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Chapter Text

⚔

9:10 Dragon

“Perhaps we would have been better off with the Dalish,” Cyrion tucked his head into the crook of Adaia’s neck, her warmth preferable to that of the fire. Even the wood burnt bitterly here when all they could access were wood chips and painted posts scavenged for tinder. The scent of chemicals wafted from their hearth. 

“We’d likely have wound up lost and alone,” Adaia found a hand in his hair and ran her fingers through, careful not to scrape his ears with her nails. “Food for the wolves.” 

“An underwhelming meal,” He chuckled, waving a bony arm in jest. “Perhaps we ought to put that out, hunker down under the quilt.” His nose scrunched as the fetor intensified. Their crumbling chimney, failing to vent whatever they had managed to burn. 

“She’s going to be fine,” Adaia took a deep breath, her nostrils stinging on the inhale. “On second thought…” She coughed and drew to her feet, coaxing a creak from the couch as she left it. 

“I’m sorry things aren’t different for us, for her. Better.” Cyrion sighed deeply, watching the warm glow cast Adaia in a stark half shadow. 

Embers leapt in desperation as he knelt to shut the grate. He strained for a moment, then heaved the heavy stone plate across the floor to cover the opening. 

“You always make it look so easy,” Cyrion looked up shyly. 

Adaia’s teasing smile peeked out from above the bulge of her belly, and she rubbed a tender circle into the back of his neck. “Things are better for us than they were for our parents, all we can do is hope that she might be able to say the same.” She slid a calloused palm overtop the swell of her stomach and withdrew to the bedroom, her husband at her heels. 

“I only hope she inherits your optimism,” Cyrion took Adaia into his arms as they slid into bed, the bliss of closeness nullifying the dull poking of straw from inside the mattress. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

⚔

9:11 Dragon

“Yvra,” Adaia’s breaths came raggedly, her outstretched hands clammy and shaking. Black curls clung to her cheeks, pressed flat by a sheen of perspiration. 

“She’s perfect,” Cyrion ran his thumb across the smallest nose he had ever seen, letting tears fall freely. “You’re perfect.” Carefully, he settled their baby in Adaia’s arms, leaning ridiculously to support her head through the transfer. 

“She looks like me,” Adaia ran a hand over the smooth of her daughter’s head, a tress of dark curls under her touch. The bed sagged with blood and sweat, the stench of birth faintly mimicking the odor of decay. 

“A fortunate thing, that,” Cyrion joked, tapping the tip of his long, angled nose. He dipped briefly out of sight and dropped to one knee to rewet a frayed cloth in the basin by her bedside. Adaia sighed into the sensation as he laid the rag over her forehead, holding Yvra tight to her chest. 

“Thank you,” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and took a seat beside her. “For everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Adaia cooed, featherlight beneath the blankets. Now empty, utterly fulfilled.

⚔

9:20 Dragon

“I don’t suppose I need to remind you girls to be careful, swinging those things around in here.” Cyrion crossed the kitchen, balancing an armful of fruit as he approached the counter.

“Measured strikes, my love,” Adaia huffed, panting lightly.  Her arms swelled through her shirt, her toned muscles straining against the fabric as she raised a shield, sword at the ready. 

“I know, I know,” Yvra groaned, her face pink with frustration. “It would be easier if we had equipment that suited my size.” She lifted her sword over her head, then stepped backward as the weight of it threatened to topple her. 

“Balance,” Adaia pushed forward, taking the opportunity to knock her daughter off her feet with a gentle shove of her shield. 

“How is this fair?” Yvra hit the ground hard, her weapon clattering beside her on the hardwood. She balled her fists, ignoring her mother’s outstretched hand and pushed herself back up. 

“Fair,” Cyrion chuckled under his breath, the very concept laughable. When had life in the Alienage ever been fair? He stepped back through his memories, recalling the fervor of youth and smiled down at his hands as they worked to strip the skin from a bundle of oranges.

“You’ll thank me,” Adaia backed up, resetting her stance. “When you’re grown, that blade will feel like a dagger.”

Yvra sighed, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Maybe, but right now my shoulders damn near dislocate every time I try to hit you.” She sulked visibly, reaching down to draw the weapon from the floor. 

Adaia smiled down at her, statuesque in her mail. “Again.” 

⚔

9:25 Dragon

Their door shook against its frame, the thin slats bending beneath the force of a guardsmen’s cudgel. The cacophony of sabatons striking soil rang out through the Alienage as soldiers marched through the slums, weapons drawn. 

“Open up,” A gruff voice boomed from outside. “It’s not a request. By the order of the Arl, open this fucking door.” 

Cryion’s fingers dug into Yvra’s shoulders, holding her tight against his chest as he fought to keep her from springing forward out of his grasp. She begged for release, kicking wildly and beating back against his stomach with her elbows.

“Adaia, take her to the bedroom, let me handle this!” Cyrion pleaded, anxiously watching as his wife’s expression hardened. 

“They’re going to find them.” Adaia whispered, her eyes glistening with indecision. She glanced down at the floorboards beside the fireplace where the edges of each plank were raw with scuff marks. The discovery of a single shield would condemn them to life in prison, but the swords would mark them for death. 

“Damnit Adaia, please. ” Cyrion choked back a sob, straining with effort to keep his daughter in place. 

“Yvra,” Adaia drew near and settled one hand on either side of her daughter’s face. “You need to do nothing . It’s not fair, but it’s all I ask. You hear?” She swept her thumb along Yvra’s cheek; hot with anger and wet with tears. 

“I can fight, we can fight!” Yvra cried, heaving with anxiety as the efforts to break the door doubled outside. 

“Last chance!” The guard warned. His shout was hoarse with hatred; whatever chance they might’ve had at diplomacy was likely gone, and they knew it.

“Tell me you understand.” Adaia doubled down, locking eyes. 

“I don’t.” Yvra jerked forward, nearly breaking free of Cryion’s hold.. 

“You will.” Adaia shoved her suddenly, sending both husband and daughter tumbling back into the bedroom. She slammed her body against the door and wedged a broom over the bar, then broke her own heart by fastening it into place. The sound of Yvra’s wailing echoed hauntingly in Adaia’s ears, overlapped by Cyrion’s pleas transitioning into panicked cries.

“I love you. Both of you.” She whispered from the other side, then turned to face the apartment’s entrance just as the door gave way. 

The wood splintered violently; sharpened chunks of hickory flying as the battering ram forced it apart. 

Adaia lunged for the cubby and peeled back the plank quicker than they could cross the threshold, unphased by the smattering of flinders lodged in her side. She bore her arms and raised her head, holding her shield by the strap, sword in hand. 

“It is the right of every Denerim citizen to defend themselves. These are mine, just as you have yours.” She steeled herself, finding her center. 

“You’re right.” A bearded guardsman stepped toward her holding a closed fist in the air, commanding his men to pause behind him. “But you aren’t like us.” He paced menacingly, his armor jingling with each step. “Had you opened up the first time I asked and handed them over, perhaps we could have come to an understanding.” He looked Adaia up and down, a glint of hunger in his expression. “Instead you stand before me, indignant, – armed .” He turned his nose up in disgust at the audacity and shook his head. “Men.” He waved his troops forward impatiently, directing them into the dwelling. 

He stepped back and smiled smugly, casting a long shadow from his spot in the empty doorway as soldiers poured in on either side of him. The sound of their armored footsteps threatened to drown out the noise from the other side of the house, but Yvra and Cyrion’s screams pierced their makeshift barricade.

They could hear everything, the clashing of metal and thumping of bodies. It seemed to go on forever, unintelligible shouting accenting the symphony of steel. And then, silence.

⚔

9:29 Dragon

“It’s not perfect,” Cyrion balanced a large bowl in his hands, soup sloshing with each step. “But you need your strength. We’re frail enough as it is.” He laughed lightly and set it down over a worn, woven coaster.

“Better than what Mom could make,” Yvra crossed her arms over the table and leaned forward to inhale the aroma wafting off the stew. She glanced over at him through the corner of her eye to gauge a reaction but as usual, there was none. 

He pulled out a seat at the head of the table and planted himself, sighing with exhaustion as he settled. “Pass the ladle please dear,” He motioned towards it and unstacked two wide mugs. 

Yvra slid it toward him absently, resting her face in her hand. “I wish you would talk about her.” She tested the waters.

“Yvra, I’m tired. Not tonight, please.” He scooped up a serving, vegetables plopping wetly into his cup as he poured. 

“Then when?” She slammed her hands down, startling him to the point of spillage. The broth seeped through the worn wood of their table and dripped rhythmically onto the floor. 

Cyrion slid his chair back in response, the legs screeching as he did so. “Not tonight.” He repeated, then retreated to his room without having so much as a sip and slammed the door shut behind him.

Chapter Text

⚔

9:30 Dragon

Yvra laid awake, holding herself completely still as she listened for the sound of her father’s footsteps down the hall. She eyed her bedroom door, willing it to stay shut. Sleep hadn’t taken her the night before, and now the sun was filtering in through the blinds, threatening her with the day to come. 

“Go on in, better you wake her,” Cyrion’s voice carried through the walls. “I’m sure she’s not happy with me.” 

Yvra flipped, pulling the quilt up over her head as the knob jostled. She heard the door squeak open, followed by the gentle clicking of small heels. She tensed beneath the blanket, her back turned. 

“Wake up Cousin,” Shianni was nearly breathless, her voice shrill with excitement; she must have ran here. “Why are you still in bed?” She leaned forward and tugged the covers free, draping them over the top bunk. 

Yvra jolted, drawing her knees to her chest in reaction to the sudden exposure. “Why are you in my room?” She rubbed at the corners of her eyes, black hair spilling over her shoulders. 

“A question with a question,” Shianni sang, shaking her head. “Because I begged your father to let me share the good news!” She knelt down and took Yvra’s hands in covenant. “You do remember what today is, don’t you?” 

“Someone’s wedding?” Reluctantly, Yvra uncurled and swung her legs over the side of her bunk, feet dangling. She stared down at her bare knees, one pale and the other purple. 

