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Chapter Text

The battlefield always sang in the aftermath, as though the death of so many titans and their children had littered the air with the song of their people. But there was also the chorus of flies as they congregated on flesh. Then the caw of ravens, intent on their next meal.

Solas felt those sounds echoing endlessly through his bones as he made his way toward the center of the field. The sky burned red and blue as titan blood filled the pores of the earth. Their fight had killed the trees. It had killed the animals. It had killed thousands—on both sides.

But they had succeeded.

His dagger, his fang, had finally brought down the titans in one fell swoop. Even as he’d wasted breath explaining the danger of such a thing, he’d known to expect horrific casualties.

This was simply far beyond anything he could have foreseen, even had he remained in the Fade as Wisdom.

The corruption of his spirit began the moment he took a body. It ended now.

Beyond the curve of the next hillock, he knew thousands of men and women lay still, never to rise again. The allies he had brought to aid them were gone—twisted or killed, he didn’t know. He could pretend that this last, most drastic step had been necessary, until he caught sight of bright, glowing red among the sea of blue blood and recognized his folly.

He had come to a body generations after the first born—Elgar’nan, Andruil, Mythal, Falon’Din, and June. They stood now at the far edge of the battlefield, rejoicing as the birds picked over what was left.

They called themselves Evanuris. It meant power, and the right to rule. They stood as respected generals, the only ones capable of making the sacrifices leadership required.

Or so they said.

He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

What have I done?

The question came over and over as he spotted Felassan across the clearing, his shoulder underneath the arm of a limping man, slipping on gore. His lieutenant shook his head, face set in a miserable frown.

He had no way to answer that look, or the question still circling in his mind.

When the Evanuris reached him, they were beaming with triumph. Mythal was the only one who looked the least bit troubled as she stared at the hoard of flies buzzing about the bodies.

Yet, her voice united with Elgar’nan’s as they said: “We name you the Pride of Elvhenan. We name you an evanuris.”

It seemed, to Solas, only a hollow victory as they confirmed the corruption of his spirit.

He didn’t need a title. He didn’t want it, staring at the pall of death all around them. But he accepted the station, the power that came with so high a rank. He clenched his hand into a fist and clapped it over his heart. His reply was half-hearted. “For the People.”

The others echoed his remark, before turning and joining their respective factions in celebration, all while the dead rotted behind them.

Mythal was the only one to remain at his side, her hand on his arm a cold weight. “It was the only way, love,” she murmured.

“No,” he replied stiffly. “It wasn’t.”

She stepped closer, interlacing their fingers. “You have freed our people, Solas. We have a chance now to build something better, to use this opportunity to truly thrive.”

“At what cost?” he snarled. “Look at this!”

He gestured widely at the corpses.

Her body—woven not of the Fade, but of lyrium and will—pressed against his side. Her lips touched the crook of his neck like a lover’s might. Once, that one gesture would have leveled him. Once, he would have given anything for the simplicity of her touch and the promises that followed.

Now, he felt only the vast, echoing silence of regret.

He’d done it for her.

And he loathed himself for it.

Every fallen body at their feet bore his name carved in blood. Every fractured stone was a monument to a request he hadn’t had the strength to refuse.

She stayed close, breath brushing his skin as she spoke softly, “We can have it now. The world we dreamed of in the music room. A place without chains, where our people have the chance at freedom.”

Freedom.

Solas closed his eyes, tears streaking through the grime of war. His hands hung at his sides, useless things, stained with the trust of those who had followed him. It was all he could do, to lean into her, to accept the touch he had yearned for years. To accept the loss, and work to right the wrong.

He let his head rest lightly against hers, his forehead against her temple, and for a single moment, he let himself believe. In her. In them.

And with every shattered piece of his heart, he prayed it had been worth it.

***

Three thousand years passed like the blink of an eye.

When Solas had been named an Evanuris, he was offered what many craved: the right to carve out a kingdom of his own, to gather followers, and to rule.

But to him in all his years walking the world in flesh, the desire to rule had never taken root in him. Power, he understood. Leadership, he could bear. But rulership—complete dominion over others—was a path he rejected time and time again.

To Solas, existence was defined by choices. Not obedience, not fear, and certainly not the hierarchies the other Evanuris enforced like law.

His people had never been those who bowed to titles. His people were the spirits who drifted through the Fade, seeking purpose and connection. His people were the iconoclasts, like Felassan. The men and women who had stood beside him in the war beneath the earth, who had chosen principle over comfort and justice over safety.

So when he was offered territory, he made no claim on the world they called Thedas. Instead, he shaped a realm within the Fade. There were no borders, no throne to enthrall his followers—there was only a sanctuary. He built it from thought and will, tearing stone from the Earth only where necessary. It was not because the others suggested he have a province of his own, but because his allies deserved a refuge where they could gather without fear of corruption. A harbor where the People, hunted and exiled, could rest beyond the reach of the other Evanuris.

It was a place born of memory and defiance. A home for those who had none.

Because he did not insert himself at the top, or actively manage the gathered people, he was able to remain close to the one soul who had ever truly known him: Mythal.

Benevolence, the quiet hand that soothed as often as it struck. The woman he loved, the woman who had guided him from the Fade, the woman who once sat beside him to compose beautiful music.

In memory, he had been hers.

And for a while, that had been enough.

But when the war ended, she took her place beside Elgar’nan, her hand slipping into his instead of Solas’s. Elvhenan’s people celebrated it as inevitable—order binding itself to benevolence, power uniting with justice. Mythal still called him love in the quiet moments, still looked at him with the depth of someone who had shared millennia of thought, blood, and purpose together.

But it was Elgar’nan she had married.

At one time, that simple truth had carved a hollow space in Solas’s chest.

He had promised to follow her anywhere. Through war and the endless deaths of political machinations. Through the reordering of the world itself as Elvhenan took shape. But he had not imagined that “anywhere” would mean standing in the shadow of another man’s throne, watching the person he loved choose duty over desire.

Still, he stayed.

Not out of obligation, but out of belief in her, in what they had promised to one another, and in what she still represented, even as her crown grew heavy and her silences more frequent.

He still loved her, even when the chorus rang out across the world—lap dog, they snickered.

Love was foreign to a being who valued the application of knowledge above all else. For centuries, he had watched and waited and gathered evidence of evil. For centuries, he had watched Mythal slip further and further away. He remained at her side, always ready to protect her if she needed him, but it was becoming harder to justify it when good men like Felassan asked why he allowed evil to spread—and his only answer was that he needed to be there for her.

And what kind of wisdom was that? What truth had he been serving when silence meant complicity?

It haunted him, the knowledge that he had become exactly what he once warned others against: a too-still watcher, a guardian who no longer guarded anything but his own aching heart. He told himself that Mythal still needed him, that her path was simply winding, not lost. But the more he watched, the more he saw her wield justice as weapon. Punishment had become her language. And Elgar’nan. . . Elgar’nan had become her voice.

There were days Solas could no longer tell whether her silences were kindness, or indifference.

And yet, he stayed.

He had once believed his presence might act as a tether, some quiet force to hold her steady. But the truth was far crueler: he had no power over the tide she chose to follow, not anymore. Perhaps he never had.

So he remained, frozen in place. He stood beside her as she presided over their people. He watched. He waited, for a way to change her heart. He waited for a subtle shift in her gaze or a word that might restore the balance she once carried so easily. A sign that Mythal, as he had known her, still lived behind those careful eyes.

Today, he needed her to listen.

For he had seen the men and women in camps—the once-proud People, chained to the ground, to each other, brightly colored tattoos staining their features, written in their own blood.

A denial was always swift on the Evanuris’s lips, but Solas could stand idle no longer. The distant threat was no longer a mere whisper in the wind; it had become a tangible force, gnawing at the edges of their world. He knew the pain of waiting too long, the regret of inaction that haunted him like the phantoms of those he had lost.

Knowing that, he made his way to Mythal’s council chamber with a sense of urgency, his mind a whirlwind of strategies and contingencies. The path was familiar, each step a reminder of the countless times he had walked it before, but today felt different. Today, the stakes were infinitely higher, and the cost of failure was something he could not bear to contemplate.

They stood at the precipice of change. Tension seethed within the empire and soon the bubble would burst, unleashing a chaos that threatened to reshape the very foundations of their world. Peace was fragile, he knew that, but at times it felt a useless struggle, especially so now.

He had been Wisdom, and once the elves had sought him out for his advice. Now that he’d taken a body, they ignored it with an unyielding intensity.

Today, Felassan strode beside him, his armor gleaming in the rays of sunlight. He had served beside him in the war, always close by, always offering his steadfast friendship in dire moments. Felassan was the type of man to notice small details, like the minuscule crack in armor, the one that could bring the whole thing tumbling down—or, if sealed, protect the wearer from a devastating blow.

Now, that man’s eyes traced over the palace walls, as though searching for the fissures that might bring the whole thing down.

“Do you really think they’ll listen?”

Solas’s lip twitched. “Mythal will.”

His friend scoffed. “You put too much faith in her.”

“And you,” Solas said, “not enough.”

Felassan gave him a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth lifting in something between amusement and disbelief. “You always did think she was different from the rest of them.”

“She is,” Solas said, his voice quiet but firm. “She is different.”

“Is that so?” Felassan’s eyes were still on the stone above them, as if it might whisper its secrets if he stared hard enough. “Because from where I stand, they’ve all grown fat on veneration and slow on reason.”

Solas didn’t answer immediately. His eyes scanned the towering palace walls, tracing the elegant patterns etched into the stone, the light dancing off polished tile. The palace, for all its grandeur, felt hollow. Like a monument erected for a dream that had long since withered.

“I believe she still wants what we fought for,” he said finally. “Even if she’s forgotten how.”

Felassan made a low sound in his throat, close to a groan. “I can’t believe it. You still love her.”

Solas didn’t look at him. “That’s not relevant.”

“It’s everything, old friend,” Felassan said softly. “And it’s exactly why this won’t work. You’ll walk into that room, you’ll lay bare the truth, and when she doesn’t change—when she can’t—you’ll find a way to forgive her anyway.”

Solas stopped walking. The light caught his profile, all sharp edges and shadow. “She is not the one who needs to change.”

Felassan stopped beside him, folding his arms. “Then who does?”

There was a long pause.

“Them,” Solas said.

They fell into a yawning silence, the only sound the weighted clink of armor on stone.

In the many centuries since the titans fell, Solas was the only one to speak out, to remind the others of the cost of war, to remind them of the blood it would cost if their people fell into conflict, yet it now seemed like an empty refrain. 

They had crossed a line, and it remained to be seen if it could be uncrossed.

He sighed, running a hand through the long locks of his hair. “If she denies it outright, I-I. . .” another long exhale. “We will do what we must.”

His friend clasped his shoulder. “You may not think it, but you have the support of the People. Just try to remember it.”

He nodded, then turned toward the chamber where the council convened, steeling himself for the confrontation to come.

“Wait here,” he said.

”Best of luck, Solas,” Felassan said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, an action that he’d often done on the field, a small, unarticulated signal of his stress. “You’re going to need it.”

Solas rolled his eyes, then stepped through the double doors.

The council chamber was a place of opulence and power. The walls were lined with shimmering tiles that lit up as he approached. The sun shone through massive windows, casting long beams of light across the intricately patterned floors. Rich murals adorned the walls, each depicting great deeds and pivotal moments of their history. Ornate crystals hung from the high ceilings, refracting the sunlight into a cascade of colors.

And yet, inside, that grandeur did little to ease the turmoil within him.

His eyes swept the room, taking in the faces of the council members who had gathered. Each one represented a faction, a power, a voice among Mythal’s territory. He had spoken to them each individually before. Each time, they had spurned him.

Liar, they had hissed. Madman. Fool.

Now, brought together at last, Solas’s gaze went to Mythal. The queen. The Arbiter. Benevolence given true form.

She would stand with him in this. She had to. And with her support, the others would have to follow.

She sat at the head of the table, her presence commanding and regal. Her amber eyes assessed him, making no reference to the friendship that had lasted between them for centuries beyond counting.

It had the twisting knot inside of him twisting further.

Solas took a deep breath, his voice steady and resolute. “My Queen, the threads of our past unravel into the present, and we stand at a precipice.”

“Oh?” she quirked an eyebrow at him, the expression achingly familiar. He’d seen that look when she lay upon his bed the morning after—when she would crook her finger and demand more.

He put the thought from his mind, his features darkening.

“My agents have found evidence of slavery, and we must act before it is too late.”

“Slavery?” Ladanelan, a thin-faced man asked. His voice was incredulous, though his eyes seemed to narrow.

Ladanelan was the master of the treasury. His gaze, calculating and shrewd, assessed the implications of Solas’s assertion.

The Queen’s gaze was unwavering, but Solas detected a flicker of something behind those eyes. “How do you know this?”

Solas lifted a hand, letting a set of chains slam onto the table before him.

The metallic clank echoed through the chamber, silencing the murmurs and drawing all eyes to the evidence he presented. The chains were old and worn, yet their presence was a stark reminder of the reality they could no longer ignore. The shackles were just large enough to fit around an elf’s wrists, just long enough to allow movement, but not escape.

Mythal touched the metal, her eyes growing darker by the minute. “Where did you find these?”

“In the mining district to the East, at the edge of Falon’Din’s lands,” Solas answered. “Hidden beneath a collapsed storehouse. My agents recovered them—along with records. Names. Ledgers.”

Ladanelan shifted in his seat, his lips pursing, but he said nothing.

One of the others, the Master of Agriculture, Taeviel, leaned forward, his leather armor creaking faintly. “That sector was cleared decades ago. If this is true, then someone’s kept that district sealed off deliberately.”

“It is true,” Solas replied. “And it is not an isolated case. This is systemic. Coordinated. Beneath our notice, perhaps deliberately so.”

“Still,” Mythal noted, “it does not prove—”

“Felassan and I liberated a camp not far from the mines. Slavers had our people in cages, Mythal.” His eyes pleaded for her to see the truth in his words. “And they were on their way to your territory.”

Mythal leaned back, her serpent eyes rising from the chains to take in his tense posture. “Slavery is outlawed in my lands. You know this.”

“It is like a poison,” Solas intoned, his voice low and intense. “It seeps into the very fabric of our society, corrupting and degrading everything it touches. If we do not root it out now, it will spread even here. Already I have heard rumors of these camps cropping up in the other nations.”

She sniffed, a bit indignant. “How long had they been there? You have no idea how recent—”

“Long enough that children were born in those cages,” he said quietly.

Ladanelan cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is not so bad as you make it out. It could have been an isolated politician acting without authority—”

Solas waved a hand, opening the Fade and letting more chains drop to the table, and then to the floor.

Hundreds of them, most too small to be for an adult.

The man stopped speaking, and the silence turned brittle.

“These could be for animals,” another councilman said.

“No,” Solas cut in, his voice low and cold. “Do not insult us with that.”

The council shifted uncomfortably as Mythal turned back to Solas. “What do you propose we do about it, Solas?”

“We must rally our forces, forge alliances, and prepare for the storm that’s coming. If the other evanuris refuse to stem the tide as you have done, we must make them see reason. The time for spectating has passed. We must be the architects of our fate, lest it be constructed by our enemies.”

As the council murmured amongst themselves, the weight of his words hung heavy in the air.

The queen leaned back, eyeing Solas from across the table. “You have ever been a loyal advisor, Solas. But how exactly do you suppose we should ‘make them see reason’?”

Solas ground his teeth, feeling the weight of Mythal’s scrutiny. “We must appeal to their sense of preservation. Show them the evidence, the undeniable proof of the horrors unfolding in their own lands. If they still refuse, we must force their hand. Convene a council, make public declarations, and if necessary, apply pressure through our alliances and resources.”

Mythal’s eyes narrowed, then her gaze dropped to the silver goblet before her. She lifted it to her lips, taking several deliberate sips of the dark red wine. “And if that fails?”

He did not hesitate. “Then we must be prepared to act independently. It is not only our duty but our moral obligation to end this atrocity. We cannot allow fear to dictate our actions.”

“You know as well as I that there are threats rising all around us,” she said. “The world teeters on the edge of catastrophe. A civil war is gathering kindling to the East—Anaris, with his forgotten ones.” Mythal shook her head. “If we alienate the others now, we risk setting the fire ourselves.”

Her lips thinned as she stared into her wine. “How can we ask the Evanuris to focus on this when the only proof we have is your word that these chains came from slavers?”

“My agents have freed our people in each land beside yours. The threat is real, and it is encroaching even here. We cannot sit back and do nothing.” His eyes hardened. “I cannot sit back and do nothing.”

“It’s not enough.”

Frustration simmered in his chest, a boiling tempest barely contained. He clenched his fists, the knuckles whitening as he held back the surge of anger. “Then we gather more. We infiltrate, we inspect, we unveil the truth however we must. This cannot be ignored any longer.”

She hummed, softly contemplative.

“It is an interesting suggestion, Solas.”

The council’s voices rose and fell like the tides, opinions clashing, some supporting Solas, others hesitant, fearful of the repercussions. Yet, despite the cacophony, Solas remained resolute. His eyes met the queen’s once more, a silent exchange passing between them.

He took a deep breath, stepping forward, his voice dropping low, only for her ears. “I have offered you my advice in this matter. I ask only that you take it seriously.”

Mythal’s gaze didn’t rise to meet his. She swirled her wine, eyes fixed on the slow rotation of the dark liquid in her goblet. “You always speak with such urgency, Solas. But urgency is not proof. The world is full of cruelty. You would have us burn down the house every time we find a spider in the corner.”

His breath caught. Not from surprise, but from the bitter confirmation.

“Chains,” he said, low, incredulous. “You look at chains made for children and call them spiders?”

She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I call them a provocation, one you are too close to see clearly. If we act on too little, we risk destabilizing half the western provinces. Elvhenan will not survive it. You know this.”

“I also know that stability bought on the backs of slaves is no stability at all.” His voice rose, sharp enough to draw a few startled glances from the council.

“Solas,” she said warningly, her tone calm but final.

“No!” his voice boomed now. “You said you brought me here for my wisdom. This is it. This is what wisdom demands—that we look directly at the sickness, even when it costs us comfort. Even when it makes us question the very thing we’ve built.”

She placed her goblet down with a delicate clink. “I called you to a body to help guide our people. Not to ignite a civil war over imagined horrors.”

“Imagined?” He stepped closer. “You think I am chasing phantoms? Then come with me. See it. Smell the smoke, see the marks on their wrists. Listen to them scream.” His eyes flashed. “And then tell me it is nothing.”

A long silence stretched between them. Mythal’s eyes searched his face, cold and calculating.

“I will consider your words,” she said at last. “But we will proceed carefully. Cautiously. I will not be goaded into acting too soon.”

Solas stared at her, his jaw tight, every muscle in his body straining to keep him rooted.

She stood. “Proceed as you deem necessary, Solas, but tread carefully. Our future hinges on the shadow of your deeds.”

She turned away. The chains lay still on the table.

No one moved to touch them.

With a deep breath, Solas released the tension in his muscles. He made his way out of the chamber, finding Felassan waiting for him.

“Well?” his friend asked.

“You were right,” he said slowly. “We are alone.”

Chapter Text

Solas crouched among the reeds, Felassan at his side. They had traded the gleaming gold of their armor for dark leathers, better suited for slipping unseen through the brush as they approached the camp.

Absent the threat of the titans shaking the ground beneath their feet, the Elvhen people had spread to far corners of the world, no longer so reliant on the protection offered by standing armies and generals. That meant some elves built their homes on the fringes, some disappeared into the woods entirely.

And some, like these despicable men, took the opportunity to prey on others.

Solas’s eyes narrowed as he tracked movement through the underbrush. Beside him, Felassan worked silently, fingers deft as he untangled the wards at the edge of the clearing.

A scream rang out. Raw. Feminine.

The shimmer of a crystal-powered cage pulsed at the center of the camp, encasing a group of Elvhen—chained together, shivering from cold and fear alike.

Children clung to their parents, tears cutting paths through the grime on their faces, forced to watch as a guard dragged a woman from the group and hauled her toward the fire.

“Hurry,” Solas ground out.

“I’m trying,” Felassan whispered.

He was a surgeon with spellwork, precise and practiced, his skill in dismantling magical defenses without setting off alarms was greater than even Solas’s own. Solas knew that. He knew it.

But still, his leg twitched with restrained fury as the woman was thrown down before the flames.

“Got it!”

Solas surged forward the instant Felassan spoke, no longer concerned with silence. The air bent around him, threads of magic gathering like stormclouds pulled into a tight, focused funnel. One step, two—and then he was in the clearing in the body of a great black dire wolf. Black fur sprouted from his skin and a snarl raced from his throat. Strong muscle rippled as he bounded forward.

The guards barely had time to react.

The first man lifted a blade toward the woman, but Solas’s magic was faster. The metal in the man’s hand shattered into shards, turning molten as it dropped. The guard screamed, clutching the ruin of his fingers, but Solas was already moving on.

A second raised a bow. That one didn’t get the chance to pull the string—his body convulsed, locked in place as vines erupted from the ground and wrapped around him, dragging him to his knees.

Chaos bloomed in the camp.

Solas dove forward and caught the man who had been so intent on his captive between his jaws, ripping into his neck. Blood spurted around them and the woman cowered on the ground, her hand raised defensively.

He turned, finding another slaver rushing toward his fellows, their own magic rising in an attempt to defend themselves.

It was futile.

“You are not fit to stand within elvhen lands,” he said, his voice low and unyielding. “Not ever again.”

The world bent.

The fire at the center of the camp flared upward like it had been caught in a cyclone. The heat didn’t touch Solas or his agents. It obeyed him. A wall of flame rose, a barrier between the captives and their captors, forcing the remaining guards to halt, eyes wide.

Some tried to run, but they didn’t get far.

The ground beneath them cracked open, stone and root rising up like a living thing, knocking them off their feet, trapping them.

The silence afterward was staggering.

The men and women inside the cage cried out, not in fear now, but disbelief, hope cutting through their panic as Solas shifted back into a man, a mask fitted over his face and a cloak blurring his featured. He lifted his hand and sent a pulse of raw, focused Fade energy into the crystalline prison. The cage cracked like ice under a hammer. A second surge shattered it completely.

Chains clattered to the ground.

Felassan joined him, a similar mask fitted over his own face. With a flash of his blade, he cut through the bindings still clinging to wrists and ankles.

“The Dread Wolf!” one man called, his chains rattling as Solas approached the cage.

“Our savior!”

“He’s real!”

Solas glanced toward Felassan, a look of don’t you dare say a word passing between them.

His friend merely raised his hands, not the least apologetic for the title he had encouraged to spread.

He rolled his eyes, then gestured briefly toward the freed captives. “Find where these people came from. If they’ve no home to return to, offer them sanctuary.”

Felassan nodded, starting to move forward before catching sight of the woman still trembling on the ground.

She had large, striking eyes the color of ivy. Dark auburn curls clung to her neck, matted with sweat and dirt. Her skin was several shades darker than his own, but still dusted with freckles that peeked through the grime and dried blood. Small dimples formed when her expression shifted, brief flashes of softness in an otherwise guarded face. Lean muscle wrapped tight around a compact frame, built more for endurance than brute force.

Felassan crouched before her, gently touching her shoulder. Her eyes went up to meet his friend’s, and Solas watched both of them freeze in place. The Fade vibrated slightly, the air turning crisp and startling those around them.

“What-what is your name?” Felassan asked haltingly.

“E-Evanura,” she whispered, still frightened and hollow, but coming closer to the surface now that the men were gone.

“Evanura,” Felassan said, his voice halting as though tasting the name on his tongue. “Come with me. You are free now.”

He reached out a hand, and slowly she allowed him to pull her to her feet. In a far louder voice, he said, “You need not fear, the Dread Wolf has liberated this camp.”

Solas shot a glare in his friend’s direction, but he answered with only a shrug as the woman was led away, clinging tight to him.

Then, Solas turned to look at the slavers. His agents had rounded up the leaders from across the camp, placing them on their knees in the same chains they had placed on others.

They quailed before his power. He was one of the first born, and his magic writhed beneath his skin like flame dancing under canvas. His eyes glowed an ominous red, black fur rippling as he moved. He was like a shadow given breath, coming out of the night with fangs and fury.

And he was focused entirely on them, his mouth forming a single word:

“Why?”

One man, placed before the others, glanced back at his fellows before looking up at Solas. There was defiance in that expression, but something else beneath. Some honest loyalty guiding his actions as he said, “We will not be so caged.”

Solas had only a single eyeblink to react, his barrio snapping into place a second before the camp exploded with light.

As it was, most of the slavers and three of Solas’s own men were swallowed instantly, their bodies aging rapidly and then crumbling to dust, soundless screams on their lips as they died.

Solas heard the sound behind him and knew this leader wasn’t the only one with the trap to detonate. He watched, helpless from this distance as part of the camp—dozens of slaves—were murdered in an instant.

Solas dove forward, skin rippling back into a lupine shape, his paw pressing into the chest of the last slaver left alive. Rather than trust the runic chains to sap him of his mana, Solas did the work himself now, grasping hold of the power in the man’s veins and neutralizing it. He snarled deep in his throat, letting hot saliva dribble down to the man’s face.

“We are the Elvhen,” the Wolf growled. “We are meant to stand tall, proud of our accomplishments. And yet you debase yourself with this.”

His jaw snapped again, close to the man’s face.

“I ask you the same question I asked of your leader,” he said. “Choose not to answer, and I can rip you apart from the inside, then put you back together. I can burn your skin until you wish for the emptiness of death. Or. . .” He showed his teeth. “You can tell me what you know, and I will set you free.”

His muzzle pointed at the blast zone around his former friends. “Unless you wanted to join your leader in death.”

He could hear the man’s heart racing in his chest, his fear a sour taste in Solas’s mouth. He shook his head wildly, panting for air as Solas increased the pressure on his lungs.

“N-no, no-please—”

“Did they also beg,” Solas inquired gently. “The people you caged?”

The man went white as a sheet. “We-we were under orders.”

“Was your friend following orders when he tore that woman out?”

He gulped, pupils blown wide.

His voice dropped lower as he asked, “what was your purpose. Where were you taking these people?”

The man shivered, but finally answered. “We were under orders to deliver them to the-the Dealer.”

Solas cocked his head. “Who is the Dealer?”

“I-I don’t know.”

He pressed harder into the man’s chest, snapping his jaws an inch from the man’s face as he screamed in terror. “Tell. Me.”

“I don’t k-know!” The terror became a sharp scent in his nostrils now, but at last he offered what Solas needed. “We were told th-that he would meet us under the Blood Pit, d-during the gladiator event, three months from today. We would m-meet our contact there.”

“Who?”

“I-I don’t know!” the man raised his arms, hands splayed in a gesture of peace. His eyes darted to the blackened spray of ash on the grass. “Only our leader knew what to look for.”

Solas raised his head. “Would this contact know you? Would you be able to deal in your master’s stead?”

“M-me? No, I-I was just...” he shook his head.

“I was the lowest,” he said. “I only recently earned t-the right to stand beside them. I know only that there is a pendant to mark our contact.”

Just then Felassan returned to his side. He glanced at the man briefly. “How many?”

“Twelve dead. Eighteen wounded.”

Solas let the loss settle over him, before turning back to the slaver. Solas let him up, let him breathe.

“Were you once a slave as well?” he asked.

The man sat up, breathing raggedly, his hand on his chest.

But then his lip curled. “No, I was never one of them.”

“Good,” Solas replied warmly, just before his teeth scissored through the man’s throat.

***

Weeks passed as news of the camp’s liberation spread.

The Dread Wolf had once been a curse, now it stood as a beacon for the People.

Though that didn’t mean he liked it any better now than the first time a slaver had spat it at him.

His room was a maze of shadows, pale blue and purple runes shimmering along the walls. His furniture was kept to a bare minimum here. The desk and chairs carved of stone, a table in the corner for late night meals, the bed simple and the only true indulgence being additional pillows for long nights—or partners who joined him.

Solas sighed, finally sitting down in the chair beside the fire in the Lighthouse. The mirror he’d crafted still wasn’t cooperating, and he found himself frustrated and exhausted after another failure. Redirecting mirrors from June’s network would take too long for them to function efficiently, and yet it seemed the only way for now. Until he could figure out the Vi’Revas, they didn’t have another option, one they desperately needed if they were to continue traveling effectively.

Felassan’s hand was musing his hair, still wet from a bath as he approached and then sat heavily beside Solas. “We lost three agents in the South,” his friend said quietly, “but liberated forty-three to the East. Some of them didn’t make it though.”

Solas closed his eyes, feeling the weight of that admission settle like a stone in his gut. “We’ll have to have to see if we can identify them. Perhaps reach out to Grief, it may be able to identify the emotions before their deaths and use that to track down their families.”

Felassan nodded grimly, then let the room lapse into silence.

Solas waved a hand, letting the fire stir and breathe more heat into the lofty space. High above, his people moved through the halls of the lighthouse far below, scattered conversation hushed as Solas contemplated their next move.

Felassan whistled softly. “So... it’s been a few weeks now.”

He hummed.

His friend sighed, then asked outright, “Are you going to bother telling Mythal about our new lead?”

Solas ran his knuckles along his jaw, a slow, tense movement. “The Blood Pit is in her territory.”

“Which means,” Felassan said, voice careful but pointed, “she likely already knows.”

Solas’s gaze snapped to him, sharp. “She wouldn’t allow slavery.”

Felassan didn’t respond, the silence stretching just a second too long.

Solas looked away, jaw tight. “Not knowingly.”

The words tasted like ash, brittle even as he spoke them. He wanted to believe it—needed to believe it. Mythal might be many things, but she would not turn a blind eye to something like this.

“I’ll seek her out,” he said at last, quieter now. “Tell her what we’ve found.”

His friend’s brow quirked. “And maybe see if she wants to spend some time with you, while Elgar’nan is in the South?”

Solas huffed indignantly. “I did not say that.”

“Right, of course.”

They lapsed into another heavy silence, this one deeper than the last. Solas swallowed, turning from the fire to gaze at his friend. “I am worried for where this new lead will take us,” he murmured.

“I know,” Felassan said softly. “But we have no choice but to follow it.”

Solas nodded, though his expression didn’t ease. Felassan watched him carefully, something unreadable in his eyes.

“You still spend so much time at her side, leaving your agents to operate in the shadows,” he noted. “You protect Mythal from everything—even now, when the trail might end at her feet.”

Solas didn’t answer immediately. But when he did, his voice was quiet, strained. “She is my oldest friend.”

“Would you consider it, if I told you that you need better friends?”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Noted, friend.”

Felassan winced, then shook his head. “Look, I’m just saying that maybe you should reevaluate your thinking on this one.”

“I don’t remember a time when she and I were truly apart,” Solas said after a heavy pause. “Even in the Fade, she would—” He broke off, sighing.

Solas’s mouth pulled into a hard line before he continued, “So much of what I have experienced in this life was experienced with her. She understands me, Felassan.”

His friend hummed softly, contemplative. “Then why are you so hesitant to take that final step and confront her?”

Solas glanced at his friend. His hair was nearly dry now, and Felassan began braiding it with simple knots, his hands practiced and quick. He sighed, then admitted, “I fear... compromising, where she is concerned. I fear losing the line between what I am fighting for and who I am fighting beside.”

Solas’s smile was gentle as he continued, “She is better than the others. I have faith in her.”

Felassan didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree, either. And that silence spoke volumes.

Then, Felassan licked his lips, and said, “I hope you’re right.”

“I’ll speak with her, then return to her court,” Solas mused. “If we find anything of use, I’ll be beside her to plan our next move. I can coordinate everything else from my dreams.”

Felassan abruptly stood, stretching with a groan, arms arching over his head like a lazy cat’s. “Right. Enjoy your little domestic investigation. Do let me know when you’ve gone back to pining over her.”

Solas gave him an affronted look. “I do not pine.”

