caused by the Breach. No talking darkspawn plot was mentioned, which would have caused doubt and confusion. The speech took a turn towards Mahariel’s achievements. She kept her face stoic, mind racing to furiously come up with suitable words when her time came.

Leliana stood aside to let Cassandra, appropriately armoured sans helmet, kneel facing Mahariel, presenting a longsword. Around its hilt wrapped an aurum wyvern, jaws viciously open to swallow the blade. It was a little ironic to have the Nevarran present a dragon-themed blade. Mahariel took it in both hands and faced the people, letting the sword point up towards the sky, light glinting off the blade and showcasing decorative hilt visible to those closest to her, before deftly rotating the handle for the tip to momentarily rest against the stone ground.

“The world turns towards change quicker than men can comprehend,” she said loudly, savouring the words so that each one lingered in the minds of the people. “It is okay to be afraid of that- to dream for a time of peace or glory instead of this age of upheaval. There will be those who choose to dig their heels in the dirt, turn back from the face of the abyss, and sacrifice their efforts on the altar of history. We are not them.”

Mahariel made sure to stare meaningfully into the eyes of the important looking people before her. She chanced a look at Varric, hoping whatever spirit of Wit who guided his hand when he wrote his books would glance her way.

“Our Inquisition rises like a phoenix birthed from the ashes of catastrophe; this herald of transformation.” Thanks, Roderick. “It does not shadow the sunlit days of old, but presents as something entirely else, headed by an elf.” She did not miss the few disgruntled expressions of those in the crowd when they heard her comment. “We do not attempt to revert this world back to what it used to be, back perhaps to what you think it should be: dead raising their bones, stone buildings soaking up spilled blood, the cutting fangs of life releasing its grip on our throats.” Her voice grew in strength until she was on the verge of shouting. “Instead, we propel ourselves forward and take flight on wings greater than any one person. We will turn this change towards the better, we will seek truth from the darkness, and we will triumph!” Mahariel raised the dragon sword upright with her right hand. “For the Inquisition!”

Cullen, now down from the steps looking up at her, drew forth his own sword and echoed the words. The soldiers followed his actions and like a dry stream renewed with spring thaw, the enthusiasm cascaded across the crowd until everyone was cheering and repeating Mahariel. Dogs howled.

“For the Inquisition!”

—

The echo of heavy Chantry doors barely faded from the close before Mahariel was hunched over to her knees, back to a pillar protecting her from view of the entrance. She was sweaty enough she was sure if someone looked too closely they would find stains.

“Never do that to me again,” Mahariel sternly commanded when Leliana approached.

Joyfully, the woman clasped her on the shoulder. “What do you mean- your speech was wonderful! I thought you would just make some statement of intention and raise the sword.”

“That was an option?”

—

The next day, Mahariel forwent paper matters of the Inquisition and adjusted her armour to be properly fitted with assistance from the blacksmith, Harritt, whom she met during her formal trip around Haven as Inquisitor. The villager’s reception of her had been ambiguous. An elf born of the Breach who acted like she was equal to humans. The Hero of Ferelden who had defeated monsters and could do so again. Leliana was hard at work changing the tides of public perception.

Harritt spoke about Lothering, his birthplace and the first village Mahariel had gone to after the Battle of Ostagar. There had been a failed attempt to rebuild the town, land too poisoned for even drinkable well water.

Resources and time were strained. Harritt taught her the basics of crafting to speed up her own needs for armour and weapons, however anything complicated would have to wait or be done by someone with more expertise. Which was why Mahariel stood facing Maxwell at the training grounds outside of Haven, a section close to the walls cleared for them to spar.

She was used to using two thin swords possessing complex hilts exclusively to be handled with one hand each. Most blades available were either greatswords to be wielded with two hands or were arming swords with simple cross guards, able to be paired with shields. Mahariel held an Inquisition longsword in her right hand and nothing in her left. Available daggers were so short that the better option was to leave one hand free to hold and direct the blade when stabbing than to risk overextending her offhand.

Mahariel would need to adjust her fighting style to accommodate the change, especially against shielded opponents like Maxwell and Cassandra. So there they stood, herself and a fresh-faced kid-Templar that had been roped into Mahariel’s practice on the grounds that she needed to know his skill if they would go into battle together. They regarded each other, Maxwell in a standard prepared stance while Mahariel had the farthest part of her blade lightly resting against the dirt.

She approached slowly, the air about her far from hostile. Maxwell adjusted the hand-grip on his shield and took a half-step back. He was so young, intimidated by lazy psychological tactics. Dirty blond hair nearly fell in his brown eyes.

“How old are you? Not even twenty, are you?” Mahariel kept her tone conversational, not wanting to put him in a guarded mindset.

But the young and inexperienced were always so defensive about their age. He swallowed. “I will be soon.”

“So in three years instead of five.”

A burst of indignation strengthened Maxwell’s reply. Something about ‘seven months’ was broken off when Mahariel casually pulled down his shield from the bottom and moved her sword to smack that as of yet unblemished face.

He hastily put his shield up. Mahariel used its side to slide down her blade and get his exposed legs before deftly moving out of the way of his replying sword swing. The rest of their sparring proceeded in a similar fashion: Mahariel using indirect ways to get to weak points, Maxwell doing his best to defend and reply, superior speed and dexterity preventing that. Overall, his tactics and moves were well-practised although uncertain. Mahariel refrained from taunting him too much, in case he cried. She told him that.

“I’m actually very good at fighting apostates and demons,” he said. “Not so much mouthy elves.”

“Not so much indeed,” agreed Mahariel and turned her sword, using its hilt to hinge on the top of Maxwell’s shield to rip it out of his grasp.

He yielded shortly after.

The spar worked up a sweat, but did not push Mahariel enough to discern her own weak points in technique. Kaaras, who had been watching from his group of mercenaries doing their forms, jogged over to her.

“Do ya mind if I have a go at it? Issil, my squad captain, always had possible recruits fight her before she even considered taking them on.” A nostalgic half-smile pulled at the scar over his lips. “Of course, even the most promising candidate would get their ass handed to them.”

Mahariel looked at the group of five Vashoth now watching them. Kaaras told her that Issil had died in the explosion. He pointed out the names and specialisations of the ones who survived. In a few days, all but one of them, Katari, would leave to inform the leader of their company what transpired.

It was unusual for Mahariel to fight against someone with a polearm. In southern Thedas, they were often used by professional soldiers expected to fight in formation, and while she had battled many people or groups, actual armies were a rare encounter. She studied the weapon Kaaras held expertly in his hands. The main blade, one-sided with sharp-angled designs carved into the flat, took up a fourth of the metal pole with a hook at its back for mounts. The other end tapered into a distinct blunt head.

Mahariel really hoped clashing with the haft would not break the blade of her sword.

The spar did not start off lightly. Very quickly it became apparent that Kaaras’s philosophy was ‘the best defence is offence’. He moved with more agility than his size would suggest and if he fought in a group an unaware opponent might have been herded into the blades of his allies, too focused on frantically dodging pointed jabs. Mahariel conserved her stamina, letting the polearm point seemingly aim true until she moved the slightest bit out of comfortable range, forcing either a miss or for Kaaras to overextend himself in an attempt to hit. This resulted in a quick-stepped dance until tactics were changed.

A hand on the sword blade was needed to effectively block the heavy downwards swing of the polearm’s shaft. Shuddering energy moved into Mahariel’s forearms from the hit. On the battlefield, Kaaras would be able to break bones with one lucky strike. She switched to offensive, fighting dirty.

Most opponents Mahariel fought were larger than her- expected as an elfan even though she was as tall as the average elfin. And it was not always possible to gain the advantage on superior sword skill alone. When Mahariel dealt with her first ogre on the highest floor of the Tower of Ishal, she had climbed her way up its back, daggers digging into the thick muscle for leverage, while it was preoccupied with Alistair’s taunts. Despite the hundreds of kilogram weight difference between them, she just needed one opportunity to rip the darkspawn’s throat out.

Mahariel’s attacks were fast, intent on getting Kaaras to position his hands in a certain way. She could tell by his wide, intent eyes that he was quickly coming up with a way to counter her momentum. The next swing of her sword was exceedingly lighter than the previous ones, letting the overpowering force of his block push her blade away, forcing his own weapon off-centre in the process. Opportunity. Mahariel drew closer, letting her turned crossguard catch on the hook of Kaaras’s polearm to further direct it out of her danger. Closer still, throwing herself, soles of her feet touching air.