“Even better,” Shianni gave her a squeeze and stepped away to thumb through some dresser drawers. “It’s a double wedding! Looks like they found a bride for Soris just in time to hit two birds.” She chimed, peering back over her shoulder to flash a teasing smile.

Yvra sulked, visibly drooping as she twisted the ring on her finger. She didn’t want this. 

“Aaand,” Shianni turned around, holding a faded dress out by the straps. She turned it in the air, then raised a red eyebrow as she spotted a tear along the skirt. “It’s a no from me. Why don’t you just mend this?”

Yvra pressed her face into her hands and peered down at the floorboards through the gaps in her fingers. “Mom was the seamstress,” She answered quietly, her voice muffled against her palms.

“Well,” Shianni folded the dress and tucked it under her arm. “What I came here to tell you was that your groom, Nelaros, is here early!” She bounced in place, unable to conceal her excitement despite the lack of reciprocation.

“I really don’t like this arranged marriage business,” Yvra whined, immovable on the matter.

“Who else are you going to marry?” Shianni scoffed, laughing into the crook of her free arm. “Besides, I already snuck a peak – he’s handsome,” She fanned herself mockingly, eyelashes fluttering. “Ugh,” She sighed, watching as Yvra’s expression hardened with disinterest. “Come on, there’s going to be music, decorations, feasting… weddings are so much fun! You’re lucky. ” She had intended to impart some comfort, but found her tone sharpening at the tail end. 

“Then you take him.” Yvra’s voice wavered, frustration knotting in her stomach. 

“I’ll make my match in time, Cousin,” Shianni nodded, “But today is your day, not mine.” She smoothed the dress in her hand against her thigh and beamed down at Yvra. “Alright, I’ll stop tormenting you now, but only because I have to go talk to the bridesmaids and find my own dress. Try not to keep Soris waiting.” 

⚔

Yvra stood opposite the mirror, tying the last of several loose braids into place. She searched her own eyes, hoping to find even a flicker of confidence – but came up empty. She was upset, moreso with herself than the betrothal, truly. This is what everybody did, what her mother and father, who had the truest love she had ever seen, had done to find one another. 

She couldn’t explain her repulsion, but the idea of having to share a bed with anyone, let alone a stranger, was nausea inducing. The thought of someone else invading the space that belonged to her and her dad was unbearable. Why could–

“Yvra?” Cyrion drummed his knuckles against the bathroom door. “I have something for you…” He trailed off, “When you’re ready.” 

She watched herself take a deep breath and spun on her heel, hovering a slender hand over the door handle. Yvra waited until his footfalls receded into silence then opened up, blowing out the candle behind her. 

In the time that it had taken her to meet him in the living room, she had mostly collected herself. She couldn’t manage a smile, but at least she wasn’t pouting. 

“My little girl,” Cyrion’s voice broke over the words, his eyes welling at the sight of her. “It’s the last day I’ll be able to call you that...” He paused to sniffle, putting every effort into holding himself together. “I wish Adaia could have been here.” 

For years Yvra had tried and failed to wrench that name from his lips, and to hear it now took her aback. She cleared her throat, fiddling still with her wedding band. “Can we talk about this arrangement?” 

He exhaled deeply, a touch of sadness in his expression. “Still not pleased, I see. Of course we can talk.” He beckoned her to the dining table and took a seat beside her, the worn wooden chair creaking under his weight.

She took her lip between her teeth, considering her turn of phrase. “Do I really have to get married?” 

The last thing she had expected him to do was laugh, but he was, shoulders bobbing and eyes adrift as if in recollection. “It’s time for you to have your own life. Unmarried, you’re a child forever.”

Yvra struggled to hold in a snort, she had been taking care of the both of them for the better part of the last five years. Her childhood had long since ended. 

“I would have an easier time understanding if you were to send me out on my own, but you’re asking me to add another mouth to feed.” She reached across the table in search of his hand, a wordless plea. It wasn’t too la–

“The dowry has been paid, the Chantry has issued the permit, everything is ready, Yvra. All we need is you.” Cyrion insisted, still soft spoken despite his assertion.

“But I don’t want to get married,” Yvra nearly shouted, her composure collapsing. The desperation in her voice bruised Cyrion’s heart, but he failed to falter. 

A knowing smirk spread across his face as he thought back to his own youth, the fear and anxiety preluding a lifelong commitment made on faith alone. “I remember,” He admitted, “Before I met Adaia, I was about ready to go hunt for the Dalish.” 

He waved a finger in the air matter of factly, “Just be glad I chose the match. Without parents to represent you, children like your cousin Soris end up marrying whoever the elder can find.” 

As much as that meant to her, Cyrion couldn’t possibly know what she wanted. She didn’t know herself, men had always been more of a threat than an interest and now she was to pledge herself to one, blindly and without complaint. 

Yvra conceded, rolling her eyes in amusement. “Who did the elder find for him? And did they warn her first?” 

Cyrion’s laugh was underpinned with the relief that his daughter just might come around. “I don’t know,” He shrugged, pushing back against the table to slide out of his chair. “I haven’t met the girl. How about you go see for yourself if you’re curious.” 

“I’ll report back,” Yvra smiled weakly and stood up across from him. 

“Alright, on that note, it’s time for you to go find Soris. The sooner this wedding starts, the less chance you two have to escape.” Cyrion clasped his hands together in finality, preparing himself to send her out the door. 

“A small chance is still a chance,” She teased, falling forward to embrace him. 

“Still have your mother’s smart mouth, I see,” Cyrion pressed his cheek to the top of her head, then pushed firmly against her shoulders. “You’re going to paralyze me.” His back threatened to crack under the tightness of her hug; both brawny arms constricting him to the point of immobility.

“Sorry,” Yvra released him and lovingly straightened out his collar. 

“Speaking of which,” Cyrion spoke quietly as he caught his breath. “One last thing before you go, dear…” He pursed his lips, unsure of his own advice. “Your martial training… the swordplay, knives and whatever else your Mother trained you in… Best not to mention it to your betrothed.”

“I take it you didn’t say anything,” Yvra folded her arms over her chest and eyed the cubby beneath the hearth where her weapon lay. 

“No, no, of course not. Not that there’s – you know what I mean. We don’t want to seem like trouble makers after all. Adaia made that mistake..” Cyrion almost sounded blameful for a moment, and then it was gone, his eyes glossing over with serenity. 

She didn’t know how he did it, how he managed to level himself so swiftly. 

“The humans who killed her are at fault.” Yvra defended reflexively, coming off colder than she had intended. 

“Our world…” He stilled momentarily, actively working to maintain his sense of calm, “Is full of many injustices.” The acceptance with which he made his statement wrenched her heart, the complete absence of outrage unfathomable. 

“Adaia’s dress is in my closet.” Cyrion gestured toward his bedroom,  “Your Mother would have wanted you to have it. It’s the very least I can give you to start your new life…”

“Thank you, Dad.” 

“Go on, then. I still have some things to do and Soris is no doubt waiting for you.” He gave her a loving pat on the shoulder and turned to leave, his age showing in every slow step.

Chapter Text

⚔

9:30 Dragon

Thick shoulder pads, finely embroidered silk panels and elegant stitching with rich gold and silver thread. Yvra almost couldn’t believe her father had managed to maintain its condition after so many years under the circumstances. Moths made quick work of most garments in this part of the city and patchwork outfits were a common sight as people recycled the scraps. 

It was time. 

She stepped out through the front door, the trail of her wedding gown already taking on dirt as she set out across the courtyard. To wear something so meaningful on such a grave occasion all but soiled the sentiment, as thoughtful as Cyrion had been for gifting it. 

“My wife gets suspicious,” An inebriated gentleman standing in a group by the lower city gate broke his sentence with a burp. “When I come home smelling like fish.” He teetered sloppily, slinging an arm over the shoulder of the man closest to him. The matrimonial revelry extended far beyond the parties involved; friends, family and strangers alike came together to celebrate a new union in their community. 

“Look, it’s the bride,” He called out, taking notice of Yvra's dress from a distance. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

Yvra stepped forward, recognizing one in the back but not recalling his name. “You’re drunk,” She observed, almost jealous. His memory of this day would be a good one. 

“Well, it’s a wedding isn’t it?” He raised his mug in the air, spilling ale between their feet. One of his friends offered an apologetic nod, and politely escorted him elsewhere as shouts of glee devolved into spirited slurs. 

At least someone was having a good time. 

⚔

Cyrion and assumedly, her fiance’s family had outdone themselves with the venue. Ribbons and flowers were strapped to every post and pole in their square of the Alienage. Overnight they had managed to assemble a sizable wooden stage in the town square complete with a small altar and enough pews to seat every elf in Denerim. For weeks now Yvra had drowned her father out, letting the details flow in through one pointed ear and out the other.

A pang of guilt tolled in her chest, her dad had put so much of himself into making this happen for her, and she couldn’t bring herself to be grateful for it. She didn’t deserve to wear her mother’s dress, not when she fell so short of measuring up. 

The level of preparation alone worsened Yvra’s nerves, there could be no backing out, not without socially slaying her father. This was going to happen. She lingered by the stage, trying and failing to imagine herself upon it sharing a kiss with someone she couldn’t even picture. 

“Excuse me,” An older woman called out from behind Yvra, pulling her husband along by the hand. “Is that you, Yvra?” 

Yvra narrowed her eyes, squinting with effort as she tried to put a name to the face. “Uh-huh.”

“I told you!” The woman fastened her hands around her husband’s bicep and tugged excitedly, jerking his entire body with the motion. “It’s the lucky bride herself,” She smiled kindly, unhanding him to close the distance. 

“Now love, she probably doesn’t remember us,” Her husband chimed in, stepping up alongside her. 

“Oh of course, I’m Dilwyn and this is Gethon. We were friends of your mother’s, we haven’t seen you since, well…” Dilwyn trailed off, her eyes fixed on Yvra’s face; seeking Adaia’s influence over her features. 

