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Chapter Text

Ser Gilmore raced through the castle, muttering curses under his breath, and every so often calling out, “My Lady! Lady Cousland!”
Blast, where is that girl?
Castle Cousland was a bustling hub of noise and bodies as the soldiers prepared for the impending battle. For generations, the Couslands have stewarded the lands of Highever, earning the loyalty of their people with justice and temperance. When their country was occupied by the Orlesian Empire, they fought alongside the embattled kings of Ferelden. Today, the eldest Cousland son is to take up House Cousland’s banner in service to the crown—not against men of Orlais, but against the bestial darkspawn rising in the south.
The eldest Cousland daughter, however…
“My Lady!” Ser Gilmore called again. He looked helplessly around at the dozens of knights, squires, soldiers, and servants bustling about their duties. “Has anyone seen Lady Cousland?” he demanded.
As though in response, the crack of practice swords striking one another split the chatter of the courtyard. Ser Gilmore rounded on the source of the sound.
Lady Arual Cousland and her nephew, Oren, were in the small training yard near the stables. Each of them had a wooden sword and shield in their hands, going at it like children. Of course, the only child among them was little Oren.
“Ha! Back foul darkspawn!” the lad cried.
“Bah! You’ll never defeat me Grey Warden!” his opponent hissed—though everyone knew true darkspawn could not speak.
Her hair caught the sunlight so that tendrils of gold seemed to be woven through the chestnut tresses—aside from this, her hair looked as though it had not seen a brush in weeks. Instead of the clean dress of her station, Arual Cousland wore a tattered tunic and what looked to have once been roughspun trousers, but had since been hacked awkwardly at the hem so as to shorten them to her knee. Even at a distance, Ser Gilmore could tell Lady Cousland was filthy. He suspected she had spent the morning rolling around in the dirt with that Mabari hound of hers before playing at sparing with her nephew.
As though she were not filthy enough, Lady Cousland pretended to be knocked down by one of little Oren’s blows. He drove her into the dirt, laughing and screaming in the way of children, and ran his practice sword into the crux of her elbow. Arual made a theatrical show of “dying” and swearing vengeance upon Oren and all Grey Wardens before letting her tongue loll from her mouth like a dog.
Ser Gilmore groaned. Delivering her to Lord Cousland was going to be…interesting.
Best to get it over with, he thought. He cupped two hands around his mouth, and called up to her.
“My Lady!”
Arual opened a single hazel eye, but otherwise did not move. Ser Gilmore approached the two, frowning. He stood above the fallen woman and the boy who knelt over her. He tutted and shook his head.
“My, but you are a sight…”
“Greetings, Ser Gilmore,” Oren said in his lofty Grey Warden voice.
“Greetings, Young Lord,” Ser Gilmore said with a slight bow. “I’m afraid I have come for Lady—er…for the darkspawn.”
Oren frowned first at Ser Gilmore, and then at his aunt. “You are too late, Ser Gilmore,” he said. “I’ve just defeated her.”
“Or have you?” Arual suddenly cried. She jumped up, grabbing Oren about the middle, and began to tickle him. The young lord fell to his knees in a fit of giggles as she tried to squirm from her grasp.
“Not fair! Not fair!” he laughed. When at last he managed to wriggle from her grasp, Lady Arual Cousland stood up. She made a show of brushing off her clothes (not that it did much good), and turned to face Ser Gilmore.
“Well, then, Ser Gilmore,” she said. “I suspect you have news for me.”
“Your father has requested your presence in the hall, my Lady,” he informed her.
Arual nodded. She turned to Oren, who frowned up at her, and put a hand atop his head.
“I’ve got to go, little pup,” she said. “You best be off to your studies before your mother starts to get worry lines.”
“But I want to play some more,” Oren whined. Arual tussled his brown head.
“Later,” she promised.
“Oh…all right…” Oren conceded. He pouted, kicked a bit a dirt, then made for the edge of the yard where he passed his equipment to a valet. In turn, Lady Cousland gave a contended sigh, and took up her equipment. When she stood, it was at her full height. To the untrained eye, it might have appeared as if she had become a new person—someone who had shed all manner of silliness and childishness—a true lady of a noble family.
Ser Gilmore, however, was of an age with Lady Cousland, and had served the family since his toddling years. There was no hiding the twinkle of mischief in Lady Cousland’s eye. Not to him.
“Lead the way, Ser Gilmore,” she commanded, gesturing.
He gave a small bow and obeyed. Like Oren, Arual left her practice gear with a valet at the edge of the small training yard, and followed Ser Gilmore to the grand hall.
Despite her ragged appearance, Lady Cousland was instantly recognizable to those who served her family, and they parted for her as they would any member of the court. The Cousland line was, in many ways, but a single step below the royal family of Theirin. Having ruled the teyrnir of Highever since the Black Ages, they were one of only two teyrnirs left in Ferelden, and enjoyed wealth and power second only to the crown. With such boons came certain responsibilities and expectations—things Arual Cousland had yet to fully learn…
When they arrived at the hall, Ser Gilmore opened one of the large double doors for her. He stepped aside, bowing as Arual passed.
“I trust, then, that your troops will be here shortly?” her father asked of the other man gathered there. He stood with his back to her, facing the grand, blazing hearth. Like Ser Gilmore, he was already dressed for battle, though the castle forces were not set to march until the morrow. Firelight gleamed off the polished metal of his breastplate, emblazoned with the Cousland family crest—a pair of silver laurels on a blue field. The family sword was belted at his hip. As sharp as the day it was first wielded in service of King Calenhad, the Silver Knight, who united all of Ferelden nearly four centuries ago, the longsword had been passed down to the head of the Cousland family for generations. One day, it would belong to her brother, and then her nephew, and then to her nephew’s son—and so on and so forth.
It was not so much that her sex prevented Arual from ruling as any man might, but the expectations of her family and her place in it had set her on a different path. As the daughter of a nobleman, it was her solemn duty to marry another nobleman in order to secure the continued wealth and power of the Cousland line, and to see to the affairs of her father’s (and one day her husband’s) house.
It was a destiny of great responsibility, albeit not one Arual had ever dreamed for herself…
“I expect they will start arriving tonight, and we can march tomorrow,” replied a grey-haired man in dark finery. “I apologize for the delay, my lord. This is entirely my fault.”
“No, no,” her father said, turning to the man. “The appearance of the darkspawn in the south has us all scrambling, doesn’t it? I only received the call from the king a few days ago, myself.”
Teyrn Bryce Cousland was a man of some sixty years. His brown hair had gone grey at the temples long ago, and it seemed the rest of his mane was following suit. It
“I’ll send my eldest off with my men,” the Teyrn declared, stepping down from the dais. “You and I will ride off tomorrow, just like the old days!”
“True. Though we both had less grey in our hair, then. And we rode against Orlesians, not…monsters,” he spat the final word like a curse.
“At least the smell will be the same!” the Teyrn laughed. His eyes flicked to Arual, noticing her for the first time. He smiled, unfazed by her appearance, and gestured for her to approach.
“Ah, there you are, pup,” he said, lovingly. Then, as an aside to the other man, added, “Howe, you remember by daughter?”
Arl Howe was of an age with her father, having served the king alongside him in battle some years ago. His hair, however, had greyed entirely, and there was no beard to speak of on his sunken jowls. Although it had been some years since the Howes had been hosted at the castle, Arual did not recall the man being quite so…gaunt. Dark circles made the bags beneath his watery grey eyes all the harsher; the sharpness of his cheekbones and thinness of his frame made him look almost skeletal. Even his skin—which hung loose about the jowls—seemed to have taken on a grey look.
Arual pursed her lips. Was her memory faulty? Had the Arl’s belt always seemed so tight?
“Of course, my Lord,” the Arl said with a bow. “I see she has become a, er…lovely young woman,” he hesitated at the sight of her. “It is a pleasure to see you again, my dear.”
“And you, Arl Howe,” Arual said with a ladylike incline of the head.
“You remember my son, Nathaniel?” he gestured to one of the men at his side. At first, Arual had dismissed him as a retainer, but on second-glance she realized the man to be Nathaniel Howe—an old playmate
If the Arl seemed different, Nathaniel was a stranger entirely.
Unlike his father, Nathaniel seemed the peak of health, if tired. His lustrous dark hard had been pulled back it a complicated plait that highlighted his cheekbones and jawline. Where was the skinny boy she used to push into the lake and play at kissing with? Where was the lad who talked of becoming a knight errant, but was too skittish to ride a pony? Unlike the Arl, Nathaniel had a glow of health about him. He was dressed in some of his best finery which had been tailored to fit his robust form. He’d even grown a bit of hair beneath his lip. In the years since Arual had last seen her old friend, he had become…a man. The only thing that remained of the boy she knew was the acauline nose he’d inherited from his father.
“Lady Cousland,” he said with a stiff bow.
Arual inclined her head in turn. “Master Howe. It is good to see you.”
“And you, my lady. It has been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of being hosted at the castle, or of perusing it’s library,” he said with a smirk.
“Too long,” Arual agreed. “Though I’m afraid you’ll find the library much unchanged from your last visit.”
Nathaniel smile was polite as ever, but there was something glittering in his eye—something hungry. “If my lady permits, I’d love to see it all the same. I—”
“Nathaniel is just back from the Free Marches,” the Arl offered suddenly. “He’s been squiring for Ser Rodolphe Varley, and has become quite the marksman and chevalier. He isn’t married yet, either,” said the Arl suggestively.
“I doubt she’ll be receptive, Howe. My fierce girl has a mind of her own these days. Maker bless her heart,” he said affectionately. Arual tried to hide a smile.
“Mmm,” Howe mused. “No doubt thanks to your training her as a warrior. How…unique.”
The inflection he left on the final word told Arual very plainly what he thought of her and her training. Women on noble birth were expected to learn many things—embroidery, spinning, music, riding, public affairs, politics, history, numbers, letters, music, and on and on in an endless stream. It was no uncommon for noble girls to learn a bit of archery, but to take up a sword and shield and wield them as any knight of the realm…that was a unique pleasure indeed.
“At any rate, pup, I summoned you for a reason,” the Teyrn said, waving his hands at the Arl’s words, dismissing them. “Whilst your brother and I are both away, I’m leaving you in charge of the castle.”
“M-Me?” Arual gasped. “Father, are you certain?”
“I am always certain, pup. Only a token force is remaining here, and I trust you to keep peace in the region. You know what they say about mice when the cat is away, yes?”
He set his hands upon her shoulders. “It’s time you started taking some responsibility around here, pup. I know you’ll do well.”
Arual looked up at her father. Bryce Cousland had ever been an unconventional father to an unconventional daughter. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t heard the whispers of her incompetence through the rank of her father’s men. Arl Rendon Howe was not the first, nor would he be the last, to find fault in Bryce’s decision to train his daughter as a warrior. Arual was much beloved by her family and their retainers, but that was not to say they held much faith in her abilities to lead. If Arual was being honest, in the depths of her heart, she wasn’t sure she did, either…
She did not have the poise, nor patience of her mother, the teyrna. She did not have the presence of her father, nor the battle sense of her brother, yet amongst any of the people the teyrn could have left to command the castle in his absence, he chose Arual.
His faith in her, as ever, was unwavering.
I can’t let him down, she thought. I won’t.
Arual rose to her full height and met the teyrn’s eye. Her chest swelled with gratitude and pride. If her father had faith in her, then she had no reason to doubt.
“I won’t let you down, father,” she declared.
The teyrn smiled warmly at his daughter, and clapped her on the shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear. Ah! But there is also someone you must meet. Show Duncan in,” the Teyrn commanded. A servant bowed and exited through a side door, disappearing into an antechamber. A moment later, the door opened again.
In strode a man who looked to be born from tales and legends.
Bearded, muscular, with leathery, brown skin and a thick mane of pitch-dark hair graying at the temples. He had a noble bearing, though Arual was certain she had never seen him at court—nor would he be welcomed. This man was a Grey Warden.
Once, the Wardens were a caste of noble warriors. To join them was to dedicate one’s life to a greater calling and purpose—to serve all of Thedas. Arual had grown up hearing stories of their bravery and exploits. After the fourth Blight, however, the Wardens fell from favor. They came to be seen as a relic of an older time and an unnecessary drain on the nobles' coffers. Most of the nobles of Ferelden had been content to let the order quietly die off, until the disgraced Warden-Commander Sophia Dryden led a rebellion against the crown. After a bloody war between the Wardens and the forces of King Arland, the order was publicly stripped of all tithing and banished from Ferelden altogether.
If Arual recalled her history, the Grey Wardens had not been welcome in Ferelden for nearly two hundred years…
Duncan came to stand with the group, and bowed deeply to the teyrn.
“It is an honor to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland,” said Duncan. His voice was deep, sultry, and held within it a power kept well in check. When he straightened, Arual noted that there were elements of Rivaini craftsmanship in his breastplate and pauldrons which he wore over a scale hauberk lined with azure fabric. At his hip was belted a plain and simple longsword, unornamented yet of fine craftmanship and a curved Rivaini dagger.
“Your Lordship!” Arl Howe gawked. “You didn’t mention that you would be hosting a Grey Warden.”
“Duncan arrived just recently. Unannounced,” the Teyrn admitted with some displeasure. “Is this a problem?”
“Of course not,” the Arl coughed. “But a guest of this stature,” he sneered the word, “demands certain protocol. I am…at a disadvantage…”
“No need to stand on protocol, my lord,” Duncan said with a courteous bow. “I am merely in the region looking for new recruits before joining the Teyrn’s forces and my fellow Wardens in the south.”
“You’ve come all this way to search for recruits?” Arual interjected. “Who amongst our forces would have such an honor?”
“I have only found a few worthy candidates in my travels across Ferelden, my lady. However, there is a retainer here who shows some promise—a Ser Gilmore.”
“We shall see, Duncan,” the teyrn said not unkindly. Then, to Arual, “Pup, I trust you’ll see to Duncan’s requests whilst I’m gone.”
“Of course, father.”
“Good lass. Now, then, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostegar ahead of me. We’ll talk soon.”
Without waiting for an answer, the Teyrn pulled his daughter in and kissed her brow.
Arual bowed graciously and turned to Nathaniel. “Come Master Howe,” she said, “I can show you to that library you’re so interested in on the way.”
“Nothing would delight me more, my lady,” replied the man. He held his arm out to her and did not so much as flinch when her grubby arm interlocked with his. Together, they strode from the hall looking every bit like the friends they had been in childhood.

Chapter Text

"I see the castle is much as I remember it," Nathaniel commented as he and Arual made their way through the stony halls. "Though it has been some years..."

"Oh, Mother enjoys putting up new draperies and refreshing the flowers every few decades," Arual teased and the two shared a laugh.

Just like that, the two slipped into old habits—sharing old jokes and stories alike. Together, they made their way toward the library, Arual hardly needing to lead the way at all as Nathaniel found his footing along a familiar path.

The pair were giggling so hard at an old memory, that they hardly heard the teyrna calling out as they passed her atrium. Eleanor Cousland stood, watering can in hand, in a yawning stone maw of the castle grounds. On all sides, she was surrounded by eyebright, early dog violet, sabhaircín, and other flowers Arual could only guess at. Despite having a horde of servants at her disposal, Eleanor Cousland insisted on tending to the flowers herself.

At yet somehow she never gets a spot of dirt on her, Arual thought wryly. The juxtaposition between her and her mother was not lost on her.

"Arual, I—" the teyrna began, but then stopped short when she spied Nathaniel. "My goodness...is that young Nathaniel Howe? My, how you've grown! Quite the man, now..."

"Your Ladyship, is too kind," Nathaniel said with a small bow. "As is my lady, Arual. Your lovely daughter was just showing me to the castle library. I am eager to see if your family has acquired any new works since my last visit."

The teyrna clicked her tongue. "Lovely, he says," she turned to Arual. "And that's after he, no doubt, saw you whacking dummies in the training yard all day and sweating like a pig. Look at the state you're in..."

She clicked her tongue again and started fussing with the laces of Arual's tunic. Arual rolled her eyes, but knew better than to slap her mother's hand away or attempt to dodge away.

"Mother..." she groaned.

"Don't you start, now," she chuckled wryly. "Time in the yard is no excuse for indecency. You know, I was quite the battle maiden myself, in my day. But I think it was the softer arts that helped me land a husband..."

Arual opened her mouth to argue when she heard a familiar voice calling out to her.

"My Lady," panted Ser Gilmore, who had found himself chasing after the young heiress for the second time that day.

"I beg your pardon, my lady, your ladyship," he said, giving a small bow to Arual and Eleanor in turn. He looked back to Arual and explained, "I've been looking everywhere for you. I fear your hound has the kitchens in uproar once again. Nan is threatening to leave."

Though he sounded as serious as ever, Arual noted well the playful lilt to his tone when speaking of Nan's threat. Nan was not the cook's real name, of course. She'd been Arual's nanny before taking on the role of the head cook for the castle when Arual came of age to begin her lessons. "Nan" was a nickname the little girl of so many years ago had saddled the ornery woman with, and it (unfortunately) stuck.

Arual put a fist on her hip and shook her head. "Nan won't leave," she affirmed through a crooked smile.

Ser Gilmore's mouth twitched as he fought to keep a dour face. "All the same, my lady, it may be best if you were to collect the dog, and quickly. You know these mabari hounds—he'll listen to his mistress, but anyone else risks having an arm bitten off."

"I suppose I should go an collect him, then."

"That would be wise," the teyrna said crisply. "Before Nan tears down the walls. I honestly don't know why your father ever let you get that beast..." She pinched the bridge of her nose as she frowned.

"You're quite lucky to have your own mabari war hound, you know," Nathaniel input at her elbow. "Smart enough not to talk, my tutor used to say."

"Indeed," replied the teyrna, "which means he's easily bored. I swear her confounds Nan just to amuse himself."

"At any rate," Ser Gilmore cut in, his tone docile so as not to interrupt the teyrna or speak above his station, "if my lady would come with me, I'm sure we could settle the matter quickly."

"I must speak with my brother first," Arual said. Her father was entrusting her with the castle. She could not allow herself to be so easily distracted from the first task he had given her.

"Oh, go with Ser Gilmore, darling," Eleanor commanded. "Let Fergus enjoy what time he can with Oriana and my grandson."

Eleanor Cousland stepped toward her daughter and drew her near. Much like her husband, the teyrna planted a kiss on her daughter's brow. As she pulled away, she cupped Arual's face in warm, weathered hands.

"I love you, my darling girl. You know that, don't you?"

"I am hardly a girl any longer," Arual blushed, averting her gaze.

"Indeed! I turn my back and here you are, a fine woman in your own right. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. Now, go. Your other duties will keep. One of the grievances of managing a castle, I fear, is constantly having to reprioritize."

"Yes, mother," Arual said with a small bow.

"Now, then," the teyrna said, turning to Nathaniel, "allow me to be your escort to the library. And we can talk."

She linked her arm through Nathaniel's and whisked him away before he, or anyone else, could protest. Nathaniel shot Arual a glance over his shoulder—an apologetic grimace twisting his mouth and knitting his brow. Arual had to stifle a giggle. Her mother was not one to be denied. When Teyrna Cousland gave a command, it was followed.

Arual wondered if that was the kind of woman she was to be one day, too. Was it a daughter's duty to follow in her mother's footsteps? What of her greater duty to the house of Cousland? Doubtless, Eleanor Cousland was a monolith among matrons. Could Arual ever live up to her reputation? Her expectations?

"My Lady," Ser Gilmore prodded gently.

Arual offered him a weary smile and nodded in the direction of the kitchens. "With me, Ser Gilmore. Let us bargain for Nan's contentment..."

Ser Gilmore nodded and fell into step beside Arual for the second time that day. Though the kitchens were not far, Arual felt a silence yawning between herself and Ser Gilmore as they made their way.

See Gilmore had served the Couslands since he was a boy. Though their stations were different, they'd known each other since they were children—they'd studied together, practiced in the yard together, rode together.

Arual couldn't imagine a life without him grumbling or laughing as he chased her off to wherever she'd been summoned. What would it be like if he accepted Duncan's offer to become a Grey Warden? How much quieter would Arual's life be? How much emptier?

"Ser Gilmore?" she began with trepidation.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Have you...heard there is a Grey Warden at the castle?"

Ser Gilmore hesitated. "I had, my lady."

"He says he's looking for recruits before going south," Arual said. She eyed Ser Gilmore sidelong, waiting for his reaction. The young knight frowned, but said nothing. Arual licked her lips and continued, "If this Grey Warden were to ask you to join him...what would you say to that?"

Ser Gilmore's mouth turned into a thin line as he considered his words carefully. "The Couslands have been good to me, my lady," he said. "Very good. Being a knight in service to this family has been one of the greatest honors of my life."

"You dodge my question, Ser Gilmore."

Ser Gilmore nodded apologetically. Again, he hesitated, but when he spoke it was the truth.

"The darkspawn are...terrifying. But I cannot imagine an enemy so worthy of defeat. If the Grey Wardens offered me a chance to fight them, I'd join in a heartbeat. To have the chance to defeat them forever? To be a true hero? It would be an honor."

Arual turned her gaze back to the passage ahead. Had she expected to hear any different? Though the Grey Wardens had long since fallen from favor among Ferelden nobility, they were still a legendary order. Even Arual had once dreamed of taking on the mantle of a Grey Warden for the same lofty notions of heroics and glory that Ser Gilmore spoke of.

And yet...

She stopped walking. It took Ser Gilmore a few paces to realize he was alone. When he did, he stopped and turned to her. His brows knit in consternation.

"The Couslands would be sorry to see you go, Ser Gilmore," Arual said, her voice quiet. "I would be sorry to see you go. But if it is your choice to become a Grey Warden...then know that I will support you to the hilt."

She smiled warmly and resumed her gait. She did not stop when Ser Gilmore called out to her, not wanting him to see the bitter tears that began to sting in the corners of her eyes.

***

The kitchens were in an uproar—which was perfectly normal.

All around were the half-prepared or half-cooked portions of the impending night's meal and rations being portioned out for the soldiers' march. A nervous looking servant turned a suckling pig on a spit over the central hearth while another basted the flesh in butter and herbs. Sage, rosemary, and thyme perfumed the claggy kitchen air alongside the subtler scents of wild garlic, leeks, fresh-baked bread, and sweet cakes. Here a servant swirled bits of honey atop sweet cakes smelling of hot cherries and caraway, and there another servant stirred a cauldron of pork stew, while still more battered crubeens or cut herbs or vegetables. And over the bustling sounds of cooking and preparations, was the voice of Old Nan.

"Adney, get moving with those casks! And Cath, do you think you can serve that to the teyrn with dirt from the floor all over it?" rasped the old woman in a voice better suited for the commander of an army than a simple cook. So powerful was her voice that it even drowned out the angry growls coming from the larder.

"Right away, mistress!" the servants called and scrambled to obey. Arual sighed and shook her head in disbelief.

"Nan," she called.

The old woman rounded on her with a scowl. Though she was called "Old Nan" and was well and truly into the twilight of her life, the woman held all the fierceness of an alley cat with its back to a wall. She pointed one gnarled, weathered finger at Arual.

"You!" she cried. "Your bloody mongrel keeps getting into my larder! That beast should be put down!"

Arual put her hands up in a defensive position and tried to fix her face into a placating expression. "Nan, please! We'll get the dog. Calm down."

"Dog? Dog?" the other woman echoed incredulously. "A blight wolf is what he is! How am I supposed to work like this?"

"Oh dear..." murmured a nearby servant. "Mistress, calm down, please—"

"That's it!" Nan cried, throwing her hands up in the air. "I'll quit. Inform the teyrna. I'll go cook at some nice estate in the Bannorn."

"Nan, please," Ser Gilmore sighed, sounding tired beyond his years.

"Just get him gone! I've enough to worry about with a castle full of hungry soldiers!"

Arual had heard enough. As graciously as she could manage, she moved toward the larder.

"Mongrel my foot," she grumbled. "He's a purebred mabari!"

She opened the larder door and walked inside, Ser Gilmore fast behind her. In the center of the room stood Bran, Arual's prized mabari warhound.

A huge mastiff as tall as a dwarf and just as wide, the mabari was a formidable animal with paws the size of dinner plates and massive jaws of equally large teeth. An intelligent warhound fully capable of understanding speech, performing complex commands, as deadly in a fight as any armed warrior, and loyal to one master until death do them part. Bran had been with Arual since she was a girl, and would be to the end of his days.

That did not stop him from being a troublemaker.

"Bran, what are you—" Arual began, but stopped short. There was a loud crunching sound as Bran shook the life from something the size of a small dog, then a very wet, unpleasant sound as he spat it out on the floor.

"What the..." Ser Gilmore breathed.

Rats.

Big ones.

Three corpses already littered the larder floor, dark red blood soaking into the soft stone. Their fur was black and grey and matted, smelling horribly of peat and blood and wet dog.

"Maker!" Arual swore.

Bran barked as another rat tried to sneak a quick meal from the larder, and lunged at it with his full power. He bore down on the creature with a fierce growl that nearly drowned out the wretched screech of the rat as it realized its fate was at hand. Another loud crunching sound, and the intruder lay dead.

"Maker!" Ser Gilmore swore.

"Giant rats?" Arual cried incredulously. "It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell."

"Your hound must have chased them in through their holes," Ser Gilmore said weakly.

"Indeed. I'll have the servants seal up the holes. Perhaps toss in some poison while they're at it. No need to worry Nan. Poor woman will die of stress."

Bran trotted up to his mistress and barked happily, clearly pleased with himself. Arual scratched him behind the ears and beneath his chin, giggling as the dog's hindquarters went wild with joy. Satisfied, he prancing in a large circle, barking excitedly and proudly displaying his kill.

"At any rate," Arual said, squatting beside one of the dead rodents, "these rats are huge. I've never seen one this size before!"

"Please, stay away from it, my lady!" Ser Gilmore cried.