The sword was abandoned behind her, an abundantly terrible decision if she had been fighting multiple people, if this were real. But spars never had the desperate bloodlust of real battle anyways. Mahariel was climbed on top of Kaaras, left hand covering his eyes instead of slashing them out with the knife pocketed at her arm. Doing so would be bad sportsmanship. Her right hand gripped his horn, controlling his head, while her strong legs wrapped effectively around his torso and arm. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Kaaras initially retained hold of his weapon even as his body jolted, not toppled, with Mahariel’s surprise weight. Now he dropped it, the reach of the polearm a hindrance in close quarters, and tried to pull her off him. But blinded, half-restrained, and head arched back, there was nothing Kaaras could do.

Except a mind blast.

It came with concussive force, pulling out all the air in her body to bludgeon it against her form, now flying away from Kaaras. Mahariel landed heavily, ingrained training having her automatically redirect the energy into the push of her hands and roll of her back to save head from meeting ground. Sitting on her knees let her focus on controlling her breath and blinking the stars out of her eyes.

Kaaras’s polearm was not a mage stave. Mahariel was pretty sure of that, since the magic around staves was very distinct, created with enchantments and mystical components. The fact that Kaaras did not need a staff to channel his magic spoke of power and specialisation. Unless… Mahariel tried to remember if Saarebas used staves.

“I yield,” she said when Kaaras oddly finished recovering and picked up his weapon. A stupid decision after all, to leave her sword. She walked up to him. “You’ll have to teach me how the Saarebas use their magic in battle. It is certainly a useful style.” The physical fight distracted her from sensing the build-up of his spell.

“I’m not,” Kaaras said testily.

Mahariel raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not Saarebas- not even a mage, at least a trained one. You had me entirely. The explosion was just panic and luck.”

“A little training though?” Even the Dalish gave basic instruction to those who had magic but were not intended for the position of mage.

Kaaras made a face that left little hope to the degree of his education. That explained his apparent pain post-spell. Magic users without an external focus would strain their body with aggressive enough spells, the physical form being entirely incompatible with the energy of the Fade. This caused Saarebas to have pretty short lifespans to pair with their brutal living conditions.

“We will have to get you a teacher then.”

Retrieving their weapons, the pair made their way off the training grounds to find either Evelyn or Mahanon. Malika stepped in front of her, two long, jagged daggers unsheathed.

“Wait, wait! Me next, please?” Malika looked up with excited wide eyes.

“Next for what?”

“Well you’re fighting everyone with Marks, right? I’m totally prepared now.” She clinked her weapons together. “In the Carta we had something similar. Except it was with fellow recruits. And to the death. It’s pretty nice that the Inquisition doesn’t do that. Means my bet the Templar one dying to a Pride demon won’t be voided.”

Mahariel blinked. “No poisons, toxins, or anything of the sort. Nothing that a demon would be immune to,” she said after a moment.

With Kaaras off on his own to confess his lack of training to a mage, Mahariel was once again at the training grounds, fighting Malika.

The thing about fighting a person half one’s size was that one needed to focus on protecting their legs and lower abdomen more than usual. Then the dwarf, at the first chance they get, will reach up and slash at one’s throat. Mahariel jerked her head from Malaika’s attempt.

“Do you have a lot of experience fighting other races?” The question came out slightly stuttered. Mahariel was not getting enough distance to have some rest. This much energy from Malika would tire the dwarf out for lengthy fights, but Carta ambushes were not usually planned to be long.

“A bit,” replied Malika as she failed to stab a foot. “If you asked me that three years ago, I would have said ‘no’”

“Did the Carta kick you topside or did you apply?” Mahariel angled her sword to stop a dagger slash and backed away from a paired stab. Alas, but for another weapon in her empty hand. She really should have listened to Isabela about becoming a duelist.

“I guess you could say applied. Becoming an adventure was a fantasy of mine. No one cares about your origin if you’re an adventurer.”

Mahariel gave into the urge and kicked at Malika, aiming for the head and hitting on the shoulder. She retracted her leg and set it down before it could be grabbed.

“Stones! That usually works.”

“To be fair, it did the first time I fought a dwarf.”

The fight invigorated Mahariel. It was challenging but had the familiarity of an opponent type she had dealt with before. The end came with a disarming kick to the arm and a strong grab at the other one. Malika yielded.

At the edge of the clearing, Kaaras and Mahanon, holding his stave, stood.

“I hear you got your ass kicked by an untrained mage.” He smirked.

“I'm going to make you eat dirt.”

An interested crowd had formed around the clearing, mainly soldiers taking rest from their training along with a smattering of other Inquisition members and villagers. Everyone wanted to see how formidable the new Inquisitor really was.

Mahanon twirled his stave around his body as if to exhibit a mastery in staffs that matched Kaaras. Mahariel knew that it was just for show. While the stave was intimidating, a limb of dark ancient wood with roots like fingers wrapped around a halla skull for the focusing point, it severely lacked in physical combat, despite the three-pointed staff blade at the bottom, entirely because of the skill of its user.

Nearly half a decade of travelling and battling side-by-side together let Mahariel know well that the constraints of a play-battle in a ring of Andrstians and Templars would gut out Mahanon’s usual arsenal of spells and tactics. On a personal level, Mahanon tended towards subtle entropy and supportive creation magic over rays of ice or branches of electricity. Effective, but not visible for a crowd, and Mahariel would move in for a kill long before any hex corroded away at her magical defences.

Then there was the blood mage problem, which hindered ability to pull energy from the Fade. Mahariel had read a two hundred year-old scientific study in Avernus’s dusty mage tower which concluded no matter how simple or prepared a spell was, the transitional pull of energy across the Veil would always create a liminal duration between the intention of casting a spell and the magical unreality of its effects. The average Magister took five seconds to enact the most basic of magics- a spell wisp, which was why mages that were not arcane warriors were regulated to the backend of a battle formation with someone to cover for them.

Mahariel did not know if modern practices and studies changed the average duration, but she did know that Mahanon took roughly seven seconds to conjure a light wisp from the Fade. So upon hearing the challenging words of ‘Make sure you’re prepared, lethallan’, Mahariel merely raised an eyebrow and waited.

The noise around the field dimmed to silence in anticipation. The air surrounding Mahariel dried out her skin and warmed her breath. She could just imagine the imminent crackle of flames.

Mahariel ran forward, sword readied, stepping out of the explosive area of Mahanon’s immolation spell. Fire roared behind her. Mahanon swung the point of his staff to block her blade. A deft manoeuvre had Mahariel encroaching into his personal space, sharply tugging at the stave to direct Mahanon between her and the flame eruption turned fireball that had been chasing her. She stuck her tongue out and skittered away.

Instead of dismissing his spell, Mahanon directed it left to avoid hitting himself. The fire trailed through the air like a snake and stalked towards Mahariel. So that was how he would make up for the slow casting speed: prolonging and slightly changing the spell he had already managed to create. Mahariel played a dangerous form of tag, turning and leaping out of the way of future burns.

She idled away enough of her time that Mahanon managed to sneak an arcane bolt to shoot out of the ‘face’ of the flame serpent like a tongue. Mahariel blocked it with the flat of her blade and temporarily transferred the hilt to her other hand, wringing out her right hand of the arcane energy that managed to stick to her. There was that sick feeling of blood through her veins again and green sparks zapped out of her fingertips. Clearly, the Anchor inside of Mahariel did not do well with any sort of magic trying to intrude on its territory.

Mahanon dismissed his fire after Mahariel tricked it to pounce too close to Haven’s log defensive walls, betting on his desire to not risk setting the village aflame. Mahariel circled around him and waited for his next move, content to see what he would do next the way an overfed cat might watch a mouse try to escape from its claws.

Halla skull hit the ground, cracking the earth around its impact to burst free dirt and stone projectiles that headed for Mahariel. She used the flat of her sword to shield her turned head and tried to dodge the rest. Magical projectiles had the habit of defying physics and following their targets if the caster still had sight of them. Fortunately the attempt at a stonefist was too weak to do damage.

When sharp ozone hit Mahariel’s senses, she decided to end the fight before lightning could be summoned. She rushed Mahanon, directing his focus towards defending against the insistent strikes of her sword instead of spellcasting. A subtle hook of her leg had Mahanon sprawling prone on the ground. She forced the stave out of his grip and heavily sat on his back.