“Can you tell me something about her?” Yvra perked up, leaning forward with interest. 

“Your father still doesn’t speak of her, then?” Gethon pressed his lips together, disappointment flashing across his wrinkled face. 

“Adaia was beautiful, and full of life.” Dilwyn thought back, her gaze soft. “And a bit wild.”

Gethon sighed deeply, “She wanted you more than anything. It’s sad she never got to see you all grown up.” The words hurt despite his best intentions, but Yvra offered no sign of the sting. 

“We just wanted to see you today, and express our well wishes.” Dilwyn interlocked her fingers and rested her hands against her sternum. 

“Thank you,” She wanted to mean it. 

“So like your father,” Dilwyn laughed. “Calm. It’s what she loved about him…”

“Dear,” Gethon gestured to his pocket, a wordless reminder. 

 “Oh, yes!” Dilwyn nodded, “So, we’ve actually saved up a bit of money for this day… We’d… We’d like you to have it, to start your new life.” 

“I can’t accept this,” Yvra put her hand up in protest, jarred by the generosity. Saving was something humans talked about, not something that elves were capable of. 

“Please,” Dilwyn beseeched her, “We want you to have it.” 

Gethon fisted about in his pocket and withdrew a thick, paper pouch, outstretching his arms in offering.

“I can’t thank you enough.” Yvra bowed her head in appreciation and tucked the envelope into her breast band. 

“Maker bless you,” Dilwyn pressed a gentle kiss to Yvra’s cheek, a very Ferelden farewell. “We’ll be in the second row.”

⚔

Yvra circled the market in search of Soris. Perhaps he had the nerve that she lacked, maybe he was halfway to Orlais with no plans to return. 

“Hurry up, waiting around won’t make it any easier,” Nessa’s father settled his hands on his hips and bent over in the middle of the pathway to examine a broken cart. 

“Dad, look,” Nessa tapped him on the back, directing his attention to Yvra’s approach. She looked tired and skinny, all eyebags and bones. They whole family did. 

“Many blessings, young one.” Nessa's father's voice was ragged with exhaustion, his poor knees popping as he stood up. “We’d hoped to stay for the celebration, but we must be off.” 

“You’re not staying?” Yvra raised an eyebrow. “I’m not upset, but I expected that you all would, considering your relationship with Nelaros’ family.” 

“I wish we could,” Nessa’s mother popped out from behind her husband, cheeks smeared with dirt. “We’re thrilled though – to see a match we recommended reach the altar.” 

So they were to blame. 

“The human who owns our building has decided to sell it for storage space,” Nessa’s father explained, “We can’t afford to live anywhere else here, so we’re leaving Denerim.” 

No one left Denerim, at least not the Alienage, save for the occasional exit via corpse wagon or forced relocation to Tevinter. As far as she knew, there was nowhere else to go. The wilds were unforgiving, and despite their less than ideal conditions, elves lived better here than most kingdoms would tolerate. A step above livestock.

“Where will you go?” Yvra rocked on her heels, anxious on their behalf. 

“The Ostagar Ruins,” Nessa replied woefully, tapping pebbles with the tip of her boot. “The army camp there is calling for laborers.” 

“We wanted to look for work in Highever,” Her mother added, wringing her hands together. 

“But that’s just not possible.” Nessa’s father interjected, clearly having exhausted that option. 

“Why not?” Yvra knew little of the world, she didn't even have a baseline understanding of the city in which she was raised; her life extended to the Alienage borders and never beyond. 

“Moving to a different Alienage isn’t easy,” Nessa’s father groaned at the notion, “Travel and bribes cost money.” He lowered his voice, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, “Humans are a suspicious lot. I’ve heard the ones in Highever are worse than here.” 

Yvra struggled to comprehend how that could be possible, “You could stay with us for a while.”

“All three of us in one room with your father, you, and your new husband? Are you crazy?” Nessa’s father fought to hold his laughter in. 

“What my husband means…” Nessa’s mother shot him a glare, “Is that you’re very generous, but… We don’t need charity to solve our problems.” 

“I understand,” Yvra relented, familiar with the mindset.

“Many thanks. Again, blessings on your day,” Nessa’s father bowed in thanks and turned back to his cart, all too eager to make the necessary repairs.

Just as Yvra turned to leave, she felt a light tug at the end of her sleeve. 

“Wait,” Nessa pleaded, “Can I talk to you a moment?” 

“Of course,” Yvra straightened out, offering her undivided attention. 

“I apologize for my parents. They’re too proud to accept help, much less ask for it.” Nessa paused and peeked over her shoulder to ensure they were out of earshot. “My parents will labor in the army camp, and they expect me to do the same, but… I really don’t like the idea of being surrounded by human soldiers who haven’t seen a woman in months.”

Yvra tensed, her pale skin prickling. “Maker.” She felt Dilwyn's envelope crinkling against her bosom as she breathed, remembering. “Would money help?”

“Money always helps, but I don’t know anyone who has that kind of coin.” Nessa’s shoulders drooped, a long fingernail wedged between her teeth. 

“Well, your old man showed you what not to do,” Yvra reached down under the hem of her gown and removed the bundle, still warm. “Take this.”

Nessa opened the parcel, her eyes going wide at the contents. “I’m not even going to ask where you got this much money, Cousin, but I’ll never be able to make it up to you. This is more than enough to get us to Highever.” 

“Stay here,” Yvra proposed. “Where it’s relatively safe. Where we have each other.”

“I think I will.”

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon

⚔

Yvra trotted down an alley, letting her dress billow behind her. Five minutes to reset, two minutes to walk back to the square, forty minutes late to her wedding. It was unlikely any guests would be hanging out on this street, where trash and sewer runoff overflowed from the gutters. If she was lucky, she might be able to go a whole ten minutes without thinking about what came next.

Unfortunately, she could see Elva giving her son a scolding on the sidewalk corner. Despite their difference in age, there had always been antagonism; at least from one side, and the last thing Yvra needed was to hear what she had to say - but she couldn't stop now. She took a preparatory breath and continued in their direction, fully expecting a particularly negative interaction.

“So I see you got yourself a big handsome hulk of a husband,” Elva rested an arm atop her poor son’s head, tapping her fingers. “Excuse me if I don’t congratulate you.” 

“What exactly is your problem?” 

“You,” Elva spat, “Walking around like you’re better than us. Your father has the money to get you a great match. Meanwhile, what did I get? A fat, old man who smells like the docks and wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if he was sober.” She scrunched a fistful of her son’s hair in frustration, then released as he yelped and smoothed her hand over his scalp.

She wasn’t wrong to be angry, Yvra would have never made it a mile in those shoes – but that didn’t make it her fault. However hostile the encounter, the perspective was much needed. Things could be worse, her father wasn’t asking more than she could give – but that didn’t mean she wanted to. 

“What does that have to do with me?” Yvra drew back to escape the stench of hard liquor on Elva’s breath. 

“Like I said, you’re not better than me. I may have a poor match, but at least I have some dignity, wench.” She spat on the ground, just barely missing the tips of Yvra’s shoes peeking out from under her skirt. 

“If that’s what we’re calling it,” Yvra turned back toward the square, her coveted five minutes of peace nowhere to be found. 

⚔

Yvra glanced around the plaza, scanning for Soris. He wasn’t hard to find, his red hair stuck out against a backdrop of burnt wood; the building behind him had been charred black. 

She started off in his direction, but struggled to keep her balance as the heels of her shoes consistently found the cracks in the cobblestone. "Soris!" She waved him over, not wanting to take more steps than she had to.

Soris strutted along the street to meet her beneath the Vhenadahl, spots of sunshine dotting them through its leaves. 

“Well, if it isn’t my lucky cousin, all in a rush after taking her sweet time.” Soris pulled her in for a quick hug, careful not to damage her dress. “Care to celebrate the end of our independence together?” His eyes darted left to right, scanning his surroundings. “Because I’ve been waiting for you to start.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a tarnished patina flask from its confines.

“I haven’t fully ruled out fleeing the city,” Yvra laughed. She guided him to a bench beside the market stall, unable to continue balancing in her dress shoes. “Also, please.” She extended her hand expectantly. 

“Are you insane?” Soris took a seat and passed her the flask, crossing one leg over the other. “Where would you go? Into the woods to live with the Dalish Elves?” He tutted at her, undoing his top button to sit comfortably. “Not like you’d even know where to find them. Besides, why would you run? I hear your groom is a dream come true, my bride sounds like a dying mouse.” His lip curled in disgust.

“I’m just not thrilled with the idea of being married. I look around at every elder here with the knowledge that they’ve lived through this, and yet,” Yvra tilted her head back and took a swig, coughing after she swallowed. “I still can’t come to terms with it.” 

She had to stop herself from dragging her forearm across her lips and dabbed the whiskey from the corner of her mouth instead with the pads of her fingers to avoid staining her sleeves. “Take this back, and keep it.” 

“At least your Dad was able to vet this guy for you. I have no idea how he managed to source a handsome man in this economy.” Soris fiddled with the cap of the flask, contemplative.

“Looks aren’t everything,” Yvra sighed, dropping her head onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry I can’t… really console you. I’m still trying to talk myself into accepting the circumstances.” 

“You’re right,” He sighed, reflecting on his choice of words. “Let’s go introduce you to your dreamy beaux before you both say I do.” 

⚔

Their walk was silent, save for the synchronized clicking of nervous footsteps. They kept a slow pace, doing their best to draw out a short journey. 

“Hold on,” Soris stopped short, straightening his jacket as the stage came into view. “Are you nervous? Do I look nervous?” He slid a finger under his collar and tugged it looser, his hairline darkening with sweat. 

“Nervous isn’t the word,” Yvra bundled the skirt of her dress in one hand, lifting the trail off the pavement. “Unhappy, but not afraid. Are you?” 