Felassan’s laugh was loud and booming. “Right, and I suppose all those raven-haired lovers I see traipsing from your room in the mornings is just coincidence?”

The scowl on Solas’s face was far deeper than any he’d given Felassan before, prompting another chuckle from the younger man.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be quiet.” He turned to leave, but paused when Solas called his name.

Solas got up, posture easy, but his tone carried a quieter weight. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he murmured, “the woman we found at that camp three weeks ago, is she...?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. Felassan didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped, mouth pressing into a thin line. When he finally exhaled, it came slow and steady, as if he’d been holding his breath for too long.

“She is doing well, all things considered.” The man swallowed. “There’s still times where she’s afraid, but she’s also fierce. Strong. I enjoy being beside her, explaining the things she’s missed.”

“You froze when you saw her.”

Another hard swallow. “It was... startling.”

Solas cocked his head. “How so?”

The Fade breathed around them, and Felassan opened his palm. It was subtle at first, then swelling, like something awakening beneath the surface. The air thickened with raw, unshaped emotion—shared from Felassan to him.

It hit Solas like a wave.

He gasped, staggering back a half-step, his breath caught as the intensity of it surged through him. It was radiant as a star, warm in its intensity. It was fear and awe, joy and grief. It was all-consuming.

“What-what is that?”

Felassan shook his head.

“I don’t know. But I feel it when I am with her.” Violet eyes came up to meet his. “I think... she is my heart.”

Solas stood frozen, the echo of that feeling still coursing through his veins as he absorbed his friend’s words.

The concept Felassan presented wasn’t shocking.

It was easy to think of the words vhenan in the abstract, connecting familiar emotion with known words—people all around the world did it. But their people had been deliberate in shaping this word. It described a type of bond so profound it wove spirit to spirit—an immortal link, one that transcended time. The heart that lived outside one’s chest. Some who met, felt it immediately or after a few centuries with the other person... or never at all, but Solas knew enough to know it was real.

No, that was not what shocked him.

The shock came from the realization that he had never felt it before.

He once called Mythal his heart.

She responded by calling him love.

He had not felt this. Not when he’d touched Mythal’s skin for the first time. Not when her lips had pressed to his. Not even in the brief, shining moments when their bodies had been twined together.

His brow furrowed, something dark and unsettled stirring in his chest.

He loved Mythal. He had always loved her, so much so that he’d never once turned his back on her.

She was his heart.

Wasn’t she?

The question lingered in his mind as he bid his friend goodbye.

Chapter Text

The weeks did not pass so much as crumble, the days breaking off in chalky edges that left dust on Solas’s fingers. Each morning, he set himself in the palace’s echoing corridors like a votive offering set before a closed shrine. Each afternoon, Mythal’s supplicants came and went while he stood unreceived.

He brought testimony.

Men and women with vallaslin that would not scrub away, their skin fading purple over healing bruises. A boy who kept reaching for his missing ear when frightened. A woman who called herself by three names because each overseer had given her a new one and she could not remember which she was meant to answer to. He set cages on the palace steps, iron ringing against polished stone, and asked her to look.

She did not.

He waited in the palace for audience after audience that never came. Once, he thought he saw her across a walkway, the raven-black fall of her hair catching in the moonlight, but she turned away before his voice could cross the distance. Servants delivered cool refusals in warm voices. Another engagement. A tribunal. A procession. Always something that pressed just ahead of him.

Meanwhile, his people worked. Their hands raised wards against scrying eyes fortifying his sanctuary brick by brick.

He had set aside a place there for Mythal there. It was foolish hope, perhaps, yet stubborn as a root that split stone.

He resolved to persuade her, to remind her of the wisdom he offered. To remind her of the symphony of understanding that still lingered between them. Yet each day, he found himself holding nothing more than the memory of that time when she had sat beside him. Before the end of the war, before she had married Elgar’nan and told him to relax, love.

The fragile wish he’d carried faded as the time to meet approached, and still she had not spoken to him.

Finally, as he stood on the precipice of despair, a door he had stood before a dozen times at last opened.

She did not speak, but merely inclined her head, beckoning him inside. And he, like the obedient dog they called him, followed her lead.

“Mythal—”

Her mouth covered his next words, drowned them beneath heat and intention. The kiss struck like fever: heat without warning, no permission asked. She pulled him with her, retreating until his back met carved cedar. Beneath the sweeter perfume of crushed foxglove at her wrists, he scented the faint smell of ink and glanced down. On the low table, a letter lay opened, its wax seal snapped through the sigil of Elgar’nan’s sun. The neat, military tilt of Elgar’nan’s hand was stark against the vellum.

He lost sight of it as her hands drifted up. She knew the map of his jaw, the angle that stole his breath, the old rhythm his body remembered too well. He had memorized this trap’s teeth well and unclasped himself gently, setting his palms to her shoulders.

“Tell me what he wrote,” Solas murmured, voice unsteady but steady enough.

A crease passed over her brow, there and gone. “Later, love,” she whispered, and that word had never sounded so hollow. She pressed in closer, as though more weight might erase the fault line growing between them.

Then came the command: “Undress.”

He did not move.

He looked at the letter. The edges were damp where her fingers had held too long. Solas reached past her and drew the letter into the light. Before he could read the words, Mythal snapped the letter from his hand, then leveled a hard look to him.

“No,” she said, voice as firm as a fist. “Lay down.”

It wasn’t just a command. It was the beginning stages of a ritual, one he had sworn was ended a long time ago, when her lips had been painted like rose petals, and she had whispered vows in a pretty forest to another man. A performance of permanence, delivered with eyes that never once sought his in the crowd.

And yet.

She repeated the words again: “Lay. Down.”

Something inside him flinched.

And he obeyed.

Perhaps because habit was not so easily buried, or because her voice still knew how to cut through the armor he had rebuilt in her absence. He didn’t know. He might never know.

The mattress dipped beneath him. She followed, slow as the shadow of the sun, her robe half-loosened, her hair falling in waves. Her hand landed on his chest, fingers splayed wide and nails digging into his skin as though to claim him.

And he let her.

He let her because he remembered the weight of her head on his shoulder in the old days when storms left her miserable and he had been her comfort. He let her because he remembered her laughter when that sound had been the only thing he clung to as their people bled into the dirt around them. He let her because he was tired, and she was Mythal, and it was easier to give her his body than to struggle against her.

She used him cleanly, efficiently, like a tool.

He gave everything she reached for: his mouth, his throat, the steadiness of his hands, the anchoring weight of his body. He turned his face when she wanted worship, and did not argue when she wanted silence. Heat rose and broke and broke again and again, and still the letter lay on the table with its neat rows of script.

When the fever at last burned down, the room settled into the small sounds that came after: breaths evening, magic healing the wounds she’d inflicted, and sticky sweat cooling their bodies. She lay on her side, hair spilled across his shoulder, one hand still splayed over his chest. Her skin was warm. Her pulse folded back into its ordinary measure against his ribs.

Solas loved Mythal, he loved her sharp mind and wicked tongue. He loved the way her eyes sparked with challenge when she fought. He loved her compassion when men and women came to her with righteous pleas. He loved the way she used to look at him, before she had married Elgar’nan.

This didn’t feel like a resolution between them, nor did it ease the tension of the past several years… Yet somehow a fragile warmth bloomed, an emotion he’d not indulged in far too long.

“Ar lath ma,” he whispered. “Vhenan.”

She smiled against his chest, her finger drawing up the plane of his chest. “I’ve missed this, love.”

The words broke something inside.

The sex between them had always been a bit like touching a flame.

She always clawed and burned his skin until it bled, leaving him marked with her in places where none would see—or sometimes where they would. She always kissed him like she meant to own every piece he surrendered. It had never been gentle, and that was to be expected. She was a dragon, after all.

Mythal had taught him to enjoy every aspect of their lovemaking. He had never minded the scars she pressed into his skin. She had taught him how to worship the fire without flinching. How to ache and still want more.

She had been his first, and the significance of that was not lost on him.

There was a time when he would have gladly borne every bruise and blister, if only to lie beside her in the quiet aftermath and feel her breath on his skin.

Now, in the silence that followed the act, it felt like he had been dipped in something heavy and unclean.

He thought of tar on the skin, the way it stays no matter how much you scrub. Sticky and dark. He did not love the man he was in that moment, and he did not excuse him. He only breathed and waited until his voice would be as steady as the rest of him.

She had said it again, like always. He called her vhenan. She replied by calling him love.

Some waited centuries for the bond of hearts to form. Well, it had been centuries for him and Mythal, and still, he was not hers in the ways that mattered.

It made him remember the letter.

“Was it very bad?” he asked at last, quiet and thick. “What your husband wrote.”

Her fingers tightened once, a reflex that reminded him of hos she often curled her fingers around a blade. She exhaled. “He writes as a general,” she said. “And forgets he is my husband.”

“That is not quite an answer.”

“No.” A faint thread of wryness. “It is not.”

She rolled away to the edge of the bed, reaching without looking and drawing the letter toward them with a careless grace that betrayed how many times she had handled it already.

She held it out to him.

He read it quickly. It discussed various changes to be made throughout their empire.

Expansion of bonded service to stabilize supply lines. Slavery.

Registry marks to be standardized “to prevent fraud.” Vallaslin.

Custodians empowered to retrieve assets. Slavers entitled to retrieve their property.

Examples to be made in cases of resistance. A new war on the horizon.

When he looked back up, she was watching him closely, as if his reaction to the words could guide her own.

“Here is the confirmation,” he said. It came out flatter than he intended. “In your own husband’s hand.”

“There is some acknowledgement.” She agreed. “And not one word spared for his wife’s wellbeing.”

Solas stiffened. “Is that the point you keyed in on?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Our empire is not a child that can be scolded into behaving.” She touched the margin where his thumb had smudged ink. “What do you want me to do, Solas? His words are not so direct as to be proof in themselves.”

He could have told her, again, about the girl who asked if she was allowed to keep her name. About the man who counted days in scratches. About cages too short to stand in. He did not. He only said, “You asked me once to bring you something you could not ignore. I have tried. You closed your eyes.”

“I closed my doors.” A correction, not a defense. She drew her knees up and wrapped the sheet around them, a queen and a woman making a small, private fortress out of linen. For a long moment the only sound was the delicate rasp of fabric shifting along the bed. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” he questioned dryly.

“Oh, yes,” she said, tilting her head toward him with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Eyes open and screaming at a locked door? That’s just theater. But a door… a door can be unlocked.”

“Mythal…”

She sighed. “Tell me what you learned, Wolf.”

It wasn’t a resolution of the pain between them, or a mending of the distance, but it felt like a beginning. He was reminded then of the woman who created music with him, the woman who made warm emotions linger in his blood.

So, he shared what he happened at the camp, explaining the slaves and the suicidal slavers. He explained the need to travel to the gladiator arena to seek out a new source of intel and perhaps learn more. By the end of it, she was nodding faintly.

“We’ve only a few days left until the anticipated rendezvous,” he finished.

She hummed softly, the sound thoughtful and feline. Her sharp nails scratched at the underside of her chin, a gesture more calculating than idle. “Interesting.”

“I know not exactly how to find them,” he admitted. “But I hope a distraction at the Colosseum will draw them out. Chaos to smoke out the rats.”

She turned her head slowly, candlelight catching on the gold in her eyes. A grin curled at the corner of her mouth, dangerous and amused.

“A distraction,” she echoed, as if the word itself was a flavor on her tongue. Then, with mock innocence: “Tell me, Wolf, how large of a distraction are we aiming for? Mild concern? Widespread panic? The collapse of an establishment?”

He stared at her.

She arched a brow. “Because I do so hate half-measures.”

Solas blinked once, then smiled.

“I was thinking somewhere between mild concern and structural collapse.”

She smirked. “Adorable. Let’s aim higher.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, her shin brushing against his. “You’ll have your distraction. You just worry about catching what crawls out from under the stones.”

“Gladly,” he replied, his voice hushed with something close to disbelief.

Here was the woman he had waited so long to see again. The one who traded verbal barbs, whose mind worked so much like his own. He watched her, beautiful and radiant in the light, her dark hair silken where it touched his skin.

At last she nodded, a small, precise motion that always felt like a verdict. “It’s decided then. We’ll leave once I’ve set things in order.”

Then, she sniffed.

“Wash,” she said, and lay back, an arm folded over her eyes as if the ceiling had become too bright. “You feel…sticky.”

He let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. “I do.”

In the washroom, the basin water went cloudy and pink beneath his hands.

He scrubbed longer than necessary, though he couldn’t name why.

When he returned, she had turned her face toward the window, to the expansive palace grounds beyond. He gathered his cloak. At the door he paused.

“Mythal.”

She didn’t move. “Mm?”

“Thank you.” The words tasted strange. True, but strange.

“Do not thank me yet,” she said. “You’ve still got rats to catch.”

He inclined his head and left her to her lamp and her letter and the cooling bed. In the corridor, the tiles were cold through his bare feet. He walked until the palace emptied behind him and the night settled on his shoulders.

Chapter Text

It was not dramatic, the distraction Mythal planned.

Instead, she arrived at the Colosseum as exactly what she was: Queen of the Realm.

She wore empiric red and black, rode a massive black hart beneath banners bearing her sigil. She spoke publicly of tradition, of strength, of how the arena was “a crucible through which greatness is forged.” Her voice, smooth and steady, never once betrayed her intent.

She smiled. She waved. She played the part with the practiced ease of a woman who had long ago learned how to wield perception like a blade.

It was, she later told Solas, “the best kind of cover: plausible, flattering, and entirely untrue.”

Her presence ignited the city. The Colosseum swelled with spectators. Nobles, officers, even lowly peasants were eager to bask in her approval. They came armed with ledgers and bribes, contracts and quiet pleas, believing they were safe beneath the shadow of her gaze.

That was the point.

While the crowd gorged itself on spectacle and self-congratulation, Mythal arranged the distraction:

A ceremonial “blessing of the games.” It was a ritual not practiced in generations, but reintroduced at her suggestion. It would take place in the center ring, at the height of the day’s festivities. Entirely symbolic. Entirely pointless. The vicars were thrilled. The audience mesmerized.

She stood there, in a warrior queen’s regalia, and spoke of strength and honor while Solas slipped through the crowd, unnoticed.

That was the agreement.

She would give him time, and cover, and noise. With any luck, he’d find the rats they sought.

Solas passed through the myriad people, each pressing close and screaming a raucous excitement. He kept his hood up, melting into the shadow and nodding at Felassan across the way, slipping between patrons with similar ease.

The Colosseum was a masterwork of elvhen architecture.

The first of the structures was built in Arlathan by Elgar’nan, who adored the games set in the stone arena. Many more cropped up over the centuries, but the one here was considered the most grand.

It rose at the edge of the capital, set deliberately apart from the heart of governance, but close enough that its shadow could fall across the city at dusk. Every stone was quarried from the same pale-veined stone used to build the empire’s oldest sanctuaries. Its base sank deep into the earth, reinforced by ancient magic woven through its bedrock. But the Roots of the arena reached further down than up. The holding cells, the tunnels, the prep chambers, and blood wells were carved out like a vast, unseen nervous system beneath the spectacle.

Above ground, the structure rose in precise, concentric tiers. Each ring was meticulously planned: the lowest rows for nobles and military officials, seats carved with names and crests. The middle for merchants and citizen elites. The highest tier was reserved for the masses, where they sat with their hands shading their sweating brows, begging for a lick of wind in the relentless heat.

One end of the Colosseum housed the viewing platform for the royal family and their chosen guests. Not merely a seat, it was a stage. Framed in gold and shaded by translucent veils that caught the light like flame, the box overlooked everything. There, sat Mythal beside the arena’s master: Athras. Any nod of approval from her would be felt in the walls themselves.

Though the arena was built of stone, each piece was enhanced with enchantments. Sound carried unnaturally well. The roar of the crowd could be heard in distant quarters of the city, even when the Colosseum was only half-full. Even the silence echoed far louder than it should, an intentional bit of magic to heighten anticipation.

The center ring was vast, layered in fine white sand imported from the desert provinces. Blood soaked quickly into it, vanishing with almost unnatural speed. Beneath the sand, trapdoors and sigils allowed for seamless introduction of beasts, obstacles, and sudden “challenges” for combatants.

Around the edge stood seven high stone statues, each representing one of the kings or queens of Elvhenan. Solas was represented there in the center, beside Mythal. Then Elgar'nan. June and Sylaise to the right. Falon'Din to the side alongside Andruil and her new bride Ghilan'nain. All watching. All judging the games to be had beneath them.

Games that left the air itself reeking of blood. Already, six lay dead or dying in the ring. They fought and died against massive beasts whose wails echoed like elvhen war cries.

Solas stood at the topmost tier, surrounded by the throngs. Around him, the crowd roared with every spray of blood, leaning forward with anticipation. Their bodies pressed close, their eyes fixed on the ring below, never looking upward, never suspecting the quiet figure among them.

The main event had yet to begin.

Soon, the gladiators would emerge.

They were Elvhenan’s pride. Fighters of legendary renown, selected from among the fiercest survivors of the war. Not one bore vallaslin, yet somehow that made their participation in these events worse, in Solas’s mind. They fought for sport, for the joy of death. Many had once led battalions into battle. Now they danced for crowds.

He hated them on instinct.

He hated them because they had surrendered to it, the lust for blood.

They wore no chains, but every piece of golden armor was a link in another kind of shackle. They were slaves to coin, to spectacle, to fame. He watched them bask in it, parade through sand with chins high, blades gleaming, and death trailing in their wake for an adoring crowd.

He felt no pity when one collapsed screaming, viscera painting the ground beneath them. Only a twist of regret—not for the body, but for the spirit that might once have been Peace. For what could have been, if they had not been shaped into weapons by a war Solas had ended.

Real warriors, like Felassan and the spirits in the Crossroads, did not revel in death. Every life lost rippled across the Fade like a stone tossed into water. They were meant to live, to thrive—not die with blood int their mouths for the cheering of a crowd that did not understand the harsh realities of war.

Solas's gaze shifted away from the carnage toward the true reason he had come.

The entrances to the inner levels were heavily fortified. No fewer than three guards stood at each threshold, positioned across every tier in mirrored readiness. They bore Mythal’s insignia on their shoulders and carried short, curved blades that would have been useless against dwarven armor, but were perfectly curated to control people, to enforce the Colosseum’s rules.

The men were preoccupied, fending off a rowdy swell of spectators eager to see the main event. Solas slipped between them with practiced ease, catching a breath between two heartbeats. A whisper of Fade coiled around him, bending light, bending notice away from himself. It was not enough to vanish entirely, but enough to pass as nothing worth seeing.

Then he was inside.

The roar of the crowd faded behind stone and warded thresholds. The Colosseum’s bowels were a maze of narrow tunnels and sloped passageways carved in perfect Elvhen symmetry. Despite the blistering heat outside, the walls were damp, the air close, thick with the scent of blood and burnt oil.

Here, beneath the roar of the games, the glamour peeled away.

Unlike the polished stone outside, the rock here felt like it was built of shadows, dark and foreboding. As Solas traveled deeper, he saw more. Chains hung from hooks like ornaments, the kind similar to those he’d found in the camp with Felassan. Blood darkened the corners where no sand was laid to cover it and it stagnated there, congealing like splashes of too-dark paint. The halls whispered with half-caught phrases and dry sobs muffled by cold hands.

Solas moved swiftly, his boots silent against the stone.

He passed handlers murmuring to their fighters. A boy no older than three centuries vomiting quietly behind a pillar while his gauntleted opponent waited nearby with dead eyes.

He avoided them all.

The cell blocks near the entrance to the arena were caged in wrought iron. Here, the gladiators waited. They were pacing like beasts, while some merely sat still, heads bowed, weapons across their knees.

It had taken months to gather more information about the so-called Dealer, and it had been pieced together with fragments of letters, all written in illegible code. Spirits of Curiosity and Learning had slowly deciphered the words, and he knew what he was looking for, even if he had no idea where he should be looking in the tunnels.

The most they knew was that the Dealer would be in all black, and that he would be waiting beneath the Colosseum sands. The only other indicator would be a black chain with a dragon pendent secured around his neck.

Solas was nearly to the end of the hall when a glint of silver caught his eye through the bars. A gladiator stood within, still as a statue carved from steel and muscle. Her armor was polished to a cruel shine, heavy across a frame built for survival, not ceremony. Bright white hair was braided tightly back from her face, no strands left loose for an opponent to grab. But it was her eyes that held him still.

A radiant shade of Lilac, catching the light and reflecting back at him. He waited to see some flicker of emotion, but there was none as she stared back.

They had never met before, but there was no surprise or fear in her expression, only the dull ache of someone long since emptied of anything that could be taken from her.

Then a voice called her name. Lea’fenlin.

A name likely given for her hair, the opposite of Mythal’s raven-dark locks. Solas felt something shift in him, subtle as a change in air pressure, as the gladiator’s eyes sparked. Just for a moment there was a flicker behind the stillness, like a flame trying to catch despite the rain. It lit something in him, too, an answering warmth that settled in his chest like an ember, foreign and unwelcome. She blinked, stepping forward, toward him, as though it were a compulsion.

She inclined her head, Her gaze slid to the right, just a fraction, a silent gesture pointing deeper into the tunnels.

Then the voice called her again, and she stiffened. The blank look returned, and Solas watched her shiver.

The voice called her again, louder this time, and she stiffened. The flicker vanished. The blankness returned like a curtain drawn. Solas watched her shiver as a man entered. His hand closed tightly around her arm, yanking her with casual force, possessive in a way that made something inside Solas tighten, though he couldn’t name what. There was no bruise yet, but the mark was already there in the gesture.

He exhaled slowly as her lilac eyes turned from him, and the spell, if it could be called that, broke. He could breathe again. He swallowed hard, watching as she was pulled from the cell and led toward the Arena’s gate, a dozen others falling into step behind her like shades drawn toward battle.

“Solas!” A harsh whisper drew him away, and he found Felassan grasping his arm just as Athras had grasped the woman’s.

He struggled to identify the feeling in his chest as he watched her go. Before he could analyze it, Felassan tugged at his arm again. “Let’s go, before they realize we’re not the men meant to be meeting them here.”

Solas exhaled slowly, the scent of dust and old magic sharp in his lungs. He nodded at his friend, then took off further down the tunnel in the direction the gladiator had indicated, hoping against hope that she was right.

He passed armories stacked with dulled blades, supply rooms warded with layered magic, and cells too dark to see into.

He could feel it now, beneath the sweat and blood, something older. Faint traces of the Fade stirred here, dragged into the stone from centuries of suffering, screaming, hope offered and crushed. It pulsed at the edge of his senses like a visceral heartbeat.

“I don’t like it here,” Felassan whispered. “It feels…”

“Like the Fade is writhing,” Solas answered. “Yes, I feel it too.”

At the next corner, he slowed.

There, at the end of the hall, standing before a set of double doors he sensed led further down into the earth, a figure stood cloaked in shadow, dark robes pooling around his boots like smoke made solid. He turned slowly as they approached, the low torchlight catching on the smooth, expressionless surface of the mask he wore. It was carved from bone, dyed black and gray in uneven striations, as if scorched by fire and left to cool in ash. The design was precise. Straight, sweeping lines curved down past his jaw, obscuring every feature save for the eyes.

And those eyes glowed crimson.

“You are early,” the man said. Even his voice sounded wrong, low and distorted, as though shaped by some unseen pressure, like it echoed through the Veil before reaching the air.

Solas bowed slightly, careful not to overplay the gesture. His gaze caught on the dragon pendant resting against the figure’s chest. Carved of bone, it was not so much a pendant as a miniature dragon curled into itself, fire gleaming at the nostrils. This was the Dealer.

“Apologies,” he said, his own voice muffled by enchantment, distorted to match the illusion that cloaked his face. “We ran into trouble in the South. Rebels interfering with prisoner shipments. More resistance than expected.”

The man tilted his head in a way that did not suggest surprise, but focus. He did not reach for a weapon, nor did he speak again, but the air around him thickened with scrutiny. Silence settled between them like a test, one neither of them could afford to fail.

Solas remained still, his posture neutral, his face hidden beneath his hood. Every breath, every heartbeat, was deliberate. He did not know if this man could see through the magic woven over his features, but he could feel the edge of something watching. Something old and dangerous.

“And the slaves you were meant to bring?”

The question broke the silence like a cold wind cutting through still air.

Solas shook his head once, restrained. “All gone.”

A sharp sound followed. A click of the tongue, soft but sharp, as though the response were not unexpected but still inconvenient. “The rebel is causing much disruption,” the man said, voice still strangely flattened, as if passed through water. “We will need to accelerate our efforts.”

He did not ask for a name, curse or rage. He merely recalibrated, as if adapting to loss was as routine as breathing.

“We’ll shift South,” he said at last, voice smooth, unaffected. “June and Sylaise fancy themselves liberators after the war. They bleat of ancestral rights and the return of dignity to their people. Very noble. Very inspiring. But those kinds of people are easy to maneuver. All it takes is the right kind of fear. Or flattery. Convince them there’s a threat to their borders, or an opportunity to strengthen them, and they will turn their gazes elsewhere while we strip the villages clean.”

The Dealer lifted a gloved hand and turned it over idly, as if examining some invisible speck of dust. “Besides, the people there are hardy, used to snow and hunger. Strong bones. Excellent yield.”

Solas’s jaw tightened beneath the veil of his enchantment. “You’re not worried about drawing attention?”

“Not in the South,” the man replied, almost amused. “No one watches what happens beneath the snow. Not unless they want frostbite.”

He took a slow breath, then turned his head toward Solas with a quiet hum of satisfaction. “And demand is growing. Falon’Din’s territory is insatiable. His rituals are consuming more bodies than they can supply from their own bloodlines. They’ve already burned through their ‘criminal class,’ such as it was. Now they’re reaching into the general population. That never lasts long. Fear turns into resentment, and resentment turns into revolt. Easier to send in fresh stock. Slaves don’t riot when they know no one’s coming to save them.”

Solas didn’t speak. His fingers curled slightly in the shadows of his sleeves.

The Dealer tilted his head. “What? You disapprove?”

“It’s illegal in Mythal’s territory,” Solas said, evenly. “Has been for generations. How will we bring them from the South up?”

That earned him a short, sharp laugh. “Illegal,” the man repeated, as if savoring the word. “Laws are little more than parchment. I’ve never known a scroll to raise a blade.” His voice dropped slightly, more dismissive now. “She’s never stopped us. She issues her decrees, paints them in noble ink, and leaves their enforcement to lesser men. So long as we don’t parade it through her gardens, she pretends not to see.”

“Still, she is not blind,” Solas said, careful to keep his tone neutral.

“No,” the man agreed. “She’s practical. That’s what makes her useful. She understands the cost of peace. She understands that order requires ugliness beneath it.”

He turned then, slowly approaching, the light flaring briefly in his crimson gaze. “No, it’s not Mythal we need worry about. She’s content to let the machine turn so long as the wheels don’t squeal too loud.”

He stopped just a pace from Solas, his voice quieter now, but darker.

“It’s the rebel who’s causing the noise.”

Solas tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity. “Has he been interfering with the other camps?”

“More than interfering. Disrupting entire trade lines. Burning contracts. Killing handlers. Rallying slaves and turning them into rebels.” He sneered faintly. “We don’t need symbols. We need silence. Falon’Din doesn’t care how many go missing, but if the market panics, if too many buyers pull back, everything slows.”

Solas allowed a pause, then asked, “How will you deal with the rebel?”

“Quietly. No theatrics, just a disappearance. I don’t want to make a martyr of him. Soon, he will be just another name forgotten in the dark.” The man huffed out a laugh. “As soon as my agents find out the man’s identity, that is. This Dread Wolf character is but a mask, and I do so enjoy unmasking my enemies.”

Then, with the same eerie calm he’d maintained throughout, he stepped back and adjusted the folds of his robe.

“Orders will be sent north by first light. The quotas remain. And if you see the rebel again… don’t hesitate.”

He turned his back and walked into the corridor’s gloom, voice echoing off the stone as he left them behind.

“Empires are not built on mercy, and we cannot afford weakness. I imagine an empire where the world-born know their place beneath us. That empire will last forever, so long as we build it right.”

***

Solas felt the darkness of the underbelly clinging to his shoulders as he made his way back into the light. The weight of it wasn’t physical, but it pressed against his skin all the same, like smoke that had soaked into his bones. The silence of the corridor behind him still lingered in his ears, muting the world as he stepped out beneath the open sky.

Felassan was already gone, having slipped away the moment they were clear. He had been ordered to draft a report, detailing every word the masked man had spoken, and to dispatch spirits to the southern border villages to act as wardens or messengers, depending on what threat came first.

Solas paused just beyond the shadowed entrance he’d disappeared into just over an hour ago. He blinked as the sunlight washed over him. The sudden brightness felt too clean, too distant from what lay beneath.

It was difficult to reconcile that just below, in the stone veins of the Colosseum, something ancient and cruel was threading itself deeper into the bones of Elvhenan.

No one up here knew.

No one wanted to know.

They just wanted to watch the gladiators below kill each other.

Solas shifted his shoulders and pulled off the heavy cloak, the fabric still clinging to the scent of cold stone and secrets. Without ceremony, he tossed it into a nearby brazier, where the flames caught instantly. It curled and blackened as he turned away.

He did not need to wear shadows. He was not a servant here, nor had he been in many centuries. He was a king in his own right, even as he wore beneath that cloak the colors of another’s court.

He moved through the crowd, dressed now in Mythal’s crimson and black regalia. Heads turned as he passed. Some bowed while others lowered their gaze. He climbed the steps toward Mythal’s viewing box without hesitation, each footfall measured and steady. The arena stretched wide beneath him as the spectacle continued.

Blood stained the grains of sand as it spun in the air around the combatants. The ground shook, each attack and parry causing the crowd to roar with approval. Some screamed, some pounded the stadium with mana and fist. Solas’s lip curled as he watched the gladiators dwindle, each death rippling across the Fade like a nightmare.

As he came to Mythal’s side, she glanced at him. Her dark hair was braided today, beautiful black strands drifting down in perfect ringlets that framed her face. Her golden-eyed gaze returned to the killing field below.

“Hunt well?” She asked softly.

Solas brushed at his shoulder as though finding a mote of dirt there—or blood. “Yes, I think I did.”

“Excellent,” she replied, her canines glittering in her smile.

Solas glanced at the killing field below and breathed in sharply as he recognized one competitor. Her name was the one he’d heard echoed below, and now the people chanted it like a song as she danced between her remaining opponents.

Her spirits blades sliced through the air and power radiated out of her like a storm unfurling on the horizon. She moved with a confident grace the like of which he’d never seen. The bright silver strands of her hair remained perfectly in place as she moved.

She was ruthlessly efficient, reminding him of the men and women he’d fought beside in the war whose main goal had been survival. While the other combatants made flashy displays, meant to distract—she cut straight to the chase, her aim deadly. Her armor fit her like a glove, shining metal moving with her as her enemies fell.

Lea’fen! Lea’fenlin! Lea’fen!

They screamed her name over and over, as one by one she cut through the competition.

“My, my, she is magnificent.” Mythal commented. “Why do they call her the Silver Wolf?”

Solas watched as Athras came up beside them, his presence sliding into place with quiet familiarity, as if he had been standing there the entire time. He said nothing at first, only drummed his fingers lightly on the stone railing, eyes fixed on the sand below.

It took Solas a moment to register what felt off.

Athras hadn’t been here when he returned. Not when Solas first stepped into the viewing box, not when he greeted Mythal, not when the attendants whispered to one another about the next bout. He had vanished somewhere in the hour Solas had spent belowground, and yet here he was again—calm, composed, hands clean, face dry despite the heat, as though he had never left.

And yet Solas remembered him clearly from before. Athras had been standing to the left of Mythal’s seat when Solas descended into the underbelly. He had laughed at something a noble said, poured wine with his own hand. He had been present.