“Fine. I guess I yield.”

“Hmm? Don’t you remember what I said?” She tugged on his shoulder-length hair and bared her teeth in bloodthirsty smile. “Dirt. Eat it.”

Mahanon groaned, rumble of indignance travelling through his chest.

Mahariel continued on. “What kind of Inquisitor will I be if I cannot make good on my promises?” She smooshed his face into the ground.

“Halla fucker,” mumbled Mahanon. But he knew that she would not give up until her words were not a lie and so he flicked his tongue out to taste the dust of the training ground.

“Dirt eater,” Mahariel responded, smug and fond. She rolled off him to lie facing the sky, sun cast in its afternoon position, the Breach exactly how it was the day before.

—

Mahariel hid behind Kaaras while she ate her mutton and root vegetable stew. All those who obtained magic from the Breach sat in a rough circle with their lunch. In the centre was a plate full of berries and three pastries to share.

While within the village, their spot was far enough away from the businesses and Chantry that most onlookers took the hint to leave them in peace. Still Mahariel tried her best to be subtly out of view. She was a popular person, especially after the morning spars, which frayed her nerves. Talking one-on-one was fine, but entertaining a group of expectant shemlen was beyond her skillset, especially when the names of new faces still swam around in her head.

Everyone spoke of how they were occupying their time. Mahariel needed to review logistics of the Inquisition. Her advisors dealt with the fine details directly, but in order to make decisions she had to know how things would be affected. Kaaras and his mercenaries were helping Inquisition soldiers. Maxwell fit neatly into the order of the fledgling army. Malika was helping Leliana with information operations.

Despite the state of the sky, magic was proving itself extremely beneficial. Evelyn Trevelyan, both former Circle mage and high achieving, was set about getting Haven the magical amenities that highly educated people locked in a tower had invented and were used to having. Once the wards, glyphs, and enchantments were done, all facets of life from sanitation to weaponry to agriculture would be improved. It was a significant effort and she dragged not only her former Circle peers Minaeve and Avexis into it, but Mahanon and Solas as well. Soon it would include Kaaras.

The enthusiastic barking of a hound signalled Varric’s approach.

“So this is where the glow bug club meeting is at?”

“Hey, we don’t glow most of the time,” Maxwell said.

“Neither do the bugs.”

Malika scooted closer to where Varric stood. “That crossbow of yours is a beast- faster than even a handbow.”

“Bianca does well for herself. She’s more lady than animal though,” he gently chided.

“You missed what went down in the training grounds this morning,” said Maxwell. “Our Inquisitor showed us why she’s the big dog.”

A ‘whuff’ emitted from the dog in their group. There was a quick revisit of what happened during the spars as not everyone was there to watch them. Malika was particularly animated when describing the fight with Mahanon, moving her arms to imitate the flow of his fire spell.

Varric looked at the single sheathed longsword Mahariel had at her side. “Guess it’ll take you ten seconds to cut down a demon instead of the usual five, huh Dark Wolf?”

“Dark Wolf?” Kaaras repeated. “Is that like the ‘Nightingale’ you call Leliana? Are we all going to get animal nicknames?”

“Commander Cullen gets called ‘Red Lion’, but that’s usually by the soldiers and out of earshot,” said Maxwell.

“So are we going to call you ‘Yellow Cub’?” suggested Malika.

Maxwell cringed. “Please don’t. House Trevelyan’s heraldic animal is the windhorse anyways.”

“It doesn’t have to be animals. And I can’t even take credit for Mahariel’s,” said Varric. Then he proceeded to regale them with an over exaggerated tale of when Mahariel had been spiteful enough to steal Loghain Mac Tir’s crown during the Landsmeet, making waves in Denerim’s criminal underworld.

She realised it was not the most politically innocuous tale to have attached to her name. Mahariel told it one drunken night at the Hanged Man when she needed to outdo Isabela’s ship theft story. Now she was leader of an organisation that quickly needed to gather support from Chantry and nobles alike. Oops.

“You can just call me ‘Inquisitor’,” she said. “Or leave out the theft part of the story.”

Varric smirked. “Don’t worry. Your criminal history is between you and me and my millions of readers.”

“Maybe he’ll keep it a secret if you beat him in a spar,” Mahanon suggested.

“Open one-on-one combat isn’t my style. I’ll have to decline: it’s boring when the battle is already decided.”

“But we’ve all done it,” said Malika, “even Mahanon. At this point it’s basically like recruitment.”

Varric, pinned down by the pleading eyes of four people who already went through the experience, reluctantly agreed. A change into armour and short walk later led them back to the training grounds. When Malika told them to wait for her to get Cassandra and Solas, Mahariel sighed, tired of being a spectacle.

“I should not have let them ambush you with this request. We already know how the other fights.”

“Well,” said Varric, “the crowd doesn’t have to be the only ones entertained. What say you, we fight like stage actors instead of enemies?”

“You’re that intent on selling my secrets to the literate masses?”

Varric chuckled. “You know I leave out the good parts.”

“Hm. Alright.” When they stood at their positions on the field, Mahariel created a flashy flourish with her sword. “Let us see if you write plays as well as you write books.”

It was the oddest fight Mahariel ever had. Varric attacked with a mixture of rapid-fire bolts and traps. She let herself be led in the places he wanted, places that gave the audience a better view of her moves. In return, she moved frivolously- elegant spins that took her eyes off the target, complicated dodges that showed off her flexibility, lingering clashes with Bianca’s retractable bayonet to let the ring of their weapons sound off clearly in the cold air.

Varric was humming Bianca’s Song, a melody whose lyrics had never been spoken out loud. Their steps and attacks ended up in time with the tune. Bolts shot out of Bianca in rhythm, the aiming obvious enough that Mahariel could swing her sword and meet it with her blade. She did not block them, making sure to move her body out of the way, but merely let Varric’s click-clunk of the fired crossbow be answered with a snap.

With some lively eyebrow waggling and wide-eyed expressions, they managed to coordinate an ending to their performance that resulted in Bianca held in Mahariel’s hands, being pointed at her own master.

Varric held his hands up in surrender. “I yield,” he said, as if he did not know that the crossbow was out of ammunition.

The grin Mahariel wore nearly ached from how long she had it on. “You should include this fight scene in your next story.”

At the edge of the clearest farthest from Haven’s gate stood Leliana with Josephine and a few others. She gave a literal round of applause when they approached, making a circle in the air with her hands as a belated addition to the smattering of claps and cheers when Mahariel handed Bianca back.

“I didn’t know you became a bard. Shall I give you some tips?”

“From the spymaster herself? I would be honoured.”

Varric nudged Solas with his elbow. “You’re in the ring now, hedge mage.”

The nickname felt a little awkward. Mahariel hoped he was still working on it. Varric went through ‘Guard’ and ‘Raven’ for Mahanon before landing on ‘Blackbird’.

“I am afraid to say that my skills may not be as enchanting as the opening act,” Solas said. His tone was neutral, neither disgruntled with the play fight nor awed at the dramatics.

Mahariel wondered how much fighting experience Solas had as a wanderer. Morrigan had already been highly skilled with magic from the start of their meeting, but occasionally suffered from tunnel-vision and staying still in one place too long.

She flashed him a friendly, comforting expression. “Would you like to make the first move?”

“No, you’re the expert, after all. Please show me how it works,” Solas said, a hint of mischief in his voice. Enough experience to be joking, then.

Mahariel had barely readied her sword before Solas motioned the head of his stave, a simple staff with a spiked iron top, and conjured a sizable boulder to hurtle towards her. Her eyes widened; he must have started that spell before they stepped into the clearing together. Clever. She shifted her weight distribution and dodged at the last second, feeling Fade energy brush against her senses from the close encounter. With large steps, Mahariel was running towards her opponent.

She breathed in freezing cold air as she came closer and ice sprouted to block her destination. A foot on the sudden wall allowed her to abruptly change direction without losing too much speed, the ice running parallel to her for a few metres. Once she caught sight of Solas again, she jumped to avoid the glyph his stave was pointing at right before her feet. Nearly too late. Tall flames erupted close enough to her back that she could feel the heat. And that was why she did not wear her long hair loose.

The vital thing Mahariel learned about Solas was that his casting ability was absurdly quick. She zoned in on his presence, needing to catch the smallest tells of his spells before they burst forth. It was a somewhat ‘head out of body’ mindset that had her feeling not entirely herself after battle, but allowed Mahariel to make instant decisions on when and where to dodge. Actual magic users could tell the precise formation and intent of spells. Mahariel had to make do with minute observations and whisper shifts in the air.