Arual blinked, astonished, and turned around. The color had drained from Ser Gilmore's already fair features, giving him the appearance of the recently deceased. He stood well away from any of the rats, filling the doorway to the larder as though he couldn't escape fast enough. Arual raised a brow.

"Ser Gilmore," she said through a crooked smile, "don't tell me you're afraid of a few little rats."

"There is nothing little about—" Ser Gilmore began shrilly, but stopped himself. He visibly regained his composure, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat.

"In any case," he said, trying to reclaim some of his lost bravado, "seeing as you have your hound well in hand, my lady, I'll take my leave. I'm to prepare for the arrival of more of the arl's men."

"Of course," Arual said, fighting back laughter. "Thank you, Ser Gilmore."

"By your leave, my lady," he said with a bow and left quickly. Arual gave a wry smile. SO much for the brave Ser Gilmore and the Grey Wardens.

"Come, Bran," Arual said, patting her thigh. Bran happily fell into step beside his mistress as they left the larder. Arual turned to call a servant to her, but Nan was there first.

"There he is!" she cried. "As brazen as you please, licking his chops after helping himself to the roast no doubt!"

"He's not so bad, Nan," Arual said, scratching Bran behind the ears. "Just a dog being a dog."

"Look at him, now. Snuck into my larder one again and makes off like a free thief, he does!"

"Oh, mistress!" shrieked a servant, "There are rats in the larder! B-big ones!"

"It looks like the dog...killed them..." said another.

"Hmph! I bet that dog led those rats into there to begin with!" Nan huffed.

Bran gave a pitiful whine, looking up at Nan with big brown eyes. It might have even been cute if his mottled brown fur wasn't covered in rat blood.

"Oh, don't even start with the sad eyes!" Nan hissed, folding her arms over her chest and turning her nose up at Bran. "I'm immune to your so-called charms."

Bran whined again, lowering his head, ears drooping dejectedly.

Nan glanced at the dog sidelong. A crack formed in the curmudgeonly mask she'd put on, and then another, and another until her whole face softened and she gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Here, then," she said, grabbing a handful of pork bits from a nearby counter and tossing them to the floor at Bran's feet. "Take these and don't say that Nan never gave you anything! Bloody dog..."

Bran barked happily and devoured the pork bits. Nan watched him with satisfaction.

"Perhaps he could stay around a little longer," she suggested. "In case the rats come back..."

Bran chuffed in agreement. He looked up at Arual, who scratched his head approvingly. He brushed up against her hip, nearly knocking her over, and padded back into the larder.

"Thank you, my lady," Nan said with an incline of the head. "Now, we can get back to work."

Arual smiled as Nan turned on her heel and returned to the work of the kitchen as though nothing whatsoever had happened. Chuckling to herself, Arual stole past Old Nan and the servants the way she used to as a child. And just as she used to as a child, stole a pair of sweet rolls off a tray as they cooled in front of a window.

Now all that was left was to find Fergus...

Chapter Text

Alone for the first time that day, Arual made her way toward the royal apartments licking the remnants of a sweet cake from her lips. And for the first time that day, what it might mean to be in charge of the castle began to settle on her shoulders.
Teyrn Cousland ran Highever like a well-oiled machine—each person had a place within the machine, knew it, and knew how to perform their duties. Even the teyrn’s children had a place within the machine. Arual had always understood her place in that machine. Now, her place and the place of so many others, would be changing. Everything would be different now. She wasn’t sure she was ready for it.
For the first time that day…she felt small.
Perhaps that was why the royal apartments came as such a comfort. Tapestries depicting the history of castle Cousland and her family softened the hewn stone of the castle walls. The shields of her ancestors adorned columns alongside paintings of her family dating back generations. Everywhere she looked there was a vivid and living history. Here, she was surrounded by family, and stories, and love. Here, she could rest her head from the duties of her station—taking off the mantle of the heiress and the daughter of the teyrn, to become simply Arual.
“Is there really going to be a war, papa?” Arual heard her nephew ask as she moved into her brother’s solar. “Will you bring me a sword?”
Fergus Cousland knelt beside his son and ruffled Oren’s hair.
“You’ll get the mightiest one I can find,” he promised with a crooked grin. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Fergus Cousland looked as though he could have been the second coming of his father. He had the same broad frame, the same barreled chest, and square jaw. Like Arual and Eleanor, though, he had the same chestnut hair, the same hazel eyes, the same freckles on his nose. Unlike the teyrn, Fergus was not dressed for war, but in the casual garb of a man looking forward to an evening with his family.
As it should be, Arual thought.
“I wish victory was indeed so certain,” said the woman at his side. “My heart is…disquiet.”
Oriana, wife to Fergus and mother to Oren, was a beauty from Anitva. Her golden hair was plaited into an intricate series of knots that worked to frame her milk-white complexion and large blue eyes.
“Don’t frighten the boy, love. I speak the truth,” Fergus said, getting to his feet and pulling his wife in for a one-armed hug.
“No darkspawn could harm Fergus!” Arual chuckled as she came further into the room.
“Auntie!” Oren giggled, running up to her. Arual laughed and held both hands behind her back in a familiar game of theirs. Oren considered her shoulders and elbows with a thoughtful expression. Arual pretended not to be oblivious to the twitching of her left arm until Oren pointed to it, and she produced one of the sweet rolls she’d swiped from the kitchen.
Oriana tutted and shook her head as Arual stood and licked the honey from her fingers and Oren spoiled his dinner.
“He is as mortal as anyone,” the Antivan beauty asserted, “despite his refusal to believe…”
“Now, love… No need to be so grim.”
Arual inclined her head to the side, her expression warming even as her brows knit in worry.
“You will be missed, brother,” she admitted.
“If it’s any consolation, I’m sure I’ll freeze in the southern rain and be completely jealous of you up here, warm and safe.”
“I am positively thrilled that you might be so miserable, husband,” Oriana said, rolling her eyes. Fergus laughed and pulled his wife even closer. She eyed him sidelong, her mouth stretching into a reluctant smile.
“Do you really think the war will be over so quickly?” Arual asked.
“Word from the south is that the battles have gone well,” Fergus said, sounding serious for the first time that night. “There’s no evidence that this is a true Blight—just a large raid.”
“Could that be true?” Oriana gasped, hopeful.
“I’ll see for myself soon enough. Pray for me, love, and I’ll be back within a month or two.”
Oriana placed a milk-colored hand over Fergus’s heart, rested her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. Fergus placed his hand over his wife’s and moved his head to breathe in the scent of her golden hair. Despite Fergus’s boasting, both their expressions were full of disquiet and longing. And who could blame them? The darkspawn were the thing of nightmares. Even if the reports from the south were true and it merely was a large raid, the battles ahead would be still be harrowing. And Oriana was right. Fergus was as mortal as any man. He may be hurt. Killed.
At the very least, he would be gone most of a season—a long time to be away from the comforts of home and the love of his family. How much would little Oren grow while he was away? What little moments of joy would he miss?
Arual lowered her gaze. She didn’t want to interrupt perhaps the last moment her brother would have with his family for a long time. But she had a duty, and the longer she delayed, the more dangerous it would be for Fergus and his men leaving the castle in the coming gloom.
“I bring a message,” she said quietly. Fergus and Oriana lifted their heads, part of them knowing what Arual was about to say. Oriana’s brows were knit, but Fergus set his jaw and stood tall. Though he did not move his arms from around his beloved, he looked every bit the hardened soldier ready for the fight ahead.
“Father wants you to leave without him,” Arual said.
“Then the arl’s men are delayed!” Fergus cried, exasperated. “You’d think his men were all walking backwards…” He paused a moment, casting off the soldier and becoming once more the jovial family man. “Well, I better get underway,” he chuckled to his wife. “So many darkspawn, so little time!”
Oriana’s brows crinkled as she opened her mouth to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. She shook her head, as though to cast the words from her mind altogether, then looked up at her husband with a warm smile that could not meet her weeping eyes.
“Fare thee well, husband,” she said. “I know you’ll come back to me.”
“Nothing could stop me,” Fergus promised. With one arm still firmly around Oriana’s waist, he drew her in and kissed her. It was a long kiss, and yet too short for a man who would not see his family for some months. Arual did her best not to stare, though she doubted it would have mattered. Fergus and Oriana had already forgotten about her and everyone else in the castle. This moment was theirs and theirs alone.
“Yuck!” Oren called through a mouthful of sweets. Arual shot him a disapproving glance, but it was too late. The spell had been broken. Fergus pulled away from his wife, only to laugh and ruffle his son’s hair.
“Just wait until you’re a man, Oren,” he chuckled. “You’ll feel very differently, I imagine.”
“No, I won’t,” Oren insisted as he whipped his sticky little hands on his dirty jerkin.
Rather then argue, Fergus lifted Oren into the air to shower him with hugs and kisses and all manner of fatherly affection. Arual slipped from the room quiet as a Chantry mouse. This moment was not for her, and she would not spoil it by standing around as though waiting to be noticed. Her time to say goodbye to Fergus would come later. For now, he was with his family, and that was all that mattered.
The day began to weigh on her. Her muscles ached from the play in the yard with Oren, her neck stiff with tension over the coming battle and the fates that awaited for her brother and father. A hot bath was well in order.
She made for her apartments, planning to order a servant draw her a bath once she got there, but when Arual opened the door to her receiving room, it was not a servant she found, but her mother.
"There you are, darling," sighed the teyrna as she got to her feet. "I want to speak with you."
"What is it, mother?"
The teyrna took Arual by the hand and pulled her down beside her on the bench she’d been waiting on.
"Come here, my dear, and put your hands in mine."
Arual did as she was told. Eleanor's hands were soft and warm and clean around hers—which were neither clean, nor soft. A piece of Arual wondered if her hands had ever been soft.
"Darling," the teyrna began, meeting her daughter's eyes very seriously. When she spoke, it was with a practiced, measured voice, as though testing the waters of an unfamiliar sea.
"You were right. You're not a girl anymore, but a woman grown. A woman I am proud to call my daughter."
She gave Arual's hands a little squeeze. Arual's brows furrowed. Eleanor had always been a loving mother, and did not hesitate to let her children know her true feelings, yet something about this sudden confession felt...off.
"And as a woman, darling," her mother continued quickly, before Arual could interject, "the time has come for you to find a husband."
Arual blinked, visibly taken aback. She might have recoiled if it were not for her mother's hands around her own.
"A...a husband?" she echoed, trying not to let the surprise sound in her voice.
First her father places her in charge of the castle in his absence and now this?
I am already nineteen, she thought. She had known this day would come for most of her life, had been afforded years to steel herself to it, yet now that it was here she felt unsteady. Suddenly, Arual regretted denying her girlhood and the freedom it awarded her earlier in the day.
It's all happening so fast.
"Yes," said the teyrna with a solemn nod. “Your father and I have been in conference with a suitor, one we think would be to your liking.”
“You have?” Arual gasped. “So, I am not even to choose my own husband?”
“Arual, you know your father and I would never do that to you,” the teyrna said crisply. “But it is a good match. This man is well known to you, and an alliance with his family would been a boon to us all. I…I had hoped it would make you happy.”
Arual bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. This was her duty. One that could not be avoided or abdicated.
It doesn’t mean I have to like it…
“Who…who is this suitor?” she asked at length.
“Nathaniel Howe.”
A bolt of lightning shot down Arual’s spine and down to the tips of her fingers and toes. She reeled back from her mother in wordless shock, wrenching her hands free of the teyrna’s grasp and rising to her feet in a single fluid motion. Instinctually, she brought a hand up to cover her mouth and spun away so that her mother could not see her face.
Nathaniel? She flushed. Nathaniel…and me?
Emotions squalled within her—too many and too varied to account for. Some small, logical voice inside her understood why her mother would call that union a boon. The Couslands ruled over the teyrnir of Highever, and the Howes over the neighboring arling of Amaranthine. The families had a somewhat tumultuous history, but had been tentative allies for decades now. If eligible heirs from each family were to marry, it would unite the two forever—unite the Coastlands! It would mean a veritable monopoly on trade along the Waking Sea, a higher seat at court, more power and influence in any landsmeet, the potential to double the number of soldiers under the Cousland banner.
Arual could understand why her parents would want to secure such an alliance. And yet…
She heard the wooden bench yawn as her mother rose.
“The servants have drawn you a bath, darling,” she said neatly. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and put on something nice. Then you can catch up with your old friend in the library.”
Reticent, the teyrna took her leave, but Arual could hear the words her mother wasn’t saying: do your duty.

Her mother’s servants had perfumed Arual’s bath with flower petals and salts. She sat still and quiet as the scrubbed the dirt from beneath her fingernails and the combed the tangles from her hair.
At least I’m getting the bath I wanted, she thought.
By the time they were toweling her off, she was as fragrant as the castle gardens and twice as clean. They clad her in a long dress of Cousland blue and silver with a pattern of laurels around the hem of the skirts, plunging neckline, and bell sleeves. Her chestnut hair was parted into three sections and ornamented with silver clasps to maintain the style while a fourth section was braided and wrapped about her head like a circlet.
They hung ornaments of silver and sapphire from her ears and throat until she looked every bit the heiress she was. Noble, beautiful, wealthy—a prize for any man seeking a wife.
A tempting treat for Nathaniel Howe.
“You are beautiful, my lady,” one of her mother’s servants said.
Arual was silent.
Before going to the library, Arual made for the gates. If she was to be a bride, she wanted to be the one to deliver the happy news to her brother.
When she arrived at the gates, she was met with the sounds of triumphant carnyx and drums of war. It seemed the rest of the troops shared her brother’s excitement at the prospect of battle. Rows of spearmen, swordsmen, archers, slingers, horsemen, and packs of mabari prepared to march before a compliment of wagons and other carts hauling supplies and servants. The blue and silver laurels of the Cousland banner winked at her from shields, flags, and breastplates alike. Those staying behind wove through the soldiers, tying favors to the arms of their loved ones, sharing final kisses, or throwing flowers before the feet of those preparing to march.
At the head of it all rode Fergus Cousland.
To those who remembered, Fergus looked as his father did when he rode against the Orlesian armies and their usurper. On a parapet overlooking the courtyard, Arual’s family stood together. Her father’s arm was around her mother who dabbed at her eyes with a linen handkerchief. His eyes twinkled with pride, even as his face was set in a stoic mask. Oren stood on tip-toe to peer over the railing, waving madly to the mass of soldiers there while his mother leaned easily over the railing. Oriana tied a strip of fabric around Fergus’s bicep—a piece of the bindings from their hand binding ceremony—and kissed him one last time.
Arual waited until the couple had finished their goodbye before approaching. When he saw her, Fergus let out a low, mocking whistle.
“All this for me, dear sister?” he chortled.
Arual rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. Haven’t you heard? I’m to be a bride.”
Fergus blinked, visibly taken aback.
“You?” he laughed. “I feel sorry for the poor fool who’s to be your husband.”
Arual leaned over the railing and slapped Fergus on the arm, hard. He laughed again and held out his arm to her. She took it. When he smiled, Fergus’s eyes were full of warmth.
“Just promise not to hold the wedding until after my return,” he said.
Arual smiled and nodded, at a loss for words.
A horn blew, shattering the moment, and brother and sister pulled away from one another. Arual stepped back to stand with her sister-in-law and her nephew. Oren clung to her skirts. She stroked his hair. Together, the five of them watched and waved as Fergus and the others filed out of the castle gates.

At last, the time had come to attend to her final duty of the day.
She refused to sulk as she made her way to the library. She was a Cousland, and Couslands did not balk from battle, nor from duty.
My brother does not run from the darkspawn, Arual thought keenly, and I shall not run from this. If Nathaniel is to be my betrothed, then at least I am to marry a friend and we shall have some chance at happiness together.
It seemed to Arual that she arrived at the library all too soon. By the time she stood before the high oak doors, she had yet to convince herself that she wanted to marry Nathaniel.
It is my duty, she reminded herself. A marriage that will seal countless boons for both our families. It was inevitable that a day like this would come.
All the same, Arual dreaded it.
She took a long breath, steeling herself, and stepped into the library.
Books and scrolls filled wooden shelves that stretched from floors to rafters. Small family heirlooms and decorative trinkets filled the gaps where any literature seemed to be missing. Plush carpets and tapestries of heroic Cousland deeds softened the stone of the floors and walls so that sound could not travel far. It was just the place for secrets and scheming and little truths.
It was a place Arual and Nathaniel would visit often in childhood when the Howes came to visit. Arual could remember the first time Nathaniel stole a kiss from her in the corner behind the books on divinity, the time she’d told him she wanted to be a knight as they poured over an old tome about the Templar order. This place held many memories for them, and soon, it seemed, it would hold another.
Arual made her way toward the back of the library where she knew she would find Nathaniel. She wondered if she would be sent to live in Amaranthine alongside her new husband—far, far away from these old books and fond memories. She passed a desk where Nan used to make her sit and read at all hours of the day, convinced that no truer lessons could be learned than those in books. Arual smiled at the memory of Nan’s humorless face as a young Cousland heiress pouted about having to read books on the Mabari while leaning against a young Bran and insisting she already knew precisely how to raise one, thank you very much.
As expected, Arual found Nathaniel in the back of the library, sitting with his back to a small hearth where the light was best for reading, and smiling to himself as he considered the tome in front of him.
“Good book?” Arual asked, clasping her hands behind her back.
Nathaniel looked up. His mouth was open, as though he were about to say something, but balked at the sight of her. He stood suddenly, nearly knocking his chair backwards and into the fire. He caught it, deftly, with one hand while his other slammed the book in front of him closed.
“My-my lady!” he gasped. “You—er…startled me.”
Arual’s eyes narrowed. “What have you got there?” she prodded. “You’re not reading something naughty, are you?”
Once, when they were children, Arual and Nathaniel had happened across a copy of The Art of Passionate Love by Brother Capria, and had had a laugh at the depictions of lovemaking and detailed illustrations. It had forever been a secret and inside joke between them.
“Not this time,” Nathaniel chuckled. He opened the book and flipped a few pages until he’d found the page he’d been smiling at. He held it up to Arual. In one of the margins was a very rude depiction of Aldous, one of Arual’s tutors. A puff of wind was emanating from his rear, and a small line of script beside the bearded old man read I stink!
Snorting laughter erupted from Arual. She covered her mouth, embarrassed as the sound echoed loudly in the quiet library. Instinctively, Arual and Nathaniel looked around the empty library, making certain they were alone the way they did as children.
“He was so mad when he found that,” Arual giggled.
“Didn’t he want to burn this?”
“I’m lucky father wouldn’t let him.”
“You’re lucky your father didn’t sentence you to writing lines as punishment,” Nathaniel countered. The two shared a childlike giggle at the memory. It seemed the longer Arual was with Nathaniel, the more of these fond memories she began to recall.
She looked up at him, curious if he felt the same. What she found were his dark eyes—watching her. It was in that moment that she realized how closely they were standing. Nearly touching. She could feel the heat of him emanating through both their clothes. Like holding her hand near a candle flame. Too close, and she might burn…
“Nathaniel?”
“Yes?” he said, his voice low and husky.
A shudder went through Arual at the sound of it. She spun away, as much to put some distance between the two of them as to hide the sudden color rising in her cheeks. It felt as though a swarm of butterflies had been released in her stomach. She cleared her throat uncomfortably and wrung her hands.
"It would seem our parents wish for us to, er..." Arual hesitated, trying to think of a delicate way to say it.
"Want us to...?" Nathaniel prompted.
"Form a union...of sorts."
Arual licked her lips nervously. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes.
"Form a union," Nathaniel echoed. He raised a curious brow. "As in together? As in marriage?"
Arual nodded, unable to speak. Nathaniel's mouth became a thin line as he considered her words. He was no fool. He, too, could see the political and monetary power to be gained by their union—perhaps enough to secure a marriage to the crown for their children or grandchildren. He regarded her for a long time, eyes smoldering.
"What do you think of that?" he asked.
Arual began pacing the length of the study. What did she think of it? She and Nathaniel had been friends in childhood. Good friends. It would be a lie to say the thought had not crossed her mind back then. But now?
"Does it matter?" she asked Nathaniel as much as herself. "If our parents have arranged it, then...then it's our duty to...to..."
Arual turned to continue pacing when Nathaniel suddenly appeared before her. He was tall—taller than Arual remembered. He towered over her, covering her in his shadow. His dark eyes glittered in the low light. Arual searched them for some sign of what he was thinking, but he was unreadable.
“Arual…”
It was the first time he'd used her name since they'd been reunited. The sound of it made Arual's heart jump into her throat. She tried to swallow it back down, but it had lodged itself firmly.
"Is that what you want?" Nathaniel asked. His fingertips were on her jaw, then. Gooseflesh pimpled the flesh along Arual’s neck and arms.
"Do you want to marry me?"
His breath was on her lips. Arual felt her knees buckle beneath her. She threw her hands out, steadying herself on the desk behind her. Nathaniel moved with her, his hand sliding up her jawline and into her hair.
"What are you doing?" she breathed. Was that fear in her voice?
Wordlessly, he worked a lock of hair away from the rest and began curling it around one long slender finger. Arual shuddered.
“Nathaniel…”
“If it were up to you,” he went on, his voice low and soft like the tide. “If it wasn’t your duty but your choice…would you say yes? Would you marry me?”
Arual’s mouth became a thin line. She dropped her gaze and did not answer—which was answer enough.
“I see,” Nathaniel said without inflection. Even now, he gave nothing away. Slowly, he receded from her, his touch lingering just beyond the line of decency.
“Good night…my lady,” he said, and retreated from the room. Somehow, it felt colder without him.