“Uh, a bit,” Soris chortled, breaking eye contact to adjust a pair of small, wooden cufflinks. “The rest of my life is a long time… But I guess better a bit jittery than straight up displeased,” He frowned at her. “Our bodies can only physically hold anxiety for so much time, but misery can be a permanent affliction.” He slapped a hand over his mouth, unable to keep from running it. “Unhelpful, sorry.” 

Yvra shook her head and gave him a few hearty pats on the back, dismissing the comment altogether. “We can still go back the way we came,” She suggested, her voice pitifully hopeful. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Soris sighed, ignoring her proposal. 

It was happening. 

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon

⚔

“Fashionably late,” Soris whispered, running clammy hands through damp hair; more anxious with each step closer to making the emptiest promise of his life. He scanned the small crowd, glancing over four familiar faces. He could tell from a distance that his half of the wedding party was nowhere to be seen; not a single one of his groomsmen was anywhere in immediate sight.

“You’re working yourself up,” Yvra fought to force a smile, straining for control over the corners of her mouth. “She could still see you and change her mind.”

“Hilarious, now look alive. Lose the frown if possible…” Soris took a deep breath as they closed in – maybe it wouldn’t be all bad, maybe she would change her mind, maybe they should have turned around when Yvra had offered. 

Every set of eyes was already upon them either in appreciation or appraisal; a handful of friends and cousins in their very best attire for the occasion. Shianni nearly tripped over her skirt jogging up to greet them, parting Yvra’s wall of bridesmaids in her haste – Jain, Lynette, and Nilara respectively; all of whom looked more fit to walk down the aisle than Yvra herself. They stood together in the center of the street, donning intricate braids interwoven with flowers.

“Cousins,” Shianni dropped into a sloppy curtsy, teetering unreservedly on the come up. “Where have you two been?" 

“Delaying the inevitable,” Soris sighed, conscious of how his expression might read at a distance. “Doesn’t seem you went thirsty waiting on us though,” he eyed the empty flagon dangling by its handle from her pinky finger.

“What are weddings for?” She smiled, tucking a lock of vermillion hair behind an equally red ear. “Everyone has–” The thumping of footsteps cut through the ambient chatter, drawing the entire block’s attention to a trio approaching from the city gate. 

Their group split down the middle, scattering at the intrusion of three humans marching one after the other through Alienage. The biggest of the lot provided no opportunity for questions, putting a definitive end to any semblance of celebration by coming up behind Jain and striking an unprovoked blow to the back of her head. 

He caught her before she could hit the ground, pulling her up onto her feet by the hair. The bulk of attendees scattered at the commotion, others freezing in disbelief as the remaining men circled the bridesmaids. 

“Let go of me!” Jain cried out, thrashing desperately as a muscled arm fastened around her throat. A strong kick with a sharp heel to her assailant’s inner thigh weakened his hold enough for her to break free, allowing her to lunge forward out of his reach. 

A firm tug on the shoulder stopped Yvra in her tracks, her view obstructed by Soris’ scrawny back as he stepped out in front of her. A voice rose over the commotion, the most elegantly dressed of the humans taking charge of the occupation. He was tall, Yvra could see him over the crowd of her kin; a broad shouldered, blonde man flanked by two equally haughty henchmen. 

“It’s a party isn’t it?” The man spread his arms wide, feigning a gesture of welcome, gold chains jangling with the motion. “Grab a whore and have a good time,” he struggled to get the words out, trying to stifle his laughter long enough to deliver his joke. 

Putting a finger up in explanation, he turned to address his entourage. “Savor the hunt, boys,” he warned, “take this little elven wench here,” he gestured to Shianni, raking his eyes over her form, “So young… and vulnerable..” 

“Touch me and I’ll gut you, you pig ,” Shianni’s lips twisted with disgust, arms drawn tight against her chest in concealment of her assets. 

Mr. Mahariel ran up beside her, shaking hands clasped together desperately in an attempt to dissuade the group, “Please my lords, we’re celebrating weddings here!” He was an older elf with faded hair, greys slowly overtaking his scalp. Neighbors were just as close to family as blood cousins, and he had been a beloved fixture since far before either Yvra nor Soris were born. 

“Silence, worm!” The leader stepped swiftly up to confront him and drew his arm back to deliver a backhand across the old man's cheek, the force of the blow knocking him to the ground. Shianni froze, the clear escalation of the situation boding poorly for the rest of them. 

“Soris,” Yvra whispered through clenched teeth, limiting the movement of her lips to avoid attracting human attention. 

“Don’t,” He warned, sweat dripping down his temples. Violence was by no means a rare occurrence between elves and humans, but usually one had to go looking for it beyond the borders of their ghetto. To be ambushed so brazenly within their own walls was nearly unheard of outside of a purge, but even appropriate resistance could result in any number of consequences. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Soris watched Yvra out of his peripheral, understanding that his single word of warning might have been lost on her as her scowl intensified. “But maybe we shouldn’t get involved..” 

“Objection noted,” Yvra growled, fists balling at her sides, “now get out of my way.”

“Fine,” Soris sighed, “But let’s try to be diplomatic, shall we?” He shifted nervously, mentally preparing for how wrong this could possibly go. 

Yvra’s glare drew the leader’s gaze, prompting him to approach her as Mr. Mahariel took the opportunity to scramble to his feet, his ears still ringing from striking the pavement post-slap. 

“What’s this?” The man stepped into Yvra’s personal space, staring down at her hungrily. His breath was putrid, the scent of alcohol stinging her nose on every inhale. “Another lovely one to keep me company?” He lifted his hand to run a fat finger through her hair, intending to help himself, unimpeded, to whomever he desired from one minute to the next. 

She stepped back before he could make contact, attempting to respect Soris’ wishes by not straight up smacking him away. “You need to leave.” 

“Ha!” One of the men accompanying him snorted at the audacity of Yvra’s refusal, making his amusement known as he watched the leader’s hand sail through the air where she had been standing. “You hear that, Vaughn?”

So that was his name. 

“Do you have any idea who I am?” Vaughn leaned down to get a better look at Yvra, the defiance in her face bordering on unacceptable by his standards. 

Shianni squinted, noting the freedom she had in this moment as the group fixed their focus on Yvra. Mr. Mahariel tugged on her wrist, urging her to run while she could. “No,” she cupped his face in her hand, rubbing a thumb over the red spot Vaughn had left behind. An unopened bottle of Orlesian red glistened in the distance, saved and imported specifically for this very day.

“Please,” Soris put his hands up in explanation, “My cousin is due to be married within the hour, she doesn’t mean any harm. Stress of the day and whatnot, you know?” He chuckled anxiously, hoping not to get acquainted with the back of Vaughn’s hand. 

Just as Vaughn opened his mouth to dispense a threat, Shianni came up behind him and brought the bottle down over his head. The glass shattered against his skull, blood and wine indifferentiable as the contents flowed over his face. He hit the ground dumbly, his limp body splayed on the street. 

“Maker!” One of his goons shouted, lowering himself to crouch over Vaughn’s unconscious body. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? That’s Vaughn Urien, the Arl of Denerim’s son! Come help me, you oaf!” He called his friend over, hooking an arm under Vaughn in an attempt to lift him. 

“Wh-What?” Shianni’s jaw dropped at the realization, scanning over the scene with a renewed sense of horror. 

“Maybe,” Yvra loomed over him, fighting the temptation to kick him while he was down, “He should’ve been taught better manners.” 

“You’ve a lot of nerve, knife-ears,” the skinniest of the three, still standing, began to yell. “This’ll go badly for you .” He pointed at Yvra, memorizing her features for future reference before turning back to his partner. “Go on then, get him up.” 

With one arm under each shoulder, they scooped Vaughn off the ground and made for the gate, grumbling all the way out of the Alienage. 

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon

⚔

“Take a knee, sir,” Yvra pressed down on Mr. Mahariel’s shoulders to urge him into a squat and gently parted the delicate hairs on the lower side of his head in search of blood. “The skin didn’t break, but you’re going to have quite the lump,” she ran her fingers gently over the swollen mound beneath his ear, then offered an arm to help him up, “I would stay awake for a while.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” he huffed, frustration eclipsing pain as he rose to his feet. “You’d hope that things might change with the times, whole lotta good that does, hm? To hope.” He forced a smile, one tender eye closing a little more than the other as his stricken cheek began to puff. 

“You’ve done more than enough for long enough,” Yvra rubbed a circle into his back, a silent suggestion to make himself scarce. He waved a wrinkled hand to dismiss her concern but heeded her direction nonetheless, hobbling down the street toward his apartment. 

“I really messed up this time,” Shianni pressed her palm flush against her forehead as she watched Mr. Mahariel make his way down the block, more ashamed than shaken. 

Had she started it by being so quick to snap? Would a polite declination have really carried enough weight to diffuse the situation? It was one thing to run at the mouth, but to go so far as to render the Arl’s son unconscious in response to a slap… For all she knew, such a transgression could incite another purge. The why wouldn’t matter, it never had before – elves were all but forbidden from fighting back, and she was old enough to know better – to do better. 

“It’ll be alright,” Soris unlaced fiddling fingers to reach out in comfort, offering an embrace in place of well worded reassurance. Shianni leaned into him, tucking up under his arm to collect herself as the crowd around them reacclimated in the aftermath. “I don’t think he’s in any rush to tell anyone that he was taken down by an elven woman,” he insisted, choking down the doubt. 

“I hope so,” Shianni sighed, pulling away to straighten her collar and smooth her hair. “I should probably get cleaned up. The show must go on, or whatever it is they say in Orlais.”

“We’re still doing this? After everything that just happened? Whether or not they make an official report,” Yvra stared down at the indent in the dirt where Vaughn had been laying and drug a heel over the outline, “They won’t be letting this go. Humans are vengeful by nature.” 

“They don’t get to come in here, and ruin this entire day. Not for either of you, or for your father, Yvra. Let’s just be thankful that we dealt with them quickly, and take advantage of their absence while it lasts,” Shianni spun on her heel and took off toward her house, sidestepping poor Mr. Mahariel along her way. 