Solas blocked what should have been an overpowering strike from Mahariel with his staff. He adjusted his grip but did not lose it. An attempted kick at his knee had him switching his footing to be more aggressive and the intent look on his face sharpened. Mahariel had time to twist her expression into annoyance before the second mind blast of the day kept her off her feet. She landed better than the first.

Mahariel threw the knife from her thigh to intercept a lightning bolt coming her way, causing the magic to latch onto the metal. Using chain lightning would have guaranteed a hit but risk the observers surrounding them. Instead of dodging, Solas let it deflect on his barrier, the force of the throw shattering it in the process. A lazy not-move or did he choose to protect the people behind him? Mahariel threw with the point of the knife facing the opposite direction it soared, so anyone hit would have had a bruise instead of a hole in them.

She again closed the distance between them- it helped when there was no staff blade to keep her at bay. He started casting and Mahariel stomped hard on his foot. Wearing armour meant wearing boots instead of foot wrappings. She was pleased that Solas had not bothered to put on armour before the spar. Neither had Mahanon. Silly mages, always thinking being able to electrocute someone with a glance would make people forget that a simple well-placed punch could incapacitate them.

The spell stuttered and broke before it could breach reality.

Mahariel capitalised on the advantage, moving quickly and viciously to distract Solas’s ability to cast. A classic elbow jab in the kidneys gave her opportunity to both disarm him and send the fight to the ground. Within a few seconds, Mahariel was on top of Solas with the knife from her arm pressed against his throat.

“I yield,” Solas said loudly to the crowd, jaw barely moving to not tempt the skin of his throat from breaking.

Their faces were close enough that panting breaths intermingled with one another. Mahariel swallowed.

“Did you go easy on me?” she asked, tone light in curiosity and confusion rather than weighed down by anger. She moved her blade away after giving him time to think.

“I did my best without using spells that could produce significant injury. Why do you ask?”

This close, Mahariel could make out the ring of violet in his cloudy grey eyes. “You use your stave to telegraph your spells. I knew you would try that pull of the abyss with just a glance.”

Solas’s brow furrowed. “That is usually how staves work. Magic drawn through the staff requires physical direction. It’s true that spell types can be discerned through this, but I would not know how to hide the tell without discarding use of the stave altogether.”

Yes. Yes, that was how staves and most mages worked. The way Solas used magic felt odd to Mahariel. Not incorrect, not unfamiliar, just odd. The entire fight she was waiting to hear something else from his casting.

She tilted her head in acquiesce and got off Solas, helping him from the ground.

The last spar Mahariel would have was with Cassandra. She was not going to deal with Leliana, Cullen, or Josephine. The round of matches helped in getting her back into a battle-ready mindset, but she could do without the audience. Cassandra seemed annoyed as well at the crowd around them. Or that could just be what concentration looked like on her face.

She was properly suited in a chestplate that showed off a black eye marking the Seekers of Truth on a white background. The sword at her side was just like the one Mahariel had. They spoke in the middle of the field, quietly enough for onlookers to not hear.

“I am not used to pageantry,” Cassandra said awkwardly. “My moves may not astonish viewers, but I strike true and hit hard.”

It was strange how someone so resolute and firm in front of others could have this uncertain admiration side of her when they spoke personally.

“I did not think asking Maxwell to help me test out a sword would turn into this.” Mahariel gestured to those around them briefly with her hand. “We do not have to do it, especially if some might say it is beneath the Inquisition.”

Cassandra scoffed in amusement. “The soldiers are going wild for it. By next week, the tavern’s minstrel will be singing about how you defeated a dragon made of pure fire.”

“Do you know that from experience? Minstrel Maryden actually has a song about you, Hero of Orlais,” said Mahariel bemusedly.

The embarrassment on Cassandra’s cheeks was strong enough to overtake her natural olive tones. “Enough. We should give the people what they came here to see before it gets too dark.”

“Out of respect for your skill, hero, I will not let you make the first move.”

They parted ways. When Mahariel next turned, Cassandra had her sword out in her right hand and a modified heater shield in her left. It seemed to be made of steel with Chantry embossing on the front and a guige to hang around her neck. It would be futile to try to remove the shield from her.

Mahariel’s attempt at a speedy fight-ending leg sweep had her dodging out of the way of a shield bash. The subsequent moves were tentative on both ends, feeling each other out. Cassandra was clearly experienced in fighting other people, showing none of Maxwell’s hesitancy to fight someone above his ‘rank’. Mahariel doubted any taunts would get to her.

The issue with fighting adeptly shielded opponents was the frustration. Every slash and stab of her sword would be defended by Cassamdra’s shield while Cassandra’s own sword would be trying to ‘strike true’. And yes, her shield hit hard.

It made Mahariel seriously reconsider the practicality of not having anything in her off-hand, which was what she wanted to try. She would have preferred not to have over fifty people watch her get her ass kicked. Mahariel took out the knife strapped on her leg to make dicey blocks.

Cassandra was fast, not to the level of Mahariel, but able to have her motions glide into one another like rushing water, drowning her enemies. It was too easy to get lost in a cycle of dodges and defensive reactions. Mahariel faltered, feigning injury.

The response was merciless and did not open up any weaknesses on Cassandra’s end. Mahariel barely stepped out of the way of a lunge. She attempted a backstab but hit the lip of Cassandra’s chest piece with her sword. They set into another round of blocked strikes and quick-footed movement.

If only they were not in a barren clearing, the sun still bright enough to dissuade any hiding in shadows. The singular tactic she had in such a scenario was the one she employed while fighting Loghain in the Landsmeet- that being to dodge eternally until her opponent ran out of stamina. And some subtle doses of knockout powder that Mahariel already banned the use of when she fought Malika.

Then Mahariel did the one thing she decided she would not do when she first stepped foot in the training field under that morning sun: she overextended her knife holding offhand. Cassandra immediately went in for the opening and slashed deep through the leather. Mahariel retreated as soon as she felt the sting of steel through her flesh.

“I yield. First blood.” She took off her bracer to air the wound. It was deep enough to show a line of red across her forearm although nothing significant. “Congratulations.”

Cassandra was panting heavily, hands on her knees. She straightened when Mahariel approached and exhaled slowly. “You fought well. I’m glad to have placed my faith in you.”

“You as well. I am sure you will be even better against the demons.”

Much of the crowd had already left during the drawn-out fight. The rest dispersed after the yield to continue their duties for the day. Mahanon walked up to them along with her dog. He held up Mahariel’s left arm for examination and tsked.

“I’m afraid it’s fatal. You have until nightfall.”

“You have always been such a good healer, lethallin.”

Chapter Text

Mahariel washed the blood off her forearm using water from the well near the apothecary. Goosebumps ran over her skin. It would encourage clotting at least.

The series of spars had cleared her head of the overwhelming confusion that hung onto her mindstate the past few days. Like with Urthemiel, she needed to seal the Breach by first amassing power instead of heading over to it straight away. The direct method had already been tried and while Mahariel was thankful Mahanon and his new ‘friends’ managed to get the sky to spit her out, their second attempt needed to be permanent to utterly bar any malicious spirit from stepping foot into the world of humans. She hoped dealing with the Breach would signal all the little Fade rifts out there to close as well, like the abscission of leaves from a tree.

There was little she could do about the magister. Carefully probing letters were sent to Grey Warden strongholds, most notably Weisshaupt, Adamant, and Vigil’s Keep, in order to gauge how much of the Order had been influenced. More explicit letters were sent to specific Grey Wardens: Alistair, Avernus, Loghain, Nathaniel. She was just in contact with Sigrun last year and the Legionnaire had not seemed any more odd than she usually was. Velanna, for better or worse, was leashed by the Architect and would not follow the orders of a different darkspawn. Bethany could possibly be contacted through Hawke. Mahariel did not even try to reach Montsimmard.

It was a fact that Mahariel was not a sophisticated scholar; she was a sword. Leliana could draw out lethal secrets from the shadows of her agents and Josephine could pull the strings of nobles and merchants alike; Mahariel needed a goal with a trail she could track. The Inquisition was still scrambling for order and replies though, so she had to sit with ants under her skin, building reputation through impromptu speeches and play fights.