Chapter Text

A rumbling like angry thunder roused Arual from fitful dreams. Then a bark, loud and furious as lightning cracked through the room. Adrenaline suddenly flooded Arual’s veins, and she sat bolt upright in bed, a curse on her lips.
“Bran?” she called to the Mabari.
The hearth fire was down to embers, each burning gleed casting amber shadows about the bedchamber. In the dun room, Arual could just make out the shape of Bran at the door. His short, pointed ears were forward, hackles and stubby tail high in the air as lips curled away from his teeth. Even at a distance, Arual could see the gleam of his fangs.
“What is it, boy?” she asked, throwing off the furs of her bed. The moment her bare feet touched the floor, she could hear the sounds of shouting outside. The words were too muffled to make out, but the tone was perfectly clear: angry and urgent.
What is going on?
Arual took a step forward, meaning to open her door and find out what in the Nine Hells was going on, when the door burst open. Light and sound erupted into the room. Arual, whose eyes were adjusted to the gloom, recoiled and hissed a curse. Bran was faster. He lunged at the silhouette in the doorway, teeth flashing. The man had enough time to scream before Bran's maw closed around his windpipe. There was a clatter of metal as the man dropped his sword and the two went down in a tangle of fur and limbs. There was a grunt. A growl. A sickening sound like the snapping of a chicken bone. Blood painted the door the color of an angry dawn as the man died with a gurgle.
Arual's eyes went wide as her breath caught in her throat. A man was dead. Dead before her eyes, with his blood on her hound's teeth.
"Maker..." she prayed.
"Damn you!" someone outside the door shouted. Arual heard the sound of a sword coming free of its scabbard. The sound sent a prickling sensation along her scalp and put her teeth on edge.
Some part of her knew she needed to move, to act, but her body felt as though it were made of iron. She couldn't move. Couldn't think.
Another silhouette filled the doorway, light flashing off a sword poised to strike. Bran barked and lunged again, but this time the stranger was ready. He brought up an arm to defend himself. Bran's teeth met the steel of his gauntlet instead of flesh. The Mabari shook the stranger as though he could pry the armor from his body with force alone.
The man swore and raised his blade.
Suddenly, Arual's body was moving of its own volition. With a cry, she lunged forward. Her hands gripped the haft of the sword on the ground. The worn leather was slick with blood as she brought it to bear. The stranger was still trying to fend off Bran with a slurry of curses. With a cry, Arual slipped between his defenses and plunged the blade of her borrowed sword into the meat of his neck.
Once, as punishment for avoiding her studies, her father had sentenced her to helping in the kitchens. Nan had been preparing a fat pig for dinner that evening, and had ordered Arual to help the servants skewer the thing for the spit. Arual remembered how the skewer had slid into the gutted hog with only the slightest effort, the whole of the carcass having been prepared precisely for this moment.
That was how it felt when her blade sunk into the neck of the man who attacked her and Bran. There was a slight tension as the blade pierced flesh, then slid down with ease, as though the man were nothing more than a pig ready to be roasted.
Blood bubbled in his mouth as his eyes rolled into his head. A few weak spurts of viscous crimson erupted from his neck--like a child spitting water while playing in water.
He crumbled to the ground. Dead.
Arual had killed him.
The sword slipped from her hands as the man collapsed at her feet. Blood welled from the corpses in her doorway, seeping into the carpet and stone, filling the air with a sickly, metallic scent.
Arual blinked, stunned.
She'd killed a man.
Killed him.
The teyrn had trained his daughter as a warrior since her toddling years. From the day she was old enough to hold a wooden blade, she'd been in the yard—practicing swordplay and footwork alongside the squires. She was no stranger to bumps, bruises, and the occasional blood. But death. She had never seen death. Never dealt death.
"What have I done?" Arual breathed, her voice thin. The sword, now twice bloodied, fell from her grip and clattered to the floor. Her legs felt weak beneath her.
"Maker forgive me..."
Arual collapsed, sinking to the floor in a heap. Bran was there to catch her, after a fashion. Arual buried her face in the scruff of Bran's neck, breathing in the musky scent of her beloved hound. It was a smell she'd known for as long as she could remember, as familiar as her own mother's. It grounded her, helping her to still her rampant heart and ragged breathing.
Bran let out a sympathetic little whine and moved to lick her cheek. He nuzzled her and shook his shoulders, coaxing her to her feet.
Arual understood: whatever was happening, she did not have time to balk or grieve. These men had attacked them for a reason. They were in danger, meaning the rest of her family could be in danger, too.
She had to act. There would be time for questions later.
As though reading her thoughts, Bran chuffed and nodded in a motion that was equal parts encouragement and approval.
Arual nodded in turn.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat, pushing her tumultuous thoughts down with it. There would be time later. Hopefully.
Arual took up the discarded blade once more and used it to cut slits in her nightdress and girded her loins in quick fashion. As she tied up the fabric, she eyed the corpses on the floor, seeing them for the first time as anything more than shadows and dead men. One wore a mail hauberk and a tabard of white and gold and a mail coif; the other a breastplate emblazoned with a giant bear and a helm with a plume of white.
Arual’s blood ran cold as she eyed the men.
It can’t be… she thought, but she knew those colors. These were Howe’s men. But why? Why would her father’s greatest friend and ally attack them? After he’d just told her father his men were delayed, after planning the marriage of his son to a Cousland daughter?
No, she told herself, and shook her head as though it might dislodge the thought. There’s no time for questions. Not yet.
Still gripping the bloodied sword, Arual stepped out into the hall, Bran at her side. She needed to find Nathaniel. He could explain this. He had to.
A door yawned at the end of the hall. Arual whirled, bringing the borrowed sword to bear, ready for an attack. What she saw instead sent her jaw to the floor.
Eleanor Cousland jogged toward her in full armor, a short sword belted at her hip and a small round shield marked with the Cousland laurels in her off hand.
“Arual!” she called to her daughter as she approached. “I heard fighting outside and I feared the worst! Are you hurt?”
“Mo-Mother?” Arual gawked, still disbelieving her eyes. “You’re…what are you wearing?”
If the teyrna noticed how shocked her daughter was, she didn’t show it.
“A scream woke me up,” she explained quickly. “There were men in the hall, so I barred the door. Did you see their shields?”
Arual nodded grimly. “Howe’s men. But I don’t understand. Why would they attack us?”
“I don’t know, darling, but we need to get out of here. Have you seen your father? He never came to bed.”
“No, I was in my room.”
“We must find him!”
Arual set her jaw and nodded eagerly. Her father would know what to do. He always did. If they could find him, then surely whatever was happening could be stopped.
“With me, Bran,” she called to her faithful Mabari. The hound barked an affirmation and fell into line with her as she and the teyrna moved down the hall. Even though the hewn stone and thick tapestries, Arual could hear the cries of battle—shouts of alarm and rage, the sound of sword and shield meeting, and the low crackle of fire. It all seemed distant, somehow, as though the walls of the castle would protect her.
The castle…
Highever was her home, and for all her years, Arual had thought it impregnable. But that had proved false. The enemy was inside, killing and burning. She could smell the smoke—the scent of her family’s history turning to ash.
If they’re starting fires, Arual thought as her bare feet pounded the ground, then they must mean to end us all.
“Oh no…” she breathed. Dread settled in her stomach as real and cold as stone. Her feet faltered and she nearly lost her footing.
“Oren!” Arual cried, picking up speed.
“Arual, wait!” her mother cried, but Arual wasn’t listening. She ran through the royal apartments, heedless of the dangers that lay ahead. With each breath, she whispered a prayer to the Maker.
“Let him be safe,” she pleaded. “Let him be safe…”
None of Howe’s men were there to meet her as she ran toward her nephew’s rooms. Was that good? Bad? Had Howe’s men already been to this part of the castle?
“Please…let him be safe.”
Arual did not allow herself to pause at the door to Oren and Oriana’s chambers—did not allow herself a moment to doubt, to search for enemies, or to listen. She burst through the door, shouting for her family as she went.
There was no answer.
Motes of dust danced in the moonbeams that shone over the bodies of Oren and Oriana Cousland. In the silver light, their blood looked almost black. It soaked through the cracks in the stone floor creating a labyrinthian pattern that reached almost to the doorway—almost to Arual’s bare feet.
She stood there, numb, toungeless, with eyes wide and filled with horror.
There was some mercy in seeing that Oriana still had on all her clothes. There would not have been time to violate her, even as she crawled toward her son, bleeding from her belly, to die beside him. Little Oren, who had never—could ¬never—hurt anyone, even with so much as an unkind word, lay on his back. Tears still stained the sides of his face as he stared up, unblinking, at the ceiling. Small, bloodied hands tried futilely to staunch the bleeding where he took a sword to the stomach. Oriana’s hand covered his. She had died trying to be beside him, to comfort him.
The scene blurred before her as tears swam in her eyes.
In its place were memories—memories of her and Oren playing in the yard, of sneaking snacks from the kitchens, of telling ghost stories late into the night. Memories of losing games of Wicked Grace to Oriana, of selecting matching gowns to the summer balls at the Winter Palace, of every shared secret and laugh.
Grief bloomed in her chest, a white-hot pain that spread through her like cracks in marble, threatening to rent her asunder. The cruelty of it all was too much. Arual felt weak—ready to crumble to dust until the sound of footsteps fast approaching ripped her from her daze.
Her mother was coming.
She couldn't allow her to see her grandson. Not like this. Not ever like this.
Arual dashed back into the hall and nearly collided with the teyrna.
"What is it?" her mother asked in a high voice. "Where is Oriana? Where is my grandson?"
Arual placed a hand on her mother's shoulder, as much to steady herself as to keep the teyrna from entering the chambers. Arual opened her mouth to explain, to beg her mother not to go in, but nothing came out. She could not bring herself to speak the words—to make the horror real. She closed her mouth and clenched her teeth, grounding herself on the sensation of bone against bone. She met Eleanor's eye and shook her head.
The teyrna's expression did not change, but Arual watched her mother's eyes fill with tears as the realization of what had happened crept into her.
"No..." she whispered hoarsely. "Not my little Oren..."
Arual said nothing. Her throat burned for want of a scream. Her head pounded as tears fought to break free, but her body, somehow, would not relent to either.
"But he's just a boy!" the teyrna cried. "What manner of fiend slaughters innocents?"
"Howe's men aren't even taking hostages," Arual hissed. "He must mean to kill us all."
"I don't understand," the teyrna sobbed angrily, giving voice to the questions Arual had fought into submission earlier. "Why is Howe doing this? Our families have been allies for years!"
Arual's grip on her sword tightened. "I intend to ask him directly."
"No, darling," the teyrna said, her voice suddenly imbued with all the power and confidence of her station. She blinked and the tears were gone, replaced by a resolve as hard as diamond. "We must get you out of the castle."
Arual blinked, aghast. She took an involuntary step away from her mother, her hand leaving the woman's shoulder to become a fist at her side.
"You're asking me to run away?" Arual said, flabbergasted. "To abandon my home? My people!"
Eleanor put both hands on her daughter's shoulders, gripping her tight.
"I am telling you to live," the teyrna said through her teeth. "You and Fergus are the last remaining heirs to the Cousland name. If either of you perish, the clan dies with you. You must get out of the castle. Find Fergus. Tell him what has happened. Then, you can both make your claim to the king in the south."
"But—"
"Arual," her mother cut her off before she could make her argument. She shook her a little, grip tightening. "There is no time. You must do as I say. Do you understand?"
Arual bit back a retort. As much as Arual hated it, Eleanor was right: the Cousland line had to live on, and if no one else escaped the castle—no one of the Cousland name to beg justice from the king—then Howe would have won. And that was not something Arual could not allow.
"We must find father, first," Arual said.
The teyrna nodded. "If I know your father, he'll be at the front gates. If we can meet with him there, we can escape through one of the servant's passages."
"If Howe's men control the castle," Arual reasoned, "they may have cut us off from the servant's passages."
The teyrna nodded. If Howe's men would go so far as to murder children, then they had to assume Howe's goal was the eradication of the whole Cousland line. He'd fought alongside Couslands before, however. He knew how they fought, and how they won. He knew they would not go down without a fight. Bottlenecking any survivors into narrow spaces filled with archers or mages was just the kind of thing a man like Rendorn Howe would cook up.
Clever coward, Arual seethed.
Something about the thought triggered a memory in her—a memory of something her father had said to her long ago.
"You have to assume your enemy is clever, pup. If they're making a move, it's because they think they can win, and that there's nothing you can do to stop them."
"So how do you win?" A young Arual had asked.
"Be cleverer than they are."
Be cleverer... Arual ruminated on the words. The odds were against them. There was no way of knowing who or how many of their forces remained, but they were up against what had to be the bulk of Howe's army. Fighting their way out was impossible. If she and her parents were going to get out of the castle, they were going to have to outsmart the Howes, not just bloody their nose.
So where wouldn't Howe of thought to guard? she wondered.
Bran gave a low, rumbling growl like lazy thunder. Arual guessed he was feeling as anxious as she was.
Her eyes went wide as an idea struck her like a bolt of lightning.
"Rats!" she cried.
"Rats?" her mother echoed incredulously
"In the larder, earlier today," Arual began to explain quickly. "There were the largest rats I'd ever seen. Almost as big as Bran. He'd followed them into the larder while he was chasing them. If he can fit through the tunnels, so can we."
Eleanor pinched her chin as she thought, brows furrowing.
"It'll be a tight fit," she mused.
"It may also be our only chance."
The teyrna seemed to consider her words for a moment longer, then nodded firmly.
"I fear you may be right, darling. All right. The rat tunnels it is."
Before Arual could take a step in the direction of the front gates, her mother reached out and cupped her face, forcing her to meet her gaze.
"You must promise me something, darling," she said gravely. "Promise me that if the worst should happen, you will save yourself."
Arual's brow furrowed. Was her mother implying she leave her and her father...to die?
"Mother—"
"Promise me!" the teyrna commanded.
Arual's mouth became a thin line as she searched her mother's face for a sign she was anything less than serious, but, of course, she found none. Teyrna Eleanor Cousland, Lady of Highever, was prepared to lay her life on the line to ensure the survival of her children. Arual could see the resolve in her mother's eyes—cold and hard as ice, unbreakable as diamond.
Arual wanted to rail against that unstoppable force, to scream that she would never—could never—leave her parents behind.
"Arual..." her mother prompted hurriedly.
"I promise," Arual said, though the words sounded thick and heavy on her tongue.
It was enough to satisfy the teyrna, however.
She nodded sharply and stepped away from her daughter. The two women took up their swords and were on the move with the teyrna taking point.
"We must hurry," she hissed. Arual could hear the relief in her voice, however sharp. Relief that, should it come down to her life or her daughter's, Arual would live on.
Arual grit her teeth again as they marched forward, eyes burning a hole in her mother's back.
I shall not let it come to that, she promised herself. I will save you, mother, and father if it is the last thing I do.

Chapter Text

Arual, Eleanor, and Bran snuck through the castle like children at play. Arual lead her mother down every side passage and supposedly secret tunnel she played in as a girl, or with Oren when he was old enough for such games.
Each turn was filled with bitter memories, but more often than not the way was clear. Bran, clever as he was vigilant, warned Arual when he smelled Howe's men by standing in her way or taking the hem of her nightdress in his teeth. Fast as mice, the three of them would hide in a nearby room or darkened alcove until the danger had passed, or they were able to surprise small groups of their enemy and overcome them.
The Cousland women were warriors, unafraid of battle, but they were not fools.
Be cleverer, Arual reminded herself whenever they happened upon a group of invaders dismantling her home or pissing on heirlooms.
It took everything in her to stay in the shadows. She wanted to scream, to rail against the injustice of it all, but she stayed her hand and settled for bitting the inside of her cheek.
As much as Arual wanted to thwart each and every one of Howe's men they happened across, she knew it to be folly.
She, the teyrna, and a single mabari hardly made for an army, not to mention Arual didn't even have shoes let alone armor or a shield. Eleanor Cousland had once been a fearsome raider on the Storm Coast, her ship, the Mistral, had been infamous, deadly--but that was many years ago. The callouses she'd earned in battle had softened, leaving her with the tender hands of a mother, grandmother, and gardener. The mail hauberk she wore was ill-fitting and heavy; the sword in her hand clumsy.
Arual trembled to see her mother so fearsome and yet so frail.
She set her jaw and hardened her resolve--she would not allow the night to claim the lives of anyone else she cared about.
There was no telling how long it took them to reach the front gates. The adrenaline rushing through her veins distorted time, making everything seem like it was happening so fast and yet so slow all at once. Arual could only pray under her breath that they would be swift enough to save her father.
When at last they came to the front gates, they found it under siege.
A group of Howe's men who had infiltrated the castle through servant's passages and other means had managed to out flank some of the few remaining Cousland forces. The men had their backs to the gates, barred heavily against more of Howe's men who no doubt waited for their comrades to open the way for them.
Arual and Eleanor crouched behind a low wall, panting with effort and distress.
"I count ten of them," Arual said breathlessly.
Eleanor wiped the sweat from her eyes. "There are only two of us," she snarled.
"Three," Arual corrected, patting Bran's flank. "I think we can take them. They won't be expecting reinforcements, let alone women."
Eleanor looked back and forth between her daughter and Howe's men. It was possible this would be their only chance to make it to the teyrn and escape with what was left of her family. It was possible, too, that even a small skirmish could end her line this very night. She had to decide if it was worth it. Did she gamble with her daughter's life on the chance her husband was still alive?
"Mother," Arual pressed.
Eleanor looked at her daughter. Really looked at her in a way she hadn't in a very long time. Maybe she never had.
Arual Cousland was fierce as she was young. She'd been schooled in swordplay and combat strategy since her toddling years. She was a bright girl, strong, dutiful, and with a sense of justice few in this world could claim.
If Eleanor couldn't have faith in her to survive a simple skirmish, then how could she have faith she would make it out of the castle at all.
"All right," she conceded, choosing to believe in her daughter. "Let's do it."
Arual nodded. If she understood the struggle of Eleanor's heart, she gave no indication.
"On my signal," the young warrior said. Her hazel eyes scanned the battlefield, looking for their perfect opening. Eleanor's eyes were on her daughter. She did not see the opening, but when a fire lit behind Arual's gaze, she knew her daughter had found it.
"We'll move up quietly. Catch them by surprise. Their armor is weak at the neck and beneath the arms. We might be able to take out two or three of them before the others notice us. We have to be quick."
"I'm with you," Eleanor said, meaning everything.
Arual nodded. "Let's go."
Bran and the Cousland women crept from their hiding place and moved to the battlefield. They made no cries of battle nor boasts of valor. Instead, they moved on quiet, sure feet, their footsteps masked by the sounds of the fighting.
And then they were upon the enemy.
The teyrna caught one of Howe's men by the back of his head and brought her sword around to cut his throat. Bran leapt, tackling a third man to the ground with a snarl, teeth on his throat  Arual stabbed her blade up beneath the arm of another, the tip of her sword piercing his heart. She tried not to think of the blood that spilled out as she wrenched her blade free, or of the life she'd claimed. Mercifully, the battle consumed her every thought, forcing her into a space of practiced technique. Her enemy was stronger, with better reach and better armor, but Howe's men were overconfident and sloppy, and unaccustomed to fighting a woman. Arual, however, had been fighting men all her life.
She kept her body low, avoiding the brunt of the sweeping attacks Howe's men tried, and parrying their overhead swings. Just as she'd been taught, she dodged away from any attempts to trap her in overhead locks, instead forcing her enemy to meet her in the low, upward arching cuts and quick thrusts of her wheelhouse. She danced in and out of their guards, too close for them to defend, or too far for them to attack.
Two more men fell to her blade in the skirmish. She engaged a third, maneuvering to attack his flank, but he was the faster. He swept his blade up at her, and Arual caught it with her own. Howe's man snaked his hand off his blade and grabbed her wrist, holding her into the lock. Arual tried to break his hold, but he was the stronger. His other hand cocked back and he slammed his gauntleted fist into Arual's nose.
Skin, cartilage, and bone crunched audibly under the impact. Pain burst across Arual's face, and she reeled back, dropping her blade in the process. Her hands instinctively went to her nose, now broken, as her eyes began to water.
She swore, trying to regain her footing, but it was too late. Through the haze of tears, she saw the enemy raise his blade.
She braced herself for the end, but was instead met with a familiar snarl. A blur of brown fur dashed in front of her. Teeth closed around the man's sword arm and the full strength of a mabari warhound wrestled him to the ground. Arual heard his sword clatter to the stone as Bran shook the life from him, nearly renting the man's arm from his shoulder.
Arual grit her teeth and blinked rapidly, trying to fight against the tears blurring her vision. There! She scooped up the man's sword and closed the gap between herself and the enemy, bringing the blade to bear.
"No, don't!" the man cried, holding a hand up to her, but it was too late. Arual stabbing down, deep, into the man's throat.
In that moment, she was grateful for the broken nose and her watery eyes. She did not have to see the full force of the terror on the man's face as he died.
Shouts of relief and victory rose up to meet her as the last of Howe's men fell  The skirmish had ended. The Couslands had defended the gate. For now.
"Arual!" the teyrna cried, going to her daughter's side. "You're wounded!"
"I'm fine, mother," Arual lied in a nasally voice.
From somewhere within her armor, Eleanor produced a handkerchief and pressed it gingerly to Arual's broken nose. Arual winced, but knew better than to pull away.
"Your Ladyship! My lady! You're alive! Thank the Maker," came a familiar voice. Arual turned, as much as she was able, to see Ser Gilmore trotting up to them. Sweat pasted his bright red hair to his brow in thick tendrils not unlike the spatter of gore that covered his armor.
"I was certain Howe's men had gotten through," he panted. "When I realized what was happening, it was all I could do to shut the gates. I fear they won't keep Howe's men out long."
"Are you injured?" Arual asked, pushing her mother away gently.
Ser Gilmore offered her an appreciative, if bashful in reply.
"Don't worry about me, my lady."
The teyrna looked around the courtyard, searching the faces of the living and fallen alike.
"Have you seen the teyrn?" she asked, failing to keep the quiver from her voice.
"Last I saw him he was headed toward the kitchens, looking for you," Ser Gilmore answered.
The teyrna grabbed Arual's arm, as though trying to steady herself. She didn't need to speak for Arual to understand her worry. The teyrn was no fool, but if he had tried to find them in the servant passages...
Arual nodded to her mother. Time was of the essence, but still she found herself turning back to Ser Gilmore, to one of the greatest friends she had ever known.
"We have a way out," she told him. "Come with us."
Ser Gilmore's mouth became a hard line. He shook his head solemnly.
"If I do, you won't have the time you need to escape," he said. He met her eyes, brows raising in a silent plea. "Please, go while you have the chance."
The teyrna half turned away, hand still on Arual's arm.
A pit opened up in Arual's stomach.
She had vowed to herself that she wouldn't lose anyone else that night. Not her parents, not Bran, and certainly not Ser Gilmore. The man had been a friend, confidant, and rival to Arual for as long as she could remember. They'd trained side by side as squires in the yard countless times, and sparred with each other even more. He'd been as much a brother to her as Fergus.
And now he was laying his life on the line. For her. For her mother and father. He knew without he and his men holding the front gates, they may never be able to escape. Much as she would deny it, Arual knew it, too.
It's not right, she thought, trading his life for mine. It's not right!
"Bless you, Ser Gilmore," the teyrna sobbed. "Maker watch over you."
"Maker watch over us all," he intoned with a bow of the head
Eleanor pulled at her daughter's arm, urging her toward the kitchens and the teyrn, but Arual could not bring herself to go. Not yet.
"Ser Gilmore!" Arual blurted, breaking away from her mother's grip. "Roderick..."
Ser Gilmore turned, surprised to hear his given name fall from the heiress's lips. Surprised greater still when those same lips pressed gently to his cheek in a sisterly kiss. Arual looked up at him with fresh tears in her eyes.
"I will never forget you," she promised.
Ser Gilmore frowned, brows knit as he fought down a wave of emotion.
"Nor I you...Arual," he said.
She smiled sadly at him, and would have said more if Bran had not barked sharply. His intention was clear: they needed to hurry. Eleanor's arm was on her shoulder, silently echoing the sentiment.
Arual knew she had to go, knew she had to leave her comrades to perish so she may live, and she hated it.
Wordlessly, she let herself be dragged away, sword in hand.
She could not bring herself to say farewell.

***

A sprinkling of corpses littered the path to the kitchens. Servants, soldiers, some hounds. Arual tried to let their faces burn into her, tried to recall each of their names or a memory of them, but there was so little time. Try as she might, she could not make their deaths mean anything. Each of them had died senselesly, needlessly, and for what? What possible reason could Arl Howe have for this madness?
Arual fought down the questions along with a deal of bile until, at last, they'd made it to the kitchens.
There lay Old Nan, bloodied knife in hand, near one of Howe's men. Both were dead. Arual swore, tearing her eyes away from the scene.
How many more would she have to lose today? How many more could she bear?
A sound from the larder caught her attention and she threw her arm out to stop her mother from entering.
Arual met her gaze and shook her head. She raised a finger to her lips. The teyrna nodded, realizing the need for silence.
Arual readied her blade. Eleanor tiptoed to the door. Arual gave her a nod. In a single motion, mother threw open the door and jumped aside as daughter rushed in with sword poised to strike. Instead of flesh, her blade met another, the sharp ring of steel on steel ringing through the larder.
"Duncan?" Arual gasped as she recognized the Grey Warden from earlier.
"My Lady," he said, disengaging his blade and taking a step away from her. He was dressed in the same armor and tunic as she recalled, though both were now bloodied, and his ponytail was slipping from its knot.
"There...you both are..." came a weak voice from somewhere around Arual's ankles. She looked down.
There lay her father, clutching at his side with one hand and propping himself up with the other. Blood ran freely between his pale fingers from a wound she could not see. Half his tunic was covered in a dark red stain that pooled on the floor beneath him.
His face was white as a sheet.
He'd lost so much blood.
Too much...
"Bryce!" the teyrna cried, rushing forward and collapsing to her knees at her husband's side. "Maker's blood, you're bleeding!"
"Howe's men...found me first," the teyrn explained weakly. "Almost did me in right there. If it hadn't been for Duncan--"
"We need to get you out of here," Arual said crisply, refusing to hear the end of that sentence.
The teyrn managed a sad smile.
"I...fear I won't survive the standing, pup."
"Then we'll drag you out!" Arual shouted. She realized she was shaking.
"Listen, pup," her father said seriously, meeting her gaze. His eyes seemed out of focus, but his voice was hard and sure. "Once Howe's men break through the gate, they'll find us. You...you must go. Find Fergus. Tell him what has happened."
"You can tell him yourself, father."
"The castle is surrounded, Arual. I...cannot make it. I'll only slow you down, do you understand? You must go. Now!"
"I'm afraid the teyrn is correct," Duncan said before Arual could argue. She shot him an icy glare, which he accepted without ire. "Howe's men have not yet discovered us," he explained, "but they surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult."
"But not impossible," Arual said through her teeth. She would have said more, but her father coughed wetly. She turned to see blood dribbling from his lips. He looked not to her, but to Duncan, the desperation clear in his face and voice.
"Duncan...I beg you..." he said, "take my wife and daughter to safety!"
"I will, your Lordship," Duncan said smoothly, "but I fear I must ask something in return."
"Anything!"
"Duty demands I leave here with a recruit. What is happening here pales in comparison to the darkspawn threat. I will take the teyrna and your daughter to Ostagar, to tell your son and the king what has happened. Then, you daughter joins the Grey Wardens."
"What?" Arual gasped, reeling.
"So long as justice comes to Howe," Bryce said, his voice hard once more, "I agree."
"Father!" Arual cried, taking a step toward him.
"He's right," her mother said suddenly. Her voice was gentle, but it cut the room like a knife. Slowly, she rose and turned toward her daughter, her face set in a placid mask.
"You promised me that should the worst come to pass, you would leave here with your life. I ask you to honor that promise now."
"But, mother--"
"There is no time, Arual," her mother cut her off. She stepped forward and cupped her face, as she had in the royal apartments. "I love you darling, girl. You know that, right?"
Arual felt the tears welling in her eyes all over again.
"I love you, too," she said wetly. "Please come with us," she pleaded, already knowing what her mother intended.
Eleanor smiled sadly and shook her head.
"No, darling. My place is here, with your father. Yours is out there. I will stay and buy you as much time as I can."
Arual covered her mother's hands with her own. They felt soft and warm beneath hers, as they had always been. "Don't leave me," she sobbed.
Eleanor kissed her daughter's brow.
"I am always with you," she promised.
"Pup," the teyrn called out. Eleanor ushered Arual to her father's side. His jaw trembled with the force of his tears, silent though they were. When he shifted his hand from the wound at his side, Arual thought it would be to caress her face. Instead he reached behind him and produced the family blade.
As good as a crown, Arual knew.
"This is yours now, my girl," he said weakly, pushing it into her trembling hands. Arual frowned.
"What about Fergus?"
Bryce gave a crooked grin. "Never had...a Grey Warden in the family," he chuckled. He coughed and more blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
"Take it, and wield it with pride."
Arual opened her mouth to speak, but there was a sudden crashing sound from outside the kitchens.
"Howe's men have broken through the gate!" the teyrna snarled. She readied her sword and placed herself between the door and the rest of them.
"Go," Bryce urged his daughter.
"I can't just leave you!" Arual cried, but it was no use. Bran took the hem of her torn gown in his teeth and began tugging her away from her father and toward the rat tunnels he'd crawled through earlier. Duncan placed a hand on her shoulder, understanding yet nonetheless urgent.
"If we stay, we die," he said as a matter of fact.
"Go," her father said again, voice warm and quiet. Though she could hardly see anymore, his eyes twinkled with pride. His expression was reassuring and filled with all the love a father could have for his daughter.
"It's all right," he said softly.
"I'm sorry," Arual mouthed, tears cutting rivers through the blood on her cheeks.
"I love you," he told her, and then once more, "Go."

Chapter Text

The ship rocked dolefully in the grim dawn. From her seat at the foot of the mast, Arual could see the smoldering remains of Highever.

After Bran and Duncan had dragged her through the rat tunnels, the three of them, filthy with dirt and blood, had hidden in the forest that surrounded the castle grounds. For hours, Arual clutched the sword her father had given her and waited for a battle that did not come.