Yvra moved forward to follow, aware by Shianni’s strides alone that she was more distressed than she might be willing to convey. She was no stranger to harassment, neither of them were, but to be on the receiving end of such a direct and crass threat was out of the ordinary, even for the Alienage. 

“Don’t,” Soris held her back by the sleeve of her dress, pinching the fragile fabric carefully between his thumb and forefinger, “Let her collect herself.”

Yvra yanked herself free, snapping away more forcefully than intended. “I’m sorry,” she spoke before he had a chance to comment, shoulders drooping. She had gone into this day knowing that every second to come would be out of her control, from what she would be wearing down to who she would be marrying – but her acceptance of it all was waning. 

“Don’t be,” Soris shook his head, other possible outcomes of their previous predicament flashing through his mind. What had he done, what good was he to the people he loved when they actually needed him? All he had managed was to suggest that they cower, and the freshness of the memory made him ill. “I’m sorry. Shianni did the right thing, we should’ve fought, I should’ve fought, I.. something.” Diplomacy, he had suggested, after watching one of the eldest among them receive such a savage and ill earned blow. 

“Soris, nobody expects that of you. I think it’s fair to say we were taken by surprise, and if it really came down to it, you would fight. I know that,” Yvra grasped Soris’ ankle and gave it a shake as she bent down to collect the glass, each wet shard dusted with soil. 

“Is everybody else alright?” Soris turned his attention to their wedding party, his field of perception widening as his anxiety quelled. Jain and Lynette had already fled the scene, likely making for their homes before facing the rest of the festivities. It wasn’t fair that they would have to, but the knot would be tied today - rain or shine. Nara had taken a knee beside a bench, whispering words of comfort to a reasonably traumatized child; hiding rattling hands behind her back. 

“I think the worst has passed,” a thin elven woman with long ears and mousey brown hair approached, appearing out from behind two great uncles with a fair featured gentleman in tow. “I think most are just shaken. What was that about?”

Yvra watched Soris’ eyes widen with realization as he processed the woman’s attire; a gorgeous white garment, haltered with red and gold embroidery. 

“I uh, it looks like the Arl’s son started drinking a little too early,” he laughed uncomfortably, utterly abashed at how helpless he had been – in front of his bride no less. At least she was still here, her expression unhardened despite the commotion; if she had been disappointed or put off, it certainly didn’t show. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Soris kneaded the base of his neck, rubbing away at the sheen of sweat that had settled over his nape. “We won’t let it ruin the day,” he resolved, straightening his posture in the hopes of feigning confidence. “Yvra, this is my betrothed, Valora.” 

Yvra rose to a stand, mindfully balancing an armful of broken glass. “That would make you mine, then?” The word felt sour as it left her mouth, mine. Poor phrasing on her part, but his face lightened with recognition. 

“A pleasure,” he hinged at the hips to bow in greeting, blonde locks falling forward with the movement. “Soris said much of you – some of it was even positive.” He wasn’t ugly by any stretch of the imagination, traditionally angular with a clear complexion and a more muscular build than was common among elves, but she had meant what she said; looks aren’t everything. 

“Hey, I just wanted to give you a chance to run,” Soris laughed, opening his arms to unburden Yvra. She transferred the shards into his care and dusted her hand against his bicep, anticipating an outfit change pre-ceremony for everyone directly involved. “Anyway,” Soris continued, “I’m sure the two of you have plenty to discuss. Valora?” He nodded toward the Vhenedal and the two fell into step, making their way through the square. 

⚔

“It was Nelaros, right?” Yvra looked up at him, studying the planes of his face from her position four inches below. “You aren’t Dalish are you?”

“I am,” he raised a brow, mouth quirking upward in amusement. “Nelaros, not Dalish. Why do you ask?”  He shifted slightly, suddenly conscious of his own appearance. He had thought himself prepared despite the oddity of the circumstances, but now, standing in front of her, his composure was harder to keep hold of. 

“You’re quite tall. You don’t often see that here.” On paper, such a statement would have undoubtedly been complimentary but Yvra delivered her observation dryly, more matter of fact than flattery.

“Well,” Nelaros leaned ever so slightly to hear her over the bustle of the square, still mindful of her space. “Now that we’re here, are you nervous?” He searched her eyes for that which couldn’t be discerned from her tone, eager to understand her position on their shared duty and utterly incapable of getting a read.

“Not really,” Yvra answered, “Are you?” Nervous wasn’t the word, but doomed would suffice. It would have been easier to have a single place or person to assign blame, but it wasn’t his fault – and he didn’t deserve to shoulder her uncertainty. Not yet, anyway.

“I thought I’d stay calm,” Nelaros admitted, a light blush spreading across his cheeks. “But now that I’ve met you… Let’s just say I’m not calm.”

“How was the trip from Highever?” Yvra beckoned him along as she turned to walk back toward her house, noting the pews beginning to fill around the wedding stage. Soon. 

“Uneventful, thankfully,” he rushed up to trot alongside her, more than happy for the segue into smalltalk. “The trade caravan we accompanied had little of value; I think that kept the bandits away.” 

“I hear things are different there,” Yvra added, thinking back on a tale or two Alirith had told regarding his travels between cities. “That the Alienages differ from place to place.”

“It was hard to leave Highever,” Nelaros flushed, “Not that it was an ideal place to live, or even a half decent place to raise a family, I don't know... I grew up there, so there's an innate fondness... But, your father’s matchmaker spoke highly of you, and rightly so.” 

Yvra kept her eyes forward, unsure how and therefore unable to respond; prompting Nelaros to clear his throat, guessing as to whether or not he’d already overstepped. 

“Denerim itself seems friendlier than Highever.. Perhaps because it’s so large that humans take less notice of us,” he said, filling the silence. 

“Really? Even after what you saw today?” 

He paused for a long while, perhaps in recollection, then agreed, “...Yes.” 

“Come cousin!” Soris shouted across the square, tapping his wrist repeatedly. The time had come. 

“I suppose I'll see you... at the altar?" Nelaros chuckled, feeling more at peace after putting a face to the name.

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon

⚔

Yvra left Nelaros on the front step and disappeared into her apartment, intent on rubbing the wine out of her dress – her mother’s dress. Each pass across the stain on her stomach diluted and dragged the pigment, the wet rag in her hands serving to spread the spot rather than dissolve it. Had she given it a second thought, she might have opted to find a bin before gathering a bottle’s worth of glass against her midriff – but she hadn’t. Yvra shucked the cloth over her diaphragm until the fabric itself began to come apart, pin sized balls of cotton fraying under the friction. It was ruined, irreparably. 

“Fuck,” she huffed, shrinking back as the sharp line dividing the room in shadow crept forward with each passing minute. Better to show up a mess than abandon ship, she knew that, but her legs wouldn’t carry her; not unprompted. It wasn’t too late to click the lock into place, to barricade herself, to royally disappoint the only parent she had left. Fuck indeed. 

“Cousin, you can’t leave three people at the altar!” Shianni shouted from outside, tearing Yvra unceremoniously from her turmoil with a series of increasingly loud knocks. “Soris is out here making a fuss and we can–” She yipped, nearly falling forward as the door swung open mid-rap, her closed fist just barely missing Yvra’s head. 

“Are they back?” Yvra hovered in the doorway, unflinching despite the shiver sweeping down her spine as the outside air hit the damp linen clinging to her abdomen.

“No,” Soris popped out from behind Shianni, striking an uncanny resemblance beside her; the redness of their hair equally rich. “Don’t look too obviously, but we have another problem – and no offense,” he raised his palms to preemptively pacify his younger cousin, “I think it’s better Shianni sits this one out.” He bobbed his head to the left, directing Yvra’s attention to yet another human in full plate armor standing just inside the main gate with Elder Valendrian.  

“You’re right,” Shianni concurred, crystal blue eyes fixed on her feet. It wasn’t something that was intended to be taken personally, but understanding that did little to dull the throb of ignominy in her chest.

“Listen, it might’ve gone farther had you not taken action, Shi.” Yvra squeezed Shianni’s hand in hopes of extricating her own sincerity, careful not to crush her cousin’s knuckles in the process. “It’s only because of you that we’re able to wonder what could have happened.”  

“Yeah, exactly,” Soris nodded adamantly, thankful that his suggestion went unchallenged. He could stand to see her sad if it meant she would be safe.

“Thank you,” Shianni lightened, the tips of her ears perking subtly as a teasing smile worked its way across her lips. “Buuuut, let’s not forget that everyone is waiting and you two are technically the one thing we can’t start without. Don’t be long,” she commanded, emphasizing the order with a facetious wave. “Ten minutes,” she reiterated sternly, her back already turned as she started off toward the stage to condemn an unwilling audience to a pre ceremony serenade. 

“Alright, is he with them?” Yvra asked quietly once Shianni strode out of earshot, squinting over in the stranger’s direction to assess his appearance. 

“Couldn’t say for sure, but he’s not dressed the same. Seems like he knows the Elder though.” Soris beckoned her along calmly, seamlessly moving through the afternoon foot traffic towards the Alienage entrance to discern the situation. “Could be one of Vaughn’s or just a miscellaneous troublemaker, but it would be one hell of a coincidence to have multiple unrelated Shem sightings in a single day. Either way, we need to move him along before someone does something stupid.”

“Mm,” Yvra trailed after him, steeling herself for the possibility of another confrontation. The man’s garb was unusual even by human standards, distinct markings etched into his cuirass. “Full plate, tempered silverite, royale sea silk. And that sword,” she paused, drinking in the detail as they got closer. “Red steel. Unornamented, practical.”

“So… Not from here?” Soris clarified, slowing his pace to approach mindfully. 

“I’d wager not,” Yvra waved, feigning nonchalance as Elder Valendrien took notice of them. 

“Good day,” the stranger spoke first, lowering himself promptly to offer a standing bow upon their arrival. “I understand congratulations are in order for your impending weddings.” The warmth and familiarity with which he spoke almost implied that they had met before, but Yvra would have remembered him. 