Mahariel dumped her remaining water down the well and set the bucket on the ground. There was pleased canine panting to her left. Solas had crouched down and was indulging in petting Fen'Harel. At least her dog was happy, which was the most important thing for a Fereldan, even though she was Dalish and the Brecilian Forest sat in this grey area of quasi-independence. The uproar around one of the newly crowned King of Ferelden’s first acts being to essentially give land away died down over the years thanks to Queen Elissa’s stern redirection towards rebuilding the country and reestablishing international ties.

The Dalish were not entirely pleased with Alistair’s decision either. It brought attention to their presence when safety from humans often lay in being forgotten. And the promises of shemlen were easily broken. Kordillus Drakon I had vowed the empire would never touch the Dales in his holy mission to spread the fire of Andraste’s words across Thedas.

“Have you had your dog since the Blight? Leliana seemed well acquainted with him.” Solas stood up.

“Yes, right at the start. Ostagar.” She was unsure how much recent Ferelden history he knew. The accent, a subtle presence in Common, threw her off and encased his background in a mystery. “That was the first major battle against darkspawn in the south.”

His gaze flickered in memory. “I went there, long after the event. Fields of war draw forth spirits like a grand masquerade. In one turn, heroic Grey Wardens and a golden betrayed king. In the next spin, brutal darkspawn reaching towards the soldiers of a veteran commander.”

“The wardens? Did you see the Warden-Commander?” Duncan’s face was a sudden burst of wind in Mahariel’s memory. The man destroyed and remade her life before leaving his own all within a month.

Solas shifted, folding his hands in front of him. “Perhaps. What drew me most on the battlefield besides Loghain was a king crowned in wished-for glory, armoured in valiant legends of old. Next to him stood a rogue of noble bearing, bleeding his silverite swords against an ogre. But the darkspawn were unending. And they both fell.” He was not a happy storyteller like Varric.

“Did you see a dragon?” Mahariel asked.

“The archdemon? No, nor would I wish to encounter a spirit that could take on such a frightening form.”

She shook her head. “There was a different one, unblighted. Asha'bellanar, Morrigan’s- one of my companion’s- mother. She shapeshifted into a dragon and plucked Alistair and me off the Tower of Ishal. It was how we survived.”

“I did not see that.” He became speculative. “She must be a formidable and consummate mage to transform herself into a dragon. Especially when they only recently roused themselves from extinction.”

“Asha'bellanar earned her title for a reason. She is likely even older than you.”

A flash of a smile. “Do I truly appear so elderly?”

No. Yes. Answers flitted through her mind like rustling leaves. An acorn from a grand and ancient oak. A cracked open newborn of a great dragon. A sea of elvhen corpses and the hopeful saplings that yet come from them. The sentiments blew away from her. Ash.

“You are… young enough to have fought magnificently today.”

“And you as well. Although not without some injury.” Solas moved a hand towards her cut arm. “Would you like assistance?”

Mahariel shook her head. “I do not scar easily.”

“Very well.” He retracted his gesture and his expression returned to its default placidity. “I wonder if the exertion has agitated your Anchor. Kaaras expressed some discomfort to me when we spoke after the noonday meal.”

“There has been no pain on my end. I do not think Mahanon had any trouble with his.”

“And neither Malika nor Maxwell had an issue. I suspect it has to do with inexperience in his own magic.”

So Mahanon would be unaffected, although he had his difficulty with accessing the Fade. Unless a similar problem was going to happen when he used blood magic. Was Malika better off than the rest of them because she was a dwarf?

A thought occurred to Mahariel. “Would the Mark interfere if Maxwell used his Templar abilities?”

“When we first went up the mountain to seal the Breach, I did not notice him struggling with the demons.” Solas tilted his head in contemplation. “But I was otherwise occupied. It would be best if we tested this hypothesis now that we know what to look for.”

“We would have to try it against demons to judge if the effectiveness went down. Can Marks open the Fade back up?”

“There’s no need for that,” he said quickly. “And technically, the power within the Marks are used to repair the Veil. Rifts are holes in the barrier which allow the Fade and the physical world to interact without a third-party directive, such as a mage.”

“Right,” said Mahariel, drawing out the word. “So the Marks are just concentrated magic? Does that mean any mage powerful enough can close the Fade rifts as well?”

“Not quite, to both of those questions. The power needed to close even the smallest rift opened due to your magister’s ritual is immense. Even I could not do it, despite my years of practice in manipulating the Fade and Veil.”

And Solas was a master in the art, as their spar had shown. The darkspawn at the temple had a ball, which was likely where the magic came from. Where the ball came from was another matter. The Deep Roads- hidden away for darkspawn to seek out? But the Old Gods hid themselves down there in order to hibernate; the ball was created and needed to be placed for malicious hands to intentionally or unintentionally find. When a weapon is formed, there is a purpose attached to it.

“To bring our discussion back to its point,” Solas said, abandoning their tangent, “many rifts have been reported in the area. It would be prudent to take care of them now as they are so close to Haven. This will also allow us a ‘testing ground’, shall we say.”

Mahariel nodded. “Good point. I will speak with the advisors.”

But she went to her hut first. Gathering everyone for an expedition today would only allow a few hours of light before they needed to go back. Mahariel would like to test everyone who had a Mark and then Solas needed to be there to provide his expertise. Cassandra would probably want to join since everyone capable of solving their Breach problem would be beyond the village walls. At that point there was no argument against bringing Varric, especially since he could round out the numbers if they needed to split into two teams.

Growling, low and aggressive, starting in her mabari’s throat. He ran off towards the building ahead and Mahariel’s breath paused when she realised the door to her room was open. Loud, echoing barking exploded when her dog barreled his way inside.

A high-pitched ‘eek’ shot through the air along with the tumble of fallen items. Mahariel relaxed slightly- the threat level was low if the intruder screamed over a dog- and jogged to enter the hut.

Elfan with long ears close to her head. No face markings and in a green dress standard for peasants. Her light brown hair was in a short braid over her shoulder and she pressed her back against the wall in fearful cowering against a hostile hound.

Mahariel commanded her dog to quiet.

“Oh thank you, your ladyship! I mean no harm, honest,” the elfan continued to profess her innocence while Mahariel surveyed the damage in the room.

The bed was notably remade and it looked cleaner inside the room, lacking dirt and dust. Her backpack was on the desk and longbow leaned against it. A bucket of unspilled water sat on the floor next to a toppled over broom. At the hem of the elfan’s dress were pale cotton sheets stained with the blue of lyrium and dark red that Mahariel knew was her blood when she was injured.

She snapped her fingers, which unintentionally caused the person before her to stop babbling, and directed her dog out the door. Immediately, the elfan relaxed.

“You tidied my room, changed the sheets?”

She curtsied, a simple and well-practised one. This servant was under the employ of a noble, or used to be before the Breach.”Yes, my lady.”

“What else?”

“Nothing, my lady. I only cleaned. I didn’t see anything.” she said with eyes lowered to the ground.

Mahariel squashed down the urge to sigh. “I’m sorry- I was too rude. Thank you for cleaning. Was today laundry day?”

There was a shake of her head and a verbal negation. Lady Léonce thought to welcome the new Inquisitor with a clean home. Mahariel expressed her gratitude again even though she did not mean it. To see someone who could have been her kin bow so low out of adherence to human hierarchy was grating. Being a wanted Grey Warden with assassins greeting her would have been more enjoyable.

She managed to switch ‘my lady’ out for ‘Inquisitor’ and received the elfan’s name: Letita. Mahariel went to her pack to retrieve ten silver and pressed the coins into Letita’s hand. She was not entirely sure about the significance of the amount. The Blight severely messed up Ferelden’s economy.

“No one needs to come into my room; my dog is very territorial. Can you tell everyone that?”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

Letita gathered her things and left without delay. Mahariel searched the room in-depth. It was a very thorough cleaning.

There was no reason to be worried- Letita was clearly just a servant sent to do a small favour and Mahariel had nothing hidden which could be uncovered. Still, she felt unnerved to have seen a complete stranger in the place she slept. An elf, though.

She wondered if the race of the servant sent to her quarters was coincidence. Likely so, Haven was not Orlais, but did that make things worse? Mahariel had been around the village, out in the training fields, inside the Chantry. She was the only non-mage elf in a position with any degree of power. The other elves without magic were servants. An ache of homesickness for the Dalish burst inside her.