In the low light of predawn, Duncan had led them away from the castle and to the sea. There, he'd bartered a ride from an old fisherman. If he recognized Arual, he didn't show it, nor did she blame him. Disheveled was too kind a word for the state she found herself in. Perhaps that was why he'd agreed to ferry them to the next small fishing town along the Waking Sea. Then again, perhaps it was the measly coin Duncan offered, or that the old man held some reverence for the disgraced order Duncan represented.

In either case, he'd agreed to help them, and had the decency (or brains) not to ask about the blood on their clothes, Duncan's armor, or Arual's sword.

Duncan took it upon himself to arrange their travel, leaving Arual to count the dead.

Mother, father, Oriana, Oren, Roderick, Old Nan... she thought, each name a weight in her chest. Black circles had formed around her eyes—trophies from the broken nose she'd earned last night. Her eyes stung, not from the bruising, but the silent tears that made their way down the muck on her face. She felt small, drawn, and cold in a way she had never known existed.

It was not a cold borne of a morning chill, though there was that. It was a cold borne of emptiness. Something precious had been ripped out of her, leaving in its place a great cavity where the cold had snuck in and taken root. She shuddered.

Bran, who lay curled around Arual's bare feet, lifted his head as Duncan approached.

"My Lady."

"I'm not a Lady anymore, Duncan," she said hoarsely, voice raw from crying. She never took her gaze from the ruins of castle Highever. She did not dare so much as blink.

"Arual," he corrected gently. There was the sound of rustling fabric. Out of the corner of her eye, Arual saw Duncan produce an old cloak. Silently, he stooped and placed it around her shoulders. It was threadbare and smelled of fish and sweat—probably bartered off the old man, like their passage on the little boat. It did little to keep the chill away, but Arual found herself clutching it around her all the same.

"We have a few hours before we make it to the next port," Duncan said. "You would do well to get some rest."

He placed a hand on her shoulder.

It was warm and heavy, just like her father's had been. Just like her brother's. Just like Roderick's.

Arual flinched away from Duncan and the memories conjured by his simple touch.

"Don't!" she cried, sharper and louder than she meant. Duncan snatched his hand away, but his expression never changed. He watched her cautiously, curiously. Arual took several steadying breaths, fighting down a wave of emotion.

"Don't..." she repeated, softly this time.

Duncan said nothing. He nodded knowingly, and left her to her grief.

The fisherman delivered them, as promised, in West Hill. There, Duncan hid Arual and Bran away in a copse of trees and went into town with the fisherman's cloak around his shoulders to hide his blood-stained armor. Arual clung to Bran. Body heat resonated through the Mabari's short fur. Though the morning was cold, Arual found the heat cloying, but held on all the same. Bran, as ever, was a comfort to her--one she desperately needed in that moment.

I could run, she realized quietly as she waited for the Grey Warden to return. There was no need for her to wait here like a stray child for Duncan, or for her to become a Grey Warden. That was a decision someone had made for her--a bargain struck between men. No one had asked her if she wanted to become a Warden.

No one had asked her what she wanted.
Where would I go? she wondered haltingly. What would I do?

She had no money, no means, very little clothes, and no plan other than to free herself from a promise made without her consent. Whether Arual liked it or not, she was trapped. All she could do was learn to navigate this new cage and wait for the right moment to pick the lock.

I must get to Fergus and the king, she reasoned. Together, they would have the political power and justification to seek retribution against Howe and all his traitorous soldiers.

Only they can help me avenge everyone.

Within an hour, Duncan returned with a sack of supplies—soap, clothes, an empty waterskin, a loaf of hard bread, cheese, and cured meats. Maker only knew how he paid for it all (assuming he'd paid at all).

"There is a stream of clean water nearby," he said, the implications obvious. Arual was all too glad for the opportunity to wash away the evidence of the night before. Bran stood guard over her and the sword as Arual scrubbed every inch of her skin and hair until her flesh was raw and the water around her was darkened by ash and blood. The water was near freezing, but Arual hardly seemed to notice.

The clothes Duncan had procured for her were simple, but of sturdy quality—a long shirt, tunic, roughspun trousers, hose, shoes, belt, and jerkin. Layers against the cold in the south. The clothes, it seemed, were secondhand. Judging by the sweat stains and the smell of fish, she guessed Duncan had bought it off a fisherman's son. The clothes fit her well enough. The boy must have been young for a woman to fit his clothes so easily. Distantly, she prayed he'd be able to buy more with the coin Duncan hopefully gave him.

Thinking of the boy whose clothes she now wore drew her mind back to Highever and it's people. Highever had been home to more than Arual's family. Nearly twenty thousand souls lived on the cliffs of Highever, under the watchful eye of the Couslands. Now those souls were without protection. Would the mayor and city guard be enough to protect the people of Highever until Fergus returned?

Maker, what they must be thinking... she mused. Doubtless, fear and rumors were running rampant through the streets. What would they be saying?

Arual wanted nothing more than to run back home and let her subjects know that she was all right, that the Couslands had not abandoned them, but what then? If Howe's men returned to sack Highever, she'd be placing anyone who came between her and her would be killers in danger. Would she risk the lives of more of her subjects?

She shook her head as though to dislodge the thought. After all that had happened, she couldn't place anyone else she cared about in danger. All she could do was hope that, should Howe's men attack, they would spare her people.

Someday, I'll return, she promised silently. I'll make it right. I swear it.

Once Arual, Duncan, and Bran had had a chance to wash the blood and dirt away, they broke their fast on the meager food Duncan had provided.

If possible, the so-called meal only served to make Arual hungrier.

All too soon, Duncan declared they were done and helped Arual pack up what supplies they had. The last thing they wanted to do was leave evidence. If Howe's men were looking for Arual, they didn't want to give them any idea they'd ever been here.

"You must hide your face until we get to Ostagar," Duncan said, passing her back the cloak. Arual nodded. With quick, practiced hands, she knotted her long wet hair into a single braid and fastened it into a crown. With the hood of the cape drawn low over her face, her long hair disappeared altogether.

The sword was another matter.

Cutting the remnants of her nightdress into strips, Arual and Duncan created a harness of sorts that strapped the sword to Arual's back. It was crude, but with the cloak adjusted just right the sword was easily hidden.

I'm just another conscript, Arual thought. A poor kid who showed some promise with a blade, or maybe stole one too many fish and now I'm being sent off to join the Grey Wardens and die in the south.

The tale was an easy one to weave, one that was almost believable.

"We'll make for the Imperial Highway," Duncan said, checking his equipment.

Arual raised a brow. "Not exactly laying low."

"It is the fastest way to reach Ostagar. We don't have time to catch our dinner every night, and swords alone make poor hunting tools. With our supplies low as they are, we'll need to barter for tents or find an inn when we need to rest. The Imperial Highway will have what we need along the way. If we're lucky, we may even be able to find some horses, or a caravan heading south."

Arual nodded. Despite Duncan's prompting, she hadn't slept that night, and was too tired to argue.

So long as we make it to the south, I'll take whatever path I have to.

The Imperial Highway had been built by the Tevinter Imperium during the Ancient Age. Constructed from stone quarried by slaves in Kirkwall, the elevated road connected many of the great lands of Thedas. It circled Lake Calenhad and the Bannorn with one branch ending in Denerim and the other at Ostagar, its southmost point. Despite the splendor of some sections, the intended project was never finished, and many sections had fallen into disrepair over the centuries. Nevertheless, it remained useful to many travelers and merchants looking for a safe and quick road.

Here, Arual was just another faceless, sexless traveler. Duncan had hidden her in plain sight. Even if Howe's men were still searching for her, their chances of finding her amongst the throng was nil.

The three of them made good time along the paved causeway. They walked until midday when they took a rest and ate what was left of their rations.

Pain began to creep into Arual's bones. It had been easy enough to ignore when she'd been moving, but at rest every ache and pain made themselves known in different ways. Her muscles ached. Her neck, back, and shoulders were stiff with tension. She rubbed her temples to try to quiet the pounding of her skull, but to no avail. Her joints cried out for relief from the walking, and she was sure her feet were blistering from the soft secondhand shoes. Worst of all was the fatigue.

She had not slept for a day and a half. Her only food had been meager rations. She was tired from the walking and the pain and the turmoil of her heart.

Perhaps a short rest... she thought as she leaned against the old stone archway. The moss that covered the stone was soft and smelled wonderfully earthy. The gentle breeze cleaned the sweat from her brow.

Despite herself, Arual began to nod off in the lee of one of the arches that dotted the Imperial Highway.

Arual stood amongst the rubble of castle Highever.

It was dark. A dense fog blanketed the ground. Here and there the ruins of the great fortress pierced the haze like jagged, stony fingers. She shivered, and looked up, hugging herself. There were no stars in the night sky.

A groan snaked its way up from near her feet. Arual looked down with a jolt. Hands reached up from the fog—some she recognized, and many more she didn't. They were the hands of her loved ones, of her fallen family, her friends, of men, women, elves, children—all of them reaching towards her, desperate, angry. They grabbed at her clothes, and limbs, pulling her down into the mist. Arual cried out, her voice somehow foreign to her as he tried to pull away and wrench herself free.

Save us, they called in a voice of thousands. Save us!

"I'm sorry!" Arual cried. The ghostly hands of the fallen clawed at her, raked her clothes to tatters and cut her flesh in their desperation. Save us, their cries echoed all around her. Save us!

"I can't!" Arual screamed again, "Let me go! I can't save you!"

Save us!

Arual awoke with a start, a scream dying on her lips. The blood rushing in her ears drowned out Duncan's words as he knelt beside her, face pinched with concern. All she could hear was her own ragged breathing and the echoes of screams.

"I'm all right," she lied, waving him off. She stood quickly--too quickly it seemed as the blood rushed out of her head leaving her dizzy and seeing spots. She braced against the arch she'd fallen asleep under, her back to Duncan. She put a hand out to stop him from coming any closer.

"I'm all right," she lied again, more to herself than to Duncan.

They walked on into the night, neither of them speaking. Arual couldn't say if it was because Duncan was simply a stoic man, or if he was actively giving her the silence she craved, but she appreciated it all the same.

That night, they made a small camp beneath a ruined part of the causeway. The stone cracked where tree branches had grown into the highway creating a tent of leaf and stone. Duncan and Arual had gathered enough kindling, wood, and dry moss to make a small fire for the night, which Duncan lit with a bit of flint from his pocket and the edge of a dagger.

While they'd built up the fire, Bran had busied himself catching rabbits. The warhound had never been trained to hunt, but fortunately for the hungry travelers he took to it quite easily.
Arual watched in mild awe as Duncan quickly skinned, gutted, and skewered the rabbits on a pair of long sticks and set them over the fire to cook. He tossed the offal to the well-deserving Mabari and wiped the blood from his hands on the hem of his tunic.

"You must have spent a long time traveling," Arual said quietly, breaking their hours-long silence, "to be able to do that so quickly."

Duncan glanced at her before tending to the rabbits. A long moment passed, and it seemed to Arual that Duncan was weighing his words before speaking.

"I have," he said at last.

"I've never had to skin my own rabbit," Arual confessed. "Or cook my own food, for that matter. My father trained me as a warrior, but...he never prepared me for the life of a soldier. Or a Warden."

Perhaps if he thinks me unskilled, he won't be so eager to recruit me, Arual thought.

It wasn't a lie, of course. Arual had been taught a great many things in her life as a teyrn's daughter, but hunting and skinning wildlife was not among them.

Duncan was silent for a time as he digested her words.

"I suppose you feel a bit out of your element," he ventured.

"A bit."

"It was the same for me when my parents died," Duncan said softly. For a moment, Arual wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. She opened her mouth to ask, but Duncan continued in a gentle, subdued cadence. "I was just a boy, alone on the streets of Val Royeaux. I had to learn a great many things, and quickly, in order to survive."

"Oh, you're from Orlais, then?" Arual asked before she could help herself.

Duncan shrugged. "After a fashion. The truth is I was born in Highever, though much of my youth was spent traveling."

Arual found herself sitting up a little straighter, leaning forward just a little more, her eyes growing wide with childlike intrigue.

"You were from Highever?" she gasped.

Duncan nodded. He tried to stifle a chuckle, but failed. Embarrassed, Arual sank back into herself a little. Not to be deterred, Duncan carried on as though he were unaware of her discomfort.

"Yes, I'm from Highever. Originally. Though the Grey Wardens protect all of Thedas, not simply one small nation. That was a lesson my Warden-Commander drilled into me during my first few months with the order. She had to be quite strict with me, you know? I was not so eager to join the Wardens myself."

At this Arual's ears perked back up. "You weren't?"

"Oh, no," Duncan said, almost smiling again. His dark eyes swam with old memories as he tended the fire. "The first man I ever killed was a Grey Warden. I had only meant to rob him, but we fought. When my blade took him, he thanked me. I thought, how horrible the fate of a Warden must be for this man to thank me for taking his life."

"Will you tell me about it?" Arual asked timidly. "And about the Grey Wardens?"

Duncan scratched his bearded chin and sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, bit Arual thought she saw a twinkle in his dark eyes.

"What would you like to know?"

"Everything," she breathed.

***

Arual, Duncan, and Bran spent three days along the Imperial Highway. Despite Duncan's plans to find horses or a caravan of sorts, it seemed they had worn their luck thin in West Hill, and were forced to walk.

In that time, however, Arual asked what had to have been a hundred questions about the Grey Wardens and Duncan's time with them.

Duncan was all too happy to answer them.

Until then, all Arual had known of the order came from history lessons, unkind rumors among the noble class, and bedtime stories her father used to tell her.

Duncan's stories made her think of those times most of all, and filled her heart with a quiet longing, but it could not hamper her curiosity or the childlike wonder she suddenly found herself wrapped in.

When she slept, her dreams were not filled with nightmares of regret, but of griffins and magic and glory.

"I can't believe you knew King Maric!" she gushed. She clasped her hands and looked to the heavens as though she might see an image of the late king there, shining in all his glory. "I've read just about every book in the Cousland library about him. My father fought beside him, you know, when he lead the rebel army against the usurper from Orlais--"

Duncan had nothing but warm smiles and quiet laughter for his charge's newfound enthusiasm. Her fascination with the history of Thedas made for interesting conversation, especially on the rate occasion he revealed something her books had left out. To see her scandalized face one would think she was a maiden in Val Royeaux being told the latest gossip.

It certainly made their time on the road pass quickly.

Too quickly.

On the second night, they stayed in Redcliffe and were the guests of Arl Eamon Guirren. Unlike many other nobles, the arl didn't seem to hold any mistrust of the Grey Wardens, and welcomed Duncan and Arual into his home with gusto.

Arual, for her part, was grateful for the chance to have a hot bath instead of scrubbing hastily in a cold stream.

I suppose this will be my last got bath for a long while, she mused, pondering the tales Duncan had told her of the open road and his battles against the darkspawn. She supposed her life would begin to look very much like those stories from now on...

A thrill ran through her at the idea of a life filled with peril and adventure, but it was quickly silenced by a pang of regret. She was a noble lady. Her duty had always been to her family and her people before herself.

To think she would so readily abandon her thoughts of returning to Highever, or of avenging her parents...

She felt like a child taken on by a fantasy and playing pretend.

I am the daughter of a teyrn, she reminded herself. I must not forget this.

While in Redcliffe, Duncan sent several missives ahead of them to Ostagar by raven, and spent several hours in hushed talks with the arl.

The next morning, they were off with the dawn. Arl Eamon had been kind enough to send them with a pair of horses, their saddle bags full of supplies.

"Your generosity is appreciated, my Lord," Arual said with a bow.

"It is the least I could do for the daughter of Bryce Cousland," the elderly man said. He made to embrace her, but Arual stepped carefully out of his grasp. She offered, instead, a sad smile and her hand which he accepted with a knowing look. Eamon, like Duncan, was no stranger to loss or the nightmares that came with it.

It was late into the afternoon on the third day when, at last, Ostagar appeared on the horizon.

A ruined fortress on the edge of the Korcari Wilds, Ostagar represented the furthest point of encroachment by the ancient Tevinter Imperium into the barbarian lands of the southeast. Once, the fortress had been one of the most important defensive Imperial holdings south of the Waking Sea. Now, it's ruins were the stronghold the king's armies had built against the invading darkspawn and the final foothold of civilization in known Thedas.

Arual found herself spurring her horse forward until it was almost at a trot.

Without realizing it, her eagerness and anxiety at seeing Fergus again seeped into the beast.

Her mind raced, her heart fluttered. At last, they had made it to the fabled Ostagar, a place she only knew from history books and stories. At last, she would meet the king

As they approached the ruins, Arual could see a golden figure moving toward them. The man was ostensibly beautiful—hair as bright and shining as the sun framed an angular face and chiseled jaw. His gilded armor was polished to a mirror like sheen, the breastplate expertly crafted into the likeness of a snarling Mabari hound.

He was accompanied by an entourage of five armored knights, each bearing the arms and colors of the crown. Though he wore no crown, Arual had little doubt this man could be any other than King Cailan Theirin.

He smiled wide with glittering blue eyes as Arual and Duncan dismounted their horses at the gates.

"Ho there, Duncan!" he called gleefully. "I was beginning to think you'd miss all the fun."

"Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all!" said the king, moving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Grey Warden as though to emphasize his point. "Glorious!"

Still laughing, he spun back around, moving easily in his armor as though it were a second skin.

"The other Wardens told me you've found a promising recruit. I take it this is she?"

"Yes," said Duncan. "Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty—"

"No need, Duncan," the king said with a wave of his hand. He took a step toward Arual.

"You are Bryce's youngest, are you not?" he asked. "I don't believe we've ever formally met."

"Yes, your Majesty," Arual said with a low bow. "I am Arual Cousland of Highever."

King Cailan nodded, evidently proud he'd recognized her. "Your brother has already arrived with Highever's men, but we are still awaiting your father."

Arual's mouth became a thin line as she straightened. With an effort, she met the king's eye. She needed him to understand the gravity of her words, and all they meant.

"He's not coming, your Majesty," she said somberly. "He...died when our castle was taken."

"Dead?" echoed the king with incredulity. "Taken? What do you mean, my lady?"

"It is as I said, your Majesty. Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor. He and his men stormed and overthrew castle Highever in the night. If it had not been for Duncan, I would not have escaped either, and he would have told you any lie he wished."

"I...can scarcely believe it!" cried the king, looking truly crestfallen. "How could he think he would get away with such treachery?"

As though they were old friends, the king snatched up Arual's hands and closed his gauntleted fists around hers. He met her eye very seriously, and for a moment Arual forgot to breathe.

"As soon as our business here is at an end, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word, my lady."

Arual blinked, astonished. She had heard stories of the young and overeager king of Ferelden, but she had thought them to be the exaggerations of frumpy old nobles. King Cailan, however, seemed to live up to his reputation and more. Here he was--a man hardly older than Arual, chomping at the bit to fight darkspawn in his gilded armor alongside the fabled Grey Wardens, and making earnest promises of justice and retribution without a moment's hesitation.

"Thank you...thank you, your Majesty," she stammered.

He nodded sternly, then released her hands. Arual took a step back, inviting breathing room between them. If the king took notice of her discomfort, he didn't show it.

"No doubt you wish to see your brother," he said knowingly. "Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds."

"I must go to him, your Majesty," Arual insisted. "He may be in danger."

"We are all in danger, my lady. Nothing can be done until your brother and his team returns. I do apologize, but my hands are tied. As are yours All I can suggest is you vent your anger against the darkspawn."

Arual worried at her lower lip. If Howe had planned to overtake Highever as he had, who was to say that he had not also planted an assassin amongst the men Fergus commanded, or within Ostagar knowing he'd be here?

If he had, the rouge might have made a move by now, she thought. She tried to tell herself that she was overthinking things, that she'd had too little sleep and was weary from the road. It was as the king said: her hands were tied. Even if she could make her way into the wilds, finding Fergus would be nearly impossible. The sword hidden on her back felt heavy.

I will have to be content for now, she huffed.

"Thank you, your Majesty," she said with another low bow.

"I'm sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent," the king said, looking between her and Duncan. "No doubt Loghain waits to bore me with his strategies..."

"Loghain?" Arual echoed. "As in Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir? As in the Hero of River Dane? As in--"

"As in my father-in-law and self-appointed babysitter, yes?" the king groaned with a roll of his eyes.

Arual gasped, her hands shooting up to cover her open mouth. Teyrn Loghain was a man almost as notorious as the late King Maric. If even half the stories she'd heard of him were true, then he was practically a living legend!

"Could...could I meet him?" she ventured breathlessly.

"There will be time for that later," Duncan said, exasperated. He seemed utterly disenchanted by the idea of being surrounded by literal heroes. Arual was gobsmacked.

Duncan ignored her and turned his attention back to the king. "Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week," he said.

A smile cracked the king's handsome face. "Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory. We've won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different."

Arual tilted her head. "I didn't realize things were going so well."

The king heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I'm not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we've seen no sign of an archdemon."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Arual pressed
"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do..."

With a swagger that betrayed his youthfulness, King Cailan turned and walked away, calling over his shoulder to them. "Farewell, Grey Wardens!"

Arual watched him go with mixed feelings. He seemed so confident, so radiant in his armor and easy smiles. It was easy to see why so many soldiers had flocked to his call for arms against the darkspawn. He was like a hero in a tale, inspiring confidence with his talk of glory and victory. Yet something in Arual felt skeptical.

"What the king said is true," Duncan said as though reading her thoughts. She spared him a sideling glance. "They've won several battles against the darkspawn here."

"Yet you don't wound very reassured."
Duncan took the reins of his horse in hand and clicked his tongue to urge the steed forward. Arual followed suit. She noted how Duncan glanced around at the troops gathered to be certain no one was watching or listening. He dropped his voice low, speaking under the indistinct chatter all around the camp.

"I know there is an archdemon behind this," he confided. "But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feelings."

"Why not? He seems to regard the Grey Wardens highly."

"Yet not enough to await reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais," Duncan veritably growled. "He believes our legend alone makes him invulnerable. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay."

Arual stopped in her tracks, her horse and Bran stopping beside her. In his haste, Duncan didn't notice until he'd taken several strides forward. He, too, stopped and turned to regard his new recruit over his shoulder.

"What do you mean?" Arual asked. "What ritual?"

Duncan faced her completely, nodding as though he knew this question would come up eventually. "Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden," he explained. "The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon."

Arual sighed, annoyed. "No time for a meal or a bath, then..."

"Sadly, no."

He stepped forward and took the reins to Arual's horse. She raised a curious brow.

"I'll see to the horses," he said. "In the meantime, go to the hospital tent and seek healing for your broken nose and other injuries."

Arual shrugged. "They're not so bad."
"Trust me, you'll need your full strength for what lies ahead."

He said it casually, yet there was a decisiveness in his voice that brokered no argument. Arual felt a cool dread stir in her guts. Just what was this Joining ritual?

"When you're ready," Duncan continued, "the Grey Warden tent is on the other side of the bridge. There, you will find a Warden named Alistair. He will help you prepare for the ritual."

"Very well," Arual huffed.

Duncan nodded and gave a small, tired smile. "Welcome to Ostagar, my lady."