And then gone.

And now back again.

The curator of the arena stood with a practiced ease, weight slightly forward, forearms resting against the stone. His robes were a swirl of deep green and ocean blue, layered with care, tailored to show off the strength still left in his broad frame. Gold accented his wrists and shoulders, catching the sun in sharp gleams. He was built like a warrior who had traded his sword for ceremony, a man who now commanded not through force but through knowing exactly where to be and when.

Solas studied him out of the corner of his eye.

There was no sign of strain. No sign of hurry.

Only that easy, calculated calm.

And around the man’s neck, hung a familiar necklace. An intricately crafted miniature of a dragon, its eyes set with tiny rubies that seemed to glimmer with a light of their own. The dragon’s wings were outstretched, as if frozen mid-flight, capturing a sense of eternal movement.

It was different from the one the Dealer had worn, but Solas knew it marked the man as one of them.

Athras, seemingly oblivious to Solas’s inspection, merely nodded at the gladiator Mythal had picked out. “Sometimes she fights like that, other times, she wears her other form: a large silver dire wolf. In the early days, it was the only way she fought. I assure you, either way, she is a force to be reckoned with.”

“How long has she been a champion in the blood pits?” Mythal asked.

He smiled sidelong at Mythal. “She came here to test her mettle a few centuries ago, after the war ended. Seems she grew bored without all the bloodshed that comes with war.”

The crowd cheered as the last man fell under her blade.

She was covered in blood, very little, if any, being hers. She didn’t raise her weapons over her head or seem exultant in the least. She merely turned her head up to the sky, staring at the clouds floating overhead as though she yearned to touch them. As though she’d not seen them for years.

“What do you think of this Silver Wolf, Solas?”

He glanced at Mythal, taking in her bemused expression. “She is well acquainted with death.”

“A mistress of death,” Mythal agreed.

“She’s made enough money off those deaths to fill even the royal coffers for many years to come.” Athras commented. “She’s very popular among the elite.”

Mythal tilted her head, her mind working behind that raptor’s gaze. “Interesting.”

Athras winked at Solas. “Many nobles have paid more than their weight in gold for a night with her as well.”

Solas’s lip curled, his eyes narrowing as he observed the champion from a distance. She was a paradox, this Silver Wolf. Her prowess in combat was undeniable, yet something about her elicited a deep-seated revulsion within him. Perhaps it was the way she seemed to embrace death, to revel in the violence she wrought upon the sands of the colosseum.

She was not a slave, and yet she sold her body, her skills, to the highest bidder.

There were men and women who would kill to have the kind of freedom this gladiator did, and yet she squandered it. She possessed the skill to carve out a different life, to escape the bloodshed and find peace, yet she seemed drawn inexorably back to the arena, to the brutality and the adulation of the crowd. It was as if the ghosts of her past compelled her to remain within the colosseum’s grasp, to continue her grim dance with death.

The woman had been ruthless in that battle. If she had joined Mythal’s side in the war, if he had fought beside her, he would have liked her, he thinks. Instead, she wasted time with senseless murder. She must gain some satisfaction at seeing the crimson in the air, at breathing it in.

Yet something troubled him about her.

He recalled the blank expression he’d seen below the stadium. The way she had stiffened when her name had been called. The way heat had filled his chest when he saw her for the first time.

The woman below, the Silver Wolf, moved off the field, down into the belly of the colosseum, seemingly oblivious to the cheers of the crowd. Solas watched her go, saw the moment her gaze wandered up to him, to Mythal, and finally to Athras. He couldn’t make out her expression from so far away, but he thought he saw a flicker of fear, impossible as it was. She turned away swiftly, then disappeared entirely back into the belly of the arena.

He turned to Mythal. “We should go, before we’re missed back at court.”

“Please stay!” Athras said from his left. “The next event is the culling of beasts, you simply cannot miss it!”

Solas’s lip curled, but Mythal only smiled, patting Solas’s cheek softly. “Be on your way, love.” Her gaze slowly drifted down his body then back up to his face. “I’ve my own goals to pursue here.”

Solas nodded, then left the stadium ahead of Mythal, unwilling to stay and watch the blood being drained from the sand, refusing to watch a horrific display of death being pushed into a game of entertainment.

He turned away from it all, and returned to Mythal’s palace via Eluvian.

***

The champion waited below the stadium for several hours after the crowd finally cleared out.

Silence always followed the games. Not the heavy and oppressive kind that followed war where the only things left alive were the flies. No, this silence was like a crouching tiger the moment before a kill.

She anticipated he would come for her, what she didn’t anticipate was the Queen being with him.

Athras’s voice always made her tense, and Mythal’s doubly so.

She knelt down, letting her hands rest on her thighs as the two wandered into the darkened corridor. His familiar silver boots came into view a moment before he spoke. “You did marvelously today, my dear.”

“Thank you, Master Athras.” She knew how to behave when he brought company to see her. She stilled the tremble in her hands, shutting down the terrible emotions rising inside of her.

“How would you like a new challenge, Silver Wolf?” Mythal intoned. Her voice was melodic, though there was an unmistakable ring to it—something commanding, impossible to ignore.

She glanced up at Athras, whose face gave nothing away. She searched her memory, trying to remember how to address someone of so significant a rank. She licked her lips. “I am at your service, my queen.”

“Very good.” The woman laughed. “I’ll have the payment delivered immediately. In the meantime, have her cleaned up and prepared to leave first thing in the morning.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Payment. The champion felt her body go numb at the realization of what they truly spoke of. It seemed her display had caught the attention of a buyer. She bit her lip, bowing her head once again, refusing to acknowledge the pain and fear spreading in her chest.

“As you say, my queen.”

Chapter Text

The woman’s fingers moved through her hair gently, strand by strand. She was diligent in removing every speck of blood from her skin until she felt raw and red from scrubbing. The heat of the bath had always been a comfort after a long day, and for a while, she simply enjoyed the experience of heat coiling all around her in ribbons of steam. She wanted to curl into a tight ball, to rest there in that moment of blissful nothingness.

Every gladiator had access to the bathing pools, but few remained long enough for the heat to truly seep in. Israeas said it was because they didn’t feel the need. “There will be more dirt and dust and blood tomorrow, why bother?”

She'd scoffed at the time, pushing at his shoulder.

Because for Ellana, the heat was a balm.

Ellana let her head fall forward against the edge of the stone pool, eyes closing as the steam curled along her lashes. The aches in her arms and shoulders loosened, even though the memory of the blows still lingered beneath the surface of her skin. She had long ago learned that bruises did not vanish with a single wash, and neither did the echoes of pain. Yet, as she drew in a long breath, the scent of heated minerals filled her lungs and for an instant, she imagined she could breathe out the day itself.

For that suspended moment, Ellana believed she could forget the roar of the crowd, the spray of sand and blood, the metallic taste of fear that never quite left her tongue. Here, only the trickle of water existed. Here, she could pretend the world beyond the steam did not exist.

Her fingers traced the scars on her thigh, pale against flushed skin. The water softened them somehow, even though the reminder remained. No heat could erase them. Israeas may dismiss the pools as indulgence all he wanted, but she knew better. The warmth here was the closest thing to tenderness the Colosseum ever gave them.

Until she heard the displacement of water.

She froze, her senses heightened as too-familiar dread washed over her. Every muscle in her body tensed involuntarily, awaiting the inevitable touch that she knew was coming. The reverie of the soothing bath shattered in an instant, replaced by the cold reality of her situation.

“My beautiful wolfing,” Athras purred.

Gooseflesh rose as his fingertips coasted over scar after scar on her back, and she forced herself not to react, to stay perfectly still as his hand dipped lower. He pressed himself against her then, his body cold in comparison to the heated water.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears as she tried to maintain her composure. The water rippled gently around her, the only movement in the otherwise still room. She felt his presence looming over her, a shadow that consumed the light.

Fitting that he was named after the darkness.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he whispered, his breath sticky against her ear.

She remained silent, her eyes focused on a fixed point in the distance, willing herself to disappear within the steam.

His fingers traced the familiar path down her spine, each touch a reminder of the countless moments of agony that she had endured, that he had inflicted.

“You were so defiant then, so full of fire,” he continued, his voice a low murmur. “But now, look at you. My obedient little wolf.”

Her breath hitched as his hand gripped the back of her neck tightly.

Her eyes closed.

Despite the blood roaring in her ears, the same pulsing sound she felt in the arena, Ellana didn’t move. She didn’t struggle or push him away. She didn’t even flinch, because she knew that every reaction was something he could own.

Resistance was a tool, and it was one that needed to be utilized carefully, in the darkest corners when one least expected it. Resistance without success was useless, and Athras knew that. He fed on the struggle, enjoyed moments of rebellion if only because they meant he could enact a punishment.

So she gave him none. She gave him silence, stillness, and compliance—the only tools left to her in this fragile, choreographed game of survival.

“You killed without mercy,” Athras whispered. His grip loosened slightly at her neck, just enough for his fingers to brush up beneath her chin, tilting her face ever so slightly. “Even soaked in blood, you fought with a feral strength that I admired.”

Her breath was shallow now. Controlled inhale followed by soft exhale. She kept her expression blank, empty, like a mask she had carved over years of practice. Behind it, the storm churned, full of rage, revulsion… and shame.

But she did not let a single emotion rise to the surface.

“You used to bite,” he said, almost fondly. “I liked that. You were glorious. All teeth and claws.” His voice dropped, curling like smoke against her skin. “But I’ve tamed you, haven’t I?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

That was the one freedom she still had: the refusal to give him her voice. And she almost smiled because she knew that it galled him. She felt it in the subtle tightening of his muscles, the momentary pause of his hand.

Still, he smiled. She could hear it in his voice. “You’ll speak eventually. You always do.”

She stared ahead, eyes glassy, locked on the far wall. The heat of the bath had fled. She felt cold beneath her skin, beneath the bones. Frozen in place, waiting for the inevitable. His hands were too firm. His body too close. She knew he could feel her heartbeat, the one thing that always betrayed her fear.

In moments like this, she told herself that she allowed everything he did to her.

It was a lie she had whispered so often that it no longer sounded like one.

Because if she allowed it, then she still had control, and the tattered remnants of her will still belonged to her.

She thought of a box inside her mind, edged with silver and painted with long lilac lines. She told herself that Athras could never touch that, compartmentalizing the pieces of herself too precious to lose. Sometimes, she forgot how to open it. Sometimes, she didn’t want to see what she used to be anymore.

Athras’s hand stayed on her shoulder, heavy and possessive, his touch hot like the blood inked into the skin of her back.

“I’m going to miss our time together, Ellana,” he said, as though it were a farewell between lovers. His fingers pressed harder. “But don’t worry. I’ll visit the palace. Remind you who you belong to.”

She said nothing, and he paused, his grip tightening for a moment.

“I’m curious. Do you miss your home?” he asked, voice syrupy with mockery.

The water, once a balm to her skin, now felt like a conduit for despair. Memories of her life before flooded her mind. She thought of warm soil beneath her feet, the wind threading through trees older than the empire. Her father’s arms around her after she first shaped the Fade. The wildflower scent of the fields where, as a spirit, she used to inspire love and friendship. All of it seemed like a distant dream now, a life that belonged to someone else.

Her finger twitched against the stones, but still, she refused him her voice.

“Do you miss being out among nature? The little village you came from?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I wonder if anyone ever thinks of you,” he mused.

When he yanked her head back by her hair, she still didn’t cry out. Her jaw tightened, but she met his gaze only briefly before turning her eyes back to the wall.

That, too, was her choice.

“Do you think they would still recognize you, if they saw you now? If they saw what you’ve become, what I’ve made you into?”

His words cut deeper than any blade, but she forced herself to remain silent. She could not afford to let him see how much his taunts affected her. Silence had become her shield, her only means of protection in a world where she had none.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he continued, the cruel edge returning to his voice. “You are mine now. They have no claim on you. You belong to me, body and spirit both.”

No, she thought.

No, you never touched my spirit.

Her fingers dug into the lip of the pool, knuckles white, not from fear, but from a fury she dared not show. The hatred she kept curled like a blade beneath her ribs.

And in that moment, she made herself a promise.

He will never know when he loses. But he will. And when that day came, she would not hesitate.

Not even for breath.

Bide your time, that voice inside of her whispered. The day will come.

Her head turned to the side. She gave him what he wanted, her voice hollow. “Yes, Master.”

“Good girl,” he crooned. “Don’t forget, your purpose remains the same. Killing. She wants a guard dog, a left hand to match the right.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing the back of her neck before biting down—hard.

She hissed through her teeth as he broke skin. He always did that, always marked her. A scar to add to the others, another reminder of his ownership carved into her flesh.

Ellana shut her eyes tightly, forcing stillness into her limbs as his grip on her shoulders turned bruising. “Heed every command,” he said. “You will listen. You will watch. You will record every secrets hidden in the palace. The Dread Wolf has been gnawing at our supply lines, taking what is ours. Find out who he is, and when you do—kill him.”

She felt his power wrap around her, thick and suffocating. Instinct screamed at her to curl away, to retreat, to run, but she was frozen, held in place like prey caught beneath the weight of a predator. He surrounded her like a wall of living shadow. The soft, unseen thread of her magic recoiled at the contact with his aura, falling back into the corners of her spirit.

The binding in her tattoo pulsed like a brand relit. Only she could feel it burning deep inside, searing her from the inside out as the command was issued. It wrapped around her neck like a collar, whispering along every pathway as he went on, “We serve a greater cause, Ellana. And you, my pet, will be the architect of the future. Do this, and I will consider setting you free.”

The ink branded into her skin pulsed violently. Heat seared through her veins, binding her tighter with every syllable, a leash that was invisible yet unbreakable. The command wrapped around her neck like a collar.

“We serve a greater cause,” he murmured, his tone heavy with certainty. “And you, my pet, will be the hand that clears our path. Unmask the Wolf, and end him. Do this, and perhaps I will let you taste freedom.”

Freedom.

What a laughable, hollow thing to promise.

Every scar on her body told her what his word was worth. He would never let her go. Even if he loosened his grip now, eventually he’d simply bind her again.

But she did not let those thoughts bleed into her face. She lowered her eyes, let silence stretch between them, mimicking obedience. Inside, however, the whisper rose again, steady and cold. Bide your time.

His grip tightened, bruising her shoulder as though he had caught the faintest flicker of resistance beneath her stillness. He wanted her broken, a blade without a will of its own, but she had survived too much to surrender what little remained of herself. For years now, she’d acted the part. Now, she had a chance at truly breaking away. Only time would tell if it was worthwhile.

He stepped away, his presence finally lifting like the shadow of a storm passing. His body cut through the water as he exited the pool, the heavy ripple brushing against her waist. She remained where she was, her eyes staring at the stone before her, and nothing else.

“Ah, I almost forgot. You will tell no one what happens at the arena.” His voice boomed against the stone, and Ellana felt the collar of that command digging into her neck. “Play your part well. Defend the queen in this time of turmoil, and find the answers for our patron. I will see you in a handful of months, and you best have made progress by then.”

Ellana’s head inclined in the smallest of nods.

“Remember who I am,” Athras murmured then, the words edged with malice. “Remember I still know the way to that little village of yours, should any treacherous thoughts take root in that lovely head of yours.”

Her answer slipped out on the barest breath. “Yes, Master. I understand.”

His retreat sounded far too loud. Each step across the sand reverberated in the cavern until the latch of the gate fell shut. Only then did she release the air she had been holding, her chest shuddering with relief and fear.

She sank deeper into the bath, the water lapping around her throat as if it might wash away the memory of his hands, his voice, the phantom weight of the brand he had sewn into her skin.

The water could not reach that deep, though.

Her fingers trembled as they rested against the edge of the pool. She felt the pulse of the Fade around her, soothing her tattered nerves. Fear loosened its grip, but in its place came the heat of something deeper, buried too long. Within her lay a well she had never dared to draw from, a power she kept sealed beside her heart.

One day, she would break it open. One day, Athras would bleed for every mark, every word, every scar he had carved into her.

But not tonight.

Tonight she swallowed the fire and locked it away once more.

Bide your time. The day will come.

She whispered the words like a prayer.

Because there would be a reckoning.

And he would never see it coming.

She allowed herself that moment of reprieve, then began washing the scent of him from her body.

Chapter Text

Solas lay back against the headboard, chest heaving, each breath dragging too fast through his lungs. Sweat clung to his skin, the air heavy with the suffocating warmth of late afternoon.

She moved against him with languid intent, her mouth tracing slow, deliberate paths over him. Her body burned, alive with heat, her nails raking across his back until pain flared bright and sweet.

“Ah!” He gasped, the sound torn from him, sharp and unguarded. The bite of pain tangled with pleasure, a consuming snare that left no space to think or protest.

Her teeth grazed his shoulder, then bit down, sharp enough to make him jolt. He hissed through his teeth, half in protest, half in need, and she only smiled against his skin. Her hands slid lower, coaxing him closer to the edge, even as her nails lit with magic that dragged fresh welts down his spine.

“Mythal,” he groaned, his jaw tight against the sudden flare of agony mixed with desire.

She shifted, her weight pinning him, each movement possessive yet strangely tender. Every thrust of her hips, every bite of her teeth, every clawing mark branding him as hers, made the truth sink deeper: He was an addict for her. For this, the beauty of a dragon contained in the golden eyes of a woman he had followed and loved for centuries. A woman who was at last allowing him to warm her bed again.

Pleasure surged, toxic and radiant. It carried the undertone of something harsher, something that left his chest tight and his thoughts fraying at the edges.

He wanted her, needed her, even as pain flared through his body like a flash fire.

He closed his eyes, as if that might soften her hold, but even in the darkness she was everywhere. Her breath scorched against his throat, her laughter low and giddy as her nails pressed harder, searing lines of power into his flesh. Each wound burned like a brand, a mark he would carry long after the fever of the moment faded.

He should have pulled away. He knew this. Yet the taste of her, the weight of her body, the raw force of her will wrapping around him was like a tether he could never quite break. It was love, devotion, and he wanted more of it.

After another hungry gasp, he flipped her over into her back. She gave a startled bark, but he smoothed it away with his mouth on hers. His body took control, bringing her right to the edge with every skill in his repertoire until he felt her shift beneath him.

“Harder,” she bid him, and he obliged.

Her voice was a blade, soft but cutting, and he obeyed without hesitation. The heat between them built until it roared through his veins, until every strike of his hips felt less like pleasure and more like punishment delivered and received in equal measure.

Her fingers dug into his arms, magic sparking beneath her touch, and his vision blurred with the sting of it. She arched into him, golden eyes catching the dim light, not softened but sharpened, the gaze of a dragon reveling in dominion.

“Good,” she whispered, lips curved in a smile that bordered on savage.

He ground his teeth, driving harder, faster, until her breath broke into ragged cries. He wanted to believe this was victory, that he had turned the balance between them, but even as she writhed beneath him, he felt the truth coil around his chest. She had him exactly where she wanted him.

Her body arched as though she meant to devour him whole, her nails raking fresh lines across his chest until blood welled, streaking between them. The sting only spurred him on, his rhythm brutal and unrelenting. Their breaths collided, gasps and groans mingling in the heavy heat of the chamber, every sound sharpened by the violence of their joining.

She bit his lip, drawing copper into his mouth, and he drank it down like wine.

“More,” she demanded, her voice rough with pleasure and command.

He gripped her hips and gave her everything she asked for. His body slammed into hers, shaking the headboard, each thrust seeming to carve her name deeper into his bones. And yet, even as she cried out beneath him, even as her body tightened with climax, he felt that coil of unease, the shadow of doubt whispering that he was no partner here. He was a vessel, a weapon wielded by her hand.

Her laughter broke through the room as her body seized around him, sharp and triumphant. Though he followed her into that blinding release, the sound hollowed him, left him trembling with some emotion he could not name.

When the frenzy ebbed, they lay joined still, breath ragged.

His hand slid into her hair, gentle despite the blood drying on his chest. For one fragile moment, he let himself believe it was love. He saw hints of it in the way she nuzzled into his palm, in how she eased against his chest, in the quiet grip of her fingers drawing his hand against her body.

But when he shifted, the illusion cracked. The raw sting across his back told him what she had done. Her magic lingered there, woven deliberately so the wounds would not close as they should.

He would scar. He would carry her signature carved into his flesh, long after the heat of this moment had faded.

He told himself he didn’t mind, that he welcomed it, that to be marked by her was a form of belonging. Yet a quieter voice pressed through, insistent, whispering he should.

The thoughts soured, and he pushed them aside as she sighed against his chest. “Good, as always, love.”

Her tone was casual, drenched in satisfaction, her black hair spilling like silk across his arm.

But that word pierced him more deeply than her teeth had. Love, when what he longed to hear from her lips was a different word: vhenan. A word of intimacy, of surrender of the heart. Something she had never truly offered him.

And for a fleeting instant, barely half a heartbeat after the thought stirred, another image forced itself into his mind: lilac eyes staring into his, unflinching. The gladiator in the arena. The woman in polished armor, death circling her like a shroud.

He didn’t understand why she came to him now, when all he had ever wanted lay within his arms, still joined to him, still warm with their release. But once the woman’s face entered his thoughts, he found no strength to banish it.

She came in fragments. Blood staining her skin, head tipped toward the sky as if daring it to strike her down, silver hair catching sunlight until it gleamed like tempered steel. Her gaze was fire, her stance defiance itself, and for a breathless moment, the vision blotted out the woman beside him.

He blinked hard, willing the image away. But it lingered, as vivid as the scars Mythal had carved into his back.

“So, you believe they will move against us?” she asked, her fingertip tracing lazy circles over the scratches on his chest. He hissed softly at the flare of pain but didn’t stop her.

“It’s the next logical step,” he said. “They mean to unmask the Dread Wolf, and they know he’s been operating in your territory most often.”

“Hmm.” She hummed as though amused. “Quite large, these rats you’ve managed to ferret out.”

“There is more at work than we yet understand.”

She shifted, slipping from the warmth of his body. He exhaled at the sudden absence, watching as she drew a robe across her shoulders. Dragons had never struck him as delicate creatures, yet in her movements he saw a grace that stole the breath from him. A beauty that burned like sulfur in his lungs.

Her scent clung to his skin: ash and brimstone masked beneath perfume.

He sat up, watching her comb her dark hair at the vanity. “Come back to bed, vhenan.”

She glanced over her shoulder, lips curved faintly. “Not now, love.”

The word fell heavy in his chest. He forced a small smile, as if it pleased him, though inside the ache grew sharper.

“You always turn from me so quickly,” he murmured.

Her brush stilled, but she did not look at him. “Do you sulk, Wisdom? After I’ve given you what you craved?”

His mouth tightened. “I sought more than flesh, Mythal. You know that.”

A low laugh escaped her, light as silk but edged with steel. “You always seek more. Answers, devotion, love.” She shook her head. “Why beg for what you cannot hold?”

He rose from the bed, bare in the dimness, defiance flickering through his voice. “I am not begging. And I could hold you—far better than he ever could.”

The comb clicked softly against the table as she set it down. Light from the window caught her golden eyes, molten and sharp. “Careful. What lies between us matters, Solas, but it will never come before my duty. Nor should it come before yours.”

A harsh sound escaped him as he bent to pull on his britches, lacing them with quick, frustrated movements. “I do not see how they must be separate. You could stand beside me. We could craft the world you promised when I chose a body.”

She was silent for a time, her fingers drifting idly through her hair.

“Sometimes,” she said at last, softer, “I think of before. When we were spirits still, drifting in the Fade.” Her hand lowered to her middle, pausing there against the fold of her robe. “I think of what might have been different. For us. For the empire.” A quiet chuckle slipped past her lips. “But to linger on such thoughts is folly. Our paths are set. Choices must be made…even ones we may later despise.”

He stepped behind her, hands resting on her shoulders, thumbs working slow circles into the tension there. “Then know this: I am here. And there will always be a place for you at my side.”

She tilted her head up, smiling wryly. “Always? Dear, I think you’ve gone soft.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Think on it, Mythal. That is all I ask.”

Abruptly, she stood, slipping free of his touch. “Enough of that.” A dismissive wave of her hand accompanied her stride toward the washroom. “I’ve a plan to get our information in a far swifter manner. See to your progress in the territories, and return for the unveiling next week. You’ll be pleased with what I’ve arranged, I think.”

The door closed behind her, the sound sharp as any dismissal.

Solas lingered, gazing out the window to the palace beyond. Far to the east, a dragon wheeled across the sky, terrible in its beauty.

His eyes fell once more to the closed door, the ache in his chest twisting.

“I will always follow where you go,” he whispered to the silence, then gathered his things and left.

Chapter Text

Mythal had built her throneroom out of polished stone and bright silver tiles. The floor shimmered underfoot, reflecting every movement like quicksilver trapped in glass. Great windows flanked the sides of the room, large enough for a high dragon to enter and exit without stooping—and Mythal had, he knew.

The ceiling soared above them, impossible in its height, hung with clusters of bound wisps, young spirits caught in glimmering crystalline filaments. They reflected deep blue light over the gathered men and women, and Solas tried not to listen to their faint, trapped murmurs.

It was a room designed to awe and intimidate, to remind all who entered of their place in the hierarchy of the court.

At the head of the room, several broad steps rose toward a throne. It was forged from crushed metal and shaped by Mythal’s will. It curled behind her like the bones of a long-dead dragon, elegant and cold. The edges gleamed like blades.

There was only one other like it in all of Elvhanan—and it sat in Arlathan beneath Elgar’nan.

She sat on her throne now cloaked in red and black, her crown a band of pointed silver. She was terrifying to behold, the embodiment of a benevolent queen.

Solas stood at her right hand, as he always had.

He looked out at the gathered crowd. The courtiers whispered among themselves, their eyes darting between the door and the Queen. Among them, he caught sight of spirits of Purpose and Justice floating nearby, their nerves glinting faintly above the tiles.

All were waiting for Mythal’s word.

He shifted his shoulders feeling the slight ache of new scars healing over his back and shoulders. The pain was worth it though, when her fingers brushed his, when she smiled like she used to, and he felt the warmth inside his chest.

It was all worth it.

It was.

He shook the thought away.

Now, he merely waited for the reveal of whatever she’d been planning. Her mind had always been labyrinthine, just like his own. Their goals sometimes took centuries to accomplish, but they always found a way. She’d been tight-lipped about this newest plan of hers, even as at night she still opened her doors to him. He knew only that it related to the spread of slavery in her territory, and for him that was enough.

Today, every high-ranking noble in her court was in attendance, and Solas shifted from foot to foot, impatience riling. She should have told him by now what this was about. That she hadn’t indicated only one thing: he wouldn’t like whatever it was.

He watched her as she stood, clapping her hands. The room instantly fell silent.

“My dear friends,” Mythal began, “you are all likely wondering why I called you here.”

At their nods, she smiled. “Today I welcome a new member to my court.” She gestured to the back of the room, where the doors parted to reveal. . . the Silver Wolf.

Her hair caught the blue light from above, every strand shimmering like spun moonlight. It was an unnatural color, the kind that marked someone touched by power. Her skin was a tawny shade that seemed to burn beneath the sun. She moved with unhurried confidence, the hem of her crimson cloak whispering across the polished floor, black embroidery catching in the light shadow given life.

Solas remembered seeing her from the platform beside Mythal, when the woman was but a flicker of motion, a glint of steel and speed in the Colosseum’s dust. But distance had softened the details, cloaked her in ambiguity and blood. Before that, in the hidden underbelly of the Colosseum, she had been half hidden in shadow, and her eyes, the flash of silver hair, were the only things he truly remembered.

Now, standing just below the dais, with sunlight touching her skin, he took in every detail.

She was not a particularly tall woman, but still above average—only about a head shorter than he was. She was slender, but not frail. Her build was one of honed muscle rather than brute strength. Each step she took was measured, almost feline in its predatory sway. There was an elegance to her approach, some hidden grace that demanded every eye look in her direction.

His eyes found her face last.

High cheekbones, symmetrical and severe. The long column of her neck tilted ever so slightly as she stopped before the dais. Her expression was unreadable, carved in ice. But, as it was below the sands, it was her eyes that arrested him entirely.

That lilac color, pale and strange, caught his attention before, but now in the light, he made out fragments of silver buried like starlight behind amethyst glass. They were canted at the corners, almost too large for her face. He had seen spirits wear eyes like those, but never an elf. They met his own and did not flinch.

She looked at him as though she had already measured him. There was no hatred or admiration in that gaze, just the cold, impossible calm of a killer.

The gladiator stood still before the Queen, then bowed at the waist in acknowledgment.

Solas clenched his jaw.

That she would be permitted to cross the threshold of Mythal’s hall at all was offense enough. She might as well have dragged blood and gore behind her boots. A killer by trade, a creature forged in arenas for the amusement of lesser minds. She broke spirits and beasts and people for coin, for spectacle. She was not fit to stand in Mythal’s presence, let alone be welcomed as a member of Mythal’s court.

Before he could voice his protest, Mythal’s voice cut through his thoughts, warm and resonant.

“Welcome.”

Solas turned to his friend, startled by the burst of affection in her tone.

“This woman’s name is Ellana,” Mythal continued, her gaze sweeping the hall. “Some of you may have seen her battle in the arena as a gladiator.” Some nobles nodded their heads, eyes raking up and down in a way that indicated they’d seen her outside it too. Mythal went on, “She is no longer a stray weapon. She has been accepted into my household and will serve beside Solas as my new Second now that Solas has a kingdom of his own to build. Let all here acknowledge her as such.”

Solas breathed in a harsh, ragged breath, turning to her with wide eyes.

He searched Mythal’s face for explanation, but Mythal only smiled. That soft, inscrutable, infuriating smile. Her golden gaze flicked toward him, lingering for the briefest heartbeat before turning outward once more.

“Stand, girl,” she said, her voice calm but commanding. “You are not a servant. If you prove yourself worthy, you shall remain beside me forevermore.”

At that, Ellana rose. Her eyes did not lift. She said nothing as she stepped to the place at Mythal’s left.

He stared at her, studying the strange stillness in her frame, the quiet discipline of someone who had long since learned not to flinch.

Mythal had always welcomed the broken, the discarded, the feared. But this was different. This was a challenge, perhaps. Or a message.

“She is not of our people,” he said quietly, his voice meant only for Mythal’s ear. “She has no place here.”

“Elgar’nan often says the same of you, love.”

He stiffened, his rage sharpening. “You would put an axe beside a scalpel,” he said, voice still low. “She serves only violence.”

“She serves survival,” Mythal replied calmly. “And the difference between the two is often only a matter of time.”

Solas looked at Ellana once more. She had moved, her hands clasped behind her back, a perfect replication of his own stance, almost mocking in its precision. But there was no arrogance in her, just the silence and stillness of a reflection, like staring into a mirror.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t challenge him. She didn’t look at him at all.

It unnerved him more than if she had.

He searched for a thread of her presence in the Fade, for an echo of emotion, intent, anything that might help him understand why Mythal had chosen her. But her aura was quiet and subdued, restrained, like a forest locked in winter.

And yet, beneath it, there was something tightly coiled, something he couldn’t quite decipher. He breathed out raggedly.

“You would trust her at your side?” he asked, louder this time.

Mythal’s gaze turned sharp, a hint of anger coloring her features. “I trust her where I place her.”

The gathered assembly remained silent. They would never question the queen’s will, but many glanced at Ellana, and then at him as though measuring the conflict between them.

Solas folded his arms across his chest and let the silence linger, his gaze now fixed on this silver-haired stranger who had entered his world effortlessly. His fury peaked when she mirrored him, her own arms rising in a perfect replica of him.

He did not speak again, but in his mind he began to prepare.

He would wait for the nobles to leave, then he would confront the issue. He would learn what the interloper wanted. She could not hide her intent forever.

Nor could Mythal.

***

By the time the nobility had cleared out, Solas’s rage had become a simmering thing. It boiled over as soon as the doors were sealed.