She wondered if Malika felt the same thing, despite the cruelty of the Carta, or if Kaaras would one day peel back layers of mourning and find this feeling at its core. So deep was that clawing need inside Mahanon that he left the Circle at fifteen years of age. Varric’s city of Kirkwall, his books, and long adventure with Hawke filled any sort of emptiness for people who looked like him.

Once more, Solas was a mystery. Considering how he acted, without subservience to anyone, with disdain for her people, the spirits of the Fade were likely the only home he knew. Growing up in the physical world of humans would have wiped that sheen of pride off him.

Mahariel reorganised the room to make it defensible to invasion, not that she thought anything of the sort would occur. The bed was pulled out of the line of sight and various objects she had no use for were placed close to the door to be removed at a later time. She found a hiding place for her bag and convenient, hard to notice locations to place her sword and bow.

Then Mahariel got her supplies out again to retrieve soap for washing up. It was not a priority, but if she ever found a bathtub then she could bug Mahanon into conjuring all the water needed to fill it without making fifty trips to a well. The Dalish claimed magic was the birthright of every elf, that principle driving forth a high rate of magic users, even if most of them did not take position of mage. For practical reasons, it was incredibly useful for a group of semi-nomadic people living off the land to never run out of water to drink or wash themselves.

Back in the faded green tunic, she went to the Chantry to speak to Leliana about plans for exploring the area around Haven. The former Lay Sister took to working directly outside the building for easy access to reporting agents and messenger birds. When she was not there, she prayed inside. Mahariel could conceive the shape of the political ramifications that broke forth from the Divine’s death, but not the undercurrent of faith being diluted with uncertainty.

Leliana veered like a pendulum between struggling acceptance with the Maker’s plan and anger over the Conclave explosion. Justinia V was once Dorothea, miraculous island for Leliana to wash up on after the chaotic waves of Marjolaine’s betrayal nearly drowned her. Currently with the sky in a stagnant hurricane of magic and demons, the only safe harbour was the Inquisition, underbuilt.

Mahariel met Leliana inside the Chantry, before the shrine but not on her knees, standing and staring wordlessly at a stone Andraste. It must have been imported after their first visit to Haven. The Disciples of Andraste had destroyed all human depictions of her form.

“Is she talking back to you?” Mahariel asked.

Leliana slowly turned to face her. “No. There’s only silence.”

“If I recall, there is a canticle for that.”

“Before the might of the seven Magisters Sidereal,” Leliana recited, “The Veil shattered like the flimsiest glass.” She flicked her eyes up at the ceiling and beyond it, the Breach.

Mahariel took her hand. “We will fix it. We killed an Old God together- now we will kill its priest.”

“But it will not unkill those already dead,” said Leliana. “And the Inquisition can’t fix that. You said that we will turn this change towards the better. Does it matter when someone else, years down the line, will turn it worse again?” She dropped her hand and faced the statue again, changing a part of the canticle to say: “As she looked upon the waiting sacrifice, / One Grey Warden felt the first prickling pangs / Of dread. And she turned to her fellow wardens, / Saying: "Should glory come at such a price? / What reward can be worth this?”

“And when the hunters reached the foot / Of the solitary hill, they found nothing, / The trail of their quarry vanished, as if the People / Had taken wing.”

Leliana looked in confusion at Mahariel who smiled sheepishly.

“That is the only part of the Chant I remember.”

Sadness settled back into the creases of Leliana’s face. “I tried to get the Divine to recanonize Shartan. She was hesitant to do so with the war already creating division.”

“I am sorry,” Mahariel said softly. “Not many knew her like you did. I cannot bring her back and I cannot tell you the meaning of your Maker’s actions. Yet, I am here for you: the sword at your side, the campfire at your rest. If there is silence then I will listen to it together with you.”

Leliana hugged her tightly, an embrace of sweet roses and incense. “Thank you for being here, at Haven. When I look at you, I remember victory.”

Mahariel’s fingers twisted in the cloth of her purple cowl. They stood there for a time, taking refuge in eachother’s warmth against the chill of the Frostback Mountains with its torn sky.

“There was something about your story,” said Leliana after they parted, the cunning of a spymaster threaded her tone. “You said the Grey Wardens were mind controlled to do the magister’s bidding. Cullen attributed it to blood magic, but if that were the case then why target wardens specifically when the war made it so hundreds of apostates can be recruited with no one knowing?”

“Leliana.” It was the only word Mahariel said.

“I know the Grey Wardens have a unique relationship with the blight.”

Of course she did. They did not spend an entire year fighting darkspawn together for her to not catch on to something. Especially when Mahariel and Alistair played games of ‘how far and precisely can you sense a darkspawn’ and ‘what different types of darkspawn are in that group’. While Leliana did not witness them down vials of enhanced blight potion in Avernus’s study, she did know they, with a little blood magic help from Morrigan, were able to somehow remove the blight sickness that Duran Aeducan and Zevran had contacted during time in the Deep Roads. What a shame that ritual did not work for those who swallowed archdemon blood.

“Do you believe I am compromised?”

“No,” Leliana said straight away. “I just need to know if you can be and what conditions are required in order for someone to be controlled.”

Mahariel pulled Leliana into an empty room and closed the door. Knowing that doors in Haven Chantry’s were absolutely useless to protect against eavesdroppers, she lowered her voice.

“The wardens have recognized the blight as a weapon- it is how we can sense darkspawn. But that weapon is a double-edged blade without a handle.” She thought for a moment on how to convey the exact way wardens could be influenced without using the words ‘the Calling’. Avernus had a lot of unfortunate theories about what the Calling exactly was. “Think of mages and demons connected through the Fade. The magister is like a demon essentially tempting wardens to be possessed by him. When I was at the temple, it was like a Harrowing and I rejected his will. It seemed like a proximity based influence, but any warden or person or thing with a connection to the blight may be susceptible.”

Leliana nodded solemnly. “Then it’s critical we inform the other wardens to be on their guard against the magister’s lies.” She paused, and a short, bitter laugh erupted from her lips. “We had the Divine Conclave because the world was afraid of mages, future maleficarum and abominations. But no one expected the Grey Wardens would be the ones possessed.”

Unease churned in Mahariel. “And what would you say should be done? Lock them up in a tower? Add ‘striking down wardens’ to the Templars’ duties?”

“No! Mahariel,” said Leliana vehemently, “The wardens who killed Divine Justinia made their choice. Our response to the actions of a few should not strangle the lives of the innocent.”

Mahariel released a sigh and stepped closer, placing her head on Leliana’s shoulder. “I lashed out. The Order is a liability when sentient darkspawn come into play. But no one can know that; they would fear our connection to the blight too much.”

It troubled her greatly that the magister could replicate the call of an Old God. Fortunately, the power seemed entirely constrained to those who were blighted, considering how Justinia was still struggling against the bonds of the ritual to the very end. When they fought Urthemiel, everyone on top of the fort could hear it, Grey Warden or not. Only Mahariel and Alistair were able to approach close enough to lay strikes against him, non-wardens risked either dying from the concentration of blight or going into a coma from the song.

Leliana patted her back. “And that secrecy makes the magister’s ability to do harm so much greater.”

But those secrets could not be revealed. The truth would make people afraid and in times of chaos, the seeds of fear could sprout deep-rooted weeds that leeched all possibility of hope.

—

A day later, with a longbow and map of the area, Mahariel pushed through the doors of both buildings neighbouring her own to inform members of the ‘glow bug club’- she would have to ask Varric about a better name- that they should be prepared to set off within the hour, just as the sun would be high enough for humans to see.

Next, she entered the ground floor of the tavern and went up its steps to the guest rooms above, letting her dog sniff out Varric’s location to inform him of the same. Cassandra already knew of the plans and would be donning her armour soon within the chilly walls of the Chantry. From the scent trail, Solas resided in the apothecary, taking up lodgings in what she assumed to be the apprentice’s room while Adan used the room of his late master.

At the gate, everyone gathered around, some more sleepy-eyed than others. Mahariel pointed to areas on the map where Fade rifts were sighted. A few were uncomfortably close to Haven while the bulk of them centred around the Breach. Mahanon and co.- really, there needed to be a better name- had carved out a path when they initially went up to the temple, but still more surrounded the other sides.

“I thought the Veil tore in places of magic or mass death,” said Kaaras. “All these areas are deserted and there’s none in the village.”

Curious indeed. Mahariel nodded. “There have been incoming reports of rifts outside of the mountains. Redcliff only has a few despite how thin the Veil should be there.”