Chapter Text

We made it, Arual thought. As Duncan walked easily away, she ducked into a nearby copse of trees. The slender trees acted like a curtain between her and the gateway into the lost fortress. There, she knelt, breathing heavily with tears tugging at the edges of her eyes.
Bran was beside her, then, whimpering worriedly.
Arual reached a hand out and scratched the faithful Mabari behind the ears.
“I’m all right, boy,” she said. For the first time in days, it didn’t sound like a lie. “I’m just tired is all.”
And she was. Relief disguised as fatigue washed over her, making her limbs and eyelids heavy. For all her posturing earlier, she was truly in pain—the journey to Ostagar had been trying on her body, untested as it was. She ached from the walking and riding. Even her toenails hurt from walking for hours and hours along the Imperial Highway.
And that was on a paved causeway, she thought dully. She didn’t dare imagine what it would be like to travel the untamed world. The pain (and excitement) could not be borne. A small part of her resented Duncan and their timetable for denying her the rest she wanted, but she knew, too, that it couldn’t be helped.
“I just hope Fergus is all right, too,” she sighed. Bran chuffed and licked her cheek. The sentiment was clear: of course, Fergus would be all right. He was a Cousland, after all.
Arual allowed herself a tired laugh and pet Bran again.
“You’re right,” she said. “I suppose all there’s left to do for now is find this Alistair fellow.”
Bran barked excitedly. At least one of them was ready for the next leg of their adventure. Arual took a breath to steel herself, and stood.
“Let’s go.”
The camp at Ostagar was not unlike a small city with homes and shops being traded for tents and stalls. There were still camp followers and whores travelling with the king’s army, looking for quick and easy money, or low-hanging glory. They filtered through the soldiers, made distinct by the tabards and armor, as though perfectly at home. Smaller camps within the larger stronghold acted almost like city districts—there was a place for the mages, the Chantry, Templars, soldiers from the king’s army and numerous noble houses from across Ferelden.
Arual’s eyes searched for the blue and silver laurels of House Cousland, but Ostagar was a whirlwind of color and sound that boggled the senses. Picking any one person or house out among the pell mell felt nigh impossible. And the smell! Arual nearly gagged on the heavy odor of the camp. So many bodies pushed together for so long created a distinct and unpleasant smell—bodies, dog breath, horse shit, piss, and blood mingled with the sweat and dirt and damp so that any one aroma was lost to the greater stench.
It really will be too long before I can take a proper bath again, Arual practically cried.
If it had not been for the hastily erected signs pointing the way, she might never have made it into the hospital tent. Soldiers filled cots and bedrolls around a wide stone gazebo while nurses in their white wimples and healers moved among them. When not tending to the wounded, the hospital workers slipped in and out of a tent set up inside the gazebo.
“Look at them all…” Arual murmured. She’d grown up in a time of relative peace—in the wake of the last great war that shook Ferelden. Even now, with the darkspawn encroaching on their lands from the south, Arual had been content and safe in the north. Most of the injuries she’d seen or suffered were minor. A scrapped knee here, a bloodied nose there. She had never seen injuries on this scale before. The first time she’d seen death take a man by force had been only days before, and yet it had been swift; men fell and died with the stroke of a sword and…that was that.
This was different.
This was a death that lingered, that festered, that bit again and again until the wounded could take no more and finally, blissfully, passed into the realm of the Maker.
Arual’s stomach turned to water. She’d known there were casualties and wounded in times of war. That was what all of the history books she’d pored over had said, but there was something clinical about the way it had been described in her texts. Nothing could match the very real sight of the dead and dying. Nothing could have prepared her for…this.
Is that why Duncan sent me here? she wondered. To make me see this?
She didn’t want to believe the man she had come to admire in the short time they traveled together could be so cruel, and yet…
“Let’s just get this over with,” she said to Bran. The Mabari chuffed in agreement and trotted toward the tent, setting the pace for Arual.
She wove through the throng of wounded, trying not to look to hard at any one of them, when suddenly a hand clasped around her wrist. Arual stopped short, biting back a sound of alarm, and rounded on the person who had grabbed her.
"You...you need to convince them!” pleaded a man from his cot. He was white as a sheet, bloodshot eyes wide as dinner plates. “We've got to run! The darkspawn are coming!"
Arual wrenched herself free of his grasp and took a distinct step away from him. “Wha-what are you talking about?” she stammered.
"I saw them,” he insisted, voice trembling. “We're going to die!"
A harried nurse, her apron stained with blood and her hair falling gracelessly from her headcover, came over at the sound of his voice. Her brow was slick with sweat, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.
"I apologize, miss,” she sighed. “He's been like this ever since they found him in the Wilds."
"What's wrong with him?" Arual asked, glancing back at the man.
"Aside from his wounds, we're not sure. He's untainted, he's just...terrified."
"You can feel it, can't you?” the man asked, practically shouting now. “They taint the land, turn it black and sick. They'll come out of that forest and spread! Like caterpillars covering a tree. They'll swallow us whole!"
"Calm yourself, my good man," the nurse hushed.
"They were everywhere! I saw them!” the man cried. “We need to run! Run!"
Arual staggered backwards, practically tripping over herself in an effort to get away from the wounded soldier. Something hard struck her back, nearly knocking her over.
“Oof!”
Not something—someone.
Arual turned around, an apology already on her lips. “I beg your pardon,” she sputtered.
“That’s quite all right,” chuckled an elderly woman. She had a calming, kind countenance that made her seem instantly trustworthy. In one hand, she carried a long, golden staff entwined by two serpents whose mouths clasped the same fist-sized sphere of rhodonite, each surmounted by a pair of wings. She was swathed in richly colored robes of magenta and gold, clearly marking her as a mage. Her short grey hair was pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail behind her head, and though flanked by deep crow’s feet, her bright blue eyes appeared sharp and clear.
“That’s a nasty broken nose you have there,” she said with a motherly smile.
“Oh, erm, yes,” Arual said sheepishly. “Duncan—the Grey Warden—told me to come here and ask someone to see to it.”
“Then see to it we shall,” said the woman. She placed a hand on Arual’s shoulder and gestured with her staff, guiding Arual away from the wounded soldiers and to a more secluded area around the other side of the gazebo. For some reason, Arual didn’t mind so much that the woman treated her with such familiarity. Perhaps it was the shock of what the soldier had said, but whatever it was, Arual allowed herself to be guided away from everything by this woman.
With the tent between them and the bulk of the wounded, the elderly woman leaned her staff against a nearby bit of rubble, and turned her attention to Arual.
“So, you are Duncan’s newest recruit?” she asked conversationally. “He is not a man easily impressed. You should be proud.”
“Oh, erm…thank you.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” she went on. “I am Wynne of the Circle of Magi.”
“I am Arual Cousland,” she said, bowing low as she was accustomed. Wynne placed a gentle hand under Arual’s chin and tipped her face up. Arual straightened.
“There’s no need for that here, my dear,” Wynne said. “But well met all the same.”
Arual felt the all too familiar heat of embarrassment wash over her features. Back home, she had been considered a bright, well-learned girl having mastered many of her lessons and showing a voracious hunger for the histories of Thedas. After only a few days on the road with Duncan, she was beginning to see how little any of it had mattered. Here, in the real world, being studious and handy with a needle seemed…useless.
“Now, then,” Wynne said, drawing Arual from her dark thoughts, “let’s see what we can do about that nose of yours, hm?”
Her palm glowed with a soft pink light, as though from within. Arual flinched away, surprised, but Wynne passed her hand over Arual’s features before the younger woman could get too far. There was a horrible crunching sound, not unlike the one that racked her head when the nose was broken, then something…shifted. It was as though someone had pulled on her nose, hard, and straightened it out. A tickle at the back of her throat made Arual start to cough and gag. Wynne produced a handkerchief from a fold in her robes and held it out to Arual.
“Blow,” she said in a motherly voice.
Arual did as she was told, blowing her nose into the soft white fabric. Gobs of bloody mucus drenched the handkerchief from Arual’s once-broken nose. She coughed, clearing her throat, and Wynne expertly took the disgusting handkerchief away without so much as blinking, and pocketed it.
“How’s that?” ash asked. “Better?”
Arual inhaled slowly through her nose…and gagged. The camp had smelled bad enough when her nose didn’t work properly. Wynne chuckled, satisfied, and pulled a vial of something red from a satchel at her hip.
“Drink this.”
“Is it going to make the camp smell worse, too?” Arual asked, though she wasn’t sure that was possible. She took the vial and removed the stopper.
“It’s a simple potion,” Wynne said. “It should take care of the rest of those nasty bruises and restore some of your stamina. You’ll want to be ready if you’re going up against those darkspawn.”
Arual considered the vial in her hand for a moment, frowning.
“Have you fought darkspawn before?”
She brought the vial to her lips and drank. The liquid inside was warm, viscous, and tasted vaguely of almonds. The warmth of the potion slid down her throat and into her chest, her stomach, spreading out into her limbs, her fingertips, her toes. The aches and pains she’d earned along the Imperial Highway eased out of her as though they had never been. It was better than any hot bath she’d ever have.
“Straggles, yes,” Wynne admitted. “Not the hordes the scouts speak of.”
Arual flexed her hands and rolled her shoulders, finding the soreness that had been building there utterly gone. She frowned, watching her hands.
“Are they as frightening as everyone says?” Arual asked, trying to keep her voice even, calm, as though nothing at all were the matter.
“Worse,” Wynne said. Her voice had a sad, almost cold quality to it, as though the very thought of the darkspawn invited nightmares. Arual shuddered, but when she opened her mouth to ask Wynne another question, the old woman flashed her another motherly smile and said, “But I’m certain Duncan has more for you to do than talk to me.”
“I’m meant to find a Warden named Alistair, but—”
“The Grey Warden’s camp is the white tents at the far end of the bivouac,” Wynne said kindly, effectively putting an end to Arual’s questioned about the darkspawn. She pointed the way for Arual who tried to follow the old woman’s line of sight, but even as she craned her neck she was at a loss.
Wynne placed a gentle hand on Arual’s shoulder. “Good luck to you on the battlefield,” she said, urging her forward. “To us all, in fact.”
“You have my thanks,” Arual said, turning. She made to bow again, but stopped herself. Her lips became a thin line as she straightened. Wynne gave her a knowing smile. Arual nodded stiffly.
“Farewell,” she said, and turned to go, walking in the direction Wynne told her.
Honestly, this place is mad, Arual grumped to herself, it’s a wonder anyone can find anything!
Still, she had no other recourse but to follow the mage’s advice.
Eventually, she found herself climbing a ramp to what must have once been a balustrade, now overgrown with thin trees that snaked their way through the stone and carpeted in thick grass. Here there were very few people—soldiers and servants alike. Arual hoped that would make finding the Grey Wardens easier. As she turned a corner, she came upon two men speaking loudly. One was another mage, dressed in robes of gold and green, and an armored man with a shock of strawberry blond hair.
"What is it now?” the mage grumped. “Haven't Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?"
Arual’s ears perked up at the mention of the Grey Wardens. Perhaps the armored man would be able to lead her to his camp and she could find this Alistair person. She paused, waiting to interject into the conversation.
"I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage,” the armored man began evenly. “She desires your presence."
"What her Reverence desires is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens—by the king's orders, I might add!"
"Should I have asked her to write a note?" the armored man snarked, all pretense of respect or ceremony gone in a blink. Arual covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.
"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"
"Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message."
"Your glibness does you no credit."
"Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you...the grumpy one."
At this, Arual laughed. The mage turned a glare on her. Thankfully, Arual managed to camouflage the laugh as a cough and turned her gaze distinctly away from the mage, hoping he would be convinced of her innocence.
"Enough!” he roared. “I will speak to the woman if I must!"
The mage turned on his heel, heedless of where he was going, or anyone who might run into.
Namely, Arual.
"Out of my way, fool!" the mage spat, shoving her aside. Arual tried to keep her footing, but found herself unbalanced with the sword across her back. She fell, landing hard on her bottom. Bran growled after the mage, standing protectively over his mistress. He made no move to attack, but Arual noted the mage walked a bit faster.
"It's all right, Bran," she sighed. The Mabari turned and licked her cheek.
"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," said a voice.
Arual turned to see the man the mage had been speaking to standing over her. He offered her his hand.
He looked familiar somehow, but Arual couldn't place him. His skin was bronzed and rough from long hours of travel in the sun, and a shadow of a beard darkened his chiseled jaw. There was a laugh in his brown eyes mirrored by his crooked grin.
Arual took the man’s hand without thinking and he hoisted her up easily. Thick callouses covered his palm. Arual knew them by their touch and pattern—this man was a warrior, the hand he'd offered her was the one in which he wielded the sword at his hip.
Ser Gilmore had had the same callouses. So had her father.
Arual hastily snatched her hand away before the memories could drag her down into the depths of her grief. The man blinked, confused, then coughed awkwardly.
"Sorry, what?" Arual asked louder than she meant. She felt flush—embarrassed.
"Oh, nothing," he said. "Just trying to find a bright side to all of this. We haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"
Arual scoffed. "Don't worry, I'm no mage."
"Less being yelled at for me, then," the man chuckled. "Though the day is still young. Wait, I do know who you are. You're Duncan's new recruit from Highever."
Arual tilted her head. "You must be Alistair, then."
"Did Duncan mention me? Nothing bad, I hope. I'm sorry, he didn't mention your name in his letters."
"Arual Cousland."
"Cousland?" Alistair echoed. "As in Teyrn Cousland?"
"As in his daughter, yes."
Alistair made a low whistle of amazement. “Well met, my lady,” he said with a polite bow. Arual opened her mouth to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but before she could speak Alistair went on, musing aloud. “You know, there have never been many nobles in the Grey Wardens,” he said. “Come to think of it, there haven’t been many women, either. I wonder why that is. Not that I’d be opposed, mind you.”
Arual found a crooked grin hooking one side of her mouth as she folded her arms over her chest. “Is that so?” she asked, trying to take the man’s measure. Alistair realized what she was getting at and took a step back, putting up his hands in a defensive gesture.
“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m no lecher,” he said. Arual exchanged a skeptical glance with Bran, then raised a brow at Alistair.
“Please stop looking at me like that,” he said in a low quick voice. He coughed again, and changed the subject to one that Arual liked much more.
“In any case,” he said, voice cracking awkwardly. “We should get you prepared for the Joining. I assume Duncan has told you nothing, yes?”
Arual sighed and nodded.
“Excellent. Right this way, then,” he gestured the way Arual had come, and waited for her to fall into step beside him before leading her from the balustrade.
“So, tell me,” Alistair asked casually, “have you ever actually fought a darkspawn?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I was terrified when I killed my first,” he admitted seriously. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to fighting more.”
“Have you killed many?” Arual asked.
Alistair shrugged. “More than most, less than some. It’s not a particularly exciting part of being a Grey Warden.”
Arual thought back to the man at the hospital tent, and Wynne. They, too, had seemed horrified by the darkspawn and the very idea of encountering them, let alone fighting them. She chewed nervously at her lower lip.
“They’re…really that bad?” she asked timidly.
Alistair shot her a sidelong glance and tried to look apologetic. “Don’t worry,” he said, “Duncan wouldn’t have asked you here if he didn’t think you could handle it.”
Arual smiled appreciatively. That was twice now someone had told her that today. Most people looked disfavorably on women warriors, even in Highever, but here things seemed different. After learning about Duncan and his life with the Grey Wardens, hearing that he thought she was a good candidate for the order felt oddly thrilling.
I can’t let it go to my head, Arual advised herself. After all, there’s still a lot I don’t know.
She doubted Alistair would be any more forthcoming about the Joining or what it entailed than Duncan had been, but Arual was curious about a great many things, including why there were so many mages at Ostagar. It seemed King Cailan had requested their aid in fighting the darkspawn, but why did it seem as though they were helping the Grey Wardens specifically? Between Duncan sending Arual to see a mage for healing, and whatever the mage Alistair had been talking to was on about, it seemed the magic users were everywhere.
Arual, personally, had only ever known one mage named Father Aldous who worked in service of the Chantry first and the Couslands second as a keeper of lore and history. He’d been one of Arual’s many tutors, but she’d never seen him use magic—not really.
"The argument I saw...” Arual ventured cautiously, “what was that about?"
"With the mage?” Alistair asked. “The Circle is here at the king's request and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are,” Alistair said, rolling his eyes. “Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position. I was once a templar."
The Templar Order was a military order within the Chantry that hunted abominations, apostates, and maleficar. To that end, they also watched over the mages of the Circle of Magi in an effort to both protect and police them. Though Templars were officially deemed a force of defenders by the Chantry, many Fereldens, mage and non-mage alike, had mixed feelings about the order. Their advocates claimed they were saviors, holy warriors, protectors of the innocent, and champions of all that is good. Others saw them as symbols of the Chantry's control over magic with a religious fervor that inspired absolute devotion to their mandate rather than moral principles. Ultimately, their role was to protect the communities of the faithful from magical threats, protect mages from the populace, and subdue any who refuse to submit to the authority of the Circle.
"Oh…That would be awkward."
"I'm sure the revered mother meant it as an insult—sending me as her messenger—and the mage picked right up on that,” Alistair grumbled. “I would never have agreed to deliver the message, but Duncan says we're all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn't get the same message."
“Are there other Grey Wardens at Ostagar?”
“There are two recruits beside you,” Alistair explained. “Daveth and Jory. I’m sure you’ll be meeting them shortly.”
Alistair told Arual what little he had learned of the other recruits as he led Arual and Bran to an armory of sorts. There, a balding quartermaster helped outfit her with a mail hauberk, sword belt, grieves, gloves, bracers, and an unadorned shield.
“I need a sword,” Arual told him.
The quartermaster narrowed his eyes. “Seems to me, you’ve already got one,” he said, pointing to the Cousland ancestral sword.
“I can’t use this,” she protested.
“Well, I ain’t givin’ you a new one, seeing as you’ve got a perfectly fine one right there,” he sneered. He eyed the hilt a little more closely, a greedy glint coming to his beady little eyes. “That said, I wouldn’t mind a trade iffin you’re not gonna use that one.”
Arual clutched the sword closely. “It’s not for sale,” she growled through clenched teeth.
“Then off with you,” the quartermaster snarled, waving his hands. “Damn greedy Grey Wardens, thinking they can just come in and take what they want…”
Arual wanted to gripe, but she knew too well how and why Grey Wardens were disliked and mistrusted in Ferelden. She looked down at her father’s sword. She’d planned to give it to Fergus when she’d arrived at Ostagar. It was his by right of birth, after all, but more than that it felt like using the blade in combat—against darkspawn no less—would somehow tarnish the blade and all it represented. It was the one relic she was able to recover from her home before it burnt to the ground. How could she justify using it this way? Like a common sword?
Forgive me, father, she thought as she belted the sword at her hip.
“Any chance of a bite to eat?” Arual ventured, hoping to take her mind off things.
“Trust me, you’ll want an empty stomach for what’s ahead,” Alistair said. That did not make her feel better. He led her, then, to the Grey Warden’s pavilion on the opposite end of the camp. Arual felt the weight of her family’s sword on her hip as she walked. Despite her misgivings, Arual couldn’t escape how right the blade felt at her side—ready, and eager, for battle as it had not seen in over thirty years.
She bit her lower lip as she followed Alistair, wishing she could quell the conflicted feelings inside her.
When they arrived at the Grey Warden tent, Arual found Duncan standing idly around a small fire with two other men. One was a man of medium height and build with a quiver at his hip and a bow slung over his shoulder. The other was a large, beefy man with a sword nearly as large as he was strapped to his back. They seemed deep in conversation, but it died down as Duncan noted their approach.
"You found Alistair, did you?” Duncan said with a nod to Arual. “Good. I'll assume you are ready to begin preparations. Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair."
“What can I say?” Alistair spread his hands helplessly. “The revered mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt they should put her in the army."
"She forced you to sass the mage, did she?” Duncan raised a brow. “We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."
Alistair lowered his gaze, looking ashamed, if not contrite. "I apologize, Duncan,” he said.
"Now then, since you are all here, we can begin. You all know Alistair by now. He will be leading your party as you venture into the Korcari Wilds to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood—one for each recruit. Your hound is welcome to wait with me,” he said directly to Arual.
“Why can’t he join us?” Arual asked.
“A small party will be most useful for moving through the Wilds,” Duncan explained, “and he is the only one amongst you who is not required to go.”
Arual frowned and bit her tongue. Bran had hardly been away from her since the attack on castle Highever, and that was just how she liked it. In her heart, though, she knew that whatever lay ahead would be dangerous, and if it came down to it, she would want Bran safe in camp rather than out in the Wilds, left to Maker knows what. Hesitantly, she knelt by Bran and scratched behind his ears and under his chin.
“Be good, eh boy?” she cooed. Bran rolled onto his back and wiggled as she scratched his belly. Then, he jumped up, gave a single, happy bark of affirmation, and went to stand beside Duncan, who pat his head affectionately.
“Shame,” said the man with the bow. “I hear Mabari are quite fierce in battle.”
Watch over your charges, Alistair,” Duncan instructed. “Return quickly, and safely."
"We will," Alistair promised seriously.
"Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return."
“This way, men,” Alistair said, waving them on. Arual and the two other recruits followed Alistair away from the tent, and made their way through the camp. The man with the bow fell quickly into step beside Arual.
“Didn’t know they let women into the Grey Wardens,” he said, eyeing her. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. ‘Course I was hoping for a comely lass with blonde hair and poor eyesight.” He laughed at his own joke and draped an arm over Arual’s shoulders. “Name’s Daveth,” he said, breath hot on her ear. “What’s yours, love?”
Arual tried to shrug Daveth’s arm off, but he seemed all too used to women turning him away, and he held her fast. To all outward appearances, the embrace looked friendly enough—though it was anything but.
“I am Ser Jory, if there are to be introductions,” said the other man, affecting as much of a bow as he could while still keeping pace with the others.
“You’re a knight?” Arual said, blinking.
“I was,” Ser Jory admitted, “until Duncan recruited me. I was in the service of Arl Eamon at Redcliffe. Where are you from, my lady?”
Arual chewed her words for a moment, still trying to shrug off Daveth’s arm. She supposed there would be no use hiding the truth. These men were to be her fellow Grey Wardens, after all, and Duncan and Alistair both knew who she was.
“I am Arual Cousland of Highever,” she said imperiously, “daughter to Teyrn Bryce Cousland and heir to the teyrnir.”
The shift in her voice, however, did not have the desired effect. Daveth kept his arm firmly around her shoulders, chuckling darkly.
“Sounds lovely,” he said, “except it ain’t true. Not anymore. Once you’re a Grey Warden, love, you don’t belong to anyone or anything else. It’s like your slate’s been wiped clean,” he motioned with his hand as though cleaning a surface. “It’s all gone now—the good, and the bad.”
Arual felt cold all over again.
This…was a fate she had not considered. The Grey Wardens were not meant to serve any one house or country—they served all of Thedas. Arial had never thought about what that might mean. Of course, Grey Wardens would have to sever ties with their family and allegiances in order to serve the order and nothing else. It was why criminals had been drawn to the order for so long. Being a Grey Warden meant escaping justice for their crimes because to be a Grey Warden was a worse fate than any jail cell.
In exchange for her life, her father had promised her to an order that would strip her of her titles, her power, her recognition. In exchange for seeing the world, she’d become nothing more than a killer—no better than a common criminal. In exchange for saving Thedas, she’d lose herself.

Chapter Text

Alistair led the recruits to the edge of camp. There, a pair of guardsmen flanked a hastily erected wooden gate—the only protection between Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds.

"Hail," he said as they approached.

"Hail," one of the guards replied. "I'm told you all have business in the Wilds. The gate is open to you."

As he spoke, his fellow guardsman went about unlatching the gate so it might be wrenched open.

"I just love how quickly word seems to get around camp about these little things," Alistair jibed. He knew Cailan was fond of the Grey Wardens, but to have half the camp jumping at their every whim...

"Just be careful out there," the man at the gate warned. "The forest isn't safe, even for you Grey Wardens."

Behind him, one of the recruits gulped audibly. Alistair fought the urge to sigh. As if going into the wilds wasn't frightening enough, these soldiers had to go and get the recruits all jumpy.

Maker's breath! he swore internally, though he knew they would each have to learn eventually. Duncan had always maintained a method of 'learn by doing,' and when it came to the life of a Grey Warden, Alistair wasn't sure there was a better way. If he ever found it, though, he'd certainly try. The life of a person in their order was...harsh, to say the least.

"Right, thank you very much, this way to the doom and gloom, everyone," Alistair snarked, ushering the recruits through the gate.

Arual stepped through the gate behind Alistair. If there were darkspawn in these woods, she wanted to be as close to the only true Grey Warden among them as possible.

Like everything else she'd encountered since fleeing Highever, Arual only knew of the Korcari Wilds through books and ghost stories. It was said these woods could drive a man mad, that its evil would seep into your every pore and taint you as sure as any darkspawn.

She shuddered at the thought as they marched into the woods. First one mile. Then two.

The forest's dangerous reputation had yet to prove itself, but it certainly looked unlike anything she had ever seen before. The giant trees twisted like they were frozen in the throes of agony, and a perpetual cold mist clung to the ground. It gave the forest an ominous feel, one that deepened the further they marched. One of Arual's tutors had explained the reason for the mist, but her mind was racing too fast to recall any of the particulars.

Dim light filtered down from overhead, and she could just barely make out the overcast sky through the patches in the tree canopy. It made the day seem later than it was.

The mist made travelling difficult; she couldn't see where she was stepping most of the time, and her boots got caught between gnarled roots or in small depressions in the mud.

Daveth suddenly gave a long, low whistle behind them and everyone stopped.

"What do you suppose did that, eh?" he asked, pointing with his chin.

Arual looked at the fallen tree where Daveth was pointing. It was an elder poplar, papery white and ten times as wide as herself. Some unknown force had ripped it out of the ground. Massive exposed roots snaked around the alcove like giant tentacles.

"Let's not stick around to find out," said See Jory.

The Wilds were full of fallen, ancient trees, sometimes toppled in large groups that made Arual wonder just what force could do this. Her mind turned to tales of dragons, but there had not been actual dragons seen south of River Dane in decades. Not that there couldn't be other giant creatures lurking in the Wilds. Arual had heard tales of things like great savage bears as large as a house and blue-skinned ogres with horns as long as a man's arm. She supposed they should be grateful that those weren't anywhere in evidence either at the moment...

A snapping of branches and a groan caught her ear. Arual whirled about, hand hovering over her sword hilt. Daveth gave a chuckle at her expense.

"Oh, jumpy are we?"

She shot him a scowl.

"Who...is that?" someone groaned. The party all turned together toward the sound. Alistair crept forward first, weapons still sheathed. The others followed. Just over a small ridge, hidden hitherto by the mist, crawled a man in armor. And blood. Through the gore, they could see his tabard bore the king's colors. He strained to look up at them.

"Grey...Wardens...?"

"Well, he's not half as dead as he looks, is he?" Alistair said light-heartedly.

"My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn," the dying soldier explained wearily, his voice thin as old parchment. "They came out of the ground."

"Scouts?" Arual echoed, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. She fell to her knees and grabbed the soldier by the shoulders, urging him to meet her gaze. "Please, I must know if Fergus Cousland was amongst your party."

"Please! Help me!" the soldier gasped. "I've got to...return to camp."

"But my brother—" Arual's word died in her mouth as a hand gripped her shoulder. It was somehow gentle and firm all at once, like a kind reminder that could not be ignored. She looked up, ready to bite the hand off whoever was getting in the way of finding her brother, but when she saw the concern in Alistair's honey brown eyes, the rage in her evaporated (much to her chagrin).

"I have bandages in my pack," he offered, drawing the supplies from a fat pouch along his belt.

"Thank you! I...I've got to get out of here!"

Alistair quickly bandaged the soldier up as best he could. It was not the first time he'd needed to staunch bleeding in the field, but he was no nurse and it showed. Still, the soldier was adamant that he could make it back to camp now that the bleeding had stopped. Alistair gave him a small vial of a healing potion from his pack anyway, just to be sure. The soldier took it with a deal of gratitude and downed it like one would a shot of liquor.

Arual watched him limp away curiously.

"Did you hear?" See Jory hissed once the man was out of ear shot "An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!"

"Calm down, Ser Jory," Alistair said. "We'll be fine if we're careful."

"Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There's an entire army in these forests!"

"There are darkspawn about, but we're in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde," Alistair assured him, doing all he could to project a sense of calm.

"How do you know? I'm not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless," See Jory said. He was talking very loudly and very fast now. "We should go back."

"You sound like a coward to me," Daveth sneered.

"I...am simply trying to stay alive. You do not see me fleeing, do you?"

"A bit of fear isn't unnatural, you know," Alistair assured him. "Few relish meeting darkspawn up close. I know I don't." He placed a hand on Ser Jory's shoulder, and met his eye. "Know this: All Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won't take us by surprise. That's why I'm here."

"You see, ser knight?" Daveth japed. "We might die, but at least we'll be warned about it first."