“This is madness, Mythal. You must know that.”

The woman—Ellana—turned sharply toward him. A note of surprise lit in her eyes before it was quickly doused. She’d worn that implacable mask ever since she’d taken her place beside Mythal. Every well-wisher was met with the same silent coldness. She barely replied to them most of the time, merely leveling that unnerving iridescent gaze at them. As Solas watched, his anger had only grown. Had she no idea how to behave at court?

“Madness? However do you mean, Solas?”

“You know exactly how.” He growled. “You have invited a murderer into our midst. We have all heard the rumors about what the gladiators are. She does not deserve to stand here among us.”

He could have sworn he saw her flinch, but when his eyes scanned over her face, that implacable mask was still there. She hadn’t moved, though her eyes glittered as though she felt strong emotions.

“Murderer?” Mythal asked, tilting her head and crossing her arms over her chest. “Was it murder when you slayed thousands in my name?”

“That was different, we were at war—”

“And what about when we severed the titans?”

He gritted his teeth, anger flaring. “We did what was necessary. I did what you bade me do.”

Her smile was serpentine. “Ahh, so morality truly just comes down to necessity. Be sure to write that in the history books.”

“Not this again,” he groaned.

Her golden eyes glimmered, the first sign of true anger from her since this whole ordeal began. She stared him down, her jaw clenching. “For one who was once known for his wisdom, you seem to be lacking it now. Your pride will be your undoing.”

Solas sucked in a breath.

A tempest of conflicting emotions battled within him: the loyalty to her, and the gnawing suspicion towards the newcomer. He felt an icy shiver run down his spine as Mythal stood and wandered toward him until she was nearly close enough for him to fold her into a familiar embrace.

Before he could, Mythal’s gaze softened, though the intensity did not waver. “Consider this, Solas,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of eons. “Wisdom does not come from stubbornness, but from the willingness to see beyond one’s own perspective.”

“I know that,” he said, refusing to acknowledge how much he sounded like a petulant child as he spoke the words.

“You cannot remain by my side forever, love. I need a new second, one who will not draw my husband’s ire.” His jaw tightened, but she went on, her voice dropping lower, only for his ears now as her palm touched his cheek, “And she will serve my plans. You need not know yet what those are, but I will tell you—given time. Trust me, Solas.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes flicked towards the gladiator, feeling an inexplicable pull towards the truth her presence might reveal.

He clenched his fists, the tension in the room almost tangible. Finally, unable to bear the heavy silence any longer, he gave a curt nod. “Very well,” he muttered, his voice low. “But do not mistake caution for pride.”

The Queen’s expression softened slightly, her eyes betraying a hint of relief. “Perhaps,” she said, “this encounter will teach us all something valuable.”

Solas turned away, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and unresolved questions. He knew that the days ahead would test him in ways he had never anticipated, and he could only hope that he would emerge with his honor—and his wisdom—intact.

Slowly, his heart calmed. He watched his oldest friend, her gaze cutting deep. Then, he looked to the gladiator.

Her eyes were downcast, though he watched as spirits began to gather around her, their tendrils lightly touching her cheeks, her shoulders. A spirit of Compassion lingered at her elbow, its blue light warming her skin. His head tilted. Spirits did not gather around people unless drawn by strong emotion. Yet her face gave nothing away—no hint of the feelings she must have.

“Silhan,” Mythal called. A moment later, the servant appeared beside the Queen. “Show Lady Ellana to her quarters, make sure she’s comfortable. Then,” She turned to Solas, “Solas will give her a tour of the palace. Unless you’ve something else to say, dear?”

He exhaled sharply. Mythal wanted him to apologize, that much was clear from her pointed glance. But he refused. He wasn’t wrong about this, not about this trained killer. Instead, he turned on his heel and quit her side.

If Mythal wouldn’t listen to reason, he’d just have to wait and watch for the snake to bite.

***

They gave her a bedroom, a sanctuary amidst the vast expanse of the palace. It was a gesture of kindness, or perhaps a test, she mused. The quarters were more luxurious than any space she had ever occupied, a stark contrast to the rough, confined places she had known. She took a tentative step inside, feeling the plush give of the rug beneath her boots.

Her eyes swept across the room, absorbing the details with a mix of awe and disbelief.

A row of windows lined one wall. A hearth happily ate logs at the far left side of the space. Just before it sat a long couch, several pillows, and another plush rug. Small tables perched on either side, and beyond that—a small assembly of books.  

Ellana gasped, her eyes darting over the many tomes. There were collections here older than she’d been an elf. On the far side, a large four-poster bed lay. It was covered in warm furs and what looked to be soft silken sheets. There was a door just beside it that she learned led to a private bathing chamber, outfitted with its own tub and a small sink that filtered water from the aqueducts.

It was beautiful, expansive, and more than she deserved.

Ellana rubbed at her wrists, feeling small and decidedly out of place amid the opulence that surrounded her. The grandeur of the room seemed to dwarf her, making her ever more aware of the simplicity and confinement she’d become accustomed to. The luxurious surroundings felt like a gilded cage, one that was far more insidious and deceptive than the harsh bars she’d known.

Her thoughts were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The softness of the rug under her feet, the warmth of the fire, the allure of the books, and the promise of comfort were disarming. Yet, they also evoked a sense of foreboding, as if at any moment these delicate pleasures could turn into chains of their own.

As she took another cautious step, her fingers brushed against the spines of the ancient books. Each title whispered stories of worlds far removed from her own, realms of knowledge she had never dared to dream of. She felt a pang of longing, mingled with a bitter awareness of her own ignorance.

A movement caught her eye, and she turned to see the small servant woman standing just a step behind her. Silhan, her mind supplied. The woman was a presence, both comforting and unsettling, as if she were a silent witness to the internal struggle raging within Ellana.

Silhan cleared her throat, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. “My lady picked out several appropriate clothes, they are in the wardrobe at the back of the bathing room. You will receive a weekly stipend which you may of course use to buy more, though I’m sure it’s less than what you’re used to from your earnings.”

She said the word earnings as though Ellana made all her money on her back. Ellana’s brow pinched. She’d never seen a single coin from her fights in the Colosseum. In that moment, she felt her body tense, her mind awash with vile memories. More than anything, she remembered her place.  

“When will I be needed next?” Ellana asked.

“Likely not until tonight. Your afternoons will be yours. Mythal will need you in the mornings and every other evening. You are free to roam the palace or remain in your room or travel to the city, if you like. If there is danger, she will expect you to find her with this.” Silhan approached, handing Ellana a small silver charm. It was meticulously crafted to resemble a dragon in flight, very similar to the one Master wore. “If this grows warm, she will be expecting you within a few minutes. Otherwise, stick to the schedule I laid out for you.”

Ellana swallowed, then put the charm around her neck, hiding it beneath the folds of her leather cuirass. It was hard not to think of it like a collar, but she pushed the thought from her mind. She bowed, and watched the woman sputter for a moment, before briefly nodding and making her way out.

Alone, Ellana sat heavily on the couch.

She didn’t understand the woman’s words.

You are free.

Silhan said it so casually, as though it held no significance—as though it shouldn’t hold any significance. For a long while after the woman had left, Ellana merely stared at her hands, listening to the soft sound of birdsong outside the window. She wondered if maybe that word, free, truly meant something.

***

Ellana had already picked several tomes from the shelf when she heard a knock at her door. She had only a moment to consider the strangeness of that—someone waiting, respecting some kind of privacy, before entering. She looked down at herself. She’d changed out of the armor Athras had latched onto her, choosing instead a comfortable pair of doeskin leggings and a soft white cotton shirt that covered her arms.

Feeling sufficiently dressed for company, she cleared her throat. “Come in.”

Ellana’s gaze drifted to the figure outside her door. Solas. His presence was a stark contrast to the splendor around him. He was a warrior, through and through, his demeanor hardened by years of battle. She could see the mistrust in his eyes, the barely concealed contempt.

His lips were pressed into a thin line as he took her in. That expression had her mind prickling with unease. She still held an ancient text in her hands and quickly she put it down on the table beside the couch. She hadn’t been allowed to so much as touch a book in centuries. She remembered Athras’s eyes the first time he’d seen her touching a book in his private chambers. Her hands shook a bit as she worked to lock that thought away.

Unless you are in the pit, you will avert your gaze when a man enters the room, Athras had said.

She did so now, looking at her feet rather than at him.

“I am to show you the palace,” Solas bit out.

Ellana’s eyes finally made their way back to him. He wore robes, deep reds and blacks, just like Mythal. A broad collar covered his shoulders, made of black leather and gold. The intricate patterning had her eyes getting lost for a moment before her gaze finally met his. He had angular features, a sharp jawline and high cheekbones. There was a smattering of freckles dusting his skin, and she wondered if it were possible to count them. Did he know, how many he had? His hair was a dark brown with reddish tints, crossed short to his head on either side, with a long, braided piece in the middle. His blue-gray eyes were stormy.

She counted thirty-seven freckles, as she took in his expression.

He looked at her as though she were a speck of dirt on their pristine floors.

That, at least, she was used to.

“Yes, my lord.” Ellana said quietly, remembering Athras’s warning about how to address others.

“I am a king in my own right. You will address me as such.”

“Yes, your grace.”

She barely spotted the slight curl in his lip as he gestured for her to follow. It wasn’t as though he needed a reason to hate her, but she was still distantly shocked at his behavior.

He didn’t know her, didn’t have any idea about the life she’d lived or the things she had lost, and yet he hated her all the same. To some degree, that thinly veiled disgust hurt. It always did, but she didn’t have the luxury of explaining herself, and she shouldn’t have to.

Athras had said she was to be Second to the Queen, and that mattered here.

Didn’t it?

She shook the thought away as he gestured to follow him.

She fell into step with him as he took her from each major room to the next. Mythal’s palace was enormous. The ceilings seemed to stretch endlessly upward, supported by polished marble columns that reflected the light from countless windows. The walls were adorned with intricate murals, each telling a story of battles, victories, and legends long past. All the while, he spoke of the palace’s history, its grandeur, and its importance. Solas’s voice, though condescending, carried a rhythm that matched their steps.

They passed through a library filled with ancient tomes, a treasure trove of knowledge that Ellana could only dream of exploring. The scent of parchment and ink was intoxicating, a reminder of the world she had once yearned to discover. Solas continued his lecture, oblivious to her silent awe.

“Am I…” she paused, taking in his renewed expression, the downturn of his lips, the fire in his eyes, and closed her mouth, teeth clicking sharply.

“Ask your question,” he snapped.

Ellana tensed, then whispered, “Am I allowed to touch the books?”

Solas glared at her. “If you mean that in gest, I assure you I am not in a laughing mood.”

He turned, stalking from the room without answering.

She assumed that meant no.

She had to rush to catch up with him.

As they walked, the tension between them remained palpable. Solas’s disdain was evident, a constant reminder of her place in this new world. Yet, Ellana maintained her composure, focusing on the task at hand. She memorized the layout, the exits, the hiding spots. With each room, her internal map updated. She traced her steps, learning which ways lead to which rooms, how they connected and where. The information kept her settled and focused. Her job was to be the Queen’s guardian, meaning that knowing where to turn left or right would be imminently important. Her survival depended on it.

Finally, they reached a set of ornate doors, carved with images of mythical creatures and blooming flowers. Solas paused, his hand resting on the handle. For a moment, he looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slight push, he opened the doors, revealing a sight that took her breath away.

It was otherworldly—a garden unlike any she had ever seen, an expanse of vivid colors and intricate designs. Each plant and flower had been carefully curated to create a harmonious blend of nature and art. Delicate blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, their petals shimmering with dew. A soft, luminescent glow seemed to emanate from the foliage, casting a magical light over the entire scene. The air itself was perfumed with the scent of the blooms.

Colors burst from every corner: reds, blues, purples, yellows. It was like she was staring at a rainbow, so beautiful she lost the ability to speak. For the first time, Ellana stepped forward, past Solas. He abruptly stopped speaking, his eyes watching her as she moved.

The many winding paths converged in the center, several hundred feet ahead. She could make out water moving against the weight of gravity, and several spirits gathered beside it. There were no other elves here, only her and Solas.

She reached out, her fingertips stretching toward the petals of a magenta orchid. She was just about to touch it when his hand closed over her wrist in a crushing grip.

Ellana gasped, not so much bothered by the sudden pain as the jolt of electricity that went up her arm and straight to her heart. For a moment, she was standing beneath the sands of the arena, meeting a blue-eyed gaze, a shadow beyond the cell.

It had been him.

He had been there, standing where the masters so often stood, judging their prize fighters. She had tilted her head, directing him to move on, but now she felt grounded in that moment, remembering how it had felt to be seen.

Master had said he would have eyes in the palace—was Solas one of them?

For a moment, she felt wild fear bloom in her chest. She flinched, her body curling instinctively away from him as she drew in a sharp breath. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs, and her vision blurred momentarily, the vibrant colors of the garden merging into a whirl of confusion and dread.

For years, she had been honed into a weapon.

She was trained to endure, to silence her pain and fears, to follow orders without question. This life of servitude had left its mark on her, etching itself into the very fabric of her being. Her body bore the scars of countless battles, her mind the weight of untold horrors. She had become adept at masking her emotions, presenting a façade of calm obedience. Ellana’s heart still raced from the encounter, but she forced herself to breathe evenly, to regain control.

The garden’s beauty was momentarily forgotten, as she focused on Solas.

His grip on her wrist was ironclad, unforgiving, right where the chains should be. It was a reminder of the countless times she had been bound and helpless. The cold sweat that broke over her skin only intensified her sense of vulnerability. Memories of past torment flooded back in a tidal wave of panic, but she didn’t let it show. She clamped down on everything, forcing herself back into the shell of Lea’fenlin.

Solas’s eyes were cold, unreadable, like the depths of a frozen lake. They held a distant, almost detached quality, as though he viewed her not as a person, but as an object of mild curiosity and disdain.

It reminded her of Athras.

Mythal had said she was to be her Second. But Solas was right, he was a king. With his hand caging her wrist, she was starkly reminded of her place—and she felt foolish for daring to step out of line. Mythal was her new master, and, she realized, so was he.

She averted her gaze. “Apologies. I should not have moved without your leave.”

He let go of her then, not seeming to have noticed her body’s reaction. He turned back toward the palace. “We’ve several more locations to see and I’d rather not spend the whole day with you.”

Ellana nodded.

She followed behind him obediently, this time remembering to stay a step behind, always averting her gaze.

***

By the time the tour was over, Solas was more perplexed than vexed.

She had been quiet throughout the tour, though he’d seen her mind working. He wondered if she considered running. Sellswords and brigands were all the same. Was she mapping out the palace to know the best escape routes?

That moment from the garden stuck with him though. For the first time, he’d seen that mask of hers crack. There had been open wonder on her face as she stepped forward. As though she’d never seen anything so beautiful. Just as his hand grasped her wrist, he’d felt something shift. It was as though electricity had jolted through his skin, touching his heart with a warmth that didn’t burn. He’d remembered that singular moment beneath the sands and wondered if she’d recognized him.

Then he’d looked into her eyes.

For a moment, there had been fear, as though she were some mongrel, preparing to be kicked in the ribs, not a trained killer ready to strike back.

If it had been an act, Solas could not tell. He had released her at once, masking the gesture in some mention of impatience to move on. She had not spoken since, and in truth, he was grateful. The silence gave him space to order the chaos of his thoughts.

He led her to her chamber, pausing at the threshold to gesture her inside. Ellana moved inside, then lingered for a moment beside the bed.

“Am I…” She faltered, her eyes unsteady. “Am I still permitted to leave this room?”

He tilted his head, weighing the question. So, she was already considering flight. “You are free to do as you please,” he said. “But remember—you were consigned to a position of trust. Mythal does not take her bargains lightly.”

“Free.” She whispered the word as if it were some foreign artifact, strange upon her tongue.

He stepped into the room just behind her, just inside the doorway. Her reaction to that movement was instantaneous.

Her gaze snapped upward and her breath caught. Her fingers trembled as they moved to the ties of her tunic. The fabric loosened, slipping back to reveal the soft swell of her breasts. She reached lower, intent on stripping the garment entirely, until his growl stopped her cold.

Solas had fought for freedom for as long as he’d had a physical form. He had carried the weight of chains and sworn he would see them shattered. And he had heard the whispers of the gladiators, the sordid tales of what came when blood was no longer demanded in the sands. Flesh offered freely at night, pleasure sought in dark corners. Not slaves, but men and women who offered their bodies at inns the same way they did in the arena.

And now this blatant attempt at manipulation.

Her lips had shaped the word free with disbelief, as though she had never touched the reality of it. And in the very next breath she had sought to buy her survival with her body, as though such a transaction could ever hold meaning.

The contradiction seared him.

How dare she utter that word, so sacred, so hard-won, and then defile it in the same breath? How dare she mock with trembling hands what countless had died to achieve?

His hands curled into fists, nails biting his palms. Fury pressed against his ribs like a second heartbeat. He fought to keep his composure, but the fire raged all the same, threatening to consume him.

“You do not understand the value of freedom,” he said sharply, watching as she hesitated over the next tie. “You’ve never had to fight for it, to bleed for it.”

Her brow scrunched, confusion evident. “I-I don’t understand,” she replied softly, her tone edging towards defensive.

Clearly, she didn’t understand her position at Mythal’s court. “Your queen does not demand much of you. Do not bring embarrassment to her household. Whatever you are used to doing at night, I suggest you find a new hobby. You won’t find many nobles willing to pay for your body among Mythal’s people. They are good. They are reasoned. Not whatever you’re used to.”

She breathed out harshly, her eyes finally coming up to meet his. There, in the center of her, he spied a seed of hurt. Then, came the anger.

He laughed. “Selling yourself for money is what a gladiator does best. Do you deny it?”

Ellana stepped back, as though retreating from the intensity of his gaze. She didn’t reply, her mouth set in a thin line. For a long moment, they merely stared at one another. It was as though she had turned mute, and he felt an intense dislike mixing with pity.

“Trust me, I’m not—”

“Trust you?” he laughed. “I could never trust someone like you. You kill for sport, and someone like that cannot be trusted.”

“For sport.”

“Yes, for sport. You are without remorse, without consideration for the lives you take. You enjoy it. How can anyone possibly trust someone like that?”

“You think I enjoy it?”

“I know what I saw.”

Ellana took another step back. She stared at him, her lips quivering with emotion. “You don’t know anything about me,” she said, her voice a low hiss. “You think because you’ve seen me fight, you know my motives, my heart. But you don’t.”

“And you don’t understand what it means to truly value life,” Solas spat back. “To fight for something greater than yourself, not just for the thrill of the kill.”

“Don’t you dare lecture me about valuing life!” she shouted, her eyes flashing with a mixture of pain and fury. “You don’t know the sacrifices I’ve made, the things I’ve lost.”

They stood there, breathing heavily, the air between them thick with tension and unspoken words. Solas felt a twinge of doubt, wondering for a moment if he had misjudged her. But the memory of her cold, calculated demeanor in the arena quickly snuffed out any such thoughts.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression hardening. “Then prove it,” he said. “Show me that you’re more than just a killer. Earn your place here, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll gain my trust.”

He leaned forward, towering over her as he growled, “But let me make this clear: if you act against Mythal, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

He watched her body stiffen, the tension radiating from her like a palpable force. The flicker of fear in her eyes was quickly masked by a steely resolve, but he had seen it—just for a moment. It gave him pause, but only for a heartbeat.

“I have no desire to kill the queen, nor could I if I tried.” The words were so quiet he had to step closer to hear them. “You have my word.”

“The word of a whore,” he scoffed.

“I am not a whore,” she said, though the words were far too quiet, lacking any true bite. She said them as though to convince herself more than him, and yet he’d spied her intent just moments ago.

“I’ll be sure to—”

The words died on his lips, as he watched her iridescent lilac eyes spill tears down her cheeks. For a brief moment, he saw vulnerability beneath her hardened exterior, the wounds that lay raw and festering beneath her fierce guise. But before he could speak, she had already composed herself, wiping at her face with a determined swipe.

Then, a humorless laugh fled her lips. “Mythal will get what she paid for. I am bound to her now. No harm will come to her.”

Before he could respond, she turned and went into the bathing room. She closed the door behind her, leaving him standing alone. He took a step back, his mind working. For a long time after that door shut, he considered what she had said. His mind kept returning to that one sentence: I am bound to her now.

The words ricocheted as he slowly retreated from Ellana’s room, closing the door with a soft thud.

Chapter Text

The door slammed behind her, and Ellana slid down against it, her legs folding until she hit the floor.

Whore.

More than the others, that word stuck with her.

It sank inside, like dirt pressing against the fingernails until one split from the pressure. She hadn’t seen mud caked to her skin this morning, hadn’t felt the sticky wrongness of it cracking as she moved. Yet, when he looked at her, she was sure it was there.

Because the word alone wouldn’t leave her this broken.

It was the word, coupled with the slight curl of his lip.

Solas was a stranger to her, and yet even he saw her as a viper. A creature that struck without hesitation. A body to be used, then cast aside when its purpose was done.

These things were not new to Ellana. Athras had repeated them often in the dark corners of the arena. She could not understand why it pierced her so sharply, coming from him.

Ellana’s fingernails dug crescents in her palm until it burned. Her breath came in ragged gasps as if she were fighting for control over her own body, a body that had betrayed her so many times. She pressed harder, welcoming the sharp, grounding pain to draw her away from the chaos of her thoughts. She could still feel the weight of Solas’s gaze, the echo of his words tearing through her mind like a cruel reminder of every truth she wished she could erase.

In the beginning she had been haunted. Night after night she woke screaming, her body slick with sweat, her lungs clawing for air, her mind filled with faces she had ended. Men. Women. Sometimes children. All of them clinging to her in dreams until she could scarcely tell where her own flesh ended and theirs began.

It had gone on until Israeas, patient as a brother, sat beside her and told her she must find a place inside herself where the shadows could not touch. She had to bury the dead, lock them away, and refuse them entry. Over time, he promised, the faces would blur, the screams would fade. One day she would learn not to look, not to remember.

That night she had slept without terror for the first time in months. She had clung to him in gratitude, convinced she had found a way to survive.

But sometimes—like now—the walls she had built cracked, and then it all came rushing back. The choking gargles of their final breaths. The stench of bodies voiding themselves in death. The sickly sweetness of decay mingling with copper. The sand that drank it all, greedy and tireless, leaving only her memory steeped in gore.

She remembered it all. Every detail was written on her soul. She had believed she could hide it, that she could bury it deep enough to pass for whole. But Solas had seen through her with a single glance, his words cutting away her illusions.

He had seen the stain, the filth, thick and permanent. The truth that she was corrupted, twisted from the purpose she might once have held. She could never be clean. She could never stand beside him as an equal. She could never hope to return to the spirit she had been.

Dirty. That was all she was.

And if Solas saw it, then surely others did too.

But it had been a long time since anyone had dared to scorn her so openly. His laughter still rang in her ears.

Her hand drifted to the back of her neck, to the scars where Athras’s teeth had sunk into her flesh, leaving deep grooves that no time could erase.

Ellana knew patterns. She had been taught to read them, to anticipate before the strike fell. In the arena, it meant survival. A twitch of muscle, a shift of weight, and she knew when to raise her shield. With Athras, it had meant something else entirely. When he stepped into a room after her, she knew to drop the shield, to submit quickly. To resist was to invite worse. Too slow, and the lesson lasted longer.

Somewhere along the way, no had been stripped from her tongue. Screams and pleas had given way to silence. She became what Athras asked, what he demanded, because she was not a person. Not in any way that mattered. The spirit of rebellion within her seethed, but nothing of that showed in what she made her body do—what he made it do.

When he began sending her to other households, she had learned to obey just as swiftly. Without question. Without hesitation.

Bide your time. Survive. Follow instructions until you can strike back.

That was the same pattern she had fallen into today. Even when her hands trembled, she had been ready to undress the moment Solas stepped inside.

And he had laughed at her for it.

She didn’t understand it. She’d been sold to more men than she could count, and not one had ever reacted the way Solas had, lips curled with disdain, calling her a whore for doing as she’d been trained to do. 

Her mind raced with every possible scenario, every potential misstep, twisting her thoughts into an overwhelming tangle of fear and self-loathing. She had been left alone in the cold, suffocating silence, each second amplifying the echo of Solas’s scornful laughter. The darkness of the room seemed to close in on he. Every corner whispered secrets of her past, the specters of her failures and the atrocities she had been made to commit.

Ellana struggled to steady her breath, her hands trembling as they brushed against the fabric of her shirt, still untied, reminding her of the moment of her ultimate humiliation.

She was not sure how much longer she could endure this turmoil, how much more her heart could take before it shattered completely. The dam she had built around her emotions was crumbling, and she feared the flood that would follow. What would be left of her once the tide had washed over everything she held inside?

But then, slowly, her trembling stilled. She pressed her palms flat against the floor and forced air into her lungs until her chest no longer seized. The sting of her nails had left crescent scars in her skin; she stared at them, watching the faint wells of blood rise. The sight grounded her. It reminded her of something Athras had never intended to give her: the knowledge that pain could be survived, and turned into control.

If Solas thought her filthy, then so be it. She was filthy. She was stained. She was twisted. Yet she still lived. She still endured. No scorn, no laughter, no chain had broken her.

She drew the fabric of her shirt together and tied it with careful precision. She pulled the cloth taut against her body as though closing armor around her heart. The humiliation remained, but it hardened into something colder, something that could not be so easily torn away.

Athras had taught her to obey. Solas had shown her what he truly thought of her. But neither had unmade her. She was still here, bloodied but unbroken, a serpent waiting in the grass.

Ellana rose from the floor. Her legs trembled, but she straightened her spine all the same. She had no illusions of purity, no hope of ever being clean. That dream was gone. What remained was survival, and the knowledge that a viper with its fangs bared was never powerless.

***

Solas found Mythal not long after leaving Ellana’s chambers. Her raptor’s gaze stared at him in the mirror as her lithe fingers moved through her hair.

“Good, you’re here. Undress, will you?” She asked, the bit of mirth in her tone changing as she took in his drawn features. “I’ve a kink in my neck I’m hoping you can help me work out.”

Solas shook his head. “Not tonight.”

The words fell heavy between them. He rarely denied her anything so directly.

Her hand stilled in her hair. Slowly, she turned to look at him, the mirth gone from her expression. Her eyes narrowed, sharp as talons beneath the veil of her beauty. “Not tonight,” she repeated, the syllables cool, deliberate. “I cannot recall the last time you refused me, love.”

“This is important, Mythal. We must speak.”

One brow arched. She let the silence stretch, then tilted her head, studying him through the mirror. “Must we? I can think of a hundred better ways to spend our time.”

“It is about Ellana.”

That name shifted her expression, just slightly. “What of her?”

“She told me,” Solas began, his voice steady though the memory of it pressed against him, “that she is bound to you. That you will get what you paid for.”

Now Mythal did turn, rising with the liquid grace of a predator. She crossed the space between them slowly, her smile curving like a blade. “Is that so?” she asked. Her hand rose to the clasp of his collar, toying with the fabric. Her fingers brushed against the clasp at his throat, deft and uninvited. “Is it her words that unsettle you, or that she spoke them to you at all?”

“I would know why she believes herself reduced to coin,” Solas said. He caught her wrist, firm but not harsh.

Her laughter slid out low and velvet, curling into the air between them. “You waste your breath, love,” she whispered, stepping closer until her body nearly touched his. “Do not speak of her chains. Do not speak of her sorrow. She is nothing to you, nothing to me. What matters is here.”

She leaned in, her breath brushing against his cheek, her hand prying loose from his grip with uncanny strength. Both her palms settled on his chest, smoothing down the lines of his robes. “You are tired,” she murmured, her voice a silk thread wrapping tighter with each word. “Let me ease you. Let me remind you what it is to be mine.”

“Mythal—”

The word came on a gasp as her hand slipped lower.

Her mouth hovered near his ear, her hair falling across his shoulder. Her lips just grazed the skin, her presence thick with command, with heat. “Why speak of her at all when you could be silent with me? You think too much. You always think too much, Wisdom.”

Solas stiffened, fighting to hold to the words he had come to speak. Ellana’s voice lingered in his memory, and he tried to force his questions into the air, but the words tangled in his throat as Mythal took him in hand.

Mythal’s laughter was soft and knowing, vibrating against his skin as she leaned closer. “That is better,” she purred, her mouth hovering at his ear. “Leave her where she belongs. Forget her voice.”

His body betrayed him, every nerve attuned to her touch, every instinct drawn toward the comfort she offered.

“Mythal…” the word was less a reprimand now.

“Undress,” she whispered.

Without thinking, he fell into their pattern, and obeyed. In that stage before bliss, he let thoughts of Ellana drift away.

***

It was hours later when Solas sat propped against the carved headboard, his body slack with weariness, Mythal’s weight still warm where she reclined across him. She spoke idly, her voice a low cadence weaving through tales of fertile orchards in the East and the marvels drawn from ancient forests, as though such things mattered in the stillness between them.

Only when her words began to blur did the purpose of his visit return to him, cutting through the haze of her touch.

“Mythal,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “We need to speak of Ellana.”

The shift was immediate. She exhaled in a long sigh, languidly rolling away from him. The silk of her hair brushed his chest before she slipped from the bed, reaching for a robe of deep green. She drew it around her shoulders with an almost careless elegance.

“Must you be so obstinate?” she asked, not looking at him as she cinched the sash.

Solas pushed himself higher against the headboard, his eyes fixed on her back. “If you gave me the truth,” he said, his tone sharpening, “I would not need to be obstinate.”

Mythal lingered near the bed, fingers brushing the folds of her robe as though the fabric itself amused her. “You accuse me of hiding truths, yet you never seem to know which one you seek.” Her smile curved, sharp and indulgent. “Ellana weighs heavily on you, does she not? Is it her chains that trouble you, your fascination with the girl who wears them... or is it the fact that she has now taken your place as my Second?”

“You know how I feel for her and her kind.” Solas’s jaw tightened. “My concern lies in what she said. She told me she is bound to you. That you will get what you paid for.”

“Ah,” Mythal breathed, as though savoring the words. She turned toward the mirror, examining the sweep of her hair, adjusting the robe’s collar with deliberate leisure. “Such a curious choice of phrase. She is a woman who understands the nature of her service.”

“That is not an answer,” Solas said.

“It is the only one you require.” Her gaze caught his in the mirror, bright and merciless. “Ellana knows her place. And so must you.”

Solas swung his legs from the bed, a growl forming deep in his throat as the weight of her evasion pressed against him. “I would know what hold you have over her. If she is consigned to you by bargain, then speak it plainly.”

“Plainly?” Mythal turned then, her robe slipping slightly from one shoulder as she glided back toward him. “Plain truths rarely satisfy, Solas. They are dull, lacking in poetry. Would you truly have me strip away the mystery, the elegance of it all, merely to appease your conscience?”

He held her gaze, refusing to yield. “I want the truth.”

Her hand came to rest beneath his chin, tilting his face upward. The warmth of her touch contrasted with the coldness in her eyes. “And I want your silence,” she murmured. “We cannot always have what we want.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before drawing back, her smile widening. “Now, let us not waste what remains of the night with tedious questions. There are sweeter ways to spend our time.”

Her lips had barely left his skin when Solas caught her wrist, halting her retreat. “No,” he said, more force in the word than he intended. “You will not turn this aside.”

For a heartbeat her eyes narrowed, hawk-like, and he felt the full weight of her displeasure. Yet she did not pull away. Instead, she tilted her head, the curve of her mouth deepening into a smile that did not reach those eyes.

“Bold tonight,” she mused, her voice soft, velvet threaded with steel. “You forget yourself, Solas.”

“I remember myself,” Solas replied coolly, rising from the bed to face her. The cool stone floor pressed against his feet, grounding him. “And this is one truth I need: what is she to you? What bargain have you struck, Mythal, that she would speak of herself as though she were a trinket bought and bartered.”