“It could be dependent on how close to the Breach the places are,” suggested Malika.

“What do you think, apostate?” Varric said. That attempted nickname was as lazy as the ‘elf’ he gave Fenris.

Despite there being three magic users in the group, everyone turned to Solas, who kept his composure despite the sudden amount of eyes on him. He still seemed half a step in the Fade.

“I would say that it is too soon to determine, although Malika’s premise could very well point towards a general observation,” he murmured. "We must remind ourselves that the magister’s ritual was interrupted. Whatever he intended to happen, did not, and the consequences of interspersed magic do not always follow real world logic.”

They set off to tackle the rifts near Haven. Those, along with the tasks Mahariel acquired from the villagers concerning gathering resources, would take a day. The ones up the mountain would take multiple days depending on the difficulty of the terrain since they needed to return to Haven each night.

The first rift was near a small contained wood that found itself between the lake and the roads. Mahariel stopped Cassandra from rushing in, explaining her desire to see if the Marks affected magical and anti-magic abilities. Maxwell resolutely took the lead with Cassandra and Kaaras at his sides. Malika came at the demons from the opposite end and Mahariel ordered Mahanon to support the melee rogue. Bow notched but at rest, Mahariel surveyed the battlefield with a tactician’s eye, Solas a few yards from her casting barriers and creation spells. Her mabari circled around, ready to take on stragglers.

Considering there were eight people, the fight ended quickly. The Fade rift hung ten feet off the ground, white and green light flowing like a sheer cloth played with by the wind. Energy shuddered through it and if Mahariel looked closely enough, she imagined she could see spirits looking back at her. There was a strong, continuous humming that she could feel within her body, her heart.

The Anchor recognised its ilk, along with the Marks. Mahanon’s face was bleeding emerald as his was the only one not covered by armour. A distinctly pained look on his face, Maxwell took off his right gauntlet and raised his glowing bare hand.

“Wait,” Solas cut in, appearing entirely awake. “We should let our Inquisitor do the honour.”

“I am not a mage.”

“I’m like the opposite of one but I still managed to close a rift,” said Malika. “Solas was able to teach all of us how to deal with them.”

“How unfortunate that Solas did not manage to pick up a Mark when the sky was handing them out,” Mahariel said with the edge of an anxious bite. Considering how the Anchor tried to hurt Evelyn, she was not keen on letting the power out.

Solas cleared his throat. “I merely offered some words of guidance. The doing, and the power, belongs to all of you.” He tilted his head towards the rift. “Will you not try? It would be prudent to test your capabilities in a controlled environment.”

“The Anchor is not on my hand. Will that be a problem?”

“No,” Kaaras said. “It’ll hurt like shit when the magic runs through the rest of your body, but it’s possible.”

Wonderful. Mahariel walked closer to the left where Solas stood. She took off her single glove and raised her hand in the air right below the rift.

Nothing happened.

She rolled her wrist in a ‘come on’ gesture and embarrassment creeped into her mood. It would be so much simpler if Mahariel could just pull-

(The scent of alcohol, overspiced stew, and city dirt. A crowded tavern because Merrill still optimistically thought the revelry of drunken shemlen, their eyes curiously roving over her vallas’lin, would make her less lonely. Or maybe she chose The Hanged Man as a meetup spot because Hawke loved to be there, and her presence so filled people up that there was no room for loneliness.

Hands on a table that honestly tried to be clean but its history was apparent in the scars and stains. Warm and sweaty flesh too close to hers because Varric was telling a story and when he did that, the people flocked all around, giving him a circle of space for his dramatic gestures but pressing close against that invisible barrier like spirits against the Veil.

Varric sat with his booted feet atop the table, top buttons undone on his tunic to reveal a significant amount of hair. Loose leafed papers were held face down on his thighs, not wanting to let people taller than him catch the words on them and spoil the surprise. Long Way Home had already been half-read out, half-improvised on the spot, but they were staying for a few more tentative chapters of his future book.

“He orders his lieutenant to get everyone in the clearing and at this point we already fought like fifty people, Bianca has seven bolts left. I’m depending on Hawke to charm her way out of this one. Before she can say a word, this one guy staggers out from behind the corner and drops dead at our feet.” He smacked the table to mimic a body hitting the ground.

“An elf walks out, white-haired as if he’s seen a ghost, thick branch-like tattoos all over his body.” Varric traced a wavy design over his bare chest. “They’re glowing though, the bright blue of liquid magic and I realise, they’re not tattoos at all. Lyrium branded into his skin by a sadistic Tevinter master.” Hand still on his torso, he pantomimed the next paragraph. “And against the Tevinter slaver standing before us, he presses that lyrium hand through his chest, through the armour, and pulls-”)

This was the Fade pulling out her heart.

Every secret part of Mahariel laid bare. The green light of the rift disappeared, blown back in the facade of air moved by large wings, but its energy stayed, expanded. And like a high dragon- Andraste reincarnate- pulling back her neck to then breathe out conjured fire, Mahariel was immolated in magic. Her heart, hand of the Fade squeezing, spilling its blood on the soaking soil, pulsed out to the rhythm of a song. Somewhere, on some part of herself, Mahariel’s skin was splitting.

Then a hand took her outreached wrist and shoved her heart back.

It was not as relieving as one would imagine. Mahariel fell down from the Breach, stone pressing flesh, squashing out her life to her knees and threw up her morning porridge.

“You killed me,” she mumbled. “What did you do?”

Solas was crouched down with her, fingers digging uselessly into the snow. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The words were nearly crushed under the worried whining of Fen’Harel. Coldness from the ground flooded up her hands, inches away from his own.

Mahanon rushed to them and bent down. He rubbed soothing circles at the back of her neck while she recovered. She slowly stood back up, ignoring someone’s question of what happened.

“You’re right, Kaaras,” Mahariel said with dull casualness. She wiped off spit from the corner of her mouth. “It does hurt like shit.”

Except the pain was not physical like a mace hitting her spine. It was not the familial shock of chain lightning or spirit bolt either. Restoring the Veil felt like a dream, the continuous waking up during the Blight from an Old God’s incomplete song.

—

Mahariel made them all collect elfroot for Apothecary Adan.

She taught proper retrieval of the leaves to Malika, who was smart enough to leave talk of Fade rifts behind in favour of speaking about all the harmful plants she did know how to identify. Mahariel idly chatted with her, cross-referencing the topic with her own knowledge and occasionally adding in new information. Poisons, usable venoms, and other dastardly concoctions were Malika’s specialty, something useless against demons. Ineffective with darkspawn too. Perhaps Leliana could impart a little bit of bardskill.

After that, they went farther north to Taigen’s research shack. While Varric and Kaaras traded stories about ridiculous things they saw people do in a tavern, Mahariel searched through the building, riffling through flasks and skimming detailed journals. Solas stepped inside.

“What is it you were sent to search for?” he asked, apparently not knowing much of the quest given by his roommate. She could guess at many reasons why that might be the case.

The gesture would likely be the closest to an ‘are you okay’ conversation passed between them. Neither party was interested in discussing the details of Mahariel’s first, and she was not so naive to think it was her last, attempt at closing a rift with the Anchor. What she thought of the experience and his theories on what was done would be unrevealed. Veiled.

Mahariel controlled a smile at the fleeting thought. “Something that can help a mage.”

They found it in a nearly filled book with faint blue fingerprints on the cover- a formula that incited mana restoration without requiring expensive lyrium. Tests and results of the differing rates were recorded in the previous pages- data which could only be supplied if a magic user were asked or had been the one to do the experiments himself.

A few metres beyond the shack lay ore deposits and an adequate place for logging, which she made note of on the map. The party followed the curve of the lake until another rift was met. Mahariel split them into a main group and a pure support group, picking out Maxwell, Mahanon, Cassandra, and Varric to lead.

When the remaining shades faded, Mahanon stepped forward protectively and closed the rift with a flick and tightening of the fist. From an observer’s view, Mahariel tried to decipher where she went wrong. Light crumpled into itself and the rushing song that had been flowing like a waterfall was drowned out with the magic of the Mark. A bandage over a cut arm.

She had been unconsciously thinking the fault lay in the Fade, which poured into the physical world senselessly, sweeping in unwilling spirits. But the Fade did nothing wrong; the Veil was the problem. Their goal was to patch the holes in it.

Mahariel went up to Mahanon. She traced the side of his face opposite to the Mark.

“How does it hurt?”