"That is...reassuring?"

"That doesn't mean I'm here to make this easy, however, so let's get a move on."

Arual chewed at her lower lip as she fell into step behind Alistair. Despite Alistair's reassurances, she was still fearful of the darkspawn. If they were half as bad as everyone seemed to think they were...

She shuddered and tried to put the thought from her mind. She didn't want to entertain the possibility that Fergus was anywhere but safe back at camp—that they had only just missed each other somehow.

Maker, watch over my brother, she prayed.

"Look there..." Alistair said, his voice heavy. Arual followed his gaze up into the trees. There hung a corpse, a human man with clammy skin like a fish. He was strung up by his neck and arms, dangling like a broken puppet, with flies and the smell of turning meat hovering in the air. The man had been slain by a wicked, jagged blade that opened his guts to spill out blood and entrails.

"Poor slobs," Alistair sighed sadly. Arual gaped as she saw the man was not alone. There were other bodies in the trees, just a few that she could see, hidden in the mist and shadows. Most of them were skeletons with nothing more than tattered cloth and scraps of wispy hair clinging to them.

Hers eyes darted amongst the dead, searching for any sign of her brother. She breathed a slow sigh of relief when she found none.

The further into the Wilds they went, the stranger they became. Gnarled tress of every size and color surrounded them, knotted bark that looked like eyes peered out from some of the thinner ones, while jagged hollows in others appeared like gaping maws filled with hungry teeth.

Here and there they passed by the remnants of some ancient civilization. The ruins hung thick with moss and vines, and statues had been covered in gore and bones and the trappings of darkspawn and Chasind alike—graffitied and defaced.

Arual wasn't sure how long or far they had been walking when Alistair suddenly signalled for them to stop. The mist was thick here—thicker than anywhere they'd come across so far. Arual couldn't see more than a few feet in front of her, but something had given Alistair pause. She swallowed past a lump forming in her throat.

"Get ready," he instructed the others.

All at once, the four of them drew their weapons, and waited, hardly daring to breathe.

The four of them froze as they saw a humanoid shape slowly shamble toward them out of the gloom. At first it seemed to be a man, but as it drew closer, they saw it clearly was not. It was a hideous mockery of a man, skin puckered and boiled with bulging white eyes and a toothy, malicious grin. It wore a mishmash of metal armor, some rusted and some of it held together with scraps of frayed leather. In its hands it carried a wicked-looking sword—all points and odd angles.

The creature held its sword in front of it in a menacing manner, staring at them hungrily as if they didn't represent a true threat of any kind.

A deep humming was coming from it. The creature was moaning softly, almost chanting, and this moan built upon the sounds of many others behind it in the mist. They hummed in unison, a hushed and deadly whisper the creatures spoke as one.

Arual took a step backwards, gulping loudly.

More began to appear behind the first. More tall ones, some wearing strange headdresses and blindfolds, others in more impressive armor covered in deadly spikes. Some wore little armor at all, their black and diseased skin covered in scars. There were shorter ones, as well, ones almost dwarf-sized with pointed ears and wide, demonic grins. All of them walked as calmly as the first, shambling toward them while moaning and hissing softly. The sound was loud now, reverberating around them like a physical force.

"Darkspawn," Alistair spat. He held his sword up before him warningly, watching the creature at the head of the emerging pack. "Move back," he murmured.

They slowly backed up, warily matching the pace that the darkspawn approached with. At the back, Daveth turned about and suddenly halted, gasping in fear. "Alistair!"

Through the mist more of the monsters could be seen drawing near from behind. They were surrounded.

"How did they get behind us?" Ser Jory cried, panic evident in his voice.

"Careful," Alistair warned. The four of them backed up against the wall of the ruins, keeping close. They watched the darkspawn advance, their weapons held at the ready. Even with their prey cornered, the creatures did not accelerate. Their hum became louder, reaching a hungry, fever pitch.

The darkspawn continued their slow, inevitable approach. Twenty feet. Then ten. The four of them stood with backs pressed together, sweat pouring as they watched and waited.

The first darkspawn stepped forward, bared its fangs and roared. Alistair met it and slashed his longsword across the monster's chest in a wide arc. It reared back in agony, issuing a gurgling scream.

This finally seemed to energize the rest of the horde. They roared in turn and began to push forward. Daveth barely knocked a wicked blade aside with his dagger, just escaping being stabbed. Ser Jory pushed Daveth behind him, interposing his armor to take the darkspawn blows. Alistair swung wide with his longsword, pushing them back with sword and shield. Arual kicked one of the smaller creatures back into its fellows, knocking them down, and then began to stab with precise, clean blows.

The ferocity of their defense worked in their favor, at least for the moment, before their darkspawn surge began to push them against the wall. They could not knock the blades aside fast enough, and though the recruits kept pushing the creatures back, the others would heedlessly step over their fallen to strike.

The great moaning sound reached a crescendo, drowning out everything but the ring of steel upon steel.

And then a new sound interrupted the battle: a crack like the snapping of a great tree split the air, accompanied by a devilish purple light which permeated the mist.

Many of the creatures began to turn and hiss with outrage at something that was descending on them from behind. Violet light lit the fog from that direction; each tiny water droplet suspended in the air caught reflected the light, making it seem that half the world had been consumed by the color.

And that was when she appeared.

In the haze of battle, Arual could only make out that the woman was dark-haired and pale-skinned, and that she wielded a gnarled, black staff in one hand. A mage. There was no knowing where she had come from, why she was there, and why she seemed to be helping the recruits, but neither was there time to ponder these things.

Alistair seemed to realize this, too, and pushed forward, stabbing his blade deep into the back of the darkspawn that had turned away from him. The creature roared in pain as Alistair kicked it off his sword and then turned to face another. Encouraged, Arual and Daveth did the same and began to fight toward the mage. Ser Jory went with them, albeit hesitantly—for all they knew the mage could be worse than the darkspawn, but for the moment they were the enemy of their enemy. The recruits were willing to take their chances.

The result was dramatic. A great cry of terror went up from the darkspawn as their ranks began to dissolve. The ones behind Ser Jory and the others turned and fled, while the ones caught between the recruits and the mage began to fight viciously and desperately.

Within minutes it was over. The last of the darkspawn had fled, screaming, into the Wilds. What remained was a charnel house of gore, darkspawn bodies littering the ground with their black blood pooling over the forest floor.

"It's over..." Arual said breathlessly. Her heart was hammering in her chest so loudly she was sure the others could hear it. Her face was flush with battle, sweat slicking the flyaway hairs from her braided crown to her brow. Her breath misted before her in the cold forest air. Looking around, she saw Daveth and Ser Jory were much the same.

Only Alistair remained vigilant.

Arual followed his narrowed gaze toward the mage who had helped them.

She...was...beautiful...

At a glance, she did not appear much taller than Arual, though certainly several years older—a decade at most. Her smooth skin was the color of fresh milk, a quality that was impossible to ignore given the woman's lack of clothing. Glittering golden necklaces circled her long, slender throat, camouflaging the clasps to a harness of knots that held up her significant bosom. The plunging neckline of her burgundy shirt hinted as to its complicated nature, but hid enough to leave the whole of it a mystery. Her lips were painted a dark purplish color, like frozen mulberries, but it was her eyes that had Arual ensorcelled.

They were the golden yellow of a cat or a snake, pupils slitted like some nocturnal predator. Like her lips, her eyes were decorated with a dark purple powder, giving her an almost skeletal look. Dark hair fell over one of her eyes—a dark as a moonless night. The length was impossible to determine, however, as she kept it in a tidy chignon.

"Who are you?" Alistair demanded. The force in his voice was enough to break the spell Arual had suddenly found herself under. "State your name and purpose."

"I have watched your progress for some time," the mage said, her voice deep and melodic as she approached. "'Where do they go?' I wondered, 'why are they here?'"

"Don't answer her," Alistair warned the others. "She looks Chasind, and there may be others nearby."

"You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you!" the woman mocked, gesturing with her hands above her head. Alistair narrowed his eyes.

"Yes," he growled, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Swooping is bad..."

The woman rolled her golden, cat-like eyes and scoffed. That was when she noticed Arual. She turned her attention fully to the younger woman, intrigue shining in those golden eyes.

"You there. Women do not frighten like little boys," she shifted her weight to one hip, holding her gnarled black staff slightly behind her, showing she was no threat. "Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine."

Arual, caught off guard, jumped half out of her skin and fell into a courtly routine that was almost second nature to her. She gave a small bow and spoke with all the grace and courtesy of the noble lady she'd once been. "I am Arual, my lady. It is a pleasure to meet you."

The woman chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that lit a fire in Arual's cheeks. All too late, Arual recalled there being legends about mages and Chasind alike—warnings to never give them your blood, hair, or name. Had she just doomed herself?

"Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call my Morrigan."

Arual nodded. "Th-Thank you...for your help back there," she stammered nervously.

"What manners," Morrigan said. She smiled hungrily at Arual, and when she spoke, her voice was all warm honey and amatory promises, "I like you."

Arual shuddered.

"I'd be careful," Alistair said in her ear. "First it's 'I like you,'—" he affected an effeminate voice to imitate Morrigan (a poor attempt at her sultry, come-hither tone), "—then zap! Frog time."

"She'll put us all in the pot, she will!" Daveth cried. "Just you watch!"

"If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nice change," Ser Jory cut in, sounding brave for the first time since they'd entered the Wilds.

"Please," Arual cut in. She looked at Morrigan, hoping the other woman could see all the worry and desperation in her eyes, her face.

"If you have been watching us, then have you been watching all the soldiers who came into the Wilds? Every dispatch of scouts?"

Morrigan studied Arual for a long moment, so long, in fact, that Arual wondered if the other woman would answer her at all.

"You are looking for someone," Morrigan said at last. It was not a question, but a statement of fact. And she was correct.

"My brother," Arual confirmed. "He is part of a scouting party that came into the Wilds ahead of us. Have you seen them?"

Flashes of the wounded soldier they'd met on their way into the Wilds kept flashing in her mind's eye. Could the same fate have befallen Fergus? Was her brother still alive? She had to know.

"I have not seen them, if that is your quandary," Morrigan answered. "Though perhaps my mother has."

"Can you take us to her?" Arual blurted before she could think better of it.

A familiar hand touched her shoulder. Arual turned to see Alistair's understanding, yet firm gaze. "We don't have time," he said as gently as he could. "We need to get back to camp."

"Please, Alistair," Arual pleaded. "He's my brother. He may...he may be the last Cousland heir."

"I understand, but—"

"Follow me, then, if it pleases you," Morrigan said nonchalantly and turned to go. Arual gave Alistair a significant look.

"I'm sorry," she said, and chased after Morrigan.

***

To Arual's surprise and pleasure, Alistair, Daveth, and Ser Jory followed Morrigan alongside her. They muttered unhappily the whole time, but they followed nonetheless.

Deep in the thick of the forest, where the white mist turned into an obscuring fog and the sun barely reached, there stood a simple weathered hut with a roof of brown moss and old branches. It lay at the end of a short path, and thick, dark ivy crept up the walls on all sides. More significant were the ropes of skulls hanging along the path: rat and wolf and some Arual couldn't identify all tied together with feathers and sticks and mud. They dangled ominously, a sign staking claim to this land. Maybe there was magic here, too, for Arual felt a strange sensation running up her arms and into the back of her neck. The air bristled with power, and the way the mist flowed seemed to beckon them further.

As they walked down the path, the shadows seemed to deepen. The trees towered more ominously overhead, and the mist twisted and danced around them. Was it a trick of the light? Or something more...sinister?

In front of the hut sat a small rickety rocking chair as well as an old fire pit that had not seen use for many days. Small moldy bones surrounded the pit in neat piles.

"Greetings, Mother," Morrigan said, sounding almost bored. Arual looked around, but couldn't see who she could be talking to.

"I bring before you four Grey Wardens, who—"

"I see them, girl," came a new voice. A decrepit woman hobbled into view from among the trees. She was the very picture of a witch, wild white hair and a robe formed mostly of thick black furs and dark leather. Hanging down her back was a heavy cloak trimmed in fox fur, quite striking and delicately stitched. She carried a basket filled with large acorns and other items wrapped in red cloth. She eyed the four of them.

"Mmm," she said, her voice thin and raspy. "Much as I expected."

"Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"You are required to do nothing," the old woman rasped. "Least of all believe."

Her voice was cackling with easy amusement, which made the situation all the more surreal. The old woman walked toward the hut without waiting for them and sat herself down in the rocking chair with a belabored sigh.

"Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide..." she set her basket down and folded her gnarled hands in her lap. "Either way, one is a fool."

"She's a witch, I tell you!" Daveth said shakily. "We shouldn't be talking to her!"

"Quiet, Daveth!" Ser Jory hissed. "If she's really a witch, do you want to make her mad?"

The old woman chuckled darkly. "There's a smart lad," she said. "Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will."

Without moving an inch, the witch's gleaming cat-like eyes flicked to Arual.

"And what of you?" she purred. "Does your woman's mind give you a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as these boys do?"

Arual glanced about at the hut and wood all around, at the two women before her and the men behind her, and considered the situation—the pure madness of it.

"I'm not sure what to believe," she admitted.

"A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies," the old woman said approvingly. "Be always aware...or is it oblivious? I can never remember."

She cackled suddenly, as though amused at a joke told by some unseen and unheard force.

"So much of you is uncertain...and yet I believe. Do I?" she turned her head as though listening for something the rest of them could not perceive. "Why, it seems I do!"

"So, this is the dreaded Witch of the Wilds?" Alistair murmured dubiously.

"Witch of the Wilds, eh?" the old woman echoed. "Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it! Oh, how she dances under the moon!"

"They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother..."

"True...ask your question, then, girl," the witch said to Arual.

Arual swallowed past a lump in her throat. How had the old woman known she was the one with a question? Could she tell by her face? Her body language? Could it have been magic?

"I-I-I'm looking for my brother," Arual stammered at last. "He was a part of a scouting party that came into the Wilds. Have you seen him? Is he all right?"

The old woman smiled greedily, almost sneering. "Yes, yes, your brother is fine, girl. So little faith. How ever shall she triumph?"

Arual had no proof the witch's words were true, had no way of knowing this woman was not mad or lying, and yet she believed her.

Relief flooded through Arual, releasing the tension from the knots in her shoulders. The sudden rush of blood and air from her muscles was enough to make her lightheaded. She swayed on the spot, her eyes filling with tears.

"Thank you," she sobbed quietly. "Thank you "

"Indeed," the woman said, sounding bored. "Now, go. Tell your Grey Wardens this Blight's threat is greater than they realize!"

"What do you mean?"

"Either the threat is more than they realize or less. Or perhaps the threat is nothing! Or perhaps they realize nothing!"

She laughed again. "Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for."

"But we—"

"Time for you to go, then," Morrigan said curtly. It was clear by her tone that they were no longer welcomed there. Arual felt something shift in her gut.

"Do not be ridiculous girl," the old woman chided sweetly, as though she were a sweet grandmother in a fairytale. "There are your guests."

"Oh, very well," Morrigan pouted, almost childlike. "I will show you out of the woods. Follow me."

Chapter Text

It was full dark by the time the recruits made it back to camp. Despite Alistair's misgivings, Arual was grateful to Morrigan for leading them out of the Wilds. The journey back certainly seemed shorter with her as their guide.

All the while, Arual clutched at the vial of darkspawn blood in her hand. Alistair had made certain each recruit had gathered a vial, as Duncan had instructed, before allowing them to be led to Morrigan's hut.

As guilty and foolish as Arual felt for forcing everyone's hand in the matter, she could not help the joy she felt knowing Fergus was safe.

"What's to say that old witch was telling the truth, eh?" Daveth had grumbled on the way back, obviously ill at ease with Morrigan and the Wilds as a whole.

Arual didn't begrudge him that. He had a point after all. There was no proof that either of the women in the wilds had been telling them the truth. For all Arual could prove, they'd been toying with her. Yet something deep in her gut, some intuition, told her they spoke the truth. Perhaps it was some inherent bond between women, however strange, or perhaps it was simply wishful thinking and willful ignorance.

Either way, Arual chose to believe.

Bran's excited bark greeted them as the recruits returned to the Grey Warden pavilion. Arual giggled and feel to her knees so Bran could rush into her arms, nearly knocking her over as he collided with her chest. She scratched his belly and cooed about what a sweet boy he was and he rolled in the grass and chuffed.

“So, you return from the Wilds," Duncan said, standing over them with crossed arms and a bemused expression. "Have you been successful?”

“We have," Alistair answered shortly. Arual waited for him to tell Duncan about Morrigan and her mother, to throw her under the proverbial carriage for her silliness, but he didn't. When he said nothing, she blinked, confused. Was he covering for her? Or had he simply not thought it a bother after all?

There was no time to ponder, however, as Duncan's face became deadly serious.

“Good," he said. "I’ve had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you’ve retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.”

Arual stood, vial of blood still in hand. She held it out to Duncan warily. “Now will you tell us what this ritual is about?” she asked. "What this blood is for?"

To his credit, Duncan had the decency to look ashamed, even sorrowful. “I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are," he said heavily. "Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.”

“Are you…are you saying this ritual can kill us?” she took a step away, mortified.

“As could any darkspawn you might face in battle,” he reasoned. “You would not have been chosen, however, if I did not think you had a chance to survive.”

“Let’s go then,” Daveth cut in sharply. “I’m anxious to see this Joining now.”

Arual opened her mouth to object, but Duncan beat her to it.

“Then let us begin," he said. "Alistair, take them to the old temple.”

***

The old temple turned out to be a circular area not far from the Grey Warden's camp. There was no ceiling, and so the temple was filled with the chill brume of the south. The only light came from the pregnant silver moon in the sky, and the dozen or so candles that had been balanced in the nooks and crannies of the ruins. A path of smooth stone spiraled toward a central altar upon which sat a great silver chalice, the neck of which had been delicately sculpted into the likeness of a griffon.

The recruits had been stripped of their armor and instead given ill-fitting white robes fastened with lengths of grey rope. Arual shivered from her bare head to her bare feet in the southern chill. That moment, more than most, made her miss the cheery warm halls of Highever, the glasses of mulled wine, and the thick blankets that were once there.

Now, all of that was gone.

All that lay ahead were...monsters.

“The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it,” said Ser Jory, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Are you blubbering again?” Daveth heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?”

“Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you.”

“I only know that my wife is in Redcliffe with a child on the way. If they had warned me…” Ser Jory muttered a curse under his breath. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Would you have come if they’d warned you?" Deveth asked seriously. "Maybe that’s why they don’t. The Wardens do what they must, right?”

“Including sacrificing us?” Ser Jory said acidly.

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if it would end the Blight.”

“We don’t know that it would!”

“Don’t we?" Daveth's voice was suddenly sharp, cold. Like a dagger poised to strike. "The Grey Wardens have saved the world from darkspawn before. I’d say they know better than anyone what it takes. You saw those darkspawn, ser knight. Wouldn’t you die to protect your pretty wife from them?”

Arual bit her lip.

She had assumed Daveth was simply an insufferable flirt and a pickpocket, but perhaps there was some courage to him after all. His words weighed on her. She had always done her duty as Lady of Highever. She'd been diligent in her lessons, even the ones she hated, and had been willing to go so far as to marry Nathaniel Howe before his family's treachery. Was this not some extension of that duty? Not just to the people of Highever, but all of Ferelden? All of Thedas? The darkspawn were horrific—nightmares made manifest. And yet was that not all the more reason they needed to be stamped out? Was this not a nobler than sitting a throne and managing her husband's estate? Was this not the greater good so many spoke of? Even if the Couslands were gone, even if Fergus was lost to her or could not rebuild their family name, perhaps she could ensure that a Cousland would always be there to fulfill the promise of all nobles: to protect and serve those under their rule.

Perhaps she could make a difference, if only a small one.

She felt herself growing braver as she pondered the idea, letting the little light of hope fill her with what warmth it could.

“I…” Ser Jory tried weakly to protest, but it seemed his mind had fallen to the same conclusions she had. Whether he'd meant it or not, Daveth had inspired both of them—much to Ser Jory's chagrin.

“Maybe you’ll die. Maybe we’ll all die," Daveth allowed. "If nobody stops the darkspawn, we’ll die for sure.”

“I’ve just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade…”

Before anyone else could speak, two figures approached from the opposite side of the temple.

Alistair and Duncan swept in, each wearing grey cloaks clasped with silver pins in the shape of a griffon. Arual recalled legends of Grey Wardens riding griffons into battle, but she had not realized their symbols meant so much to the order. Perhaps the legends spoke of the order's heraldry, rather than true griffons?

“At last, we come to the Joining," Duncan said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

Arual felt queasy as her worst fear was realized. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand, fighting back the bile rising in her throat.

“We’re going to drink the blood of those…those creatures?” Ser Jory cried, outraged and disgusted.

“As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you," Duncan said somberly. He understood their disquiet, but also knew there was no going back for the recruits. Not now. Not ever. He lifted the chalice from the altar with both hands in an act of reverence he held it up, the silver catching the moonlight. "This is the source of our power, and our victory.”

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint," Alistair explained. "We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon.”

“Not all who drink the blood will survive and those who do are forever changed," Duncan elaborated. "This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay."

He looked to each recruit in turn, meeting their eyes one at a time. There was a hierarchy to the Grey Wardens, but in this moment Duncan made sure to let each of the three recruits know that he saw them all as equals. A pickpocket. A knight. A high born lady. Each of them deserved a place amongst the once prestigious order. Each of them were worthy of serving the realm and those within it. Arual felt a lump forming in her throat.

When Duncan was satisfied that the recruits understood his meaning, he continued in his low, melodic cadence, "We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair?"

Alistair bowed his head and closed his eyes. When he spoke, it was with a solemn but clear voice. “Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.”

Arual didn't realize Duncan had lowered his head as well until he lifted it and the chalice.

“Daveth," he spoke with quiet authority, "step forward.”

Daveth did so without hesitation. Wordlessly, Duncan held the chalice out to Daveth, and the other man took it in equal silence. Arual felt her breath catch, felt herself crane her neck forward as she watched Daveth consider the contents of the cup.

Daveth set his jaw, brows knit in a stern expression, and tipped the cup to his lips.

His lips were stained black when he handed Duncan the chalice. He scowled, as though having tasted something awful (Arual would have been shocked to discover otherwise), and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a pitch dark stain on the white robes.

Nothing happened.

A moment passed.

And then another.

For a split second, Daveth looked as though he were about to crack a joke, when suddenly he doubled over. A groan that was not entirely human and all too familiar escaped his lips. His features contorted in anguish, lips peeling back from straight yellowed teeth and blackened gums. His eyes rolled into the back of his head until pupil and iris where gone, leaving only the bloodshot sclera.

Black blood erupted from his mouth like vomit, spewing across the ground and tainting the ritual area. Arual backpedaled, screaming. Alistair caught her by the shoulders and held her fast. Whether she liked it or not, the Wardens weren't going to let her get away.

She covered her mouth with trembling hands, wide eyes filling with tears as she watched Daveth retch. His death came with a horrible, agonizing wailing she couldn't stomach. It was too much like the screams back at Highever. The smell of blood was thick in the air.

"I can't!" she sobbed, turning into Alistair's chest the way she used to turn to Ser Gilmore when the knights would tell their ghost stories into the night.

Alistair hesitated, surprised by Arual's reaction. She knew he must be thinking Duncan had made a mistake, that she wouldn't be fit for the Grey Wardens if she couldn't stomach even this. Slowly, as though she were something very delicate, he held her, and it made all the difference.

He let her stay like that, sheltered in his arms with her eyes screwed tight and her hands over her ears, until at last the wailing ceased. Arual stiffened, realizing the silence could only mean one thing: Daveth had perished.

He'd died...horribly. In agony. Just like her family. Just like so many others who had been victim to the Blight, to war, and greed.

"Adraste guide him," she prayed though her tears.

“Maker’s breath!” Ser Jory swore.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan said, sounding truly remorseful. He paused a moment, as though offering a prayer for the dead, then turned.

“Jory, step forward,” he said. The Ritual must go on.

“B-But I have a wife!” Ser Jory protested, peddling backwards. “A child! Had I known…”

“There is no turning back,” Duncan said. The tone in his voice brokered no argument. Still, Ser Jory stepped away from him, from the chalice.

“No!” he cried. His breath was coming in ragged gasps as the panic surged through his veins. His chest heaved as he panted like a cornered hound. “You ask too much! There…there is no glory in this!”

Duncan's eyes were like gleed stones as he set the chalice down upon the altar.

"If that is your wish," he said.

"I-It is," Ser Jory stammered.

For a moment, it seemed like Duncan would allow Ser Jory to leave, but then from the folds of his grey cloak he drew a simple dagger. Ser Jory, a trained knight, saw the blade coming, but Duncan was the faster. Even as Ser Jory tried to dodge away, Duncan sunk his blade deep into the larger man's abdomen. Ser Jory's body folded around Duncan's, a look of shock and betrayal on his simple features.

Arual was grateful for the tears that blurred her vision, though there was no hiding the crimson blood that soaked through Ser Jory's white robes, smearing him in blood.

A torrent escaped as Duncan withdrew his dagger, and the ritual space seemed to devour it hungrily—blood seeping quickly into the grass.

Duncan lowered Ser Jory's body to the ground, and ran a hand over his eyes to close them. In another world, he might have been asleep but for the trail of blood that slowly leaked from his dead lips.

Arual heard herself whimper inaudibly.

Silently, Duncan turned and set the bloodied dagger in the altar beside the chalice.

The message was clear.

One of these two fates awaited Arual in the next moment. A certain death or an uncertain future.

It was time to chose.

Shakily, Arual stepped away from Alistair. She clenched her hands at her sides. She ground her teeth into one another until her jaw ached. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks. She was afraid. She'd be a fool not to be. But if she was going to perish, it would be on her terms. No one else's.

She nodded to Duncan, too afraid to speak.

He nodded and took up the chalice. “Step forward, Arual,” he said, damning her as he had damned the others.