He was fit for his age, experience etched into his skin with subtle lines around his eyes and mouth. He had a thick but well maintained beard and a full head of dark hair tied back neatly in a ponytail that fell longer than she often saw on humans. No, definitely not from here. 

“Thanks,” Yvra began, “But please go. Best to avoid any unpleasantness,” she locked her fingers behind her back, hoping to at least appear polite.

“And what manner of unpleasantness might you be referring to?” He asked amiably, not a tinge of offense in his tone. 

Elder Valendrian opened his mouth only to close it without uttering a word following a wave of the stranger's hand, signaling against his intervention.  

“The Alienage isn’t the best place for humans to be, surely that goes without saying,” Yvra leveled herself and took a step closer to Soris who, while uncertain himself, soothed her by proximity alone. 

“I’m sorry,” the man said, his brows creasing with sincerity, “But I have no intention of leaving.” 

“Do we have a problem?” Yvra glanced between Elder Valendrian and the stranger, probing for tension. 

“She keeps her composure, even when facing down an unknown and armed human,” the man chuckled and folded his arms innocuously, no longer addressing her. “A true gift, wouldn’t you say, Valendrian?” 

“I would say the world has far more use of those who know how to stay their blades,” Elder Valendrian looked Yvra over, a touch of sadness in his smile. 

It was the same one her father wore, the same that she had seen on Dilwyn and her husband, the same that she donned herself on the rare occasion she found herself in front of the mirror. Adaia haunted those she left behind through her daughter’s eyes, and it was all Yvra could do to shoulder the suffering of existing as a constant reminder.

“This,” The Elder’s continuation stirred Yvra from her stupor, calling her back to the here and now. “Is a very old friend of mine, and it’s been far too long since his last visit,” He sighed dramatically and hooked a friendly arm around the stranger’s shoulders, standing on his tallest tiptoes to do so. 

Soris either failed to contain his shock or made no effort at all, gasping audibly at the unashamed display of camaraderie. “Elder, you know this human?” 

Valendrian nodded, unhanding the stranger to rest both hands on his walking stick. “May I present Duncan, leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.” 

“A Grey Warden?” Yvra cocked her head to the side, wracking her memory. No bells.

“They are a great order of warriors, child.” Elder Valendrian tapped his cane for emphasis, long white hairs falling over his shoulders with the motion. “They are sworn to protect our world from the darkspawn, from the Blight. Which leads us back to my first question, Duncan. Why are you here? Aside from the obvious wealth of luxury to be enjoyed in the Alienage,” he joked, lightening the mood ahead of time. While the protection of the Grey Wardens was comforting, their presence boded poorly; the order served as both the omen and the answer.

“The worst has happened,” Duncan answered curtly, emitting a grimmer air now that the pleasantries had passed. “A Blight has begun. King Cailan summons the Grey Wardens to Ostagar to fight the darkspawn horde alongside his armies.” 

“Yes… I had heard the news,” Elder Valendrian admitted. He almost looked disappointed, as if he had hoped the rumors were just that. “Still, this is an awkward time – with the wedding.” 

“By all means, please, attend to your ceremonies,” Duncan insisted. “My concerns can wait, for now. I appreciate your hospitality on such short notice, Elder.” 

“Very well,” Valendrian exhaled contentedly. “Children, treat Duncan as my guest. And for the Maker’s sake, take your places! At the pace you two are going, you’ll be my age by the time you take your first steps down that aisle.” 

With that, he made for the square; following the sound of Shianni’s voice as she belted a ballad behind the podium. 

“Please, don’t let me distract you any further. We can speak more later, if you wish,” said Duncan, craning his neck to make proper eye contact with the pair of them.

“Meet me in five,” Yvra instructed, dismissing Soris to begin their duties without her. 

“You sure?” Soris asked, moreso out of self preservation than true concern. He wasn’t ready to walk over there, to light the fuse. 

“I just have some questions, I promise I’m not about to abandon you. If this is happening, it’s happening to both of us,” Yvra assured him. “Now go on then.”

⚔

“Was there something specific you wanted to ask, seeing as you’re so short on time?” Duncan mused, tracking Soris as he shuffled nervously through a distant crowd. 

“I’m curious about the Grey Wardens,” Yvra leaned in to better examine the intricacies of his armor, mindful not to appear overly awed despite that being very much the case. 

“Well, I’d be happy to answer whatever questions you may have,” Duncan assured her. “But I’m afraid to do so properly might take a bit more than five minutes.” 

“They won’t start without me,” Yvra pressed. For all she knew, the second she said ‘I do’ she’d be whisked away to celebrate, or worse, consummate. 

“Alright then,” Duncan hooked his thumbs into his cross body belt, jostling the strap to readjust the weight of the sword on his back. “What would you like to know?” 

“What exactly do the Grey Wardens do?” Yvra studied him, the thickness of his hands, the hairs on his wrists. Humans were closer to animals in almost every way, their emotional irritability, their proclivity for violence, their very bodies. “How could an order like that continue to exist when hundreds of years can pass between Blights?” 

“We dedicate our lives to fighting darkspawn wherever they appear, doing whatever it takes to stop them,” Duncan explained. “It is our only charge. While we aren’t needed all the time, we are always needed. During those in between periods, we wait, we train, we stay ready.”

“Are there Elven Grey Wardens?” Yvra wondered, noting his distinct lack of weariness among their kind. 

“In fact, some of our greatest heroes have been Elven. The Warden Garahel, he that slew the last archdemon, was such a one,” Duncan regaled her proudly, “I could tell you a great deal more about them, but I suspect you’ve other matters to attend to.” 

“How do you know the Elder?” Yvra ignored him, not quite finished with her soft interrogation. 

“Valendrian and I have known each other for almost twenty years. Since the time I tried to recruit your mother, in fact.” 

“What?” Yvra’s knees threatened to buckle. A glimpse into her mother’s life, however long ago, was nothing less than priceless. Had she known this man? “You tried to recruit my mother?” 

“I did,” Duncan smiled at the memory. “Your mother was a fiery woman. She would have made an excellent Grey Warden. You look just like her, the moment I saw you, I knew you were hers.” 

“What happened? How old was she?” Yvra was past suppressing her enthusiasm, her onyx eyes glistening with intrigue. 

“I never made the offer,” Duncan recalled. “Valendrian convinced me that it was better for her to remain here, with her family. As there was no Blight, and thus no immediate need for recruits, I deferred to his wishes. I was saddened to hear of her passing, but it seems she passed her training on to you, am I right?” 

“How did you know that?” Yvra glanced down at her dress, searching for anything that might indicate her ability. Nothing. 

“I have already heard a great deal about you, if you must know.” Duncan straightened out, rolling his shoulders. “But we can speak more of this later. You have a wedding to attend and I don’t wish to find myself on the wrong side of Valendrian’s ire.” 

“Why are you here?” Yvra continued anyway. “Are you recruiting?”

“All in good time, I suggest you have your celebration while you can. Run along, then.” Duncan smirked, no longer open to abetting her delay. 

“Alright,” Yvra sulked. “Thank you, though.”

“Of course,” Duncan laid a few pats on her shoulder, mindful of how quickly he reached out to avoid frightening her. “My best wishes to you both.” 

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon
⚔

Anyone who hadn’t been there wouldn’t believe that just forty minutes ago, a brawl had nearly broken out in the Alienage. The Vhenadahl rustled gently in the sweet spring breeze, children ran up and down the broken cobblestone streets. The scene was set for a beautiful ceremony, the perfect backdrop to facilitate a flawless wedding. 

“Sorry,” Yvra prefaced, taking her spot next to her cousin on stage. 

“You said five minutes,” Soris hissed, his forehead glistening with sweat. It was real now, tangible. He stared out into the audience, sifting through pairs of parents as if he might find his own among them. His chest tightened, had his own mother been this anxious on her day?

“We were afraid he’d run off,” Valora joked, hoping to lighten the mood. She stood beside Nelaros, whose gaze was fixed on his fiance, cheeks flushed. She was more beautiful than he’d thought to hope and all of his energy was going toward keeping his composure in check. 

“And miss my own party?” Soris laughed, receding into humor where confidence failed to suffice. In truth, he was looking forward to a strong drink or ten during the reception, and the promise of it carried him through. 

“You look radiant,” Nelaros whispered, taking his place beside his bride.

“Thank you.” Yvra felt for him and Valora, respectively. They deserved a warmer welcome than they got, and partners who were appreciative of their presence – but alas. 

“Looks like everyone’s ready,” Soris took a deep breath. The Elder had situated himself on the far side of the makeshift platform and the Chantry lady took her spot in the center, all that was left now was to say a few simple words. 

“Good luck, Soris.” Yvra flashed him a reassuring smile, but the falseness behind it was obvious – at least to him. 

“You too, Cousin. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all,” the playfulness in his voice flustered Valora, coloring her beet red. Maybe things would work out for them. “I supp–”

The four of them were startled into decorum by the sound of Elder Valendrian’s address, falling silent out of respect. 

“Friends and family,” Valendrian waved an arm, welcoming those filling out the pews. “Today we celebrate not only this joining, but also the bonds of our kind and kin.” 

The phrasing prompted Yvra to think back, mentally flipping through the many weddings she had attended up until this point. While it wasn’t forbidden, it was frowned upon to fraternize with the non-elven and in her eighteen years, she had never once seen a public union between a human and an elf. Unsurprising, given the social climate between their communities, but still she found her mind wandering. 

“We are a free people,” the Elder carried on, “but that was not always so. Andraste, the Maker’s prophet, freed us from the bonds of slavery. As our community grows, remember that our strength lies in commitment to tradition and to each other.” He pointed toward the Priestess with the tip of his cane to hand off the proceedings and joined Cyrion in the front row.

“Thank you, Valendrian.” The Priestess clasped her hands together, clearly overjoyed to be hosting nuptials instead of a burial. “Now, let us begin.” She cleared her throat and started into her sermon. “In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world, and in whose name we say the Chant of Light, I–” The woman trailed off, distracted by Soris who had gasped and pointed out beyond the throng of onlookers. 