Mythal’s laughter was low, rolling like distant thunder. She stepped closer, unshaken by his defiance, until the space between them vanished. “And if I told you she was exactly that?” she asked, her breath warm against his mouth. “A tool, a weapon, bought with promises and coin. Would that soothe you? Would it ease the weight of your restless conscience?”

“It would give me clarity,” Solas said, his jaw tight, though her closeness pressed against the edges of his restraint.

“Clarity.” She tasted the word like wine, her eyes glinting. “You crave it as mortal beings crave breath. And yet clarity destroys the beauty of mystery. It steals away the subtlety of power.”

Solas closed his eyes. “Speak plainly, vhenan.”

Her fingers slid from his wrist to lace with his own, guiding his hand toward the hollow of her throat. She pressed it there, her pulse strong beneath his palm. “This is the truth you should care for. My heart, still beating. My will, still yours to serve.”

For a moment, he merely felt it fluttering there beneath his palm. It never matched the rhythm of his, always just slightly ahead, always beating for herself and not for him.

 “Did you bind her?” He opened his eyes, watching her with a heaviness he’d not anticipated. “As you once bound me.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Mythal’s smile did not falter, but something in her gaze sharpened. She tilted her head, her long hair sliding across her shoulder, and let the question linger between them like incense smoke. “Such bindings are outlawed, dear one.”

Her words were smooth as silk, but the edge beneath them cut like glass. She held his hand fast against her throat, as though daring him to feel the truth of her life force beneath his palm, the steady rhythm that bound him to her.

Solas’s eyes opened, cold and unwavering. “Outlawed, yet not ended. You play with words.”

Mythal’s lips curved. “Of course I do. Words are meant to be played with. They hold more weight when they dance.” She leaned closer, her cheek brushing against his, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do not confuse Ellana’s chains with shackles. She has made her bargain. She earns coin here, coin she could never have scraped together outside these walls.”

He hesitated, the thought catching. The memory of Ellana’s trembling hands, her broken whisper of free, pressed hard against his mind, but Mythal’s voice smoothed over it like balm.

“She is bound, yes,” Mythal continued, softer now, coaxing, “but not as you were. She is bound by choice. By need. By survival.” She shook her head. “She wears no vallaslin, or hadn't you noticed? No. Ellana is a woman who has learned the cost of the world, and chosen wisely to seek wealth, just as you suspected.”

Solas’s chest rose, then fell with a long breath. The fury that had burned in him began to ebb, dulled by the slow rhythm of her voice, by the heat of her body pressed so insistently against his own, and by her assurance.

Just as you suspected.

The words felt out of place. Rarely did Mythal acknowledge that he was in the right, and yet she did so easily now, reinforcing Solas’s initial impression of Ellana as a killer for hire. Yet… she did so now without hesitation. It set him on edge, his mind churning—

Then, her fingers touched his, guiding his hand from her throat to her breast, her body leaning into his with practiced intimacy. His hand remained where she had placed it, sinking into soft flesh. His lips parted, ready to speak, but no words came as she moved closer.

Mythal smiled, triumphant in her silence. Her breath was hot on his cheek, as she whispered, “Come, there are more things we might share this evening.”

A rough laugh broke from him and he moved with preternatural speed.

He caught her by the waist, and with sudden force he lifted and cast her back onto the bed. Silk spilled beneath her as she landed, her robe falling open just enough to reveal the pale gleam of her skin.

Her laughter rang low and pleased, as though this too was a victory. She sprawled against the pillows with the easy confidence of a queen indulging her consort, eyes heated as she watched him climb over her.

“Better,” she murmured, reaching to wind her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down into her warmth. “Much better.”

Solas bent over her, his face shadowed in the dim light. The part of him that had come seeking truth still lingered, faint and brittle, but her insistence pressed it down. The scent of her hair, the heat of her skin, the weight of her body beneath his, was panacea.

“Who knows,” she murmured as his teeth grazed the line of her throat, “give the gladiator a chance and perhaps you will finally find a friend… other than that insufferable fool you like to spend time with.”

His mouth stilled against her skin, though only for a moment. “Felassan is a good tactician,” he said, the words muffled against her.

A snort came low in her chest, soft and edged with mockery. “He is also, as I said, insufferable.” Her fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer, making it clear she would not be argued with. “A man too fond of his own wit. He hides his weakness behind it.”

Solas lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes. “You misjudge him.”

“I misjudge nothing.” The curve of her smile deepened, though it held no warmth. “You think him useful because he flatters your ideals. But one day you will see. Such men break before the storm.”

Her nails raked lightly down his back, over the scars she’d left him, leaving thin trails of heat in their wake. “You would do better to keep your counsel here, with me. Where strength lies.”

Solas did not answer, though a flicker of resistance remained in the tight line of his mouth. Mythal caught it, and her smile widened, pleased by the tension.

“Shh,” she whispered, drawing his lips back to hers. “No more words tonight.”

Solas obeyed in form, pressing into the kiss, but a fragment of himself remained elsewhere. His body moved with hers, responding to the heat of her touch, the insistence of her nails, the coaxing curve of her mouth. Yet beneath it all, beneath the warmth and the weight, something colder lingered, a shard that would not dissolve.

Stubbornly, that shard reflected lilac eyes.

Chapter Text

Ellana had lived so long in the darkness that sometimes the brightness of the sun felt like the illusion. Its warmth pressed against her skin, but her heart did not trust it. The shadows had been her constant companion, wrapping her in their familiar chill, and in that silence she had learned to endure.

In a lot of ways, meeting Mythal in the Queen’s personal chambers was the same. The air was thick with perfume and incense, drawing her forward with a semblance of welcome, yet the heavy braziers and the shadows clinging to the walls unsettled her. It did not feel like the warm home of a benefactor, but the guarded lair of a dragon.

Knowing that Elgar’nan had tamed just such a beast last year didn’t soothe that anxiety at all. If anything, it sharpened it. She found herself glancing more closely into the shadowed alcoves, half-expecting the glint of an eye or the curl of smoke betraying some presence waiting, patient and silent.

Unconsciously, Ellana’s fingers brushed the familiar hilts of her daggers. Once, weapons such as these had been foreign to her. They had frightened her as a spirit who spread lilac tendrils over the death that lingered on blood-soaked fields. Now, the weapons were a comfort. They assured her of her own strength and the unique power that came with the skills needed to topple enemies.

Ellana bowed before her queen, eyes lowered in submission as she waited for acknowledgment.

Mythal stood beside a massive window, staring out at the mountains beyond. Her arms were folded severely behind her back, a position and posture that struck her with unsettling familiarity, reminding her of Solas—the man she had once seen standing amidst the same bloody fields, hands clasped with that same quiet severity.

The war was over now, but it seemed some traits never truly faded from the war-weary.

Slowly, Mythal turned and waived a hand. “Rise, child.”

Ellana stood straight, taking in the beauty of the Queen. A silver circlet graced her brow, its curve catching the light and framing her face with an austere beauty that seemed oddly draconic. Dark raven hair spilled down her back, but it did nothing to soften the severity of her stance. Her shoulders were drawn taut with authority, her form lithe yet coiled, like a predator always ready to pounce. Even the elegance of her frame carried an edge, as though beneath the regal exterior lingered the same lethal grace as retracted claws.

“You must wonder,” Mythal began, her voice quiet but carrying with it a weight that pressed against the ear, “why I chose you to stand at my side as Second.”

Ellana said nothing. She had learned silence was often safer than speech. After all, it was useless to point out that she had not been chosen. To correct her and says that she had been bought.

At length, she inclined her head. “It crossed my mind, your Grace.”

“The war ended centuries ago, but the world is not content with peace. Strength is not enough. Obedience is not enough. I have armies for that.”

Mythal turned at last, and the motion was slow, deliberate, like the unfurling of wings. Her eyes found Ellana and held her there. “I require eyes that can pierce through silk screens and honeyed words. Ears that can tell the difference between devotion and deceit.”

Her gaze swept over Ellana, deliberate and unhurried, as though measuring the weight of a blade before deciding how to wield it. “I have been to the other arenas, dear. I know that no name is spoken of with more fervor than yours. You are skilled, without the incessant need to question the system.”

She stepped closer, her presence filling the space with a predatory calm. “You survived because you listened. Because you learned where to strike, when to yield, and when to wait. That is the quality I need. Not another soldier, or another servant. I need one who can walk among whispers and return to me with truth.”

Ellana’s hand hovered near her daggers, though she kept her posture carefully neutral. Mythal’s words coiled around her like chains disguised as silk, gilded with flattery, yet heavy with intent.

“Others fear what they cannot see,” Mythal continued, her voice dipping lower, smooth as a blade sliding free of its sheath. “But you, my Silver Wolf, were forged in shadows. You know how to move within them. That is why you stand here.”

Ellana swallowed thickly. “I am to occupy King Solas’s former position then?”

The woman hummed softly. “Solas played the role of my Second once, but his loyalty is… divided. He removed his vallaslin and has his own kingdom now. You, however, are mine. Bound by law and by coin. No ties but those I grant you.”

Ellana’s fingers brushed the hilts of her daggers, a habit she no longer tried to hide. Mythal’s gaze flickered there for an instant, then back to her face. “You have lived in shadows,” the Queen continued, “and so you know the forms of my enemies. Hunger. Fear. Lies whispered in the dark when no one listens. You know the sound of rebellion long before it reaches the ears of kings.”

The words fell like a judgment disguised as praise. Ellana straightened, though her pulse betrayed her. “What is to be my task?”

“For now… I have questions about the activities within my borders. You will answer those questions.” Ellana felt the woman’s gaze burning like a flame. “You will guard my life and stand by my side. Prove yourself worthy, and I will allow you to stay here in the role I have raised you to. Serve me faithfully, and when the time comes, I will release you from my service.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“There will be armor waiting for you in your chambers. I expect you to wear it the next time I see you.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Excellent,” the woman clapped her hands together. “Change, then meet me for a walk. I’ve a desire to see the courtyard… and hear the whispers there.”

***

“How are you feeling today, Solas?”

Solas glanced up from his book. He sat on a cushioned seat set close to the wall, the fabric worn but steady beneath him. Above, Felassan leaned over the balcony rail, his arms draped loosely over the carved stone and his grin as unbothered as a cat basking in sunlight.

“I am well enough.” Solas’s voice was clipped, as if the words had been weighed before leaving his mouth. He looked back to the book. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” Felassan said, his fingers trailing along the edge of the rail. “Only that I thought you might be sore. Ached bones, bruised pride, perhaps a few marks to remind you of the night past… or should I say nights?”

Solas’s hand stilled on the next page. He did not lift his head this time, but the tightening of his shoulders betrayed him.

Felassan’s chuckle was low and delighted. “So it is true, then. The great Solas, Wisdom itself, tangled up in Mythal’s sheets while Elgar’nan roars at the horizon elsewhere.”

“You speak out of turn,” Solas said sharply, his mind returning to Mythal’s words the night before about an insufferable man.

“Do I? Or do I speak too plainly?” Felassan tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Tell me, does our Lady keep you mostly on your back or are you ever allowed to be the one on top?”

Solas closed the book, his fingers pressing against the leather binding as though he might crush it. “You amuse yourself at my expense.”

“Constantly.” Felassan’s grin widened, then softened into something sly. “Though perhaps not only at yours. It seems I should save some of my wit for Mythal’s newest acquisition.”

Solas’s brow furrowed. “Her what?”

“Her Second.” Felassan lounged into the nearest chair, propping his feet on a low stone bench with all the ease of one who cared nothing for protocol. “The girl. Ellana. You’ve seen her, have you not? Tawny skin, eyes like lilac flame. Mythal does have an eye for the unusual.”

For a moment, silence stretched. Solas saw the woman then, her steps quick but sure as she shadowed Mythal through the grand halls. Her gaze caught on every surface that could offer a threat, eventually meeting his eyes across the courtyard. She quickly looked away.

“She is unsuitable,” Solas said at once, more sharply than he intended.

Felassan lifted his brows. “Unsuitable? I thought you valued strength. And she has it, Solas. Hard-earned, from what I hear. She’s been a gladiator honing her skills centuries. I dare to say she might be a better hand-to-hand combatant than you.”

“She kills for coin.” His words cut the air like glass. “There is no nobility in it.”

Felassan leaned back, hands folded loosely over his stomach. “Perhaps not. But then, nobility rarely survives long in our world. I imagine that is why she still breathes. And perhaps why Mythal sees something in her you do not.”

Felassan landed with a soft thud beside him, his body leaning forward so that the thick waves of his chestnut hair caught the sunlight. “Hmm. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that look.”

“I do not have a ‘look,’ Felassan.”

“Right, and here I thought we were being honest with one another.” He nodded at the woman. “Why don’t you tell me how much you approve of her then, old friend?”

Solas’s lips thinned, but he did not reply.

Felassan’s grin turned wolfish. “Unless, perhaps, it troubles you to see another step into a role you thought would remain yours no matter how far you two drifted?”

Again, Solas did not answer. His silence was a wall, and yet Felassan pressed against it, relentless as the tide.

“She is not like the others,” Solas murmured finally. “I do not trust her.”

“Which is precisely why Mythal has chosen her, I suspect,” Felassan replied, eyes glinting with mischief and warning alike.

Solas stood, gaze fixed on the courtyard where Ellana still followed Mythal. “What are you suggesting, Felassan?”

Felassan stretched his legs, examining his nails as though the matter were of no consequence. “Suggesting? Nothing at all. Only observing.”

“Well,” Solas said, voice tight, “you can stop with that.”

His friend hummed softly. They stood shoulder to shoulder now, and Felassan’s voice dropped into a low whisper, suddenly drained of jocularity. “My friends recently journeyed to the South in search of fresh harts—you know the exotic type that roam there—and I just heard word they made it in time to avoid the worst of the season’s snowstorms.”

Solas’s next breath felt heavier somehow. “And?”

“They found much in the snow.”

The meaning was clear enough. The slavers had struck, just as the cloaked man at the arena had suggested. Solas’s expression remained unchanged, his gaze still drifting over the grounds, marking the shadows where he knew ears were listening. His voice, when it came, was flat. “I find I have little fondness for the beasts that haunt the wilds. Tell me—how many did your friends encounter?”

Felassan’s smile returned, faint and almost lazy, though the light in his eyes had sharpened. He leaned against the nearby pillar, as if they discussed nothing of consequence.

“Not many at first,” he said, voice smooth. “But enough to ruin a good hunt. They said the tracks were deep, as though the beasts had come in numbers, circling the same ground until the snow was churned up.”

Solas’s jaw tightened, though he did not glance up. “And the herd the beasts were after?”

“Scattered. Some taken. Some ran too far and will not find their way back.” Felassan’s tone never wavered, carrying only idle interest to a careless listener. “The rest huddle close now, wary. Thin from the chase, but still standing.”

“Mm.” Solas shifted a page on his closed book, as though pretending to read. His voice was low. “And the hunters?”

Felassan’s grin flickered again, sharp for only an instant. “One bled for his troubles. She will limp a while.” He let the words hang, then added almost idly, “she’s just happy the herd was safe.”

“Beasts like that are never gone for long,” Solas warned. “They return, hungrier each time,”

“They know that. Everyone knows that.” Felassan said. “But they remain determined as ever to go hunting again.”

Solas inclined his head, fingers clenching over the spine of the book still clutched in his palm. “Perhaps it is time someone reminded them whose woods they walk.”

Felassan glanced sidelong at him, brow arched, grin curling back into something almost playful. “Careful, old friend. Speak too loudly, and the beasts will hear you.”

Solas watched as Ellana turned, her lilac gaze brushing his for the briefest moment before she slipped beneath the archway at the far edge of the courtyard, still trailing Mythal’s steps with the silent persistence of a snake in the grass.

“The beasts are already within the walls,” Solas muttered, then left his friend’s side without so much as muttering his thanks.

Chapter Text

Ellana settled into a pattern of life.

In the arena, every day had been a struggle for survival, if a predictable one. She woke to chains, to dust and the smell of iron, to the certainty that the day would demand blood—hers or another’s. The rhythm was cruel but simple, its truths etched in sweat and steel.

Here at the palace, Ellana’s days were not filled with danger, but perhaps something worse: the suffocating weight of stillness. There were no blades raised against her throat, no jeering crowd to remind her of her place. Instead, she endured the ceaseless murmur of courtiers, the watchful eyes of servants, the delicate traps adorned with gold. Everything moved at a snail’s pace. Greetings, casual conversations, and even staged events took hours or days. Perhaps the air did not smell of blood, but it choked her all the same.

Worse were the days when she recognized former patrons, faces that had once pressed against the railings of the arena, their voices shouting her name like a wager. Here, they passed her in gilded halls, their smiles sharper for knowing the measure of her worth in coin. Some still leered. Others smirked in recognition, as though her armor in Mythal’s colors was only another costume, another performance for their amusement.

Still, Ellana smiled when expected. She bowed her head. She wore the armor given to her, bore the circlet that marked her as Mythal’s Second, and did not question any order.

In the arena, survival had been straightforward: fight, bleed, endure. In the palace, the struggle was quieter, subtler. A slow erosion of the self, of the edges that had once been honed sharp. Here, the danger lay in forgetting she was still a prisoner.

It became more difficult when Ellana learned that the mornings were hers to do with as she pleased.

No one attacked her in her sleep, no one touched her without her permission. It was a strange kind of peace, one she was not accustomed to, and it left her with an odd sense of dislocation.

This morning, she woke on the floor beside the bed and stretched, her body lit with sudden aches. Though her schedule was hers, she found herself still waking at dawn, the routine dug so deep into her that she could not shake it.

Truthfully, she didn’t want to.

Waking early somehow made it feel as though she had more hours in the day.

The dim light of dawn filtered through the small window, casting long shadows across the room. Ellana slowly gathered herself. She took a deep breath, inhaling the cool morning air, and tried to shake off the remnants of a restless night.

When she rose, her body protested. Muscles pulled tight, each movement a reminder of a restless night. On her feet, Ellana’s hand drifted absently over the furs on the bed she had yet to sleep in, the gesture almost tender. For all the rage she had kindled, for all the strength she had forged from necessity, some habits clung to her too deeply to be stripped away. The instinct to remain alert, to lie in wait rather than surrender to rest, was one of them.

But weakness was a luxury she could not afford. She would not allow herself to falter. Training was survival, and survival was the only vow she could keep.

She began with the steady rhythm of conditioning, pushing her body through the familiar patterns until her limbs ached. Then she took up her daggers. The blades sang through the air as she moved, each cut and feint flowing into the next with the precision of long practice. Fighting was not done thoughtlessly, but more important was the instinct that guided muscle. If she were bound, if pain stole her breath, if her mind itself abandoned her, her body would still remember how to kill.

So she ran through every drill she had taught herself, refusing to leave a single form unpracticed.

By the time she finished, sweat slicked her brow and her breath came in sharp gasps, but the ache that spread through her body was familiar and comforting. Only when she felt that weight settle into her bones did she lower the daggers, laying them carefully aside.

She moved toward the bath, wiping sweat from her face as she filled the marble tub to the brim, scattering salts into the water to ease her muscles and fragrance to ensure her scent did not displease Mythal. It was yet another ritual of survival, no less vital than sharpening her blades.

Her gaze lingered on the bath as steam rose in curling tendrils, hazing the edges of the room. A quiet unease tightened her chest. She had never been permitted to bathe in solitude before she came to the palace. The pools at the arena were open to all the gladiators who survived the sands—and Athras, and his guards, and anyone who had paid money to be there. It wasn’t private, even when the water had soothed her.

Ellana shook the memories away, her fingers tracing over the assorted oils, perfumes, soaps, and bathing stones. She delicately sniffed each one, stopping at a little purple vial that smelled of lilacs and a similar container filled with a light paste that vaguely reminded her of roses.

Her choices made, she stripped away her clothes and eased herself into the waiting pool. The first touch of heat startled her breath, but as she lowered further, a rough sigh slipped past her lips. She sank down until the water cradled her shoulders, the steam blurring the edges of the chamber. The warmth worked its way slowly into her, pulling tension from her muscles one knot at a time. Minute by minute, she let herself soften, as though the weight she carried might, for this one fleeting moment, dissolve into the water.

For once, the overwhelming need to be clean did not force her to scrub until her skin turned pink. She realized why a moment later.

There was no blood beneath her nails. No men she needed to spend the night with. No fear or shame to drag her into oblivion.

She had gone weeks without killing a single person.

She was alone, truly alone.

For a long time after she cleaned herself off, she simply sat, staring at the water. Her mind had nowhere to be and Mythal had not given her any additional tasks.

So, she bathed with no urgency, letting the minutes stretch into something unfamiliar. The water curled around her like an embrace she did not trust, warmth pressing against scars that had only ever known cold. Her fingers drifted lazily through the surface, tracing ripples, watching them distort her reflection until she no longer recognized the woman gazing back.

For years, her time had never been her own. Every breath accounted for, every movement measured by another’s will. Now the silence pressed in, and she did not know what to do with it.

She dipped beneath the surface once, letting the heat close over her ears, muffling the world until all that remained was the thud of her heartbeat and the burn in her lungs. When she rose again, water streamed from her face and hair, and for a fleeting moment she imagined she could wash it all away, every horror she’d faced since she’d first lifted a blade.

Ellana exhaled, the sound echoing softly in the chamber, before she stood.

Water rushed down her body, pebbling in places against her skin. She found herself in the mirror across the room.

She’d never really looked at herself, not in a long time. Now, she stared at her body. Her dark skin was marred with old wounds. She knew her back was a massive tangle of them. If she drew her hair over one shoulder, she could just catch sight of the scars on her neck shaped by Athras’s teeth. She traced a particularly deep one on her arm, recalling how she’d gotten it.

The People had access to healing magic, and the immediacy of that power meant that scars rarely marred their perfect skin. Yet her body was a canvas of pain and endurance, a testament to the life she had led.

Water still clung to her skin when her eyes caught the mirror again, this time from a different angle. She turned slightly, her hair sliding forward over one shoulder. Between her shoulder blades, half-hidden beneath the sheen of water, lay the mark she had always tried not to see: a tattoo inked in blood.

The lines were smooth and elegant, for all that they’d been inflicted with violence. She remembered the bite of the needle, the reek of iron, Athras’s hand, his magic, pressing her down while the ink sank into her flesh.

Her breath caught as she stared at it, faintly blurred by the steam on the mirror’s surface. Athras loved to tell her that the tattoo made her valuable, exotic. After all, an object that could be controlled was worth more coin. It was a parody of art, scrawled in blood and pain, tying her forever to a master she despised.

The scars and the tattoos were the same in what they represented: marks of possession. They were visible signs of ownership proving that Ellana was not her own person, but an owned thing.

Her mind returned to the elusive concept Solas and Silhan had spoken of.

Freedom.

What did it even mean? To live without chains, without the constant weight of compulsion and fear crushing her spirit? She couldn’t remember what it was like anymore. She could barely remember her father’s face or her brother’s laughter.

“Freedom,” she murmured. The word felt foreign on her tongue, an alien concept she couldn’t quite grasp. It seemed so simple when Solas and Silhan spoke of it, as if freedom were an apple they could pluck from a branch and hand to her.

She had spent years bound by duty, then by pain and the expectations of those who controlled her fate. Now, standing here with the water dripping from her skin and the tender scent of lilacs and roses lingering in the air, she realized she wanted to find out.

Ellana sighed and reached for the towel. When she finished, she crossed to the wardrobe. Mythal had filled it with choices: gleaming red and black armor worked with the Queen’s sigil, an assortment of practical tunics, and—strangest of all—delicate gowns that gleamed like captured light.

She had never worn a dress by choice.

Her fingers brushed a bright purple one, silk laced with enchantments, its folds cut to unfurl like petals or the fragile wings of an insect. Beautiful, striking. It would match her eyes, she knew, and flatter the curve of her frame. But she shook her head. She had never been called beautiful, never been seen as more than a weapon or a prize. Why should she adorn herself like a thing meant for admiration? The scars were enough to prove she wasn’t.

Scoffing softly, she reached for a pair of leggings, supple as leather but light, and a crisp white shirt that clung neatly to her form. She pulled them on, fastening the Queen’s charm at her throat as expected. Her hand stilled when she brushed against the last garment in the wardrobe.

It was a cloak, deep blue dyed so dark it might have been black. Its lining was wolf fur, silver and soft beneath her fingertips. She touched it once, and the memory it carried nearly broke her. A flood of faces, voices, fragments of herself wearing a wolf’s form. She clenched her jaw, shoving the memories back with ruthless force, and let the cloak fall from her hands.

It crumpled to the floor, silver strands catching the light like moonlit snow.

Ellana retreated from the room, her mind spinning with too many thoughts, too many emotions. She found herself standing before the hearth and the collection of books housed there. She’d removed several from the shelves already—building a steadily growing pile of them around the couch.

She took a moment to steady herself, to find solace in the once-familiar scent of old parchment and leather bindings. Each tome held a world where she could lose herself, where she could forget the chains that bound her.

Ellana reached for a volume on the history of ancient magics, her fingers tracing the embossed title. She opened it and let the pages flutter to a random chapter, trying to immerse herself in the intricate diagrams and dense text. But the words blurred before her eyes, as her mind wandered back to that silver fur.

As she stood there, struggling to find her center, a knock startled her from her thoughts.

She took a deep breath, her heart still racing for a moment. Her hand went to her chest, rubbing at the skin there, hoping to calm her nerves. After several tense breaths, she felt steady enough to answer the door.

Silhan stood outside, her face stern as she curtsied. “My Lady, good morning.”

Ellana nodded, watching carefully as the servant followed her into the room. “Ellana is fine. I am no high-born lady.”

The woman shook her head, lips pressed thin. “No, that’s not right. It would not be proper,” she replied firmly. “If I do not show you the respect of your position, others will not either. And you are owed respect, my Lady. I am here to offer you my services.”

Ellana blinked. Respect? The word did not sit comfortably in her ears.

Her eyes drifted to the books she had piled high across the hearth, a fortress she had built page by page. She sank back toward them, almost as if the tomes could shield her. “What services?”

“In the morning, I will clean your chamber. If you’ve a request for any materials, I will bring them to you. If you’ve a preference for how things are kept, do not hesitate to ask.”

Ellana’s ears twitched, a flicker of excitement slipping through. “Like more books?”

Silhan’s gaze flicked to the growing stacks around the hearth and window seat. “I think I’ll leave that task to your capable hands. The library is open to you, and its shelves hold more than any merchant stall in the city.”

Ellana thought about it. Truly thought about it. Was there anything she wanted enough to ask for? To claim, as though she had a right to it? Her stomach knotted with unease at the thought. She swallowed hard. “Paper. And, um… could I have charcoal?”

One elegant brow rose. “You draw?”

The surprise in her tone cut sharper than Ellana expected. Heat touched her ears as she muttered, “Yes. Or… I did.”

Silhan bowed low, her gray-streaked hair falling forward as she inclined her head. “Then I will acquire some, my Lady. In the meantime, are you hungry? I can fetch something from the kitchens.”

Ellana hesitated. The word hungry felt strange when no one held food over her like a bargaining chip. She rose, brushing dust from her leggings as she searched for something steady to cling to. “I wonder… if I might walk with you?”

Silhan stilled, the request clearly unexpected. For a heartbeat her stern face softened, then the mask returned. She nodded. “I would not deny you.”

Together they moved toward the door, falling into step with one another. Ellana felt the silence stretch between them, thick with all the things she had never been allowed to ask, and all the things Silhan seemed to wait for her to say.

“Have you worked here long?” Ellana broke the stillness at last.

“Many years, my Lady,” Silhan replied. “My family once lived in the marshes of June’s lands. But when the war pressed too close, we fled. Mythal offered us shelter, and I have served her household ever since.”

Ellana inclined her head. “I’m glad you and your family survived.”

“As am I,” Silhan said with a soft sigh. “It is no small thing, leaving a life behind. Circumstances gave us little choice, but my children were so young then they remember nothing of what was lost. They will never know how beautiful it was.”

Ellana’s expression softened. “Starting over can be difficult. The smallest things can pull you back to what you’ve left.”

Silhan nodded, the first real smile gracing her lips. “For me, it is the taste of salt. Every now and then, when I taste it, I remember. Just for a moment, I am back in simpler times.”

A smile flit across her face. “That’s why I love the garden so much. When I was a spirit I lived among the lilies, the air outside always makes me think of that time.”

Ellana found herself smiling in return. “That’s why I love the garden. When I was a spirit, I dwelled among the lilies. The air outside reminds me of those days.”

Silhan’s eyes widened slightly. “You are spirit-born,” she whispered, thoughtful. When Ellana gave a small nod, the woman’s face broke into a broader smile. “You should ask the gardener to keep the clippings for you.”

Ellana blinked. “The clippings?”

“When the lilies are trimmed, the old stems can be set aside. If they are replanted in good soil, they take root again.” Silhan explained. “Given time, they will bloom as beautifully as the first. Not the same plants, no, but they carry the memory of what they were.”

Ellana’s brows drew together. “You mean… they can grow again?”

“Yes,” Silhan said simply. “From what looks discarded, new life can begin. It is not the same as what you left behind, but sometimes even a fragment is enough to carry a piece of home with you. If you would like I can acquire a planter box for your balcony. You could see what grows there.”

The words sank into Ellana’s chest like stones into deep water. She had always thought of memory as something untouchable, fleeting and unreachable. To tend it, to give it a place to take root…it sounded impossibly gentle, impossibly kind. Two things she hadn’t been allowed to be in a very long time.

Her throat tightened, but she forced a small smile. “Perhaps I will ask them then.”

Silhan inclined her head. “Do. You deserve something of your own, my Lady.”

They continued down the corridor together, the scent of stone and incense giving way to the faint breath of greenery as they neared the garden. Ellana let herself breathe it in, her thoughts lingering on lilies and on the strange, fragile possibility that something of her past might yet grow here

Ellana felt lighter than she had in a long while, as she followed after Silhan. Something in the area around her chest had eased, and she knew it wasn’t just the idea of flowers that loosened it.

Perhaps it was the companionship, the shared memories of a distant home, or the simple act of talking with someone who did not seek to harm her. Whatever it was, it was a balm to her weary soul. She felt a sense of belonging that had eluded her for so long, and it was this unexpected connection that brought a lightness to her step.

Steadily, they made their way to the East kitchen. To get there, they needed to pass through the grand dining room. On the walls, Ellana let her eyes catch on the frescoes. They were well done, with sharp lines, drawing the eye to the center. Mountains rose in the mural, spirits in their tendinous forms floated above the earth, two in particular stood out. One blue, one orange, their branches intwined. It was a depiction of how things had been in the Fade, with spirits freely interacting with one another.

“It’s beautiful,” Ellana commented.

“Ah, yes. We’re lucky that he hasn’t made it to every wall yet.”

Ellana blinked, turning to Silhand with a question in her eyes. The woman smiled. “Lord Solas. He paints them himself. Every mural on the walls of this palace was done by him personally.”

Her lip twisted.

Solas.

Their last true interaction was still a sour taste in her mouth. His words, cruel and cutting, still echoed, a wound that sank deep past her defenses. His dismissive attitude towards her had carried on since that day, and his actions often left her feeling small and insignificant. To know that he was an artist, to know that he had created images of beauty and tranquility seemed so at odds with the man who had insulted her.

She huffed out a furious breath. “I do not care for him one bit.”

Silhan chuckled softly, a knowing look in her eyes. “He has that effect on many, I’m afraid. Whatever else he may be, though, he is a good man.”

Ellana scoffed, shaking her head. “I find that hard to believe.”

Silhan’s laughter was gentle, yet it carried a weight of understanding. “I know it’s difficult to see past his harsh exterior, but his Grace has his reasons. The burdens he carries are not light, and sometimes they harden him to strangers. He has the habit of coming across as a grumpy old wolf.”