She did as he bade. He held out the chalice. Arual accepted it with white-knuckled hands, and nearly dropped it. It was much heavier than she'd been expecting. It bore the weight of every Grey Warden that had come before, of ever life that had been sacrificed to the greater good.

Arual's mouth ran dry.

She licked her lips, and brought the chalice to her lips.

The concoction of blood, lyrium, and herbs tasted like rotten meat. It was thick on her tongue, so much so that she almost gagged and spit up the mouthful she'd been brave enough to take in. She sputtered, her body rejecting the blood. Refusing to submit to Duncan's dagger, she screwed shut her eyes and forced herself to swallow the foul thing. The viscous, tar-like substance fought her every inch, but Arual did not relent. At last, she managed to swallow. She coughed as she choked on dregs.

And then it was done.

A pregnant moment stretched between the three remaining people in the ritual space. Distantly, Arual could hear a piercing, shrill ring. The sound became louder, as though growing closer at a rapid pace, until it filled both ears. The ringing brought with it a wave of pain that crushed her skull beneath it. Pressure built up inside her head, as though her body were trying to fight against the implosion with an explosion of it's own.

She cried out, reeling backwards as she clapped her hands over both ears. But the sound would not be ignored. It forced it's way through the cracks in her fingers to penetrate her very being.

She should have been deafened long ago, but something evil kept her hearing well intact while simultaneously tearing it to shreds.

Her chest tightened as though it had been lashed with thick iron bands trying to squeeze the life out of her.

Breathe, she commanded her body, but it did not listen.

Breathe, she commanded again, the iron bands around her chest alighting with fire as her lungs ached for air.

Breathe! she willed herself, and at last forced the life-giving air into her body.

With a gasp, everything turned white.

Through the pale arose a figure.

It was a creature she had only ever seen in books. A dragon.

In place of scales seemed to be the scraps of flesh from other creatures—a patchwork of ill-fitting, discolored skin held together by offal and gore. Here and there the false body could not hold, and the flesh sloughed off to reveal a skeletal frame that had been twisted and made...wrong.

Arual knew she stood before the Archdemon itself in all of it's horrid glory.

And then the thing roared. Not with the sound of a beast, but with the very sounds of hell.

Thousands upon thousands of screams layered atop one another erupted from the Archdemon's mouth. They were shill and loud—louder even than the ringing had been—and filled with unimaginable anguish.

There was a terrible musical quality to them, each scream a discordant note in an unholy chorus. Higher and higher they rose, reaching for a crescendo that would never come.

In those screams, Arual perceived the end of the world.

"No!" she screamed in defiance, in terror, in childish rebellion. The scene before her became black, and she was cast into blissful nothingness.

***

Alistair's body moved forward before he realized he was moving to catch Arual. His mind had not yet perceived she was falling before his body was already reacting.

He caught her before she could hit the ground, her head lolling back, long brown hair like a waterfall of chocolate.

"Is she...?" Duncan prompted, the Warden-Commander too tired to finish his sentence.

As gently as he could, Alistair set the unconscious woman down on the ground. She released a little groan, as though even this pained her. Her face was pinched in fear, but her chest rose and fell with her ragged breath.

"She's alive," Alistair breathed a sigh of relief.

“Rest then, Arual Cousland,” Duncan said. “From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.”

Chapter Text

I must have died, Arual thought. The pain had been unbelievable. Little traces of it remained in the dull ache of her muscles, the stiffness of her joints. Her limbs felt heavy, as though transfigured into stone.

Am I with the Maker, then? she wondered. It was dark, but she could hear faint murmuring somewhere nearby. After the cacophony of the Joining, the voices seemed sweet--almost a relief. And familiar.

Father?

She tried to call out, but her voice didn't seem to work. Her tongue felt swollen and fuzzy, clumsy behind heavy lips.

"Did you hear that?" someone said. "I think she's waking up."

Waking up? Arual thought. But that means...
With an effort, she opened her eyes. The candlelight offered only a soft glow, but to Arual the light was blinding. She flinched, shutting her eyes again as the light burned them. She hissed in surprise.

"Easy now," said an older, deep voice. "The Ritual is harrowing by anyone's definition."

"Dun...Duncan?" Arual groaned.

She tried to open her eyes again, slowly this time. The light still stung, but it was easier to bear now that she knew what to expect. She blinked, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the light.

Two faces loomed over her, expressions pinched with worry. They were out of focus, but Arual recognized them as Duncan and Alistair.

They weren't at the ritual site anymore. At some point the men had moved her into what she could only assume was the Grey Warden's tent back at camp.

She tried to sit up, but her body shuddered under the strain.

"Here," Alistair said, rushing to help her up. He looped an arm behind her shoulder and used the opposite hand to pull her up by the wrist.

Arual looked between him and Duncan. "I'm alive?" she breathed, amazed.

Duncan nodded, looking oddly proud. “It is finished. Welcome.”

“Two more deaths…" Alistair shook his head sadly. "In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was…horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it through.”

He offered Arual a weak smile, but she was too groggy to return it.

“How do you feel?” Duncan asked.

Arual opened her mouth to answer that she felt like she'd been trampled by a stampede of horses and was mad as hell at having been forced into the Joining as she had, but when she spoke all that came out was an emphatic, "Hungry!"

As though anticipating this, Alistair and Duncan each offered her a bit of food they'd had nearby. Arual accepted cheese from Alistair and a bit of sweet meat from Duncan and bit in greedily.

She'd never known such hunger in all her life! She was the daughter of a teyrn, accustomed to all manner of fine foods prepared by equally fine cooks, but nothing satisfied the hunger inside her like the bits of food the two men offered her.

After that came an apple, more cheese, a heel of bread, and a small bowl of nuts.

She felt more like herself with each bite. The pain dissipated slowly until it was all but gone, the fatigue fading with it.

"Did I eat this much after my Joining?" Alistair chuckled.

"More," Duncan said, matching the younger man's jovial tone.

Arual's cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she lowered the bit of cheese she'd been about to bite into.

"Eat," Duncan implored. "You'll find your appetite is not quite what it once was. Such is what it takes to be a Grey Warden.”

Arual raised a brow. "Am I going to be this hungry all the time?"

"Not quite, but there will be plenty of time to explain the many nuances of being a Grey Warden with time. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come. For now, you should focus on regaining your strength."

“Before I forget, there’s one last part to your Joining," Alistair said. He reached behind him and drew out a necklace. A glass vial filled with something black hung on a metal chain. Tentatively, Arual held her hand out and Alistair placed in in her palm. It was strangely warm to the touch, as though teeming with a life all it's own.

"What is it?"

"We take some of the blood from the Ritual and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us…of those who didn’t make it this far.”

The three of them hung their heads. Arual clutched the amulet in her hand, the warmth oddly comforting.

"What will become of Daveth and Ser Jory?" she asked. "Their...their bodies, I mean."

Duncan nodded, as though anticipating this question. "Their ashes will be interred at Weisshaupt. The Grey Wardens honor those brave enough to risk their lives to protect Thedas, even if they do not survive the Joining. Even men like Ser Jory."

Arual took some comfort in that. She'd only known them a short time, but she didn't feel they deserved to die as they had. No one did.

"What comes now?" she asked.

"There is still much to do before the battle," Duncan said heavily. "But first, there is someone to see you. Alistair?"

Alistair stood and moved toward the tent flap. Arual watched, confused as he disappeared outside. Half a moment later, he returned with another man.

"Fergus!" Arual cried, jumping to her feet.

Brother and sister closed the gap between them in a heartbeat. Arual leapt into Fergus's arms, nearly knocking him over. Tears welled in her eyes as she hugged him as tightly as her frame would allow. He hugged back just as tightly, crushing the air from her lungs. She didn't care. In fact, she relished in it.

Fergus was alive! Her brother had survived whatever treachery Howe might have sent his way, whatever peril he may have faced in the Wilds--he was alive and he was here.

"Thank the Maker," she sobbed.

When at last they moved apart, Arual realized Duncan was still waiting. Alistair was nowhere to be seen.

“Take some time,” Duncan said knowingly. “When you’re ready, I’d like you and Alistair to accompany me to a meeting with the king.”

“The king?” Arual echoed.

“Indeed. The meeting is down the stairs to the west. Please attend as soon as you are able.”

Arual's eyes filled with fresh tears as a wave of gratitude threatened to overwhelm her.

“Thank you, Duncan," she said hoarsely.

Duncan gave the smallest of bows, and backed out of the tent. Immediately Arual turned back to Fergus, her arms on his shoulders.

"It's good to see you, brother," she said.

"And you," Fergus said, looking her over, "though I am surprised. They told me you were here, that you were a Grey Warden, now, but I don't understand. Last we spoke you were going to marry Nathaniel. What happened?"

Arual's heart felt heavy and hard in her chest. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had suddenly gone dry. She looked around the tent for water. The tent was sparsely furnished with a pair of bedrolls, a low table, and a trunk where the armor she'd worn into the Wilds lay spread out. Her father's sword was propped up against it.

On the low table were the remnants of the food Arual had been given and a pitcher of water. She moved to the pitcher and gulped down the cool water. She wasn't sure how long it had been since she'd had anything to drink, but whether it had been time or another effect of the Joining, she was thirsty.

When the pitcher was almost empty, she set it down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked at her brother, who watched her with a curious expression. Arual gestured for Fergus to join her.

"I come with ill news, brother," she said. "We should sit."

***

Arual told Fergus everything. She spared him what details she could--he did not need to know the gruesome way his family had died, only that they had been unmolested in death, and that their parents had fought to the end to give Arual her chance to escape. Becoming a Grey Warden was the price she paid to survive, and to bring him this news.

By the end of it, they were both in tears. Fergus clung to Arual as he wept into her shoulder, body quaking with grief. He asked all the same questions Arual had, the most resounding of which was, "Why?"

Why had Arl Howe done this? Why couldn't his men have spared a little boy and his mother? Why did they have to die? Why? Why? Why?

"I'll kill the treacherous bastard," Fergus so bed bitterly. Arual felt the same--at least she thought she did. Somehow, even after reliving the events of that night with her brother, the whole things seemed far away. So much had happened in such a short amount of time, she hadn't been able to fully process it all. Had it really been only five days?

"The king assured me that he would see justice done once he returns to Denerim," Arual assured him. "Once this battle is over, the Howes will pay for what they have done."

Fergus seemed to take some comfort in that, but Arual knew all too well that it was but a hollow comfort. Until their family was avenged, there could be no true catharsis.

There was one last thing to do.

Tentatively, Arual reached for her father's sword, still in its scabbard. As good as a crown. She held it out to Fergus.

"This...belongs to you now, brother," she said.

Fergus looked at the sword--the sword that had always been meant for him. For Oren. For whatever heirs Oren might have had one day.

Gingerly, he accepted it. He held it with an almost religious reverence. With this sword, Fergus could return to Highever as teyrn. He could rebuild the castle, restore the Cousland name, and fulfill the destiny he was always meant to have.

Arual watched as Fergus set the sword down on the ground between them, laying it gently as one might a baby.

"I can't," he said thickly.

"Fergus--"

"It wasn't supposed to be this way," he shook his head, eyes on the sword. "It...it wasn't..."

Arual placed a hand on her brother's shoulder. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, for there was nothing either of them could say to heal themselves or the other. They say in silence, in suffering, knowing that when the moment was over, they would be called to action. There were people outside the tent--people who needed them, who were waiting for them. And the Cousland siblings had a duty to those people.

Arual was the first to break the silence.

"A Grey Warden cannot hold fealty to any one land, people, or kingdom," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I cannot return to Highever. Not as a teyrna, at least. But you, Fergus...you can. The people need you. Highever needs you. You are the last Cousland.

Another pregnant moment passed as Arual's word slowly seeped into Fergus's heart like morning sunlight clearing a nighttime fog. Fergus sniffed.

"Maker," he breathed. "I hate it when you're right "

"And yet I always am," Arual smiled sadly.

At last, Fergus took up the blade, holding it as he was meant to--as though it were his. His eyes met hers. They were red from crying, but there was a quiet fire burning in their brown depths.

"After the battle, I'll turn the men toward Highever," he promised. "I'll rebuild our home."

"I'll be there to see you off," Arual promised.

"Promise me only that you will visit once the castle is whole again."

"I will."

Fergus nodded solemnly. He put a hand on Arual's shoulder. "You should go," he said. "They're waiting for you."

Arual got to her feet, coaxing Fergus to stand beside her. "They're waiting for you, too...Teryn Cousland."

Chapter Text

After Fergus took his leave, Arual dressed herself in the armor she'd worn into the Wilds. Someone had taken the time to clean it for her so that most of the gore was gone. Yet another thing for which to thank Duncan and Alistair...

Fergus had joked that he couldn't very well take two swords into battle, and had instead left Arual his longsword in exchange for their family's sword. Fergus's sword had been commissioned by their father as a birthday present to Fergus some years ago. It was not especially ornate, but it was well made—sturdy, balanced, and had served him well in his battles against the darkspawn thus far.

"I never named it," he had admitted, belting the Cousland blade to his hip.

"Then I'll just have to find one," Arual had teased. "All the best swords have names, after all. Haven't you ever read a story?"

Fergus had laughed without mirth. "Only the ones father used to tell." He put on a brave face then and said, "Goodbye, sweet sister."

"Not goodbye," Arual had insisted. "Until we meet again."

Fergus had nodded. "Until we meet again."

Now, as Arual belted Fergus's sword to her hip, felt the weight of it as it counter balanced the shield she carried in her other hand, she wondered what kind of name it might earn. What kind of a name might she earn for herself?

As she stepped out into the night, she saw Duncan, Alistair, and Bran waiting for her. More accurately, Duncan was waiting for her while Alistair amused himself by teasing Bran.

"I once heard a very old legend about how the Hound Warriors in the days of the old tribes would feed their Mabari the flesh of the vanquished," he said in a voice usually reserved for telling ghost stories around a campfire.

Bran whined, his ears flattening against his head in dismay.

"Well, that's what I heard anyway. It would sometimes be human flesh."

Bran made gagging sounds, as though the very idea made him sick and pawed at the ground. Arual hung back, biting her lip to keep from giggling. Duncan caught her eye, and for a moment they exchanged a knowing look. It was not unlike two parents sharing a moment as their children played together.

"Oh, like you can tell the difference," Alistair said, rolling his eyes. He hadn't seemed to notice Arual yet. "You may have already eaten something...someone."

Bran whimpered pathetically, backing away from Alistair toward Duncan. Arual couldn't hold back anymore. She walked up to Bran and took a knee at his side, scratching behind his pointed ears and under his chin.

"Don't worry, boy," she said in a voice reserved only for the absolute sweetest of dogs, "I'd never feed you another human!"

Alistair raised a brow at her, "It's not cannibalism if he's eating them, you know."

Bran chuffed noncommittally, and circled his mistress. Arual laughed.

"I trust everything with your brother went well?" Duncan asked.

Arual smiled sadly. "Yes. Thank you for that. Both of you."

Duncan nodded, and turned to Alistair. "Alistair, please inform the king we'll be there shortly."

Alistair's honey brown eyes flicked back and forth between Arual and Duncan. For a moment, Arual thought he might say something, but the only sound he made was a wordless affirmative and marched away.

The elder Grey Warden turned to Arual.

"How are you?" he asked at length. "A lot has happened in a very short amount of time, and there is only more ahead."

Arual nodded solemnly. "I'm...processing," she admitted. "You're right, a lot has happened. I'm still not sure how I feel about being a Grey Warden, about what that means for who I once was...who I am now. And my family..." her voice broke with emotion. Arual bit her lip as though it were a dam that could keep the tears at bay.

Duncan reached out as though to pat her shoulder, but thought better of it, and withdrew his touch. Instead, he offered her a nod.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry it had to be this way."

Arual looked at him, eyes glossy with tears that would not fall and nodded her thanks. There was more she would have said, but the words tangled in her throat before she could speak them. She was grateful, too, that Duncan seemed to understand. He nodded back, and allowed a moment of mutual affection to pass between them.

The warm, fatherly nature of him shifted then, and he was no longer Duncan the mentor, but Duncan the Warden Commander, ready for battle—ready to do his duty.

"With me, Warden," he said, and made for the war table. Arual followed with Bran at her side.

***

Arual stood to Duncan's left, Alistair on his right, and each a pace behind him. There was only so much room at the war table as it was.

The meeting took place in what must have once been a guard tower. Candles burned low in their holders, offering a warm glow to the dingy, moss-covered ruins.

They seemed, also, to offer an air of finality.

There were seven of them in attendence: three Grey Wardens, King Cailan in his shimmering gold armor, a representative from the Circle of Magi, the Revered Mother of the Chantry, and Teyrn Loghain wearing his polished, if battle worn, grey armor. Arual had heard he'd taken it from a chavalier captain in the battle at River Dane where he'd earned his title as the Hero of River Dane shortly before being raised to Teyrn of Gwaren.

To see him standing before her in that armor, in all his glory, with his silver hair and ice blue eyes...Arual practically vibrated with glee. It was almost enough to rattle the braided crown from her hair. Even at nearly seventy, he still held himself with a rigid military posture and austere expression.

Arual had long wanted to meet the fabled hero she'd read about for years, but never imagined she'd ever have the chance—the man, after all, was older than her father had been, and was rarely seen at social events among the nobility. But to see him here and now was breathtaking.

Unfortunately, it seemed no one else shared her sentiment.

"Loghain, my decision is final," King Cailan snipped. "I will stand by the Grey Wardens on this assault."

"You risk too much, Cailan," growled the teyrn, his voice hard as gravel. "The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines."

"If that's the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us after all," Cailan shot back. It was an empty threat, but a threat all the same. It had been Orlesians the teyrn had been fighting when he won his armor and honorific. He'd spent years fighting off their forces alongside King Cailan's father, King Maric, and many more helping to restore order after Ferelden had wrestled the crown away from them.

It had been years since then, decades even, but many Ferelden nobles still refused to trust Orlesians. Her father had been such a noble, and rumors had it that so was Teyrn Loghain.

"I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves," growled the teyrn.

"It is not a fool notion," said the king, sounding every bit like a naïve hero in a tale. "Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past. And you will remember who is king."

His final words came out in a tone that showed he was not accustomed to being challenged except, perhaps, by the teyrn. It were as though the man were a stubborn hair that refused to find it's place

The teyrn narrowed his ice blue eyes. "How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!" he spat, spittle like venom at the corners of his mouth, teeth straight and white as a horse's.

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" Cailan said, his tone suddenly light-hearted, almost mocking. He turned to Duncan before the teyrn had time to issue a retort. "Duncan, are your recruits ready for battle?"

"They are, your Majesty," Duncan answered without hesitation.

"Good. Every Grey Warden is needed now more than ever."

"Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan," said Loghain. He sounded tired. Exasperated. "We must attend to reality."

"Fine. Speak your strategy."

Cailan leaned over a map. It covered a table where once guards had sat to eat from end to end, the edges weighed down with stones. It held a rough sketch of Ostagar as seen from above, and some of the surrounding forest. The map, Arual noted, looked to have been hastily drawn on a stretch of parchment with charcoal. Here and there, she could see smudges where the artist had tried to correct a mistake, or held the parchment too tightly. Other marks marred the surface as well—notes and numbers mostly but she could only guess thier meaning.

"The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines, and then..."

"You will signal the tower to light the beacon," Loghain sighed, "signalling my men to charge from cover—"

"To flank the darkspawn. I remember. This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who shall light this beacon?" Cailan looked around to the others assembled there as though waiting for a volunteer.

"I have a few men stationed there," Loghain informed him. Arual's breath caught as she thought of the fabled Night Elves—a guerilla squad of elven archers led by Loghain during the Rebellion. Could they still be in his service? Would Arual get the chance to meet any? She had to stifle a squeal of delight just thinking about it.

"It is not a dangerous task, but it is vital," the teyrn concluded.

"Then we should send our best," Cailan said definitively as he straightened. "Send Alistair and Lady Cousland to make sure it is done."

"You rely on these Grey Wardens too much," Loghain shook his head. "Is that truly wise?"

Arual wasn't sure whether Teyrn Loghain refered to King Cailan's trust of the Grey Wardens, or his strategy of sending her and Alistair to light the beacon. Either way, he was probably right.

"Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain! Grey Wardens are sworn to fight the darkspawn no matter where they're from."

"Your Majesty," Duncan interjected. "We must consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing."

"There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds," said Teyrn Loghain with a wave of his hand, as if brushing the very idea of an archdemon off the table.

"Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?" Cailan said, as though that settled the matter entirely.

"I—" Duncan began as though he would argue the point, but stopped himself. "Yes, your Majesty," he sighed, defeated.

Evidently, it had.

"Your Majesty," the Circle mage said suddenly. Until then, he and the Revered Mother had been silent. Now, it seemed that silence was to be broken. "The tower and it's beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of Magi—"

"We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage!" sneered the Revered Mother. She looked at the Circle mage as though he were something disgusting to be squashed beneath her boot. "Save them for the darkspawn."

It was well known that the Chantry had no love for mages, but to see such vitriol from a priest rocked Arual onto her heels.

"Enough!" Teyrn Loghain called, the force of every battle ever won in his voice. "This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon."

"Thank you, Loghain," the king sighed. Was it Loghain's approval and not his cooperation that he'd been after all along? Arual wondered...

"I cannot wait for that glorious moment...the Grey Wardens battle alongside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!"

"Yes, Cailan," the teyrn said darkly as he turned away. "A glorious moment for us all."

***

The battle was fast approaching. Soldiers, mages, priests, dogs, and horses moved hither and thither preparing for what was to come. There were so many last minute preparations to be seen to,so many final meals, drinks, and farewells to be had. Arual could feel the tension in the air as she stood around the fire with her fellow Wardens back at their pavilion.

“You heard the plan," Duncan said. "The two of you will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit.”

“But the battle—” Alistair began, but Duncan cut him off.

“This is by the king’s personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain’s men won’t know when the charge.”

“So, he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch," Alistair grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. "Just in case, right?”

“I agree with Alistair," Arual said pragmatically. "If there are darkspawn on the field, we should be in the battle. We won't be much use at the tower.”

“That is not your choice, nor is it mine," Duncan explained. "If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there.”

“I thought the Grey Wardens didn’t answer to any one king.”

“Our reputation in Ferelden is delicate at best," Duncan shook his head in dismay. "We must be cooperative for as long as necessary to destroy the darkspawn…exciting or no.”

“I get it, I get it," Alistair said, unfolding his arms to raise his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Just so you know, if Cailan ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no."

“Oh, I don’t know,” Arual tittered. “That could be a great distraction, and it’s been so long since I’ve had a good dance partner.”

“Well, maybe for you,” Alistair said with a crooked grin, “but it would have to be a pretty dress.”

The pair of them giggled, all nerves and frustration hidden behind walls of humor, while Duncan hefted a long-suffering sigh and shook his head.

“The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king’s camp,” said Duncan, bringing them back to the subject at hand, his voice sounding tired and proud all at once. “You’ll need to cross the gorge and head through the gate and up to the tower entrance. From the top, you’ll overlook the entire valley. When the time is right, we will signal you on the battle field. Alistair, you know what to look for. Once I leave with the king, move quickly. You’ll have less than an hour.”

“What about afterwards?” asked Alistair.

“Stay with the teyrn’s men and guard the tower. If you are needed, we will send word.”

Arual licked her lips and gave voice to the question that had been on her mind since Duncan had me ruined it at the war table: “What if the archdemon appears…?”

“We soil our drawers, that’s what," Alistair laughed without mirth.

“If it does, leave it to us. I want no heroics from either of you," Duncan looked at each of them pointedly. "Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title. Do what you must to secure the tower and light the beacon. I trust you both.”

“Just not enough to actually fight with the rest of you," Alistair said, pouting.

Duncan chuckled. “There will be plenty of battles, Alistair. Be patient.”

A moment passed between the two men that ran deeper than Arual could understand. They'd known each other much longer than she had known either of them. They had a history together that she could only guess at, but she saw a glimmer of it in the look they shared. It was almost like the looks her father and Fergus would share.

Perhaps Arual did understand that look after all. Alistair, for all his posturing, wasn't worried about missing out on the battle. He was worried about fighting away from Duncan. Whether it was because he feared for his mentor's well-being or because he yearned for the protection of fighting alongside the seasoned warrior, Arual wasn't sure. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Whatever the case may be, it seemed Alistair said whatever he needed to with that look, and Duncan understood, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“Duncan…" Alistair said finally, voice thick with emotion. "May the Maker watch over you.”

“May he watch over us all.”

Chapter Text

Wind and rain lashed the pale, moss-covered stones of Ostagar. Storm clouds darkened the sky, obscuring the once radiant moon and her glittering stars. It was as though the night knew precisely what lay ahead for the soldiers of Ferelden, and had chosen to set the scene accordingly. The storm did little to affect the troops, however. These were people who had been fighting in the tempest licked south for months, people who had stared into the very face of nightmares and won. There was nothing to suggest this battle would be any different.

The men in the valley had to rely on arcane fire to light their way, filling the battlements with a dun orange glow. It settled into the gaunt faces of the soldiers as they awaited their fate, making them seem almost as ghastly as the darkspawn awaiting them. The shadows danced as Chantry priests walked the lines with their swinging bronze censers, speaking the Chant of Light and asking for the blessing of the Maker. The scents of juniper and pine mingled with the rain as the priests swung their incense, and brought a measure of peace and reassurance to those gathered under the banner of war.

Thunder rumbled overhead as though joining in the growls of the Mabari assembled at the front. Wet banners fluttered with a sound like the crack of lightning, punctuating the rustling poplars that crawled up toward the battlements and wreathed the valley. Beneath the sounds of it all was a constant, hive-like humming.

The darkspawn were coming.

They did not announce their arrival with the light of torches or arcane fire. They did not need light the way human eyes did. But they were there nonetheless. The soldiers could feel their taint in the air like a sickness, the smell of rot and blood and sick carried to them on the wind.