Vaughn, in a crisp crimson outfit with the same two lackeys in tow cut his way up the aisle, shoving any protruding limbs out of his way along the walk. Some guests began to freeze while those who had borne witness to his earlier assault fled from their seats and made for their homes. 

“Milord?” The Priestess stuttered, “This is an unexpected surprise.”

It was only upon further inspection that Yvra noticed the city guard at his back, a handful of armed and armored soldiers escorting him onto the stage. Fuck. 

“Sorry to interrupt, Mother,” Vaughn started, nearly breathless with laughter, “But I’m having a party and we’re dreadfully short of female guests,” He waved the Priestess off nonchalantly and circled around to position himself behind Valora. 

“Milord!” The Priestess shrieked, utterly appalled at the brazen interruption. “This is a wedding!” 

“Ha!” Vaughn nearly doubled over at the assertion, “If you want to dress up your pets and have tea parties, that’s your business. But you don’t get to pretend this is a proper wedding.” He hooked Valora by the back of her gown and began dragging her offstage as she kicked and screamed, then transferred her into the custody of one of his soldiers. 

Yvra locked eyes with the Elder, and then her father, mortified. What could they do, unarmed and unempowered? 

“Now,” Vaughn wiped his palms on his trousers, “We’re here for a good time, aren’t we boys?” He faced off against the Priestess, staring her down in the hopes of not having to raise a hand against a fellow human to have his way. 

His entourage whooped and hollered in agreement, exerting dominance over their captive crowd. 

“Just a good time with the ladies, that’s all.” The shorter of Vaughn’s two henchmen positioned himself amidst the bridal party, snaking one arm in either direction over Jain and Lynette. Yvra’s eyes darted desperately until she spotted Shianni, who had yet to draw Vaughn’s notice. She was ten feet away, hardly close enough to lunge for and the sense of helplessness beginning to wrack Yvra’s system was nearly unbearable. 

Vaughn looked around, pointing from one girl to the next. “Let’s take those two, the one in the tight dress and… Where’s the bitch that bottled me?” 

Yvra’s heart sank. 

“Over here, Lord Vaughn!” Vaughn’s taller associate called out, gathering a fistful of Shianni’s hair. 

She struggled immediately, grasping futilely at his wrist. “Let me go! You stuffed-shirt son of a–”

Vaughn chuckled heartily, face twisted with excitement at her distress. “Oh, I’ll enjoy taming her. And see the pretty bride,” He turned his attention to Yvra, licking his lips grotesquely. 

“Don’t worry,” Nelaros shot a protective arm out in front of her, “I won’t let them take you.”

“I won’t let them take Shianni,” Yvra spat through gritted teeth, refusing to back up upon Vaughn’s approach. 

“Yes,” Vaughn purred, getting a better look at her face and features. “Such a well-formed little thing.”

“You villains!” Nelaros screamed, puffing himself up on instinct. He knew there was little he could do other than die trying, but to sit idly by a second time was out of the question. 

“That’s quite enough,” Vaughn rolled his eyes, “I’m sure we all want to avoid further… Unpleasantness.” 

“Take me,” Yvra put herself between him and Nelaros, unwilling to end this day with his blood on her hands. “Let the others go.” 

“That wouldn’t be much of a party now, would it?” Vaughn shook his head, unamenable to her offer. “Oh… We’re going to have some fun.” He cupped her face in his palm and stroked an uncharacteristically gentle line across her jaw, then promptly drew back and struck her to the floor with the back of his hand. 

Yvra heard the slap before she felt it, black dots clouding her peripherals as she fought for consciousness. Her tongue seized in her mouth, spasming to sound out Shianni’s name but all she could manage to do was to breathe – and everything faded to black. 

That’s one way to get out of a wedding. 

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon

⚔

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us, Maker keep us, Maker protect us…” Yvra awoke to Jain chanting quietly, hunched over on her knees in the corner of a dimly lit room. 

“Stop it,” Shianni groaned, “You’re driving me insane. Once she’s up, we’ll think of something.”

Yvra’s head pounded, her ears rang, her body ached. She couldn’t bring herself to move right as she awoke, and so she laid for a while flat on her back beside the wall, eyes still closed; counting each breath in and out. She could feel the cool silk lining the inside of her dress against her buttocks and fought back a wave of nausea, sitting up suddenly to keep it down. She tugged at her skirt and pulled the fabric up to her thighs, gagging at the confirmation that her underwear was gone.

It was then that cold air hit her bare shoulder where the sleeve had been cut, alerting Yvra to further damage. Her bra hung with one severed strap beneath her bodice, slanting down the side of her body and both shoes were nowhere to be seen. At the moment of realization, she let out a fractured cry and sunk her teeth into her forearm to suppress a full on sob. 

“Oh!” Shianni shouted, scuffling over on her hands and knees to assess her cousin. “Thank the Maker you’ve come to. We were so worried, they transported us separately and then you were unconscio–”

“Shi,” Yvra cut Shianni off and wrapped her in a tight hug, inhaling the familiar scent wafting from her hair. “Is everyone alright?” She tore away to get a good look at all of the girls and did a quick head count. Valora, Shianni, Jain, Nara, Lynette, herself. She was relieved to know that at the very least nobody had been lost between there and here, wherever this was. 

“We’re scared, but unharmed so far,” Valora whimpered, fidgeting with the button on her collar. This was supposed to be her special day, and now she was living a nightmare. “They locked us in here until that… Bastard is ‘ready for us.’” 

“Well,” Yvra braced herself against the wall and rose to a stand, still disoriented – possibly even concussed. “I don’t think staying in here is a viable option.” 

“Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath,” Lynette wheezed, “The door is locked and solid and we’re unarmed!” 

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us, Maker keep us…” Jain continued to warble, shaking hands clasped over her head. 

“Great,” Shianni massaged her temples, rising from her squat to join the other girls as they gathered in a circle. “Now this again.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Lyn,” Yvra said, “But if we sit tight, chances are we’ll be raped, beaten and killed.” She squeezed her legs together subconsciously, rejecting the thought while acknowledging the possibility.

“Oh Gods,” Jain cried harder, her steady mantra deteriorating into rhythmic heaving. 

Yvra took a few hesitant steps away from the wall to get a better fix on their surroundings, but there wasn’t much left to be seen. The room itself was sturdy, lined with stone from floor to ceiling instead of wood. They weren’t in the Alienage anymore, that much was certain. 

By the number of crates in the chamber and their condition, all signs pointed to this being a storeroom of sorts. An old wooden table was set up to their right, topped with an undisturbed coat of dust clinging to its surface, and the gaps in the cobblestone beneath them were caked with a layer of grime. They were animals in a pen, waiting for worse than slaughter. 

There were only two doors, and both were sure to be locked but Yvra jerked at the latch to the left regardless, straining against the levers; begging them to give way. 

“Cousin, you’re going to tear a muscle!” Shianni yawped, “We’ll find another way, we- we’ll put our heads together and..” 

“Look,” Nara interrupted, “We’ll do what they want, go home, and try to forget this ever happened.” 

“She’s right,” Valora hung her head, “It’ll be worse if we resist. Clearly they’re not worried about hurting us.” She met Yvra’s eyes briefly, then stared down at her feet. 

“It’ll be worse if we don’t!” Shianni wailed, throwing her hands up at the very notion of submission. 

“Someone’s coming,” Yvra backed away from the door and reintegrated into the group, yanking Jain up from the floor to join them. “Be quiet, and don’t do anything until I say.”

⚔

Nobody flinched when the door swung open, nor when the guards filtered in. A captain, seemingly, with light eyes and a particularly long chin led the charge, flanked by three subordinates; one bare, one mustachioed and one bearded. 

The leader gave the ladies a once over and cracked a malicious smile, “Hello wenches, we’re your escorts to Lord Vaughn’s little party.” His breastplate, though rusted, bore a well known insignia; the Kendell’s crest. They had to be in the Arl’s own estate on the far side of the city, likely without his knowledge. 

“Stay away from us!” Jain blurted out, pushing Yvra out of the way to run for the open door. She hadn’t made it two paces before the captain drew his sword and cut a vertical slice down her front, painting the bridal party with the resulting spatter.

Jain dropped unceremoniously and convulsed, choking out panicked gasps as blood gurgled in her mouth. Yvra froze, watching the panic in her eyes abade into tranquility, and then emptiness. She was open from throat to pelvis, wet intestines spilling out over her sides. Resuscitation wasn’t in the cards, she was gone. 

“You..” Lynette dropped to her knees, trying to form intelligible words through quivering lips. “You killed her!” 

“I suppose that’s what happens when you try teaching whores some respect,” The Captain stood over Jain’s body, running his blade between his fingers to wipe it clean before returning the weapon to its scabbard. 

“Now you,” He gestured toward his bearded underling, “Pick the little flower up off the ground and grab the quiet one, Horace and I’ll take the homely bride and the drunk. You two,” He beckoned a final pair of men in from the hallway and pointed at Yvra. “Bind the last one. She’s the scrapper.” 

“Don’t worry,” The fatter of the two snickered and stepped away from the doorframe to make space for his comrades to haul the girls off. “We’ll be perfect gentlemen.”

Yvra was the first to let go when the guards seized Shianni. Her cousin had tried to hold on, but where would it have gotten them? “Hang in,” She’d called out, but Shianni’s screams had already faded as they dragged her further down the hall. 

It didn’t take the men long to empty the room after the example they had made out of Jain. The rest of the girls knew better than to fight with odds so slim and next to no training, so one after another, out they went until only Yvra remained alongside Jain’s body.  

“Now now,” The skinny one opened his arms to her, stalking forward. “You heard the captain, be a good little wench or you’ll end up like your friend there.” 

“I’ll behave,” Yvra promised, “Just come a little closer.” 

“See? That’s a good girl,” He jeered, unfastening a bundle of rope from his belt. “Might have to sample this one before we go, Lem,” He said, speaking over his shoulder to his partner. 

“Looks like Vaughan already did,” Lem answered, eyeing Yvra’s shredded sleeve. “Not that you’d mind, would ya? Disgusting, you are.” 