Ellana’s ears pricked.

The wolf.

Master’s order lingered in her mind, a harsh reminder of her true purpose here.

“Why do they call him a wolf?” Ellana asked, her tone even, though her ears betrayed her sharp interest.

Silhan glanced at her sidelong, as though weighing the depth of her question. “The name is older than most here remember. Some say it began in the war, when he fought with a ferocity that reminded soldiers of the beast. Others claim it is because of how he moves: solitary, cunning, never where you expect him to be until his teeth are at your throat. Still others claim it comes from Elgar’nan’s tongue. The High King often calls him his wife’s lap dog.”

Her smile softened, though her eyes remained thoughtful. “But there are gentler stories of how it came to be. In the early years, it was commonly known that a wolf is not only predator, but a protector. Those few speak of him as one who watches from the edges, guarding the People.”

Ellana’s lip curled slightly, though she could not stop her pulse from quickening. Protector, the word cut her more deeply than she wanted to admit. She remembered his voice sharp as a blade, his dismissal of her worth, the way he had reduced her to something small. She wanted to scoff, to say she saw no protector in him. But the fresco above them, its spirits entwined, its beauty wrought by his hand, made the words catch in her throat.

Silhan went on, her voice low as though sharing a confidence. “Whatever the truth, the name has bound itself to him. Now it may simply seem a moniker of the station you both have now carried as Mythal’s Second.”

Ellana tilted her head back toward the fresco, the blue and orange spirits drifting together in painted stillness. Her master’s command pulsed in her memory, sharp as the ink branded into her skin. Find out who he is, and when you do—kill him.

Ellana hummed, her master’s compulsion twisting inside of her until she asked, “So many men and women named after wolves…and now this Dread Wolf rises in the North.”

There wasn’t anything particularly obvious about the way Silhan moved, nor was there a tell-tale hesitation in the woman. Yet Ellana felt something shift in her, some small twinge of muscle, barely there, that told her Silhan knew something about that name.

“Indeed. The wolf is a popular moniker, likely for all the reasons I’ve named.”

The woman said no more, and by the swallowing silence that followed. There wouldn’t be anything else said on the matter.

Ellana looked away, her eyes returning to the frescoes. The blue and orange spirits seemed almost alive, their intertwined branches a symbol of unity. She wondered briefly if Solas felt any semblance of that unity in his life or if he was as isolated as she felt.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand Solas,” Ellana admitted quietly.

The change of subject eased the tension between them and Silhan placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to understand him, my Lady. Just know that sometimes, people are more than they appear to be.”

She found herself wondering about the enigmatic artist, his purpose behind the murals, and the stories he seemed to weave into the very fabric of the palace. To Silhan, she merely nodded, pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside as they continued towards their destination.

As they walked through the corridors, the tantalizing scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, curling around them like an invisible embrace. It was a warm and comforting aroma that momentarily lifted the weight from Ellana’s heart. It reminded her of simpler times, of mornings spent in her village where the scent of baking signaled the start of a new day.

Ellana’s stomach growled softly, audible enough for Silhan to hear. “Ah, it seems we’ve arrived just in time,” Silhan said with a smile, guiding her toward the source of the inviting fragrance. “Tarasha must be baking her famous sourdough bread today.”

There, a stout woman named Tarasha was just removing a large tray of baked bread from the oven. She started slightly as her eyes landed on Ellana. “M-My lady!” The woman looked pointedly at Silhan. “I would have brought her something!”

She rushed to put the tray down, but Ellana waved a hand. “It’s alright,” Ellana intoned, her voice dropping with amusement. “I wanted to come myself. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Tarasha’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Oh no, my lady, you can’t-we can’t—”

Ellana wandered around the table, finding some un-kneaded dough in a bowl beside the table. Flour had been spread out on the counter and Ellana set to work kneading the dough, wetting her fingers in order to properly work air into it. The room went utterly silent. After another moment or two, she looked up. “What?”

“This is completely improper,” Tarasha whispered, exasperated.

Ellana looked down at the dough, then back up at the older woman. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“N-No, you’re not, but, but. . .” Tarasha’s mouth formed a sound of distress, before Silhan joined Ellana behind the table. Together they began kneading the remaining dough. “Why in the void would you—”

“I need to keep busy,” Ellana explained quietly. “I can’t sit in my room reading all morning. While Solas and the others have assignments, I just. . . sit.” She bowed her head. “I get restless, and I need to do something with my hands. If you don’t mind, I’d like to help you when I can.”

Ellana smiled brightly at the woman, who glanced between her and Silhan. After another exasperated sound escaped her mouth, she gestured to the dough. “Here then, do it like this.” After demonstrating how she was meant to prepare the dough, Ellana followed through.

Soon, all three women were working together to finish preparing breakfast for the palace. It was the closest thing Ellana had felt to normalcy since she’d been taken to the arena. For once, her hands were not gory with blood, but flour and unbaked bread. She decided, quietly, in the small bits of conversation she shared with the two other women, that she didn’t mind being someone else for a while.

Steadily, she began to rebuild herself from the ground up.

Chapter Text

It was several days before she saw Solas again. She was wearing warm cotton and leather leggings, carrying a set of ‘clippings’ as Silhan called them when he turned the corner ahead of her. His gaze darted to the bunch of white lilies she carried in her hands, and something dark crossed his features. His words from their last encounter echoed in her mind, the hateful tone stirring an old pain in her chest.

“Of all the things I expected you to steal, flowers were not one of them.”

His lip curled as he looked at her, a sneer forming on his otherwise composed face. The venom in his eyes was unmistakable, and for a moment, Ellana felt a familiar pang of resentment. How could he harbor such disdain for her? He did not know her. She clenched her teeth, determined not to let his contempt undo the progress she had made.

“I have stolen nothing,” Ellana replied evenly, though her heart hammered against her chest. She held the lilies tighter, their delicate petals trembling under her grip.

He huffed out a cruel laugh. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

She stiffened, realizing he’d just barely stopped himself from saying the word again—whore.

“I am not a thief,” she said quietly, pain clouding her voice as the statement mirrored the last one she’d said as well.

Solas’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, and for a moment, Ellana thought she saw the faintest hint of doubt, of regret, before he steeled himself.

“Why should I believe you?” he challenged, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “You, who appeared out of nowhere and disrupted everything?”

She took a steadying breath, her grip tightening on the lilies. Silence stretched between them, tense and thick, as Solas regarded her with a mixture of suspicion and something else she couldn’t quite place. Finally, he turned away, his posture rigid and unyielding.

“Keep your flowers then,” he muttered, almost as if to himself. “Murderer.”

The word stung, even though she had expected them. Her grip on the lilies loosened, and she let them fall to the ground, their petals scattering like remnants of her shattered resolve. She met his gaze, her eyes hardening with determination.

“Solas,” she began, her voice low and steady, “we don’t have to be enemies. I know we come from different worlds, but that doesn’t mean we have to clash at every turn.”

And what would you have us be, Ellana? Friends?” The word was laden with sarcasm, yet there was an underlying note of curiosity.

“No. Not friends,” she conceded, “you’ve made it clear how you feel about me.”

He blinked, the cold mask slipping.

Ellana’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I just hoped that… perhaps we could coexist, at least without such active confrontation. We both have roles to play, and it would be easier if we could find a way to work together.”

In that instant, something changed. Solas’s expression softened, as if he had caught a glimpse of his own reflection in her eyes. The sneer faded, replaced by a flicker of regret. It was fleeting, but Ellana saw it. It gave her pause, enough to quell the rising tide of anger within her.

As they stood there, the tension between them palpable, Ellana realized that perhaps Solas’s hostility was not entirely about her. Maybe it stemmed from something deeper, a wound that had nothing to do with their recent encounters. She thought of Silhan’s words from before, noting that they had both held position as Mythal’s Second. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

For a moment, Solas said nothing, his gaze piercing and thoughtful. Then, slowly, he sighed. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged lightly. “Prove yourself worthy of my trust, and perhaps it is possible.”

It was a small gesture, but it was enough.

The moments of hostility faded after that. The days that followed were filled with an uneasy tension, a silent dance of avoidance. His words still echoed, but he no longer goaded her, no longer targeted her. For once, she felt like she could breathe.

Yet, as much as she tried to distract herself with chores and conversations, thoughts of Solas lingered, gnawing at the edges of her mind. She wondered what within her inspired the kind of hate she saw in his eyes. The uncertainty was a heavy cloak that she could not seem to shed.

It was only a week later that she had her chance to prove herself.

Moonlight touched the walls of Mythal’s palace, sending brilliant flares of light echoing through pristine white halls. Ellana had just returned to her room, body weary from a long day when a sound made the hairs at the back of her neck stand tall.

It was a sound she was achingly familiar with, one she had been trained to anticipate for countless years of her life.

A sword being drawn just outside her door.

The pendant she wore began to glow, turned warm to the touch and resonated with power, meaning the Queen was in danger.

Ellana grabbed her spirit daggers, drawing them out and lighting them with her mana.

Surprise was, as always, the best offense. Armies favored the cover of night, assassins struck from shadow, and when the enemy faltered, even for a heartbeat, the battle was already half-won. Ellana knew the tactic well. She had felt that prickle along her spine, the breathless moment of dread that came only when you were its prey.

Ellana eased the door open and looked into the corridor beyond. The palace had erupted into chaos. Footsteps thundered against marble, steel rang out, and voices barked orders amid the screams of the dying. The torches and magelights had been doused somehow, leaving deep pools of shadow throughout the corridors.

The intruders wore no colors of Mythal. They moved like shades cloaked in shadow, their armor jagged and uneven as if forged for intimidation rather than protection. Their helmets were shaped like animal skulls and hid their faces with bone-white masks that leered in the flickering torchlight. From the hollow sockets burned bright red eyes, unblinking and unnatural, casting them less as men and more as predators loosed from some nightmare.

And three of them chased Silhan down the hall.

The older woman stumbled from around a far corner, skirts clutched in her fists, face twisted with raw fear. Three of the armored men chased her, blades raised. She spotted Ellana just as she screamed, the cry ragged and desperate, breaking into an echoed ma halani.

Ellana moved at once. She closed the distance in four quick strides, daggers shining dimly in the dark hallway. One soldier swung his sword down at Silhan, and Ellana caught the strike on her blades, the force jarring her arms. She shoved him back, spun low, and cut across his thigh. He collapsed with a bellow, armor clattering against stone.

Another came forward, sword leveled. She slipped to the side, felt the air of it pass by, and drove a dagger into the gap between breastplate and arm. Blood welled hot over her hand as the man dropped his weapon and fell.

“Stay behind me,” she said, her eyes never leaving the fight.

The third charged, heavier than the others, double-sided axe raised. Ellana darted forward instead of retreating, caught his arm before the swing could fall, twisted, and drove her knee into his gut. As he bent, she cut across the seam of his armor, slicing the flesh at his throat. He staggered and dropped to the floor, clutching uselessly at his neck as he bled out.

The hallway fell silent except for their breathing. Ellana’s chest heaved, her hands wet with sweat and gore. Silhan pressed against the wall, pale and wide-eyed.

Ellana stepped back, blades still raised, scanning the corridor for more. Only when she was sure the danger had passed did she lower them. She turned, and Silhan flinched at the sight of the bodies.

“Are you hurt?”

Silhan shook her head, though her hands still trembled. “No, my Lady. You—” Her voice broke, eyes glistening. “You saved me.”

Ellana gave a brief nod, forcing herself not to soften, not to linger on gratitude when survival was still at stake. “Have they attacked the servants’ quarters?”

The woman shook her head quickly. “No, I—I didn’t see them. I only heard the shouting. Then they were here, and…” She trailed off, glancing again at the bodies, her face pale.

“Is Tarasha in the kitchens?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Ellana’s jaw tightened. The smell of iron hung thick in the air, the echoes of battle already fading into an eerie stillness.

“Listen to me. If they’re in the halls, they’ll find their way to us eventually. We cannot linger.” She touched Silhan’s shoulder lightly, steadying her. “I have to get to Mythal. We’ll stop at the kitchens first, and I’ll find somewhere safe for you, but we have to go now.”

Silhan nodded, swallowing hard.

Ellana’s gaze darted toward the corridor ahead. The faint glow of torches stretched shadows long and narrow along the walls. “Stay behind me,” she ordered. “If anyone comes close, you run. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lady.” The servant’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried enough resolve for Ellana to believe her.

Exhaling, Ellana adjusted her grip on her daggers and started forward, each step silent and deliberate, her senses straining for the scrape of boots or the hiss of a blade being drawn. She had no illusions: the night was far from over, and more enemies would come.

But Silhan was alive, and Ellana would see to it she stayed that way.

Before Ellana had been taken to the Pits, she’d been a soldier, a general. Though not many recalled the silver-haired, spirit-born woman who perfected the battle tactics of the arcane warriors, Ellana had passed the skill to many before falling into Athras’s trap. Dirth’ena Enasalin, they called the practice she had forged—knowledge that led to victory.

The sands of the arena had sorely tested that knowledge.

There were no disciplined ranks there, no seasoned captains to test her designs, only slaves thrust together in desperation and strangers pitted against each other for spectacle. Yet Ellana adapted. She had always adapted.

In the arena there were no allies, no lines of command, only enemies circling for blood. Ellana was forced to strip her tactics apart and rebuild them piece by piece until they fit the brutal shape of survival. She learned to apply the principles to the smallest scale. Timing became personal, measured in the rhythm of a single opponent’s breath. Strategy shrank to the angle of a wrist, the shifting of sand beneath her feet, the flash of intent in another’s eyes.

Ellana had endured by remaking the art she had helped give to the world into a weapon that belonged to her alone.

Right now, that required a modification for close-quarters fighting.

She knew the flow of battle intimately. The rhythm of combat was an old friend, its cadence etched into her bones. Ellana moved with fluid precision, each motion born not of thought but of memory honed through pain and repetition. The walls were her battlefield now. Every column, every corner, every narrow stretch of corridor was a weapon if she let it be.

Men who were used to the sweep of open fields rarely understood how quickly everything changed when space closed in. Their strikes carried too wide, their footwork stumbled on confined ground, their blades scraped stone. Ellana shortened her movements, turned broad arcs into sharp cuts, and made herself small where they swung large. A half step became the difference between a killing blow and wasted effort.

Each strike of her spirit daggers was meticulously calculated. The hallways were a blur of motion and sound, the clash of steel melding with the cries of the wounded. She fought like a storm, swift and relentless, her movements a blur of lethal efficiency, all while protecting her back, protecting Silhan.

As she slayed the last of the intruders in her immediate vicinity, she heard the distant clamor of alarms echoing through the palace halls. She wiped her blades on the cloaks of the dead and ran toward the center of the Palace, toward the kitchen and Mythal’s private chambers.

The Great Hall was slick with blood as she made her way forward, her steps careful to avoid the bodies strewn across the floor. The once grand and serene space now bore the scars of battle, its opulent decor overshadowed by the violence that had erupted within its walls. Ellana moved with determination, her eyes scanning each room for any signs of further danger.

The scent of smoke and iron thickened as they neared the East kitchens. Ellana’s steps grew faster, ears pricking at the muffled sounds of struggle ahead. She found the door splintered and froze at what she saw inside.

Tarasha stood cornered against a broad oak table, her knife little more than a kitchen blade, trembling in her grasp. Two armored men pressed toward her, jeering as if the kill were already decided.

Ellana’s blood surged hot.

She was across the room in an instant. Her daggers flashed, cutting the first man down before he registered her presence. The second tried to grab Tarasha by the arm, but Ellana’s dagger buried itself in his throat before he could touch her.

Silence followed, broken only by Tarasha’s ragged breathing.

Ellana grabbed her friend’s shoulders, scanning her quickly. “Are you alright?”

Tarasha shook her head, tears bright in her eyes as she looked between Ellana and Silhan. “I thought—” Her voice broke, but she swallowed hard. “I thought I was done for.”

“You’re not,” Ellana said firmly. “Follow me.”

The cries of the wounded and dying echoed through the halls, a haunting cacophony that underscored the gravity of the situation. Her heart ached at the useless loss of life. There at the end of the hall was a fortified armory, locked tight with a strong internal lock.

As she approached the entrance to the inner sanctum, a tall, imposing elf clad in dark, ornate armor stepped from the shadows. His eyes met hers with a mixture of curiosity and contempt, and she knew in an instant that he was no ally.

The clash came fast, steel ringing in the narrow passage, sparks flying with each blow. His strength was immense, his strikes crashing against her guard and forcing her back. Pain flared as a rough kick connected, jarring her ribs, but she refused to yield. Tenacity drove her forward. She came at him again and again, each strike faster, more relentless, her eyes never leaving his movements.

And then she saw it.

The faintest falter in his left hand, the hesitation of a man compensating for an old injury. Her instincts sharpened, her breath slowed. She counted the beats of her heart, then slid just beyond the arc of his blade. Her dagger flashed upward, burying itself beneath his ribs, carving deep into the heart she knew lay just beyond.

The man staggered back, disbelief carved into his expression. His lips parted as if to curse her, but no sound came. He crumpled to the stone, his armor clattering as his body gave way.

Hot spray struck her cheek, her hands, her throat. Ellana flinched, tasting copper on her lips. Her hands shook for the briefest moment, her mind screaming at the blood, at the way it coated her skin. Memories danced within her field of vision, until a hand closed on her shoulder. For a moment she was elsewhere, dragged back into the Pits, back into the endless nights when blood meant chains and humiliation. The memory pressed in with suffocating force, threatening to choke her.

Her chest clenched, the urge to scream clawing its way up her throat—

And then, a hand closed gently on her shoulder.

Ellana spun, dagger already half raised, every old instinct crying another enemy. But the strike halted when her eyes met Silhan’s.

Kind, stubborn Silhan and Tarasha just behind her.

The world seemed to steady around that touch. Ellana forced air back into her lungs, lowered the blade, and swallowed the panic until it quieted.

A shadow on the wall warned her of a presence encroaching from behind. In seconds, she slipped back into the shell of the gladiator and she turned, her teeth gritted in a fierce expression when she caught sight of a familiar set of grey-blue eyes.

He stood framed by the moonlight, clad in resplendent armor, a brow arched in cool deliberation as he studied her. For a heartbeat, there was taut silence, tension strung between them like the moment before a blade struck. His posture betrayed it: the subtle set of his shoulders, the faint narrowing of his gaze. He was measuring her, weighing whether she was friend, foe, or something in between.

Ellana’s grip tightened. The memory of his words, the sting of his dismissals, the cuts he had carved with nothing more than his voice, burned hot against her ribs.

Ellana raised her dagger, and for a moment his body coiled, a word poised at the edge of his tongue.

The blade never touched him. With a swift flick of her wrist, it spun through the air and buried itself in the visor of a black-clad warrior creeping up behind Solas. The man fell instantly, armor clattering as his lifeblood spilled onto the stone.

Solas’s gaze slid to the body, then back to her. Whatever judgment had been in his eyes shifted. For the first time, cool suspicion tempered into something closer to respect.

Without comment, he stepped past her. A gauntleted hand pressed against the great lock of the armory door, and runes flared under his touch. Ancient gears groaned, bolts withdrew, and the heavy doors creaked open to reveal racks of weapons, thick walls, and safety. He gestured to Tarasha and Silhan.

“Inside.” His tone was quiet, but it allowed no argument.

Ellana ushered Silhan forward, steadying her, while Tarasha hurried close behind. Both women stumbled into the chamber, fear and relief warring in their expressions. Ellana pulled the door nearly shut, her voice firm. “Don’t open for anyone until you hear from us.”

Silhan clutched Tarasha’s hand but stepped forward once more. “Thank you, my Lady. We would not have survived without you.” Her gaze flicked to Solas. “And you, your Grace.”

Solas inclined his head, a brief acknowledgment, and with a motion of his hand the wards sealed the door, locking the women safely inside.

The hall fell silent but for the muffled cries of the dying. Bodies lay scattered around them, torches guttering in their sconces. Ellana’s hand drifted instinctively to the empty sheath at her thigh. Solas’s eyes followed the movement, lingering on it for a heartbeat before he turned toward the inner sanctum.

Without a word, he moved on.

Ellana crouched, yanked her dagger free from the corpse’s ruined visor, and caught up to his longer stride.

Mythal’s chambers lay ahead.

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest as she and Solas waded into the chaos.

Moonlight poured through the tall windows, casting silver paths across the corridor. The assassins moved within the gloom, their armor catching only the faintest glimmers as they advanced. Ellana struck first, her blades flashing in sharp arcs. She moved with the rhythm of long practice, efficient and merciless.

Beside her, Solas’s sword glinted in time with every spell he cast. She’d never seen the general in action during the war, but watching him now was frightening. Each thrust of his blade was backed by the force of long discipline. With impossible speed, his free hand called barriers into being, shimmering planes that intercepted blows meant for them. Where his sword could not reach, his magic drove enemies back, breaking their formation so her daggers could finish the work.

It was effortless, to fall into step with him, to match tempo and rhythm in their dance with death.

Every time the wall of his power brushed against her, she felt a current alive in her chest that pushed her forward with new strength. His magic did not press her aside or restrain her, but circled, guarded, enabling her to strike. The sensation was steady, protective, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

“Stay close,” Solas commanded, his voice steady despite the madness around them. Ellana nodded, her eyes never leaving the advancing enemies.

A soldier rushed her blind side. She turned too late, but the man never reached her. Solas was already there, his sword driving through the attacker’s ribs. When he fell, Solas’s eyes found hers. It was only for a heartbeat, but as their eyes locked, something passed between them. It sparked in her veins like lightning, alive and warm. If he noticed it too, he didn’t say anything.

Ellana moved on.

They fought their way through the palace, their movements synchronized as if they had been partners for years. Ellana’s daggers were an extension of her will, finding targets quicker than magic could, while Solas’s spells erupted in brilliant flashes of light, scattering their foes. They moved with purpose, driven by a shared goal: to find and protect Mythal.

Her hands were covered in blood by the time they reached Mythal’s chambers. She pushed open the door open, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and resolve. Inside, Ellana could taste blood in the air. Mythal was a dragon, and sometimes Ellana forgot that. Scorch marks stained the walls, charred bodies mingling amid pools of gore. In the center, the queen’s serpentine eyes took in Solas and Ellana.

“About time,” Mythal drawled. “They poisoned my food, the bastards. I could barely cast a fireball.”

Ellana eyed a man groaning in his death throes beside the queen. The room was littered with the dead. If this was Mythal at even a fraction of her strength, what could she do at full power?

Ellana shivered at the thought.

She glanced at Solas. Relief softened his features as he stepped forward, his palm rising to cup the Queen’s cheek with unexpected tenderness. The sight struck her in a way she could not quite name. For a moment she felt as though she did not belong, as if she were intruding on something private and far older than herself.

The thought twisted in her chest, a faint, unwelcome pang that caught her off guard. She had no right to feel it, no claim to whatever existed between them. Yet as Solas leaned closer to Mythal, as his attention shifted entirely to the Queen, Ellana could not shake the sense of distance opening between them.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.

Mythal shook her head, a small, weary smile playing on her lips. “No,” she replied. “Anaris sends these paltry warriors to slay a dragon. He should know better.”

“We should head to the perimeter wall. The sentinels will be waking, we need only meet them midway.” Solas turned to Ellana. “Can you keep up?”

Ellana nodded, ignoring the slight.

When he returned to her side, the feeling did not ease. His nod carried no warmth, no recognition beyond utility. It was the kind of gesture one might offer when testing the balance of a new weapon, acknowledging function rather than fellowship. To him she was steady hands and sharp steel, nothing more.

The echo of that realization settled heavily inside her, even as the sounds of battle still rumbled beyond the chamber. She tightened her grip on her daggers, reminding herself that survival did not require closeness. Not with Solas. Not with anyone.

Behind them, the enemy surged once again, and Ellana shook off the emotion, and resumed their dance. She was a blur of motion, her focus unwavering as she fought to protect the one she had been sworn to serve. Solas was equally deadly, his power swelling like a tidal wave, snapping through the invaders like they were no more than paper in the sea. The enemies fell before them, their numbers dwindling with each of Ellana and Solas’s deadly strikes.

As the last of them collapsed, Solas returned to Mythal’s side, his breath coming evenly as though this were no more than a training exercise to him.

Together, they made their way out of the chamber, ears pricked to catch the faintest sound. As they returned to the great hall, they found themselves facing a group of enemy leaders, their faces set with grim determination. Ellana and Solas exchanged a brief glance, a silent understanding passing between them as they stepped forward in unison, guarding Mythal at their back.

They fought as one, their skills and wills intertwined.

Finally, the last of the enemy elves fell, their bodies littering the polished stone floor. Ellana and Solas stood amidst the aftermath, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the palace eerily still after the violence that had torn through its halls.

Then gold caught Ellana’s eye. Mythal’s sentinels at last swept in, their polished armor gleaming in the pale moonlight. The remaining invaders fled, their target lost, their purpose thwarted.

Ellana leaned back against the wall beneath one of Solas’s murals, its painted surface now streaked with blood. Her chest heaved as the haze of battle lifted, leaving her raw. It was always like this, just as it had been in the arena. She gasped, trying to steady herself, but the walls seemed to close in. She slid to the ground, her legs folding beneath her.

Her daggers clattered from her grip as her shaking hands betrayed her. She stared down at those hands now, slick with blood that wasn’t her own. For a heartbeat she saw faces. Not the armored assassins she’d killed to save the Queen, but the men and women she had been forced to kill in the ring, innocents dragged into the same cage and left with no choice but to fight her. The memories swarmed, suffocating, until her breath came too fast, panic rising like a tide.

Not here. Not now.

“Ellana?”

Solas’s voice broke through the spiral. She looked up and found him standing over her, his expression drawn tight, not with disdain but with something closer to concern.

He studied her for a long moment before kneeling beside her. His hand hovered in hesitation, then settled lightly on her shoulder. The warmth of it startled her, pulling her back from the storm in her mind. She flinched, not from fear but from shock at the kindness.

Gone was the cold calculation, the sharp disgust that had colored his gaze for weeks. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there, collapsed against the wall. Mythal was gone, her sentinels gone, and for the first time Ellana felt the weight of his attention fall solely on her. The light in the room had changed while she sat, the silver moon now paling toward dawn.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was gentle, steady. His eyes swept her bloodstained form. He caught her wrists and drew her hands into the light, searching for wounds. The dried blood clung to the whorls of her fingerprints.

“It isn’t mine,” she whispered, her voice breaking as the words left her.

“Are you hurt?” he repeated, sharper this time, his eyes darkened by anger, though for once she knew it wasn’t directed at her. His touch was warm, grounding, as though the force of his will alone could hold her together.

Ellana forced herself to nod, though the movement felt hollow. “I will be,” she murmured. She swallowed hard. “I need to check on Silhan. If I hadn’t reacted, she…” Her voice caught. “…she would not have lived.”

Solas’s hand tightened slightly around her wrist. “You fought beside me tonight. You fought to protect this place and its people.” His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving.

The words cut deeper than they should have. Ellana felt her chest hollow out, coldness seeping into her bones. She could not forget the way he had looked at her before, the contempt in his eyes, the dismissals that had left her feeling less than nothing. She shook off his hand, rising to her feet with unsteady determination.

“As I told you before, I can do nothing but walk the path laid before me.” Her nod was curt, her words harder than she intended.

She rose before he could answer, her steps carrying her away toward her chamber. Solas remained kneeling on the bloodstained floor, his eyes following her until the shadows swallowed her retreat.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, Mythal’s sanctum returned to its rhythm, though the echoes of violence lingered. Blood was scrubbed from the marble floors, the cries of the mourning quieted into ritual prayers. To Ellana’s relief, Silhan and Tarasha had both survived. That truth alone gave her comfort, though survival left its own scars. Silhan’s hands trembled whenever she poured wine, and Tarasha flinched at the sound of a door slamming. Yet they were alive, and in a palace where lives were replaced as easily as broken glass, that was no small thing.

Ellana watched as members of Mythal’s honor guard, and Solas, prepared a counterstrike against Anaris. She’d heard little enough about the man who’d sought to kill their queen, but Solas spoke of him with a precision that revealed old familiarity. The traps he’d designed for the enemy were nothing short of brilliant and she was reminded quite starkly of why he’d risen so quickly in the war and why warriors and generals alike bent their heads when he entered the chamber. Whatever whispers chased him and Mythal through the palace, his intellect was undeniable. Even those who mistrusted him could not deny the power of his mind.

All that to say, she didn’t see much of him as time pressed on. For Ellana, days blurred into weeks with scarcely a word exchanged. He was always at Mythal’s side or buried in his strategies, his gaze never straying in her direction, such that she assumed it was business as usual.

Then, on the third week, a ripple broke the tension.

She turned a corner in the hall, her cloak brushing stone still cool from the night air, and nearly collided with him. For an instant her heart faltered. Instinct urged her to lower her gaze, to slip by quickly before words could catch, but his hand lifted, halting her.

He cleared his throat, and she saw the tension in the movement of his jaw. “Ellana, I was…” His breath faltered. A sigh escaped him, quiet but full of weariness. “For the other day, I wanted to apologize.”

Ellana blinked at him, startled. Of all things, she had braced herself for another sharp remark, some new barb to remind her of her place. Never this. Solas, who so rarely bent before anyone, stood in front of her with contrition softening the iron of his features. The usually hard line of his eyes was tempered, his voice lowered almost to a whisper, heavy with regret.

She shifted her weight uneasily, words caught in her throat. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint murmur of life elsewhere in the palace.

At last, his mouth worked, as though he were forcing the words past some unseen barrier. “My poor manners shame me,” he said. He lowered his head for the briefest moment before lifting it again, meeting her gaze. “You did not deserve my ire. You were right in saying that I do not know you, and you do not know me. What I said that first day, I said in ignorance. Please, accept my apology.”

She could only stare.

For a handful of heartbeats, the world narrowed to the space between them. She had never been offered an apology before. Not from Athras, not from any who had held power over her. Pain was something to endure, to swallow, to carry forward without hope of recompense. His words had cut her deeply when he first spoke them, a blade that had lodged in her side with no clean way to pull it free. And yet, he stood before her now, not only admitting fault but stripping away the pride she thought defined him.

She heard her own voice, raw and trembling, before she realized she had spoken. “You called me a whore,” she said. “You said I enjoyed killing.”

The words hung between them like an accusation carved in stone.

His lips tightened. He looked away for a moment, a flicker of that old defensiveness rising to the surface. But instead of retreating behind it, he drew in a slow, steadying breath. When his eyes met hers again, there was no shield left, only the weight of truth.

“Yes,” he murmured, voice roughened, almost too quiet to hear. “I did.” His shoulders sank as if the admission pulled at him. “That day, I spoke out of turn. I was wrong, and I am sorry.”

The sincerity in his tone unsettled her more than any insult ever could. There was no mockery, no hidden disdain. Only the quiet burden of a man who had crossed a line and now sought, however haltingly, to mend what he had broken.

For so long, Ellana had been a being of pure instinct, moving on from hurts because the future had hurts of its own to face. She didn’t hold his words against him for the fact that he’d said them, but because they resonated with the voice inside her that still belonged to Athras.

“You’re… sorry?”

“I am,” he said, his voice low and his gaze holding her own.

For a moment she thought he might retreat, pull his words back into himself and leave her stranded in uncertainty. Instead, he simply stood there, regret plain in every line of his posture. This was not the proud king who met the world with sharpness and strategy.

Ellana’s heart twisted. She had sensed before that there was more to him than the cold surface he showed, but seeing it here unsettled her. A part of her braced for cruelty, half convinced that this, too, was some elaborate jest and she its unwitting punchline.

So she answered softly, “Everyone makes mistakes.”

He surprised her again.

“I hurt you,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of confession. “That was not a mistake. It was a choice. And I see now how cruel it was. I cannot forgive myself so easily, nor should you. I judged you unjustly, and I regret it. I just…” He sighed, his fingers brushing over the braids in his hair. “I just needed to tell you that.”