“Like raw lyrium.”

They moved on. The next rift, the last one in the area, was on the other side of a broken stone bridge. There were no demons surrounding it, apparently the spirits had been lucky. Solas turned to Mahariel.

“Do you want to try again? I will guide you this time.”

The offer did not appeal to her, she felt like a vessel of power to be willed by others instead of herself, but she accepted nonetheless. So under a rift again, his hand encircling her wrist, they stood. Nothing happened until Solas pressed the humming flicker of his magic into her hand.

Mahariel instinctively tried to retract, however his grip was firm. Power of the Anchor sparked from her fingertips, fizzling out before they could catch on the edges of the battered Veil.

“Do you feel that? You must control it instead of letting the Anchor do as it wants.”

She felt nothing beyond his own magic, the warmth of their contact, and the chill of the environment. Somehow the Anchor was embedded deep within her and Mahariel needed to dig its power out without letting it flood their desiccated world. She placed her free hand on her chest, right where the Joining amulet would have been.

That part of her, she could sense and command up to a point as Avernus taught her. Control of the Anchor should be similar. She dug in, like small fingers breaking through summer dirt, down and down, to consciously grasp amputated instincts that even animals had. Mahariel brought it out of her in tight threaded strands of verdant light reaching for the Fade rift the same way plant stems reached towards the sun.

But control it. The ice block instead of the ocean. She made it small, hiding, back against soil the way her twelve-year-old self could hide in the roots of Brecilian trees, tight and enclosed, trying to make herself less so the Gwaren shemlen would not notice her. Instead of the overwhelming magic of the Fade, she looked at the structure of the Veil. An instant of contact, placing chipped stone in the wall it came from, and the rift collapsed its window.

Solas dropped his hand. “Precisely.” A string of discontent twined in the appraisal.

With the last closure of the day completed, there was only one task left to do. Mahariel led the group out to a grassy area which had the barest dusting of snow.

When Haven was resettled with followers of the modern southern Chantry, it did not reclaim its full self-sustaining aspect as before. While communal gardens within the walls were tended to by its permanent residents, the outward agricultural farms were long left to grow wild. Over thirty percent of the food was imported every month. With the Inquisition making the isolated village its base of operations due to the location of the Breach, the cost of supplies and transportation was predicted to be significant. Thus, It was high-priority to retain what resources they had.

“We are looking for sheep,” Mahariel said simply.

Cassandra’s short, effective ‘What’ prompted her to explain.

Haven had domesticated sheep. The main flock was farther up the mountain and a smaller group had been brought down to the village for some purpose or other when the explosion happened. This flock was now lost, gone from the usual grazing area they stood in, its shepherd’s whereabouts unknown. With demons and natural predators, the sheep needed to be retrieved swiftly.

Mahariel’s hound ran around, stopping to nose the ground, leaving to follow a scent trail. The others spread out and searched visually. A few miles of pursuit later, they spotted a small herd of ewes protected by one ram.

Their mistake was in approaching the group head on. The ram backed away from Kaaras, seemingly fearful of his size. Then it charged forward and Mahariel was suddenly reminded that despite both being herd animals, halla and sheep had very different behaviours.

Kaaras cursed and tried running out of range of the ram’s territory. Solas casted a barrier on him.

“Use your horns!” Malika shouted. A rude hand gesture would have likely been thrown her way if rams were not surprisingly speedy.

After a narrow dodge, Kaaras brought out his polearm in an attempt to establish distance.

Mahariel yelled, “Don’t kill it!”

Mahanon placed a barrier on the ram.

“Thanks! Do you have any other suggestions?”

Her dog was already running to lend support, but even he seemed uncertain on what to do. Marbari were not bred to be herders.

After dodging for a third time, the strange dance ended when Kaaras walked straight forward and picked the animal up by its body. He had to carry it like that all the way back to Haven.

On the second day they found the shepherd- his body. His face, younger than Maxwell. His eyes, blue glazed over in fear. His left arm, metres away and ripped off from the demons they had just dealt with, rift closed. Mahariel wondered if one of the terrors they fought had come from the young man’s violent end.

“We will make the magister who did this pay,” Cassandra vowed.

“He bled out,” said Varric. “Not a peaceful way to die.”

Malika’s mouth twitched, stopping herself from using dark humour as a shield against the gruesome sight before them. Mahanon looked down and away from the corpse. The others wore their grief openly, if reservedly. Solas seemed the most affected, shock intermixed with distress pulling his features and ears down.

Mahariel crouched down and tried to smooth out the warping of dread on the shepherd’s face. “The main flock and his parents should be in the area.” Perhaps that was why he was- she squashed the thought before it could fully form. It would do no good to be distracted by sorrow. “We should bring him back to them.”

Kaaras carried the body and separated arm, which Mahariel wrapped in bandages to hide the gore. The two old shepherds were found to be a mile away, surrounded by sheep. At the warning bark of their Alamarri Shepherd dog, they looked the group’s way curiously and Mahariel took only her human companions to approach them. There would be a great misunderstanding with a Qunari coming to them carrying their dead son.

Mahariel kept the conversation concise but her words slow enough to be fully understood. She reduced the Inquisition to a Chantry organisation, and Fade rifts to magic that summons demons. The man and woman’s faces were hardened in trepidation and when she broke the news of finding the body of a young man his mother moaned in anguish.

They rushed to Kaaras. The old man wailed as he held his son’s body. Since it was the Andrastian tradition to burn their dead, Mahariel and her party stayed to assist in building the pyre.

The sun slowly started to make its journey down the horizon when the couple allowed the last step of cremation to be performed. Mahariel watched a few respectful metres away as the man let his torch light the bed of sticks.

Cassandra recited the Chant for the Departed: “... The Veil holds no uncertainty for him, / And he will know no fear of death, for the Maker / Shall be his beacon and his shield, his foundation and his sword.”

“May this soul be guided by spirits of softest Compassion and loving Peace. May their long sleep hold only dreams of Joy and Reunion,” Solas said, accent thick and words so subdued Mahariel had trouble hearing them while nearest to him.

Their walk back was accompanied by light wisps as if spirits of the dead guided them back to the living.

—

Mahariel continuously switched up the team structure when fighting demons of the rifts, occasionally including herself in the fray with her sword and sometimes dagger. She had seen enough of how her companions worked with others to make adjustments and give comments. There had been more than one reminder for Malika to aim towards cooperation instead of going after an enemy on her own.

Maxwell was clearly trained to throw his spell purge around the entire area of the field, a heavy anti-magic sensation encasing Mahariel’s movements even if it did not slow her down. Solas could work through the block, but Mahanon’s spells dropped instantly the moment he got too close. It was up to Cassandra to teach Maxwell how to direct his Templar abilities.

Cassandra herself was expertly trained to work in traditional teams and smart enough to adjust to the party’s eclectic collection of skills. Both Kaaras and Varric did well with the constant switch-ups due to their previous experience of the same dynamic, and Solas provided steady support of creation spells in all formations, surprising demons that wandered too close to him with a stunning veilstrike.

While they walked, Solas spoke to Kaaras about magic. Instead of imparting the Chantry’s view of mages, he discussed magic and the ability to wield it as a natural, elegant part of life, carrying harsh risks and sweet rewards. Cassandra disagreed on a few of his comments and Mahariel remembered the days when Wynne and Morrigan would have similar debates.

Nothing practical could be done yet on Kaaras’s journey to be a trained mage, however there were lots of theory and philosophy to discuss. The entire group learned about Fade fluctuations and the relationship between mana and energy. Mahariel once asked Mahanon if he learned those topics with such thoroughness in the Circles.

Mahanon had rolled his eyes. “He just loves to hear the sound of his own voice.”

They cleaned up the mountain with little injury until the only known rift inside the Frostback Mountains was the Breach itself. Mahariel stood in front of what used to be the entrance to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

An ugly smell of ozone and char lingered.

“We should not linger here too long,” Cassandra said. “It will be dark soon and Leliana’s agents confirmed there’s nothing noteworthy in the temple except red lyrium.”

“What do Templars feel when they get near red lyrium?” asked Mahariel.

Cassandra frowned in memory. “I haven’t been near regular lyrium ore deposits before. When we were in the inner sanctum there was the Breach to interfere as well, but I felt the power coming from the walls. It was so much more than any vial and incessant too, like it wanted to be noticed.” She shook her head. “It’s dangerous. A false power at a great cost.”

Mahariel could feel it.