“Oh plea–”

“Uh, hello?” Yvra’s head snapped up at the sound of Soris’ voice, but without being able to see over the men, she chalked it up to a hopeful hallucination until they themselves turned around in response to the noise. 

“Oh look at this Refret, a little elfling with a stolen weapon.” Lem broke away from his mate, revealing Soris’ figure silhouetted in the entryway, a bow on his back and a sword in his hand.  

Both men gave each other a synchronized nod and began to rush him  – but it was too late. He dropped down and slid the sword between their feet, sending it across the room and into Yvra’s hands. 

⚔

Yvra didn’t waste a second and lashed out at the first pair of ankles in her vicinity. The scrawny one, Refret, went down immediately; his tendons jutting out of the slits she carved just above his feet. By the time he sat up to attack her from below she’d already crossed the room with Lem, exchanging two blows for every single step they took. 

Soris jumped back and pressed himself flat against the wall to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. He had seen his cousin break plenty of pottery and dismantle more dummies than he could count, but to see her up against a human being sent a shiver down his spine. 

Lem caught Yvra’s blade on the guard of his sword and locked her in place long enough to headbutt her with the added strength of his metal helmet. The blow left her reeling, dissolving the vision in her left eye into blackness but somehow her consciousness went uncompromised. 

She utilized the entanglement to hook a leg around the back of his knee and drove him to the floor, then threw herself on top of him to force the sword through his chest. She bared down on the hilt until she heard the tip strike the stone beneath him, but still he breathed. 

“Fuck you,” Lem spat, kicking his feet pathetically under her as he patted around his hip. Finally, his fingers curled around the handle of a small knife in his belt.

“He’s got a dagger!” Soris warned from a distance. He drew his bow, but the tip of his arrow swayed erratically between Yvra and her attacker as they wrestled. 

“You might kill her if you take that shot, boy!” Refret shrieked, laying on his side in the same place he had fallen at the start. Soris had all but forgotten about him, but the reminder was welcome. Without hesitation, he lined his arrow up with the man’s neck and let go, pinning Refret’s throat to the floor where he foamed and frothed, suffocating around the shaft. 

“You’ll both die for this!” Lem growled, freeing his wrist from Yvra’s grasp long enough to land one panicked slash that cut a straight line across a lock of her hair. The movement had been costly, widening the wound as his ribs grated against the sword lodged in his diaphragm. 

Yvra took him by the ears and brought his head forward, letting their foreheads touch. “You first.” 

Soris’ hand shot over his mouth to hold back a mouthful of bile as he watched his cousin slam the man’s skull against the ground – once, twice, eight times. 

When Lem first entered the room, he’d had a face. Now, his body laid limp, splayed pitifully with damn near nothing above the neck. Yvra hovered over the mound of bone fragments and brain matter; hair and teeth ornamenting the mash.

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon

⚔

“Yvra,” Soris took a knee beside his cousin and tentatively slid a hand over her back while she heaved. Her laces were undone under his palm, exposing her bruised spine. “You alright?” 

Yvra wiped her hands against Lem’s chestplate, streaking the embossed insignia with blood. Chunks of viscera hung from her chin, chest and hair; she’d all but exploded his cranium. Overkill, some might call it. 

“Yeah,” She waved Soris away to take the space needed to stand and began to shed her dress, one foot on either side of Lem’s body. 

Soris turned around to give her space and took this chance to retrieve the arrow from Refret’s throat. He had to look away while he tugged as the barb tore the man’s trachea further upon exit, sickening him with the squelching. He’d need every arrow he could get his hands on if they were going to find the rest of the girls and make it out, neither of which he felt certain they could achieve. 

He returned it to his quiver without cleaning it further and walked over to Jain’s body in the center of the room. She almost looked serene lying there with her eyes closed, but he could see the dried tears staining her cheeks cutting streaks through a sheen of dirt. 

Yvra removed the sword from Lem’s chest cavity and let it clatter aside, then unbuckled his vambraces and strapped them to her forearms. She stripped him down to his knickers, bending and flipping him haphazardly to remove his cotton undershirt and pull it over her head, scavenging pieces that would fit. 

“I can’t believe they killed Jain,” Soris said weakly. His stomach tossed at the sight of her, unmade by the scene’s brutality. There was no question that she’d suffered, her organs were overflowing from the gash and her hands were buried beneath them; she must have tried to hold them in. Was there a world in which he arrived five minutes earlier? Where he wouldn’t have to tell her parents she was gone or explain how it happened? “I’m sorry,” he rasped. 

“Lay my dress over her,” Yvra said, picking it up off the ground. She ran her thumb across the delicate stitching to memorize the feel of her mother’s fabric, then threw it to Soris and made her way over to Refret’s corpse. Her only heirloom and one of her closest friends – gone. 

“Thank you,” Soris said, holding the dress out by the bottom. He billowed it once or twice, then let it fall over Jain’s body; a makeshift sheet to conceal her face. Her shoes stuck out at the bottom, revealing old soles her mother had resewn several times over the years. “Are you hurt?” He stepped away and leaned against the wall to evaluate his cousin. 

“Where’d you get that sword?” Yvra asked instead of answering, buckling herself into Refret’s cuirass. 

“That Grey Warden, Duncan gave Nelaros and me his sword and crossbow, but that’s all we have,” Soris said, “Remember how worried we were this morning about saying some words on that stage?”

“I do,” Yvra sighed, longing for the simplicity of their struggles hours before. Would things get even worse than they are right now? In a few more hours would she be thinking back on this moment with a similar sentiment? The thought rattled her. 

“Makes me feel stupid,” He muttered. “Should’ve sucked it up.”

“None of that would change the way things played out,” Yvra rustled his hair, accidentally bloodying his curls. “Anyway, you said Nelaros was with you? What happened?” She shimmied herself into Refret’s greaves and boots, then took the shield off his back; attaching it to her thrifted gauntlet. 

“He’s guarding the end of the hall. We oughtta figure out our next move with him,” Soris said, creeping up next to the doorway to ensure nobody had slipped past his accomplice. “Clear,” he confirmed. “We should hurry before something happens to the others.” 

“Agreed,” Yvra nodded and came up next to him, more confident now in her chainmail. She took a final look back at Jain’s covered body, then started off into the hallway.

⚔

“Smell that?” Yvra asked, taking short huffs through her nostrils to sample the scent of fresh bread in the air. “This way.” 

“Not sure it’s an appropriate time to stop for a snack,” Soris whispered, staying close behind. 

“Servants see everything,” She spoke without breaking stride, guided by the low crackle of kitchen fire coming from the far end of the hall. “If we can get some direction before barging through every door in here, that would be preferable.” 

“You’re right,” Soris nodded, jogging to keep up. “Last thing we need is to fight everyone. Get the girls, get out”

“No,” Yvra stopped and turned to face him, imparting a serious look. “We will be killing everyone – after we find the girls.” 

“Cousin, I’m no–” 

“We have a right to revenge.” She cut him off. “You don’t have to come, but you don’t get to argue”

“Yvra,” Soris shrank. What could he even say to dissuade her after what this day had become? “Yo–”

“Come on,” Yvra continued on, hugging the edge of an open archway leading to the kitchen. “No need to be quiet,” She said, peering around the corner to see inside. “He’s unarmed.”

“Take it easy, I don’t know how accountable I’m comfortable holding the help,” Soris murmured, bracing himself.

“Complacency is no less condemnable,” Yvra quipped, drawing her weapon. “Come on,” She beckoned him along and marched inside, shoulders back, head high. 

The clanging of her heavy footfalls drew the cook’s attention away from a pot he was tending, startling the spoon right out of his hands. 

He was an older man, slightly crooked as he stood seething beside his stew. “What’s this? I don’t recognize you, elf! Wait  – Is that blood?” He stumbled back, nearly falling into the gaping hearth behind him. To his left, a young elven boy stepped out of a storeroom and froze at the sight of them, clutching a wax sealed bottle to his chest.

 “You’re bandits!” The cook continued, spitting grossly as he shouted. “Rebels, outlaws! The guards will make quick work of —!” 

Thunk.

Yvra and Soris froze as the cook collapsed, falling forward onto his face at their feet. The eleven lad trembled above him; white knuckling the stem of a Tevinter rosé. He’d cracked the geezer right over the back of his head, ending the commotion before it could even begin.

“You..” He backed away slowly from his boss’ unconscious body and dropped the bottle to stare down at his hands – hands that had just done harm. “You have no idea how long that shem’s had it coming.”

“Have you seen a group of elven maidens?” Yvra asked, nudging the cook’s leg with the tip of her boot. 

“Yes,” The boy shuddered at their mention. “The guards dragged them to Lord Vaughan’s quarters. You should probably hurry if you want to help them, he’s not particularly gentle with women.”

“Which way is that?” Soris took a peek back at the entrance, twitching one long ear to make sure he couldn’t hear or see anyone coming. 

“Down the main hall, back the way you came and to the right,” He instructed,  “You’ll get to a longer corridor with two doors on either side of a single, larger door. Go through the big one.”

“Thank you,” Yvra twirled her sword absently, visualizing his directions. 

“My pleasure,” The young man bowed distractedly, still processing the scene he’d helped set. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting out of here before the storm hits.” 

“Follow him out,” Yvra commanded Soris, staring him into submission. Her left eye still hadn’t opened under the combination of swelling and scabbing, but that was the least of her worries. There was still the cook to deal with.

Soris opened his mouth to protest but only managed a quiet, “Hurry,” And saw himself out. 

Yvra stood over the cook and considered his condition; thin, helpless, vulnerable. Not counting geriatric, on paper he had a lot in common with the group she’d come here with. Maybe the seed of doubt she was swallowing would’ve been enough to give her pause had he not been so venomous in their brief moment together; but he had been, and it wasn’t. 

Once Soris was gone, she positioned her heel over the back of the man’s neck and stomped down, cracking the vertebrae as he lay. “Like a light.”