She searched his face, watching the way his lips pressed together, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes refused to waver. There was no deception there. No dismissal.

Ellana felt herself soften despite the ache his words had left behind. She had lived too long on scraps of kindness, too used to surviving without apology or recognition. His contrition was disarming, almost painful to accept. The sting of that first wound remained, but it no longer bled. They had fought side by side since that first conversation. They had stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the chaos of battle, and respect had grown in that crucible, whether either of them had wanted it or not.

As much as she still struggled with her past, she recognized he was offering her exactly what she’d asked for: an extended hand, an offer of peace, if she was willing to take it. For a moment, she considered all the scars she carried, the weight of her memories pressing down on her. But there, in the depths of his eyes, she saw a reflection of her own pain and a desire to mend what had been broken.

She swallowed, her fingers curling against her palms before she let them ease again. “Apology accepted.”

His gaze lifted at once, and in it she caught the faintest flicker of hope. His head bowed in a brief nod. “You are far more forgiving than I deserve. But I am grateful.”

The tension between them began to dissolve, replaced by that tentative peace she’d yearned for. They stood there for a moment, the silence filled with unspoken understanding, before Solas finally spoke again.

“Would you…would you like to accompany me to the garden?”

Again, she blinked. She thought of that moment when he’d grabbed her wrist and, from the look in his eye, he was thinking of it too. It wasn’t quite shame in his gaze, but it was close. So, she returned his gentle, hesitant smile with one of her own. She nodded and gestured for him to lead the way.

He inclined his head and turned, giving her space to walk at his side. After a moment’s hesitation, she fell into step with him.

He was named for an emotion, and for an embodiment of an emotion. Literally, Solas meant “to stand tall.” Colloquially, it meant “pride for which one stood.” She could see it in every aspect of him now. He walked with a quiet confidence, his hands clasped behind his back and head held high. She had seen it in him as they fought too. He was deadly, his ferocity in battle combined with keen intellect to create a devastating ally. His sharp profile was imposing.

“Where do you come from?” he asked at length. His voice was even, but the slight hesitation indicated he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“A small village to the North,” she replied, keeping the details minimal. Her tone was measured, though her mind flashed with memories she would not put into words. “Far from here, and far from all of this.” She gestured vaguely to the palace beyond the walls.

His eyes lingered on her, searching, but he did not press. “And you?” she asked, tilting her head toward him.

His lips thinned, and for a heartbeat he looked away, as though caught between honesty and silence. “Mythal bid me take a body not long after the war with the titans began,” he said. “And so I did. Before that…” His voice faltered, the word heavy with something older than her understanding. “I was Wisdom.”

Ellana turned sharply to him, her brows knitting. Wisdom could so easily curdle into Pride. And he’d named himself… Pride. That knowledge carried an ache straight to her chest.

“Wisdom?” she echoed.

He inclined his head, but his eyes held a pain so deep it needed no words.

“Do you regret it?” she asked softly.

A long exhale left him, his shoulders rising and falling as though the question itself had weight. “At times,” he admitted. “But my friend needed me, and I was content to follow her.”

Ellana opened her mouth, faltered, then tried again. “I’m sorry. You must have felt…” She broke off, shaking her head, unsure how to bridge the chasm of what he was and what she was not. Finally, she spoke more quietly. “I know what it feels like to be bent away from your own purpose. To feel yourself reshaped into something you never chose. That kind of dissonance, the incongruity, leaves scars no one sees.”

He studied her then, his eyes narrowing slightly, not with suspicion but with consideration, as though her words revealed more of herself than she intended.

She looked to him briefly before stepping forward into the garden, just as she had the other day, but this time he didn’t stop her as she crouched down and touched the petals of a small lily. She smiled at the feeling, indulging in a moment of peace as the sight and smells of the garden sank into her skin. The sunlight had always beat down on her when she was in the arena, now it just felt warm. There was no danger here and she reveled in that feeling of tranquility as her spirit settled in her chest.

“Your words seem incongruous as well,” Solas murmured. “You say you came from a small village, yet you claim to understand the pain of corruption. Are you spirit-born or from the world, born of blood?”

Ellana’s eyes flicked upward to meet his, her hand still cradling the lily’s delicate bloom. “Are such things truly so incompatible, Solas?”

The question hung between them like a challenge. She did not avert her gaze, though the faintest tremor ran through her voice, betraying the weight of what she asked.

He shifted his stance, closing the space between them, his steps soft against the garden’s stone path. At last, he lowered himself, crouching quietly at her side. From this nearness he could see the faint sheen of sunlight caught in her hair, the stubborn steadiness in her eyes as her fingers drifted to another flower.

“They are not incompatible,” he conceded, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “But they are rare. Those born of flesh seldom carry the echo of the Fade so deeply, unless they have been marked by something… extraordinary.” His gaze lingered on her hand as it brushed the petal, on the way her shoulders seemed to ease as if the garden’s peace was seeping into her bones. “It is as though part of you stands in the Fade and the other stands before me, and you have not chosen which world you belong to.”

Ellana let the flower slip from her touch, her fingers curling lightly against her knee. “Choice has not been something I’ve often been given,” she said quietly. “When the world forces you into shapes you never wanted, you learn to bend, or you break. Perhaps I have learned to do both.”

Abruptly, she rose and drifted deeper into the garden. The air shifted with her, the brush of spirits moving among the blooms, faintly luminous shapes twining with the branches and drifting like dancers through sunlight. Spirits of Joy and Patience fluttered close before rushing back toward the lilacs beyond.

Solas’s brow furrowed as he watched them circle her. “How is that possible,” His voice was sharper now, souring with frustration, “to live between worlds?”

“To answer your question, I must ask one.” Ellana turned her head, her hair catching the light as her eyes fixed on him. “Does Wisdom mean you know all things,” she asked softly, “or are you still learning?”

The words struck harder than she intended. He stopped short, the question settling in the air between them. His jaw tightened, and for several heartbeats he said nothing.

At last, he moved closer to her.

“Wisdom is not about knowing all things. It is knowing the questions that must be asked. The answers… the answers often come at a cost.” His gaze lingered on the spirits weaving through the air. “Sometimes that cost is too high.”

Ellana turned back to the lilies, letting one brush against her fingertips. “And yet you paid it,” she murmured. “You took on flesh, you bound yourself to Mythal, you became something you were not meant to be. In that way… you do understand, better than others, what it is to live between worlds.”

His silence was heavy, but when she looked up she caught his eyes on her, searching, conflicted.

She straightened, brushing dirt from her knees. “If you demand to know how I endure, Solas, consider that it may be the same way you do: by living with the fracture. By making peace with what cannot be mended.”

His expression flickered, unreadable. For a moment he looked as though he might speak, but instead he let the quiet stretch. The garden around them seemed to draw tighter, the spirits pausing in their drifting, their glow casting the air in shades of silver.

“You speak in riddles,” Solas said, his voice lacking the heat from before.

She laughed, the first time she’d done so in front of him. “Apologies, hahren, I thought we were engaged in a game of words.” She sidled half a step closer, taking in the harshness of his glower. Her voice dropped into a soft whisper, “You ask for something that is not so simple to give, it is a truth, and it is not one I share often.”

He looked aside, then back to her. In that moment, she placed a lily in his hand. Its petals shimmered with a faint purple hue, the same shade as her eyes. “Thank you for apologizing to me,” she said. “You are the first to do so in a very long time. In return, I offer this truth: I was once a spirit and I chose to take on a body, but it was not one I shaped myself out of lyrium.”

His eyes widened, but she went on, “When I was still in the Fade I lived among a field of wild lilies. In summer, it stretched farther than sight, vibrant and alive. It was peace, the kind that wrapped itself into me until I thought I was made of it. I have not felt that peace in millennia.”  She let her gaze travel over the blossoms around them. “I treasured that place, that beauty. This garden reminds me of it.”

Solas’s hand closed gently around the lily she had placed there. For a long moment he studied its purple sheen, his thumb brushing across a petal as though he could trace meaning from its veins. His eyes softened, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of something long buried.

“I remember stillness,” he said quietly. “The kind that exists before thought, when the Fade stretched wide and unbroken. I was not alone, but all that touched me was reflection, uncolored by want.”

He laughed, the sound strange to her ears. “And, I remember questions,” he said quietly. “Endless questions, brought to me like offerings. What is truth? What is justice? How do we live rightly? I was asked, and I gave what I could. All of it flowed through me, and for a time, it was enough. I was valued for the answers I carried, cherished for the clarity I brought.”

His thumb brushed the petal, careful and reverent. “It was not pride then. It was purpose. Each answer was a gift, each question a bridge between what was and what might be. To guide, to teach—those things gave meaning to what I was.”

He exhaled, the breath long, his eyes falling half-closed. “But things are different now, and the questions are more than questions.”

“Who’s speaking riddles now?” she asked, a faint curve to her mouth as she rose and turned the next corner of the path without waiting for him.

The gravel shifted under her steps, the hem of her cloak brushing lightly against the stone. Spirits chortled in the trees above, glowing faintly in the sunlight.

Solas looked after her, the words still heavy on his tongue. A soft huff of air escaped his lips as he followed. His boots struck the path with deliberate quiet, his gaze fixed on the woman ahead.

“I made my home among the mountains.” Solas said at length as they stopped beside the fountain in the center of the garden.

“Do you still have a home there?”

He seemed startled by her question. “Why would I?”

She tilted her head. “If you have the choice, why not live where you are most happy?”

He muttered something under his breath, then sighed, the last of the tension leaving his body.

“A fair point,” he finally admitted. “I have a home there, though I rarely visit it.”

“Why not?” She asked.

“I have precious enough time,” he said quietly. “Mythal needs me here.”

Ellana watched a pair of squirrels scurry from tree to tree above their heads, their tiny movements a stark contrast to the weighty conversation. The garden was alive with the soft rustlings and fluttering of nature, yet the air between them felt suddenly heavy as soon as that name was spoken aloud.

Ellana swallowed somewhat thickly.

“Do you ever wish for a simpler life, your Grace?” she asked softly, her eyes following the animals’ playful journey. “One without the burden of leadership and the constant demands of… others?”

He paused, his gaze fixed on a cluster of blossoms swaying gently in the breeze. He opened his mouth like he might argue, but then closed it, considering his next words.

“There are times,” he admitted, “when I long for solitude, for the peace of an untouched mountain or a quiet forest. But such a life is not meant for me.”

“Why not?”

His eyes darkened with a mix of regret and determination. “Because sometimes duty and honor bind us to places and roles we didn’t choose, but cannot abandon.”

She gave him a sympathetic look, her voice gentle. “Even if it means sacrificing your own happiness?”

He nodded slowly, a faint, bitter smile playing on his lips. “Even so.”

Ellana’s heart ached for him, for the weight of his responsibilities and the sacrifices he made. A fragile understanding formed in her chest, a recognition of a kindred spirit though their reasoning differed. Solas was bound in the same way she was bound—though he’d chosen the chains himself it made no difference in the reality of their situations. She knew all to well how someone like Mythal could twist a spirit. She’d experienced it with Falon’Din years ago. Her spirit sang inside of her, seeming to resonate with him in that moment.

Captivity came in many forms, she mused. It wasn’t always chains and cages; it could be the invisible fetters of duty, the unyielding bars of expectation, or the heavy yoke of one’s own decisions. Both she and Solas were trapped in their own ways, their paths dictated by forces larger than themselves.

“We endure,” she whispered, almost to herself.

Solas looked at her, a flicker of something indefinable in his eyes—sympathy, maybe, or a shared sorrow. “We do,” he agreed softly. “Because in the end, it is not just my life that I carry, but the hopes and dreams of those who rely on me.”

“Is that how you justify it?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “The sacrifices, the pain?”

He nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. “It is the only way I know how.”

Ellana sighed, the sound heavy with understanding.

They stood in silence for a while, the garden a sanctuary for their weary souls. The fountain’s gentle murmur provided a soothing backdrop as they shared an unspoken bond, each finding solace in the presence of the other.

Solas cleared his throat. “I must admit I. . . am not used to this.”

“You are respected among the Evanuris, are you not?” she asked, her tone uncertain.

His eyes shifted, distant again, as though he looked through walls into places only he could see. “They respect strength. They respect power. For one such as I, it is not so simple.”

Ellana wandered away from the fountain, her hand touching the rough bark of a tree beside the fence. She felt that tug on her aura, something that drew her inexorably closer to him. Before, it had been buried beneath layers of pain and resentment. Now, she could feel its persistent pull, and she wasn’t sure how to name what it was. “But you are strong. You are powerful. How could they not see that?”

“My strength lies here.” His hand tapped lightly against his temple. “In thought, in strategy. Nothing so dazzling as Falon’Din’s theatrics, nor so overwhelming as Elgar’nan’s raw force. My victories are not easily seen, and so they are easily dismissed.” His gaze found her then, sharp but not unkind. “I know you understand that. I saw you in the arena. You struck only as necessary. You sought efficiency. The shortest path to survival. When a problem presents itself, you seek the most efficient course to thwart it. As do I.”

Ellana turned, leaning her back against the tree, her eyes holding his. “Efficiency,” she repeated, her voice soft but edged. “Others called it weakness. They wanted a spectacle. They wanted the kill.”

“And you denied them,” Solas said, his voice steady. “That is what makes you dangerous. You fight not for their hunger, but to endure. The others never understood me for the same reason. They see the end result, not the design that shaped it. And so they underestimate.”

The click of his jaw was audible as he continued, “For as long as I can remember, men and women have ignored my wisdom. There are countless ways to tell a person they are not worth listening to. Over time, it grinds away at you.” He seemed so lost just then, broken and hurting. “It is not an excuse, but it is why I disregarded you at first. My expectations poisoned every interaction.”

A quiet sigh left his lips. “I hurt you because I failed to listen to my own judgment, and I’ve no doubt I hurt you in the days that followed our first interaction.”

Ellana swallowed past the sudden stone in her throat, her hands clasping over her wrists. If she closed her eyes now, she could almost feel the chains that had bound her for too long. “You did,” she admitted, her eyes downcast.

Solas sucked in a tight breath, the air hissing through his teeth as he processed her words. “Allow me to make it right,” he said.

Her brows rose and she watched him come around the tree in front of her, his hand forming a fist and laying over his heart as he bowed. His expression was serious, not a hint of humor lighting his blue-gray eyes. “I swear to you now, I will never disparage you like that again. You are a woman of many strengths, and you are deserving of my respect. Forgive me, for not seeing it sooner.”

A soft breeze rustled the leaves around them, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine. Ellana felt her heart ache in her chest at his promise and she blinked, unsure how to reply. She settled for a firm nod and watched a smile cross his face. This one was genuine, full of warmth, and she couldn’t help but return it.

Peace was something she had so often yearned for, an elusive dream that seemed just out of reach. Each moment of calm was fleeting, each instance of serenity quickly overshadowed by the demands and turmoil of her world. But now, standing beside Solas, she felt a fragile sense of peace begin to take root within her.

She saw in his eyes a reflection of her own struggles, an acknowledgment of shared pain and a promise of understanding. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed herself to believe that perhaps, she had found somewhere safe to be—and someone safe to be there with.

So the told him the truth: “always.”

Chapter Text

The heat of Mythal’s body always sent a shiver down Solas’s spine. She had always run hot, but since she had taken a draconic form, she was searing. Her very skin seemed to radiate fire, and the closer she pressed to him, the more it blistered through his restraint. She burned Solas without meaning to—or perhaps there was intention in it after all. She always smiled when he hissed through his teeth, when instinct drove him to move faster into her as though speed might shield him from the blaze.

She leaned closer, hair damp where it clung to her temples, and he breathed in the sharp scent of her: smoke, metal, the faint sweetness of crushed herbs she had brushed through her hair before bed. The mix was intoxicating, a perfume of war and queen both.

Her lips brushed his ear, her breath molten. “Does it hurt, ma’fen?” The endearment plucked at the inner threads holding him together. Her hand traced along his jaw, nails sharp enough to prick. She wanted to draw blood, he knew it as surely as he knew the rhythm of his own heart.

“It burns,” he admitted, his voice low, roughened by the fire creeping through his veins. He did not confess the rest: that the pain tethered him, that it forced him to remember she was more than his oldest friend, more than a lover. She was a dragon, ancient and relentless, and she consumed him.

She laughed softly, a sound like sparks snapping from kindling. “Good. You are too cold when left to yourself.” Her hips shifted, drawing a low groan from his lips.

Solas’s fingers dug into her waist, trying and failing to ground himself through the sudden flash of pain erupting along his back. He had long since stopped believing this heat was accidental. She wielded her body as deftly as her magic, binding him in fire until resistance melted.

Mythal gave everything in hunger and in possession, but rarely in surrender. She offered herself only to claim. And so, even as he gasped against the heat, even as she smiled and pressed harder still, he wondered when this had changed between them. He could remember some nights when it was tender, when there had been something less volatile between them. Now, with her magic running over him, he wondered if this was her gift, or her cage.

He forced his eyes to meet hers. The gold in her irises flickered like embers. “Why do you do that?” he asked, his voice tight as she rolled into him again.

Her smile softened, though it was no less dangerous for it. “Why not?” she whispered, and kissed him as though she meant to burn him down to them.

The world dispersed as he plunged once, twice, three times before the end. He felt her walls clamping down around him and gasped at the swell of pleasure.

The Fade vibrated in the aftermath, magic brightening into a heated crescendo. The air thickened with it, shimmering waves of heat rolling off her skin, crawling over his in a rush that left gooseflesh and sweat in equal measure. It was not gentle, nor was it meant to be; her power always came like fire tearing through dry brush, merciless in its hunger, radiant in its beauty.

Solas flinched despite himself.

The Fade lit in reply, colors sharp as glass, threads of magic weaving through every breath he drew. The sting that had already sunk into him burned hotter, until it seemed every nerve was aflame. He closed his eyes, but the light still seared the inside of his lids, gold and white and red.

It was like the flare of heat when a dragon breathed fire, a moment of hesitation on the inhale, then heat on the exhale. Mythal’s power poured over him, through him, until it seemed his very bones might splinter beneath it.

He collapsed to the side, breathing hard. He threw his arm over his eyes, hiding away from the sight of her. The sting came then, in that moment of disconnected bliss. For a moment there was nothing but the echo of his own heartbeat and the fading roar of her magic

His own power had always been a cool, glacial blue that sang through his blood like lightning straining to be free. But with Mythal, it never sang. Her fire smothered it, grounded it deep into the earth, as though her flames demanded the silence of all other storms. The sparks curled inward and dimmed, and though he bore it, there was always the hollow ache of something stolen.

He had no notion of why, but his mind fled from her heat. His body still burned, but his thoughts escaped elsewhere, into memory.

It took him to that moment beside the fountain. The soft rush of water, the stone beneath his hand still warm from the sun, the quiet of a garden that lived and breathed all around him. And her laughter, bright as a bell, alive in a way Mythal’s was not.

It took him to the battle in the palace halls. He hadn’t expected to feel as he had when he saw her. Contempt had changed quickly into begrudging respect. And then it had folded into something else entirely.

In the garden, her fingers had brushed his momentarily as she gave him a lily the same shade as her eyes. Even in that simple gesture, the Fade had stirred, quickening in answer. When she touched him, it was not with a fire that consumed, but with a current that leapt eagerly between them, thrilling, endless, free.

Free. That word she’d whispered with tremulous lips.

Months ago, when they had first met, he had been convinced she was a viper in the nest. A danger hidden behind a disarming smile. He had seen only the threat: to Mythal, to the order of the palace, to the fragile balance he sought to maintain. He had lashed out at her, cut with words as sharp as any blade, determined to root her out before she could sink her fangs.

And yet, she had fought beside him fiercer than any sentinel.

He had once hissed that she enjoyed killing, but her actions that night proved otherwise. She had not flinched when the enemy closed in, nor faltered when the tide turned bloody. There was a precision in her strikes, a lethal grace like a whirlwind made flesh. He had once hissed that she enjoyed killing, that she reveled in it like a predator in the hunt. But that night had taught him otherwise.

That night, he had seen her as she truly was. She’d spent time rescuing servants when others would have prioritized nobles. She’d killed efficiently, to ensure the cleanest deaths, even though they threatened her and her people.

And then, most notable in his mind, had been just after the last enemy fell and the noise of battle gave way to the ringing void it always left behind. She had slid down the blood-smeared wall in a slow, graceless collapse. Her daggers had slipped from her hands and clattering to the floor. Her fingers, just moments ago so sure and deadly, trembled as they lay open in her lap. She stared down at them as though they no longer belonged to her, as though the blood had transformed them into something monstrous.

Solas had seen that look before. He had seen it in the eyes of soldiers who had fought too long, who had endured too much. He had seen it in the aftermath of war, in those who had taken lives not for pleasure, but for survival. The haunted stare fixed on bloodied hands. The involuntary tremor that no training could prevent. The quiet horror that settled inside as soldiers realized the war was far from over.

And that realization dug away at him.

Because something had put that trauma there. Something had forced her to cross that threshold where violence became necessity, where killing was not chosen but demanded. She had the reflexes of someone long accustomed to blood, the focus of someone who had been forged in conflict rather than trained by a gentle hand.

Solas swallowed past the stone lodged in his throat, as he remembered the way she’d moved.

She had been fierce and precise, true, but never overpowering. He had fought beside countless warriors who rivaled him in skill and power, but none felt like that. She had fallen into perfect step, matching him at every stage. Her power had not drowned his out as Mythal’s often did, nor had it splintered the finer details like Elgar’nan’s.

Her magic… danced with his.

It had been twin to his own: like lightning forking through the sky, electric currents running along parallel pathways.

With her, the Fade did not roar. It sang.

The contrast pierced him, his eyes stinging. He felt it even now, lying in the aftermath of Mythal’s fire, his skin still raw, his breath shallow. He thought of Ellana’s hands brushing the water’s surface, droplets scattering like stars. He thought of her voice, teasing and warm, the way her presence stirred something deep inside.

Mythal was his heart, and yet even when he had everything he wanted resting against his chest, it was Ellana he thought of.

He turned, his lips finding Mythal’s with a sudden urgency, the taste of smoke and iron filling his mouth. His hands tightened at her waist, pulling her closer, as though drowning her fire in his own need might banish the ghost that clung to him. Need fought with want, desperation tangled with hunger. Every kiss was a plea, every touch an attempt to silence the memory of cool water and bright laughter.

But it did not fade.

Even as Mythal responded, her heat flaring again, the Fade quivered with the echo of another name. Ellana. It rang in him like a struck chord, vibrating along every nerve, refusing to be buried. His body moved with Mythal, but his mind rebelled, drawn back to that sun-lit fountain, to the brush of fingers that sparked with lightning instead of fire.

He broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, his forehead falling against Mythal’s shoulder. She was molten beneath his touch, her magic still curling and snapping like embers in a hearth. Yet he felt cold, hollow, as if all her heat could not reach the place inside him that ached.

He growled, low and feral, and in one violent motion he pushed her beneath him. His body moved before thought could intervene, driven by instinct, by fury, by desperation to prove he was still here, still Mythal’s, still more than the shadows that haunted him.

He was not gentle. His teeth grazed her skin hard enough to taste iron, his hands digging into her hips as though he could anchor himself by breaking her. He bit and thrust with mindless abandon, the rhythm harsh, punishing, as though force alone could drive out the memory of Ellana crouched beside a lily.

Mythal’s smile was sharp even in the chaos of it, her golden eyes half-lidded as though she had expected this storm all along. She arched into him, answering fire with fire, her nails raking down his back to draw blood. Her magic flared in bright bursts, matching the violence of his movements, and the Fade sang with a discordant pitch, half ecstasy, half agony.

“Good,” she hissed, her voice both a taunt and a benediction. “Show me your teeth, Wolf. Show me what you are when you stop pretending.”

Her words only fed the frenzy.

He drove harder, his breath ragged, his vision narrowing to the blaze of her eyes and the roar of her power. Yet beneath it, there was the echo of another name, another touch, another voice. No matter how fiercely he tried to bury it in Mythal’s fire, lightning stirred in his blood, restless and alive, until at last he felt himself nearing that peak.

And there, at the edge, a single word ripped through him.

Vhenan.

He found release as soon as the word materialized, his body shaking, the sound torn from his throat more a broken cry than anything remotely joyful. His body sagged against hers, damp with sweat, his heart hammering as though it meant to tear free from his chest. But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the lingering sting of her heat, it was still there, humming in the air.

His heart, his home.

And it was not Mythal.

The truth of it sickened him. He had broken upon Mythal’s body with another’s name ready upon his lips, another’s memory igniting the core of him.

Mythal’s hand slid up his spine, nails light now, almost tender. She tilted her head to catch his gaze, and he felt the weight of her knowing settle upon him. Her golden eyes gleamed, not with surprise, but with satisfaction. “Ahh, I see.”

He stiffened.

“So that is where you went,” she murmured, her voice low, silken, dangerous. “Even when I am in your arms, it is someone else’s shadow that lingers.”

“Mythal—”

“Hush.” Her smile deepened, serpentine and cruel. She cupped his cheek, the heat of her palm branding him anew. “Do not think I mind, Solas. Shadows are useful. And so is the wolf who chases them.”

She kissed him, her teeth dragging along his lip.

“Be a good lad now,” she murmured into his ear, “clean yourself up in the bath, I’ll find you there shortly.”

Solas sighed, nodding briefly before heading into the other room. A bath would do him good.

He’d closed the door already when Mythal rose, and summoned a servant.

He didn’t hear the growl of her words, as she told a young woman to retrieve Ellana at once.

***

Standing before Mythal always left her nerves in shambles, but especially so now.

She’d woken to a soft knock at her door. She had half expected to find a servant waiting, perhaps another messenger with some errand or word of her duties. Instead, she found one of Mythal’s handmaidens, cloaked in shadowed silks, her face unreadable.

“The Queen requests your presence. Without delay.”

The words alone had been enough to send her stomach twisting. She looked down at herself, wearing only a shift meant for sleep. Her heart pounded loud enough that she feared the woman at her door might hear it. There was no refusing such a summons. No one refused Mythal. So, she stepped into the hall wearing only the gown.

Now, standing in the threshold of the queen’s chambers, Ellana felt that truth burn in her bones. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and perfume. Light from the braziers painted the stone walls in restless gold, like the shimmering scaled of a dragon lurked in the walls themselves.

She could see small hints of Solas here too, murals painted of skies she didn’t recognize. A fresco depicting a piano where a duet might have once been drafted and performed. A painting of magic that looked like fire and lightning combined.

It was odd, so different from the murals in the halls outside where spirits danced freely or major battles or events were depicted. This felt intensely personal. They felt drawn from memory and longing, from dreams he had not spoken aloud. They were not the queen’s prideful tributes to herself, but something else entirely. Something Solas had left behind.

Ellana rubbed at her hands absently, waiting for the queen to make an appearance.

When the moment stretched on, she shifted uncomfortably.

Then, Mythal stepped from the drapes at the back of the room. Her form was cloaked in an elaborate black dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was wet, braided into a severe bun at the top of her head. The golden glow of her eyes caught the light, and her smile was slow, deliberate. “Ellana, dear.”

Mythal gestured to one of the cushioned seats that stood near a low table of carved onyx, its surface inlaid with patterns of serpents devouring their tails. Ellana sat, her posture straight but her body coiled, choosing the very edge of the seat as though ready to rise at a moment’s notice.

Mythal lowered herself onto the seat opposite, her movements fluid and regal. She leaned back, folding one leg over the other, and studied Ellana with the languid intensity of a serpent watching prey draw itself nearer. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the soft crackle of braziers and the faint rush of water somewhere beyond the chamber.

“You look uneasy,” Mythal said at last, her voice warm, almost indulgent. “Do not be.”

Ellana’s fingers curled against her knees. “You summoned me, your grace?”

“I did.” Mythal’s smile deepened, though her eyes did not soften.

The queen reached for the decanter on the table, pouring a clear liquid into two cups. The scent of herbs rose sharp and heady, filling the air between them. She pushed one across the table toward Ellana with the faintest flick of her wrist.

“Drink.” She said. “You have earned it, after the chaos in the palace. Few fought with such elegance.”

Ellana hesitated, glancing down at the liquid before lifting her gaze back to the queen. Mythal was watching her, expectant, the curve of her lips daring her to refuse.

The cup was cool against Ellana’s palm when she finally took it. The weight of it grounded her, though the unease in her chest only grew. 

She took a sip, and nearly gagged.

It tasted of raw embers, bitter and smoky, as though she had pressed her mouth to a firepit and swallowed the remnants of a hearth gone cold. Ash clung to the back of her throat, mingled with the sharp, almost medicinal bite of clove. Though the liquid was cool against her lips, it burned as it passed her tongue, searing a trail down her throat until her eyes watered.

She lowered the cup quickly, fingers tightening around it to keep from trembling, her lips pressing together to smother the cough that clawed to escape.

Across from her, Mythal watched with languid amusement, her golden eyes catching the firelight. “An acquired taste,” she murmured, her voice as smooth as the smoke that curled above the braziers. “It is brewed from roots that grow only in places where the earth itself remembers the flame of a dragon. A drink for the strong. Or for those I wish to see endure.”

Ellana set the cup back onto the table with deliberate care, though her throat still burned, her stomach unsettled. She supposed it was good that Mythal seemed to want her to endure, but somehow that wasn’t the comfort it should have been.

“What would you ask of me, your Grace?” Ellana spoke softly, her voice steady despite the bitter taste still coating her mouth.

Mythal leaned forward, resting her chin on the curve of her hand, her smile sharpening into something oddly draconic. “Solas tells me that you fought against Anaris’s warriors with gusto. You were silent and precise, and managed to spare my servants the trouble of losing their heads while you were at it.”

Ellana nodded her head, a bit dizzy at the acknowledgment.

“As my Second, such things are expected,” Mythal continued, “but the way Solas tells it, you went beyond that. Such fine work deserves a greater display of trust.”

“Trust, your Grace?”

Mythal took a long sip of the tea, leaning back in her chair. “There is a matter that requires discretion,” she said at last, her tone deceptively light. “Anaris has grown bold. Restless. Such restlessness too often breeds foolishness.”

Mythal glanced at the mural painted on the nearest wall, one that depicted two spirits side by side, one blue, one red. “I wish to know what he does, whom he speaks with, and what loyalties he courts in the shadows. He does not own his own territory. He takes up residence within my own, and this attack bodes poorly for our future.”

Ellana straightened slightly, the cool weight of responsibility pressing down her spine. “You want me to spy on him?”

“Not alone.” Mythal’s lips curved, the expression more cutting than kind. “You will go with my other wolf. He knows the paths, and Anaris knows him. Together you will find what I seek.”

Ellana’s breath caught, though she fought to keep her expression composed. Her other wolf.

Solas.

“You wonder why I send you,” she continued smoothly. “Because you are quick, and clever, and unassuming enough to go where even my sentinels cannot. Anaris will not expect you, and he will underestimate you. That makes you valuable to me.”

Her words slithered close, brushing the edges of flattery and threat alike.

The dragon glanced at her cup, where some of the tea still swirled. “He likes pretty things. He will no doubt find you… fascinating.”

Ellana’s mind went suddenly blank. She pressed her palms together, ceasing the tremble that had taken residence there. She forced her voice steady. “And what would you have me do?”

Mythal leaned forward, her golden eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Bring me the truth. Nothing less. You are to watch him, listen to him, learn where his heart wanders. Do not strike unless I command it. I want knowledge, not corpses. For now.”

She lifted her goblet and sipped, slow and deliberate, before adding, “And remember, da’len—Anaris is a spider in his web. You must not let him snare you. If you do, not even I will be able to save you.”

Ellana nodded, though her pulse thundered in her ears. In her mind, she heard her Master’s words slipping beneath her skin. So similar, these quests. But, perhaps they were one in the same. Finding more information about the Dread Wolf may come from unlikely sources, even Anaris himself. It was an opportunity, no more or less.

Mythal’s gaze slid toward the curtained arch again, the sound of water whispering faintly from beyond.

“You will find Solas waiting there,” she murmured, her voice curling with satisfaction. “Go to him. My wolf will guide you.”

The possessive weight of those words settled heavy in Ellana’s chest, though she could not tell if it was dread, anticipation, or something that swung perilously between them both. “If I may ask…Why Solas?” she murmured. “He is a king in his own right, is he not? Why would he accept such a mission?”

“Solas is, and always has been, loyal.” She tilted her head, her smile deepening into something both intimate and cruel. “He has already accepted this task. He listens when I whisper. He obeys, even when he questions my tactics.”

“As for why I would send him, it is because Anaris worked alongside him for centuries in the war, and will not kill him on sight.” Mythal laughed softly, the sound like gravel crunching underfoot. “And, perhaps most importantly, because my husband returns tomorrow, and he’ll not appreciate a dog in the bed.”

Ellana flinched. Her chest tightened with an emotion she didn’t have a name for. The possessiveness in every word, every movement, pressed heavy against her. Those words echoed, the whispers in the hall at last confirmed by the queen herself. A dog in her bed.

Mythal moved closer, the scent of perfume and smoke rising with her. She brushed a hand almost idly across Ellana’s cheek, the touch light. “Do not look so stricken, dear. We are immortal, we find amusement where we can.”

She shifted then, rising and staring down at Ellana with pitiless golden eyes. “You will find him waiting in the next room. Be gone by morning.”

“I will not fail you, my queen,” Ellana murmured, rising and wandering closer to the archway.

“See that you don’t,” Mythal purred.

Ellana bowed her head only to stop as the queen cleared her throat.

“Oh, and Ellana?” She turned to look at her. Mythal smiled. “Do have some fun while you’re at it.”

With that, the queen left and Ellana moved through the archway toward the sound of water.

Chapter Text

Ellana lingered in the doorway after Mythal vanished, the curtain settling with a soft sigh that seemed to seal the chamber behind her. The hush that followed carried the steady murmur of water, like the prattle of rain. She set her hand to the arch to steady herself and stepped inside.

Moisture met her at once. Warm vapor beaded along her cheeks and collarbone, gathering at her lashes.

Water seemed to be pulled from the air itself, steam rising as it dipped into large basins. Those basins spilled into one another and into the main pool while dragons, carved from the polished stone, danced along the rims. Tiny pieces of gold had been pressed into their eyes so that the creatures watched from every angle, reflective and unblinking. Braziers ringed the expansive space, their light, combined with the moonlight from the open archways, struck the surface of the water, weaving a net of shimmering brightness that touched the pale rock of the bath.

The archways lining the space held a beautiful view of the sky and forest beyond the palace, open but shimmering with magic that tasted of juniper berries. She suspected that while light managed to pierce the sheen, prying eyes could not.

There, leaning back against the undecorated lip of the largest pool, sat Solas. Water lapped against his ribs and drifted lower when he exhaled, higher when he drew breath. The muscles along his torso held a quiet tension that never seemed to leave him, even in rest. Tendons drew clean lines from wrist to forearm and up to the curve of his shoulder.

Heat surged into her face so quickly she felt lightheaded.

He was not the first man she’d seen naked, far from it. Athras had been her first, his hands rough, teaching her body the meaning of ownership. And after him there had been others. Too many others. Men who saw her as nothing more than a vessel to use until they tired of it. And she had seen strong backs bent under pain, bodies broken to labor until they were little more than husks. She had seen nakedness used as humiliation, as punishment, as a spectacle for cruel eyes. Skin had become a language she had been forced to read, one that rarely spoke of tenderness or choice. There was no mystery in it, no shock or thrill.

But here, in the haze of the bathing chamber, the sight of Solas somehow struck her differently.

The water dipped below his chest, revealing the ridges of lean muscle carved into his stomach, pale, freckled skin gleaming where the firelight kissed it. She knew how strong he was. She had felt it in battle, the sharp force of his magic tearing through the air, the precision in his movements that left no wasted breath or strike. But here, stripped of robes and armor, his strength was raw and unmasked, the quiet kind that came from endurance rather than pride or vanity.

He was beautiful.

A shudder made her suddenly aware of her own body, of the furious warmth rushing through her and pooling low inside.

And then she took in the scars.

They were pale in the glow of the water, scattered across his skin. A deep seam ran across his ribs, jagged and uneven, as though some great blow had split him open and barely knit back together. Some were narrow, long-healed slashes. Many were rougher, puckered burns shaped like talons, or deep ridges where flesh had been seared away and poorly mended. There was one at his shoulder that cut across the curve of muscle and disappeared down his back, cruel in its severity, the kind of wound that should have ended a life.

She’d never seen scars like that on anyone outside of the arena.

This was a man who had suffered, who had bled, who had chosen to bear pain again and again and still rise. It shouldn’t make the heat inside of her ignite, but somehow it did as she realized he was not beyond her. He was scarred, as she was scarred, and the sight of it undid her more than mere nakedness ever could.

The heat in her face did not fade. She could not look away.

And then, he opened his eyes.

The motion was slow, unhurried, as though surfacing from a dream. Pale light caught in his gaze, sharp even through the haze of steam, and she felt that gaze settle on her across the water. For an instant her breath stopped, caught between panic and longing, her chest aching with it.

“Ellana.”

Her name sounded different from his mouth than any other.

“Solas,” she managed, her voice hushed, barely steady. The syllables felt fragile in her mouth, trembling with the pulse that still thundered in her ears.

“M-Mythal told me to find you here.” She stammered.

“Infuriating lizard,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. Yet his tone carried no real venom, just the faint irritation of someone who had been outmaneuvered.

But his gaze never left her. His eyes—so blue, almost violet sometimes—fixed upon her with unnerving intensity. She felt the weight of that stare searing through her. It was not lust, she had been taught that expression too well to ever mistake it, but it wasn’t idle curiosity either. Something deeper stirred in that look, and she found herself wondering what lie beneath, what thoughts stirred in that brilliant mind of his.

Her voice came without input from her mind, “What are you thinking about, right now?”

His expression did not shift at once, but his eyes darkened, their color deepening as though the thought itself stirred something in the Fade. For a heartbeat, she wished she could pull the question back into herself, wished she had swallowed it down and left the silence unbroken. But then he tilted his head, that faintly amused, wry curl of his mouth appearing.

“I am thinking,” he said slowly, his voice low “about how rare it is to be surprised, when you live as long as our people do.”

Her lips parted, caught off guard. “Surprised?”

“You are standing there, Ellana. And I, for once, cannot anticipate what will happen next. Will you flee from me as though you’ve stepped too close to the fire? Or will you step nearer, knowing full well the burn?”

Her breath caught, her pulse quickening until she could feel it in her throat. The chamber was warm with steam, yet she shivered. His voice was thick with meaning, with possibility.

She was suddenly very aware that she wore only a thin nightgown, one that didn’t entirely hide the dark peaks of her breasts or the hint of what lay beneath her navel. Her arms crossed over her stomach, her nails digging lightly into her own flesh as she struggled to regain some modicum of composure.

She swallowed hard, the words again coming before she could stop them. “And… if I did step closer?”

The light shifted in his eyes, a subtle change that tightened her stomach with something caught between fear and anticipation. He leaned forward slightly, the water rippling at the movement, little droplets shivering down his toned muscle. His gaze never faltered.

“Then,” he murmured, softer now, almost reverent, “I would finally know if it is truly lightning I feel between us… or only my imagination.”

The words hung between them, alive and trembling, waiting for her to bridge the space—or turn away.

Her breath stilled. The air in the chamber seemed to contract around his words, as if the pool itself waited for her answer. For her to choose this, choose him.

For the lightning to spark amid the condensation.

That was what she’d felt when they touched, what she felt every time her aura brushed against his. An uncontrollable arc that seemed to light her up from the inside out. And here he was, acknowledging that he’d felt it, too.

She took a half-step forward before she realized she’d moved. The stone beneath her bare feet was warm from the steam, yet she shivered as though it was slicked from ice. His gaze tracked the motion instantly, the faintest flicker of tension running across his jaw, though he made no other move.

He licked his lips, gaze now making a slow perusal up and up from her feet back to her eyes.

The water was right there, waiting, rippling with subtle pressure. Solas’s body was tense, but his posture was open in invitation. She could see all of him through the clear blue, and it made her mouth go dry.

For a long moment, they both maintained their positions, both staring, both waiting.

Solas broke the silence first, his voice low and seductive. “Ellana,” he murmured, her name more prayer than sound. “Do not mistake me for patient. The wolf waits, but not forever.”

The words sent a shudder down her spine. Desire was foreign, unruly. It made her press her thighs together, body alight with a fever that was wholly unexpected. She reminded herself that this was a choice. Her choice.

And she wanted to know if he felt that same electric spark.

Her hands slipped to the ties of her gown, as his eyes watched. The fabric loosened with a whisper and fell to the stone floor.

The sound seemed deafening in the stillness.

Solas’s eyes darkened, his throat working as he swallowed, but he did not move. He waited, letting the decision be hers. The wolf in him might hunger, but he would not close the space unless she invited him to.

That knowledge made her bold.

She stepped forward at last, into the water. The heat rose around her calves, then her knees, wrapping her in the same warmth that clung to him. Each step closer sent sparks racing up her spine, every nerve singing with that same crackle of lightning he had spoken of.

The jagged, broken edges of her power seemed to reach for his on instinct, driven by the slow, prowling steps she took closer to him.

And when she reached him, his hand broke the surface of the pool, slow and deliberate, rising to meet her.

For a breath she thought she could take it. She thought that she could let herself fall into the lightning, let it strike, let it mingle with the light.

And then the memory struck her.

A hand closing around her neck. The weight of a body over her. Steam mingling with her own panicked breaths as Athras pressed her down, his grip merciless, the stone biting into her skin. The heat that had burned her from the inside out.

Her heart lurched, every muscle in her body seizing with sudden terror.

Her breath hitched, sharp and audible in the chamber. She staggered a step back, the ripples breaking violently around her legs. Solas’s eyes widened, but she could not bear the sight of his hand still extended, waiting.

“I—” Her voice broke, raw, unsteady. She turned from him, clutching her arms tightly around her middle. The sound of her own pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the quiet lapping of the pool. “I will await you outside.”

Her words were hurried, desperate, as though spoken too slowly they might shatter altogether. She waded back toward the edge, water dragging at her limbs with uneven weight.

Solas did not stop her, but she felt his gaze burning against her back. Perhaps he saw how close she was to breaking. Perhaps he sneered at the woman who could kill men without hesitation, yet flinched at the mere notion of a man’s intimate touch.

When she reached the stone steps, she nearly stumbled in her haste to leave the water. The cool air beyond the pool struck her damp skin, a shock that only deepened the tremor in her hands. She gathered her gown from where it lay crumpled, clutching it tight as though it could shield her from the past clawing at her mind. Without looking back, Ellana made for the doorway, her steps uneven, her breath ragged.

The mist clung to her hair, to her lashes, and she told herself they were not tears.

Behind her, Solas remained in the pool, the water still rippling faintly where she had fled. His hand lowered back beneath the surface, and though his face was unreadable, his eyes followed her shadow until it vanished into the corridor beyond.

***

By the time Solas exited the pool, Ellana had already pulled her cloak tightly about her, the silver clasp fastened high at her throat. She sat curled into the onyx chair Mythal had once offered her, the stone dark and gleaming in the firelight, its hard lines a strange throne for so fragile a posture. Her legs were drawn slightly in, her arms wrapped tight around herself beneath the heavy folds, as though the chair’s cold surface might otherwise seep into her bones.

He wore soft britches as he entered the main chamber. In one hand he carried a white tunic, the linen soft and loose, yet he had not yet drawn it over his head. His chest remained bare, still damp, the ridges of muscle beneath his skin catching faint shadows as he moved. The heat radiating from him mingled with the natural warmth of the dragon’s lair.

Ellana’s gaze lifted, and for a heartbeat she watched him in silence. He looked younger somehow, without his armor. But the sight only made her grip the edge of her cloak tighter, as if retreating further into its folds.

He paused a few paces from her, the tunic forgotten in his palm, and studied her with those piercing eyes that seemed to miss nothing. His silence was heavy, pressing against her with the weight of an unanswered question.

Ellana lowered her eyes, her voice breaking the quiet before he could. “It is warmer here than outside,” she said softly.

Solas tilted his head, a faint curve pulling at the corner of his mouth. “The stone used to build this room was taken from a dragon’s den,” he replied, his tone measured. “She likes to say that the stones remember the fire.”

Her breath caught when his shadow fell over her. The onyx chair suddenly felt too small, as though it could no longer contain her body or her fear. She pulled the cloak tighter around herself, knuckles white at the clasp.

He knelt before her. The tunic he had carried slipped soundlessly to the floor beside him, forgotten.

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t expected him to kneel.

“Do not look away,” he said gently, tilting his head to catch her gaze. His hand lifted, fingers hovering in the air as if reaching for her, but he did not close the space. “Why did you run from me?”

Her lips parted, but no words came. She wanted to tell him she was fine, that it was nothing, that the tremor in her hands was only the chill of the air, but the warmth in his tone, the steadiness of his gaze, made the lie catch in her throat.

She thought of another lie.

“You are a king, your Grace.” The words tasted like that sickening tea Mythal had made her drink. “And you are… Mythal’s.”

“Hmm,” he hummed. “I see.”

He rose then, taking the tunic with him. He turned from her, donning the shirt and then wandering to the mirror at the opposite edge of the room. There, he carefully shook out the damp locks of his hair and began braiding them the way warriors of their people did.

“Mythal has asked us to travel to Anaris’s home and learn more about his involvement in the attacks.”

Ellana blinked at the shift in his tone, at the casual way he spoke while his fingers wove precise patterns into his hair. The sudden distance in him left her hollow, as though he had shut a door she hadn’t even realized was open.

She sat stiffly in the onyx chair, her heart still pounding, her palms raw from the half-moons her nails had carved into them. She yearned to call him to return to her, to take the lie back, but the words shriveled before they could form.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes. She wants me to learn all I can about what he does in the dark.”

“All we can learn,” Solas corrected without looking at her. “We will travel together to unravel the truth of it. I have my servants preparing suitable mounts as we speak.”

His certainty was like stone, immovable, and yet unease still writhed at the back of her thoughts.

“The warriors we killed were little more than shadows wearing masks of bone,” she murmured, worrying a loose thread on her cloak until it frayed further.  “Are you truly certain Anaris was behind the attack?”

Solas’s hands never faltered.

“Complicit,” Solas amended smoothly, “at least.”

When he turned to her, she flinched at the change. The openness she had glimpsed before, the heat of his gaze in the pool, was gone. In its place was something shuttered and remote, eyes cold. There was no blossom of emotion any longer. It was like stepping backward in time, to that first day, when his grip had closed around her wrist as she’d reached for a flower.

“Come,” Solas said, voice lacking inflection. “We will leave at once. I suspect Mythal would like us both gone before her husband arrives and finds the scent of us lingering.”

The words cut, impersonal as steel. And though Ellana rose to follow, her chest ached with the weight of all she had not said.

Chapter Text

The morning came swifter than he’d anticipated.

Solas met with Felassan just before dawn, ensuring all was prepared for their journey. The mounts were saddled and packed with liberal supplies and gifts for their host. Rather than travel with a full retinue, as was expected for a king of his station, he opted for a small group of three. Felassan, of course, along with a man he’d found in June’s court named Joslan.

And her, Mythal’s Second.

He glanced at her now.

Her silver hair was braided back with a soldier’s precision, catching the pale light of dawn as they ascended the ridge. Somehow, the look sharpened the cut of her cheekbones, the angles of her face. Her eyes never stilled, always scanning, always calculating, always ready. A warrior through and through, and yet… he remembered the softness he had glimpsed in the garden when she had crouched among the flowers her voice gentle as she pressed a flower into his palm.

That same softness surfaced now as her hart huffed and stamped against the climb. She leaned into the beast’s muscled neck, palm spreading flat over its coat, lips parting with a low murmur. The massive animal stilled, soothed by her presence.

His own mount tossed its head in response, antlers rising like a jagged crown against the horizon. Both creatures were bred for war, with bodies sleek and toned with muscle, their coats shining beneath the early light. Their line had come from the beasts Solas himself had once ridden into battle against the titans, forged to charge into storms of stone and lyrium.

And yet both balked as they neared the rise.

The air itself seemed uneasy, as though the mountain carried forewarning in its stone. Ahead, Anaris’s fortress loomed. It had been carved directly into the cliff face, gray parapets rising toward the sky and glaring down at the valley below. Any who sought entry had to come this way, through the mountain path where arrows could be nocked well in advance of the approach.

“I don’t like this,” Felassan murmured to his left.

“The Eluvian worked fine though,” Joslan said cheerily. “It still surprises me sometimes that the craft has spread so far after the war.”

“You would note that,” Felassan said sourly.

Solas’s eyes flicked to the other man. Small in stature, but lithe and wiry, Joslan’s presence carried an almost kinetic energy, he could never sit still. His hair was little more then wisps of blonde running down the center of his scalp. Every so often, his fingers twitched, betraying an ever-present hum of electricity that danced just beneath his skin. His mind, like every great architect’s, bent toward structure and design.

Which was why Solas wanted him here. Inside, they’d need someone capable of mapping out the halls, someone capable of helping them find the secrets inside.

Their harts continued up the steep incline to the gates.

“I bet there’s a private eluvian just inside, that’s how these warlords usually set things up. Ready to send soldiers elsewhere in the empire. I wonder if it’s connected to Geldauran’s,” Joslan said.

“Not that many of those soldiers are left,” Felassan chuckled.

Solas smiled in silent agreement.

He had laid many traps for Anaris’s warriors after the attack, and he saw the fruits of that labor now. The man’s eluvian should have been guarded by thousands. Instead, hundreds waited, their eyes pale with exhaustion. Every skirmish, every mislaid supply line, every whisper of unrest had carved them down until they stood more like husks than soldiers.

Anaris did not see the strings pulling toward his ruin. Solas had left no trace of his hand in the unraveling. It was the way of strategy: to be everywhere and nowhere, shaping the field without ever touching a blade.

Because of that, Anaris still welcomed him as kin.

And so, even though he wasn’t Mythal’s Second any longer, he’d agreed to accompany Ellana to Anaris’s stronghold in the mountains. He’d agreed without argument as Mythal rode him in the late night hours, body sated and mind restless. It was easy to play the loyal companion when Mythal’s mouth had still been warm on his skin.

Felassan had tracked their slavers to the warlords Anaris and his kin. Investigating them was merely the next step in his work. And yet, if he was being honest with himself, that was not the whole of it, not by a long shot.

For even as he told himself it was duty, his mind circled back, again and again, to the woman now lowering her head to whisper softly to a hart bred for war.

He studied her with the same sharp scrutiny he gave any puzzle. He had thought her a blade Mythal wielded, nothing more. Yet the longer he observed, the less she seemed to fit the mold he had crafted for her in his mind. There was power in her, that was plain, but he’d met plenty of powerful women. She was something else, something he had not accounted for.

Blood rushed to his face as he remembered her in that bath.

He’d been relaxed in the water, prideful to the point of conceit, baiting her with his arrogance, daring her to step in. He had expected her to scoff, to turn away, to rebuke him with that sharp tongue of hers. Instead, she had met his challenge. The image still struck him. The silk shift sliding from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving her bare in the rising heat.

It had not been what he intended. He had wanted to unsettle her, to establish control, yet even he could admit she’d bested him.

For as long as he could remember, Solas had prided himself on his detachment, his ability to see beyond distraction, beyond desire. She unsettled him. The memory of that void-forsaken bath still bounced through his mind. What had started as an intent to test her resolve, to force a choice, instead, left him to wrestle with the heat rising in his own skin.

He had never thought her beautiful, never allowed himself the indulgence of seeing her that way. In his mind, it had always been Mythal’s face he saw when he thought of beauty. Mythal was command, a dragon incarnate. His oldest friend, his sometimes lover. She was his first, the woman who stole his heart.

And yet, despite all the nights he’d spent beneath Mythal, it wasn’t those memories that lingered, heating his blood as though molten lava had spilled inside.

It had not been Mythal’s image he’d thought of as he took himself in hand that night.

It had been the fine line of Ellana’s collarbone, the soft curve of her breasts, the strength carried in the narrow plane of her stomach. She had stepped into the water with leisurely grace, her body lithe but powerful, a feast for the eyes no man or spirit could ignore. She had taken the breath from him, stolen every ounce of attention until he could not tear his eyes away.

His hand tightened on the reins, the leather creaking softly beneath his grip.

“You alright there, Solas?”

He turned sharply to Felassan, who’s eyes glinted knowingly. The man knew him too well. A sly grin slipped across Felassan’s face.

“I’m fine,” Solas said shortly.

“Hmm. Right.” Felassan replied.

To the man’s right, Joslan leaned forward, his wiry hair brushing the dark coat of his hart. “Your cheeks do seem a bit red."

“I’m fine."

"You don't look fine," Felassan disagreed, grinning madly. 

"Are you sick?" Joslan piped up. "We can stop if you’re sick. Or there’s some bark that I’ve heard of that—”

"I am not sick!" Solas grit his teeth when he spied Felassan's expression.

Ass.

"I suggest you make yourselves scarce," he growled. "Now."

Felassan laughed, elbowing Joslan. "Scarce. Right. Come, Joslan, be scarce with me."

The two rode on ahead as Solas dragged a hand down his face. For several long moments, he worked to contain his irritation. Then, he glanced to his side.

Ellana was looking at him now, a soft smile on her face at the discussion.

And by the void, it infuriated him. Because all he could think about when he looked at her now was that hasty retreat, a murmured apology, and three words: “You are Mythal’s.”

He wasn’t. The denial came sharp and laced with vitriol.

And yet.

He wouldn’t still be angry with her if the words did not strike so close to his heart.

He shifted in the saddle, gaze flicking back to her despite himself. She was again focused on the climb, shoulders squared, the picture of poise.

He exhaled slowly, turning his eyes forward again. “You should guard yourself carefully, Ellana,” he said, his voice low. “You are far too gentle. There are those in this place who will mistake that for weakness.”

Her head turned slightly, enough for him to catch the cool gleam of her eyes. “Then they will be mistaken.”

Solas said nothing more as they reached the gate.

***

Solas and his team entered the great hall with confident steps. Ellana walked just to his right, Felassan to his left, and Joslan bringing up the rear. The formation was familiar, easy to slip into after centuries of war.

The chamber stretched before their feet, every line of its architecture sharp, every surface polished to gleam beneath the dim light. Tall columns of smooth stone flanked their path, rising toward vaulted ceilings traced with silver inlay that caught what little light there was. Black banners hung between the pillars, their fabric heavy, stitched with sigils in threads of deep crimson and gold. Shadows spilled down from them like drapes of their own, darkening the flawless marble beneath.

Wisps had been bound into the sconces along the walls, lighting the path toward the dais, while still allowing for deep pools of shadow to linger.

Those shadows were not quiet. They whispered, writhing in a way that reminded Solas of the early days in the war when some spirits rejected their lyrium bodies, twisting instead into monstrous beings that he and his kin had been forced to slay.

None of them spoke as they advanced across the pristine floor, their reflections gliding faintly across its surface. At last, they stopped before a raised dais.

There, sat Anaris.

He lounged upon a high-backed chair of blackened steel and lacquered wood, its arms tipped with silver. Leather armor crisscrossed his lithe frame, crafted with care but clearly unsuited for real battle. Ostentatious, polished to impress beneath the glow of the bound wisps that floated in even intervals along the walls. It was nothing like the hardened steel he had once worn when they had fought side by side, drenched in mud and blood during the war. He had done well for himself in the aftermath. He was a warlord in his own right now, pale skin untouched by the sun in years, black hair plaited for show rather than combat.

His eyes glimmered like shards of obsidian as he leaned forward, a lazy smile stretching across his features.

“Solas,” he drawled, “kind of you to drop by.”

Solas smiled tightly, inside, the man’s voice triggered memory. Anaris had been a lieutenant under Elgar’nan for a time, his prowess with shadows a welcome boon when the ground itself could open at any time. Solas met him again and again across skirmishes in the north. He still recalled the scream of their warriors, several months into a new campaign, when Anaris saw it fit to sacrifice an entire battalion to reclaim ground and precious gems he’d craved. Screams had echoed across the valley that day, a tide of blood and broken shields. Elgar’nan had declared it a victory, and Anaris’s eyes had shone with pride.

But Solas could not forget the eyes of the dead that had stared back at him.

Solas’s mouth curved faintly. “Anaris. It has been far too long. I see the years have treated you with… generosity.”

The warlord chuckled, spreading his hands in mock humility. “Generosity? Hardly. All you see is my reward for being a man clever enough to know when to seize opportunity.” His gaze sharpened. “And you were always cleverer than most, were you not? Tell me, what brings the old Wolf back to my hall?”

Solas’s expression remained impassive. “Old friends should not be strangers. And perhaps I wished to see how you were faring, after so much blood and change over the centuries.”

“Ah,” Anaris leaned back, tapping a finger idly on the silvered arm of his chair. “What luck then, that you have arrived on the eve of a great feast, in my honor of course.”

“Are we to be the guests at such a feast, old friend?”

He smirked, no doubt remembering Solas’s grim expression after their last encounter. “I find I prefer you at my side than across the field.”

Their words slid easily into place, an old rhythm rehearsed in too many campaigns. To any listener, they might have seemed friends reunited, trading pleasantries over old victories. But beneath the veneer, the memory of wasted men’s lives burned sharp in Solas’s mind.

Then Anaris’s attention shifted, caught by movement at Solas’s side. His gaze lingered on Ellana.

“And who is this?” he asked, smile curling with interest.

The chamber seemed to grow quieter as his eyes raked over her, lingering on her body longer than it had any right to.

“She is my newest acquisition,” he said smoothly, as though simply stating a fact, as if she were another tool among the many at his disposal.

Anaris’s dark eyes remained on her, assessing. “Acquisition, is it?” That gaze made something in Solas twitch, something dark and buried deep. “You’ve always had a keen eye, Wolf. This one is… remarkable.”

Solas allowed the faintest shadow of a smile, but his posture shifted subtly, a quiet warning layered beneath the politeness. “Remarkable, yes. And useful. She serves my purpose well.”

The emphasis was deliberate and it forced Anaris’s gaze back where it belonged. Their eyes met.

Anaris’s smile widened. “Interesting.”

He rose, clapping his hands together and gesturing to the hall beyond. “My men will show you to appropriate sleeping quarters. Once you are settled, I’d like to discuss more.”

Solas inclined his head. “Gracious of you. Thank you.”

Anaris’s laughter followed, low and amused. “Always so proper, Wolf. One wonders if you have ever truly rested, even in another’s hall.” He gestured broadly, and shadows stirred at the edges of the chamber as armored men emerged from the dark alcoves. One man stepped before the others, bowing and then gesturing down a shadowed hall.

Solas followed without another word, led deeper into Anaris’s web.

***

Their things had already been placed into the rooms when Ellana stepped into hers. Her fingers briefly lingered over the dragon pendant she kept hidden beneath her leathers.

She gently lifted the pack’s flap and found a small loaf of sugar bread on top, a small note tucked inside.

Stay safe, and come back to help me with the bread next time.

-T

She smiled, tucking the note away before pulling a piece of the sweet bread free, popping it into her mouth and chewing slowly. The familiar taste softened the knot in her chest. Since the attack, her friendship with Silhan and Tarasha had grown day by day. The order to leave had come abruptly and she hadn’t been given the opportunity for a proper goodbye. But it seemed Tarasha had known, and this small kindness lingered now like a calming hand on her shoulder.

Her gaze drifted to the room itself. It was immaculate, every surface polished, the floor reflecting faint glimmers from the crystal sconces set along the walls. Black banners hung here too, stitched with crimson threads in patterns that whispered of dominance rather than beauty. The bed was large, the linens crisp and dark as a raven’s wing, while a single chair and table stood neatly by the window. The air smelled faintly of oil and smoke, carefully masked with some subtle spice.

Yet there was a wrongness to the castle that invaded her senses. Not a flaw she could point to, but something that rested just beneath her notice. The shadows felt too heavy, as though they worked actively to conceal something. Something Anaris didn’t want Solas finding out about.

Ellana exhaled, chewing the last of the bread before brushing her hands together. Her eyes lingered on the corners of the ceiling, where the light did not quite reach, and that feeling grew stronger. It felt as though the castle itself watched her every move.

Unsettled, she turned back to the door, only to find Solas standing in the entryway.

He hadn’t made a sound, yet there he was, framed in the shadows, his eyes catching what little light there was. In the darkness they appeared almost cobalt, gleaming with a sharpness that made her chest tighten.

He’d barely spoken to her on the journey here. Not since she had run from him.

In many ways, she didn’t blame him for reacting as he did. His fury had been sharp, but predictable. Master would have done the same. Or perhaps not. Master would have hurt her for daring to dart away, would have made certain she remembered his lessons.

That Solas had not only served to leave her more unsettled than the shadows or the damn castle itself.

Because she didn’t know what to expect from him.

And not knowing was always worse, when the blow inevitably landed.

She held his gaze a heartbeat longer, waiting for some sign, some flicker of what he intended. The silence stretched. Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her leathers, brushing the hidden pendant at her chest.

He had claimed her as his, in the great hall. And she didn’t know what to expect of that either.

“When we join with the others, you must stay close to my side. Do not wander.” He spoke as though she was a very small child in need of instruction.

She swallowed against the burn of her wounded pride, uncertain if defiance would meet with kindness or cruelty, uncertain which would unnerve her more. “Yes, Master.”

He flinched.

It went through his body like a arc of lightning. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat the blue of his eyes seemed to blaze brighter.

Ellana froze, her breath caught in her throat. The title had slipped out, so automatic she hadn’t even considered it.

But that was anger in his eyes.

She forced herself not to shrink back from it, though her instincts screamed to.

“Do not call me that,” he said at last, his voice simmering with barely contained rage. “Not. Ever.”

Her lips parted before she could stop herself. “Why?”

The single word clattered to the floor between them, fragile and dangerous all at once. She braced instinctively for the blow, for the punishment that always followed questions asked of men in power. But Solas did not move.

His hands curled briefly at his sides as though physically grasping for restraint, his jaw working.

“Why did you run from me?”

The answering question forced her gaze to find his at last. When her eyes met his again, they were still burning, but the fury in them was no longer directed at her.

She froze.

She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

And maybe that was answer enough for both of them.

“Stay close to me,” Solas said again, this time with less of a patronizing edge. Now, he explained himself. “Anaris’s eye has been known to wander. He will not respect boundaries unless he knows that a consequence exists for crossing it…” He paused, turning away from her, his voice dropping to something quieter. “To the extent that I am able, I will keep you safe. I swear it.”

Ellana felt the words settle inside of her, warm like the heat of a hearthfire.

No one had ever said such a thing to her, not once in all her years. No one had ever promised to protect her. Not from pain, not from cruelty, not from anything or anyone.

She thought of him in the battle for the palace. His movements then had been protective, shielding, those same words coming to his lips: Stay close. And in that garden, before their ill-fated confrontation in that bath. He’d been kind. His words gentle, vulnerable even.

The warmth of it confused her, made her chest ache in ways she didn’t understand. She swallowed thickly. “I will follow where you go,” she whispered.

When she looked up, Solas was gone. 

She found her mind thinking of Silhan’s words about how Solas had come by the name Wolf.

Wolves were protective by nature, she had said. Ellana had hadn't known what to make of it then, considering perhaps that it was no more than a flattering story meant to soften the sharp edges of a dangerous man.

But now… perhaps she was beginning to see that side of him.