Duncan walked beside King Cailan along the front lines. The king seemed unphased by the storm, as did most of the other Fereldens assembled, but no matter how long Duncan stayed in this country, he could never get used to the cold. He shuddered as rain trickled down the back of his neck and cut a line of frost down his dark skin.

“The plan will work, your Majesty,” he assured the king as much as himself.

“Of course, it will,” Cailan said, all charm and youthful confidence. So like his father in every aspect. It had been years since Duncan had seen Maric, and yet being with Cailan was like being beside that headstrong blond man all over again. His head had been filled with dreams, too. “The Blight ends here.”

As though to prove the young king false, the fog all around them began to grow thicker. A fresh blanket of pale mist wafting in from the tree line, heralding the arrival of the enemy. Shadows in the trees shifted, and out from the darkness emerged the darkspawn. Their almost insect-like humming grew louder as they seethed, ready for battle. Inhuman roars and grows echoed out from the darkness, the figures at the edges of the shadows writhing, their bloodlust surmounting.

Duncan saw one man stagger away from the front lines, fear contorting his features. The man behind him held out a hand to stop him as much as steady him. The first man looked behind, ready to state his case, when the hardened face of the man behind him put an end to whatever he might have said. The second man shook his head. It was simple gesture, and yet it was enough to strengthen the resolve of the man in front of him.

King Cailan looked out over the valley.

Had there been this many darkspawn during the last battle? In any of the battles before? It seemed their numbers stretched to the horizon. The tree line made it impossible to tell, and yet he could feel it. The vileness that always came with the surge of these monsters was palpable in the very air. It felt thick with their evil, with their taint.

A thrill of fear ran through him. Uncertainty fluttered in his chest.

No, he told himself firmly. Victory was assured. He was standing beside the fabled Grey Warden Commander, the same man who had traveled the Deep Roads with his father, who had faced countless darkspawn. He had nothing to fear. He refused to submit to such things.

He drew the sword at his side. The dragonbone longsword gleamed blue, runes he’d never had hope of deciphering glowed along the blade, eager to spill darkspawn blood.

As though in response to the sight of the sword, the darkspawn broke their ranks and flooded forward into the valley.

Hordes of towering hurlocks, stout and grinning genlocks, lumbering ogres as tall as trees, snarling emissaries. The ground shuddered beneath the creatures as they charged the battlements, the foundations of Ostagar quaking with the force of their thundering footfalls.

“Archers!” commanded the king.

Rows of archers lifted arrows tipped with magical flame, burning in a furious rainbow. The commander at the front held a hand to still the arrows. His eyes squinted through the storm, waiting for the darkspawn to come within range.

Closer…

Closer…

When the first of the monsters came within a hundred feet, he motioned for the archers to let loose their arrows. A hurricane of color flashed through the squall, rising up from the grey battlements and toward the coming darkness. The bolts rained down on the darkspawn, bursting into flame where they found purchase in the rotting flesh of the charging darkspawn.

The other monsters did not so much as slow as their brethren fell around them.

“Hounds!” Cailan bellowed.

The beast masters shouted their commands to the Mabari in their charge. The hounds barked viciously as they broke across the valley, paws pounding the soft earth with a sound like a full cavalry. They tore into the darkspawn’s front line, leaping to tear the throats from the enemy, spilling black ichor on the valley floor.

Some of the taller hurlocks in their mismatched armor brought their curved and wicked blades to bear. They tore into the Mabari with equal fervor, gutting the dogs with impossibly strong swings while the shorter genlocks bit back, their mouths crammed to bursting with jagged teeth. The sounds of whimpering joined the growls of Mabari and darkspawn alike as the dogs died horribly.

Cailan ground his teeth, anger thundering through his veins. He raised his blade high, calling above the din of battle, and crying for all the troops to hear, “For Ferelden!”

He burst into a run, shouting a battlecry as he ran into the fray. Behind him, a swell of warriors, mages, archers, and cavalry wielding flails and spears charged. Each of them lent their cry to his. The ferocity of the Ferelden people lay in those cries—these were a people who had come back from centuries of subjugation, who had fought for and won their freedom time and again. They did not yield to the Orlesians who tried to take their land from them. They would not yield to these darkspawn, or any one else who thought to conquer them.

Not now.

Not ever.

***

All along the battlements, soldiers and mages bustled about, preparing the trebuchets stationed along the battlements. They fired flaming boulders coated in tar and oil into the enemy lines. But the darkspawn had projectiles of their own. There was nothing so sophisticated as the machines of war made by humans—as far as anyone knew, darkspawn were all but mindless monsters bent on destruction whenever they were not hunting for their Old Gods—but the emissaries had access to magic that the Circle of Magi couldn’t even dream of. They hurled great balls of fire through the air, crashing them into the towers along the balustrade of Ostagar.

Alistair raised a hand to shield his eyes as one crashed into a nearby tower. It burst against the stone, bringing brick and flame raining down among the soldiers who fought to hold their ground. Arual stared, mouth agape, at the chaos all around her. Someone bumped into her, nearly knocking her to the ground as they hurried to their stations of attack. Suddenly, she did not resent being kept away from the main field of battle.

“We need to cross the bridge and get to the tower!” Alistair called over the sounds of battle. The sound of his voice brought her back to the moment at hand and the task before them. Arual closed her mouth with an audible click and nodded her affirmation.

"With me, Bran!" she called over the din. She needn't have bothered. Bran was at her side quick as blinking.

Alistair took point as the three of them dashed forward, doing their best to navigate the pell mell along the balustrade. The stone beneath them shook as another missile collided with the ruins, exploding in a shower of sound, light, scorching heat, and debris. Arual's heart lurched into her throat, cutting off the scream that had been about to come out. She stumbled, nearly losing her footing. She tried not to think of the balustrade collapsing beneath her, of tumbling down into the gorge to be crushed by so many stones. She tried not to think about anything but putting one foot in front of the other.

Alistair turned back only to find her still at his heels. She nodded at him, reassuring herself as much as him. Satisfied she could manage on her own, he continued to lead the charge.

At least they were past the gorge, feet back on solid ground rather than manmade stonework. Arual would have fallen to her knees and kissed the damp earth, but there was no time for theatrics.

Instead, she and Bran followed Alistair up the ramparts toward the tower. As they approached, two runners flagged them down; one a mage, the other a warrior.

"You... you're Grey Wardens, aren't you?" panted the warrior with exertion. "The Tower... it's been taken!"

"What are you talking about, man?" Alistair demanded, fear and anger rolling in his words. "Taken how?"

"The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers," supplied the mage. "They're everywhere! Most of our men are dead."

Alistair's jaw rippled as he clenched it. Arual didn't have to be a Grey Warden to know this was bad. King Cailan's plan hadn't accounted for there being resistance here. Her mind tried to think of every which way they could solve the issue at hand. Scale the side of the Tower, perhaps? Or build and light a new beacon using the nearby foliage? Maybe the mage could send some kind of signal into the sky with their magic?

Alistair, it seemed, was working through the problem as well—though his solution was as straightforward as he was.

"Then we have to get to the beacon, and light it ourselves," he said, face set in a frown of determination. Without another moment's hesitation, Alistair drew his sword and shield and began trudging up towards the Tower.

Arual was stunned by how dauntless he was! Did it matter what lay ahead? Would Alistair rush into battle—any battle—simply for the asking? Or was there more to it? Did he believe in the call of the Grey Wardens so strongly that he'd hardly hesitate to fulfill his duty, even if it meant his very life?

He was either very brave or very stupid.

Whatever the case may be, Arual found herself drawing her own sword and shield and rushing after him.

They trudged up through the sloping tower grounds. Despite the rain slick grass and mud, Arual's feet found purchase without trouble. The sharp incline of the hill should have left her legs burning as she gasped for breath, but it didn't. She loped behind Alistair as easily as if they were on a flat plane on a sunny afternoon.

Was this the power of the Grey Wardens? Is so...what else could she do?

All too suddenly, she found out as a tingling sensation crept across her skin. There was something there at the edge of her consciousness; something vile that hummed with a strange music. She was about to ask Alistair if he felt the same, when a swarm of darkspawn crested the slope. They brandished jagged and unwieldy weapons in their mismatched armor. The humming grew louder as the Grey Wardens closed the gap, and Arual realized she was sensing the darkspawn—sensing the taint within them as sure as in herself.

This must have been what Alistair meant when he'd said that all Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn. This was how they sought them out; this was how they hunted and killed them.

The monsters had the high ground, but Alistair didn't let it deter him. He brought his shield to bear as a stout genlock tried to crush the man's skull with a downward slash of its heavy mace. Alistair used the genlock's momentum against it and hefted the creature up and over him, letting it fall behind him and roll uselessly down the hillside like rain of a duck's back.

Arual tried to follow suit, stabbing upward at a hurlock whose sword was poised too close to her ear for comfort. Arual's blade cought the beast in the belly, and it dropped it's sword in surprise, if not pain. She pushed forward as it stumbled back, fighting for the ground ahead.

She couldn't believe how easy it was!

Arual felt stronger than ever before, her body moving past limitations she'd once had to work so hard to circumvent.

"Maker!" she gasped in something between alarm and excitement. This was like nothing she'd ever experienced before!

There was only so much time to let the feeling sink in, however. There was still a battle to be won and a beacon to be lit.

The hurlock she'd impaled fell back. She didn't have time to see if it was dead or merely wounded before a genlock was upon her. She brought her shield up to block a hit from the creature's sword and yanked her sword free of the hurlock's belly. In a clean, horizontal strike, she beheaded the genlock, and pushed forward.

Alistair and Bran were ahead of her, but she quickly closed the gap in a few long strides.

The trio focused their efforts on bating the enemy aside, killing where they could, and hindering where they had to. There was no time to be thorough, only swift.

In this way, they made it to the base of the Tower of Ishal. The small courtyard was dark—no torches could stay lit in the pounding rain, and the mages of the Circle had neglected to provide their arcane fire enchantments to this part of the battlements. The only light came from what little of the moon was visible through the squall overhead. Here and there, a drop of rain water caught the light of that moon in such a way that it looked as though the three of them stood amidst a hail of needles. By this wan light, Arual could make out the slippery stone steps that led to an iron wrought door of heavy oak wood, swollen with age and rainwater.

"If there's this many on the grounds, there's bound to be more inside," Alistair said as he placed himself between the door and the rest of the grounds. The only darkspawn Arual could sense felt distant, as though they were a long way off, but Alistair kept his weapons at the ready.

"Be careful."

"You, too," Arual said, exhaling. Bran was at her side, muzzle slick with blood, ready to follow his mistress into the abyss. She sheathed her sword, gave the hound a grateful pat, and opened the door.

Chapter Text

Alistair was the first through the door, shield raised and sword at the ready. Arual and Bran followed a pace behind him, flanking to either side. Arual’s sword was in her hand again, but the further they moved into the darkness of the tower, the less certain she was it was needed.

Then, quietly, there came a humming in her mind, as if someone were playing a dissonant note right between her eyes. Gooseflesh rose up on her arms and the back of her neck. A cold bile began to rise in her throat. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Would it always be like this? With this horrible feeling and humming every time the darkspawn were near…it was a wonder all Grey Wardens were not lost to madness. Arual supposed this was another reason the Grey Wardens were such a secretive order. She could think of no one who would willingly take the grey if they knew the consequences.

“I can sense them,” Arual whispered, “but I don’t see them.”

“Keep your guard up,” Alistair advised, voice low, but not quite a whisper.

All at once, the world erupted in heat and light. Arual was knocked off her feet by a blast of fire. Supine, she lifted her shield to protect her face from the flames jetting above. Heat pounded against her shield, radiating through wood and steel, leather, and cloth right down to her flesh. For a moment she feared she was going to be boiled in her armor! Under the roar of the fire, she could hear Bran’s bark and snarl as he raced ahead. The fire burned through all other sound, all other sensation. There was only the flame, and the flame was all-consuming.

Then, as quickly as it had come on, the fire was gone. The sudden vacuum left behind stole Arual’s breath, leaving her coughing and sputtering on the stone floor.

“Arual!” Alistair cried. He sounded far off, his concerned voice rising over the sounds of a skirmish.

“I’m all right!” she croaked, though she didn’t know if he heard her. Arual forced herself to her feet, grimacing. Fire now flickered in several braziers around the tower floor, filling the once dark room with light. It was a good thing, too, as Arual caught sight of an arrow coming her way and managed to raise her shield in time to protect herself. The bolt slammed into her shield with bruising force, but Arual shook it off.

The room was teeming with darkspawn. Until now, she’d only had to face the creatures in the open air. Seeing them here, in this enclosed space, somehow made them all the more terrifying. Her heart stuttered in her chest, cool sweat beading on her brow at the realization. They were a force she couldn’t ignore or escape—only overcome or perish.

A familiar bark broke through her spiraling thoughts, shattering them and filling her mind with a sudden clarity.

In the distance, Arual saw Bran leap from powerful hindlegs, flinging himself at the enemy. His jaws closed around the throat of a Hurlock archer, baring the monster to the ground and thrashing with all his might. Even over the sounds of battle, Arual heard the snap of bone as the creature’s neck broke.

Nearby, Alistair gave a cry, coupled with the sounds of metal clashing. Another hurlock was beating against his shield, a wicked-looking axe in each hand. The blades were chipped and jagged, covered in rust and what Arual hoped was blood. Alistair struggled to get out from beneath the hurlock’s assault, but it was all he could do to keep his shield up against the onslaught.

Behind him, Arual spied a genlock trudging toward Alistair’s flank, dagger flashing in the firelight.

Arual’s body was moving before her mind could catch up. She closed the gap between her and the beast in a few quick strides, and buried her sword to the hilt in the genlock’s back. It died with a grunt and fell to the stone, but Arual didn’t give herself time to consider the beast. She let her momentum carry her forward, flanking the darkspawn who hammered at Alistair’s shield and giving it something else to think about.

It shifted to guard against her attack, but the moment it did Alistair found his opening and drove his own blade through the thing’s neck. Black blood bubbled up out of the hurlock’s gaping maw with a wet gurgle. Alistair recovered his blade with a grunt, allowing the monster to fall to the stone beside it’s brood mate.

“Glad to see you’re back in it,” he said flashing her an unexpected grin. As though they’d practiced it a dozen times, the two wordlessly pressed their back together and fell into fighting stances. More darkspawn closed in, outnumbering them three—no, four to one but the pair of junior Grey Wardens refused to give any of them quarter. All the while, Bran dashed to and fro, distracting enemies, then picking off whichever darkspawn he could along the periphery of the battle, slowly making his way toward his mistress.

In this way, the trio made quick work of the mob, but the battle was no less harrowing for its short duration.

When it was over, Arual found herself bent over, hands on her knees, as she gasped for air. Her body was vibrating, blood rushing in her ears, skin flush. She tried to take stock of her injuries as she caught her breath. Her shield arm felt bruised, a shallow gash along her cheek stung fiercely as sweat poured into it, her face burnt from the blast of fire she’d had to contend with early on.

She scowled at the memory of the flame, at how it had nearly seared the skin from her face, and couldn’t help but think she could have been better prepared for the darkspawn mage if she’d known such a thing were even possible! Straightening, she turned her glower on her fellow Grey Warden.

“They can do magic?” Arual cried, angry and incredulous.

“Emissaries,” Alistair clarified. He swung his sword in an arc at the ground, flicking ichor onto the stone with a sickening splattering noise. Arual wrinkled her nose. Darkspawn blood was not like the blood of a person or an animal—it was thick, black, and carried with it a smell of death and rot. It was a stomach-churning stench to which Arual doubted she would ever grow accustomed. She turned her attention back to Alistair who seemed less effected by the grisly mess, even as he swung his sword a second time to remove more gore from the blade.

“You didn’t say they could do magic.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Oh…”

Alistair had the decency to look sheepish, though the shrug he offered her did him little credit. Arual took a breath to steady herself, and immediately regretted it as the stench of darkspawn hit her in full. The only one who seemed nonplussed by the smell was Bran. He licked a few drops of gore from his mistress’s fingertips, then nuzzled into her palm. Arual moved her hand to scratch behind the mabari’s ears to show she understood the deeper message the hound was trying to convey: they didn’t have time to squabble.

“Is there anything else I need to know about the darkspawn?” she asked. “They can’t turn invisible or into giants, can they?”

Arual had been half-joking, but Alistair’s nervous fidgeting gave her pause. He leaned his sword against his leg to free his hand, which he ran through his hair and scratched at the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

“Maker’s Breath…”

“We call them shrieks,” he explained. “They can’t turn invisible, at least as far as I know. But they’re fast and stealthy. Good at infiltration. The big ones are ogres.”

Something in the way he said it turned her stomach to water. They’d fought the lumbering hurlocks, the stout genlocks, but Arual had never considered there could be other, perhaps more dangerous darkspawn. Dying in battle against these monsters had always been a possibility, even before she’d become a Grey Warden. Until now, though, she’d believed them to be little more than mindless hordes of monsters—little more than beasts.

But magic, traps, strategy…this spoke of an intelligence she hadn’t been prepared for. One that made the darkspawn all the more dangerous. She felt her own mortality like a miasma—choking, smothering, burning her up from within. She could die here. Tonight. In this very tower.

Perhaps it would have been a kinder fate for Duncan to have left her to Howe’s men. At least then all she would have had to face were men. The hurlocks and genlocks were terrible enough, but shrieks? Ogres? Arual didn’t want to consider what enemies like that would be like.

“Are we likely to meet any?” she asked, hoping her voice did not betray her nerves.

“Let’s hope not.”

***

Arual, Alistair, and Bran made their way cautiously through the tower, conscious of the darkspawn lurking at the edges of their consciousness. It left Arual with a greasy feeling, as if she hadn’t bathed in weeks.

The further they moved into the tower, the more evidence they found of the darkspawn taint. It grew in great spidery tendrils of black rot, not unlike the black mold Arual sometimes saw back in Highever, but with barnacle-like protrusions bulging from the dry, shiny film of the blackness. It carried with it the stench of decay; corrupting and destroying everything it could as it permeated into the tower.

And yet no matter how unpleasant the sight, the smell, or the feeling, Arual could sense a horrible connection to the stuff. This is what she’d had to take into herself to fight the darkspawn—the very taint they carried with them, and which they used to corrupt the world. This blight upon the land was as much a part of her as it was of any darkspawn, now. She could feel it, lurking just beneath her flesh, writhing at the chance to be amongst its kin.

She fought down a wave of nausea as they snuck past a particularly large tendril of darkness. She was sure she hadn’t made a sound, but Alistair turned to her all the same, concern and understanding in his warm, brown eyes.

“It gets easier,” he promised, voice little more than a whisper.

Arual wondered if he had simply guessed at her discomfort, or if the taint connected the two of them to each other as it did the darkspawn. Could he sense her unease? She had so many questions, so many fears, but she swallowed them all like bile. Now was not the time to balk. They had a mission to complete, and time was running out.

Arual, Alistair, and Bran stole through the tower, moving as quickly as their armor and efforts at stealth would allow. There was no way they could take on the bulk of the darkspawn meandering through halls, there were simply too many of them for three warriors alone. Being able to sense the beasts allowed them to avoid large groups, but it meant having to take alternate, sometimes longer routes down unfamiliar corridors, hide in dust-covered barracks, or double-back along infested passages to reach the next level of the tower.

Battle was not altogether avoidable.

For all the mindlessness Arual had attributed to them, the darkspawn seemed to have battle strategy of their own. Many of the entrances to the tower’s other floors had been barricaded and protected by small squadrons of darkspawn, forcing Arual, Alistair, and Bran to fight if they wanted to advance. It also meant they had to waste time barricading the path behind them when they could not find more defensible routes. The darkspawn were already mimicking the pincer maneuver the teyrn had planned for the battle by seizing the tower—it would be little surprise if they did the same to the Grey Wardens who had infiltrated their newest den.

Here and there, the companions found strange and macabre idols, banners, and totems presumably crafted by the darkspawn from bone, leather, and even flesh. They were each crudely made, but none of them seemed old. The darkspawn hadn’t brought the effigies with them just for this raid. What would be the point? Rather, Arual had the sinking feeling that they had been made over a period of time—the fidgeting of restless souls and they bided their time, waiting for this battle to begin.

“They’ve been here a while,” she breathed in realization.

“I don’t understand,” Alistair growled, voice low and bristling with frustration. “How could they have gotten in? There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here. The teyrn said he’d stationed men here. Where the bloody hell are they?”

Arual worried at her lower lip as she considered this. She was sure Alistair had meant the comment to be rhetorical, but there was no denying something wasn’t right.

Teyrn Loghain was a man of legend—a brilliant strategist whose tactics had led to victory time and time again through the course of Ferelden’s history. If he’d been tasked with securing the tower for this assault, then there was no reason to suspect he hadn’t seen it done. Maker’s Breath, they’d certainly found more than their share of hastily crafted sleeping quarters for the soldiers meant to be defending this area—enough to suit a small army.

Too many, Arual realized, to have been overrun without someone noticing before now…

Dread settled in her stomach as real and hard as stone, pushing a quiet swear from her lips.

“Arual?” Alistair asked, brow creased with concern.

“It’s just…” she started, but bit down on the words and shook her head. It was impossible. It had to be impossible.

“What is it?” Alistair pressed. “Are you wounded? I think we have one last healing potion if—”

“No, I…I just…” she stumbled over the words, her tongue clumsy as her mind tried to rationale away the things that was staring them both in the face. She didn’t want to believe it. The man she’d read so much about, whom she’d looked up to as a hero for so many years wouldn’t have done this. Couldn’t have done this!

Alistair called her name again, worry creeping into the edges of his voice. Something in the way he placed his hand on her shoulder seemed to knock the words lose from her throat, and they all came tumbling out like vomit.

“He did this. The teyrn. He let them in.”

Alistair recoiled from her as if her words were thorns, even going so far as to take a step back. Emotions worked themselves through the muscles of his face, as if he couldn’t quite decide where to land—hurt, confusion, incredulity, and anger each took their turns dominating parts of his features. His mouth opened and closed several times as he gaped at her.

“But that’s…” he breathed, almost laughing. “No. No, that’s impossible. Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Arual said, speaking too quickly. “I-I-It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The barracks, these idols, the taint—” Her words began to fail her, but there didn’t seem to be much need for them anymore. There was no denying what was so plainly in front of them, no matter how much neither of them wanted to believe it. Even if they could explain away the dust covering the barracks, or the effigies to the Old Gods, they could feel it in the taint that pervaded the tower. The blight had always spread like an infection through the land, poisoning water, plant, animals, even buildings such as the Tower of Ishal. But not fast enough to pollute a structure like this in a single night.

The Junior Grey Wardens could feel it as sure as breathing—the taint had been here for days, maybe even longer than a week.

Something like that would not have gone unnoticed. Not unless someone was working to hide it.

Arual tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “Alistair, what are we going to do?”

The apple of his throat bobbed as he tried to speak. He stared into the middle distance, expression a squall of emotion. Eventually, though, he set his jaw, resolute, and turned back to her.

“We light the beacon,” he said at length. “I know how things look right now, but Cailin gave us a job and we need to see it through. At least, then, we can say we did our part.”

“But—”

“Come on,” he said, and turned away.

Arual hesitated, watching Alistair as he made for the end of the corridor. Despite the way he tried to square his shoulders, there was no mistaking the tremble in his hands, nor the uncertainly bleeding into his gait.

Regret swelled in her chest. Maker, why had she gone and opened her damn mouth?

Chapter Text

Arual frowned at Alistair’s back as they trudged through the tower. Perhaps it would have been better if she had kept her concerns about the teyrn to herself. Alistair clearly didn’t think they had any bearing on their mission. But then, what did a Grey Warden care for the machinations of Ferelden royalty? Their creed required them to remain neutral in the affairs of Thedas’ nations. Why should this be any different?

But if the teyrn organized all this, what good will lighting the beacon do? Loghain will just quit the field, and then—

Arual’s eyes widened as she realized what would happen. It wouldn’t just be Loghain’s men who saw the beacon. Every soldier on the field would see it; Loghain would have no choice but to join the battle with his men or be exposed as a traitor.

Could this have been Alistair’s plan all along? Or was it coincidence, and he simply another soldier following orders?

Arual wondered.

A sudden signal from Alistair brought her back to the task at hand. He held a fist in the air as he peered around a corner. Arual had no military training to speak of, but the gesture and the grotesque tingling she felt made his meaning perfectly clear.

Stop. Darkspawn.

“They’ve set up a blockade,” Alistair whispered. He shifted so Arual could take his place and view the situation for herself.

Before them stretched a corridor. Massive windows to either side revealed a landscape of wind and rain that raged above the battlefield. Distantly, Arual could hear the clash of metal against metal, the cries of death and fury. At the other end of the hall was a short staircase leading to an arched doorway and their goal—the final floor of the tower. The beacon.

At the base of the stairs, however, was a grip of darkspawn, each of them well-armed and well-armored, and each nastier looking than the last. In front of them, however was a pair of ballistae, loaded and aimed toward the battle bellow.

Arual’s eyes widened as the spotted a pair of snarling genlocks just beyond one of the ballistae, each with a bandolier of ceramic orbs crossing their bodies. Unless she missed her guess, those balls likely contained some kind of incendiary or explosive. Likely stolen.

Cheaters, she thought with a scowl.

But if that was the game they wanted to play…

She turned to Alistair, failing to hide the grin streaking across her face.

“I have an idea,” she whispered and indicated for him to follow her. Alistair whirled, brows knit together.

“Wait, is it a bad idea?” he asked in a strained whisper.

***

“I was wrong,” Alistair said when Arual had finished explaining her plan, “this isn’t a bad idea. It’s a terrible idea.”

“It is not,” Arual scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“Is terrible not a strong enough word for you? How about awful? Horrible? The Chantry Sisters were big on adjectives. I know a lot of them.”

Arual allowed her weight to fall onto her back leg and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Do you have a better idea?” she asked, frowning.

Alistair opened his mouth as though to say something, but all that came out was a groan. He let his face fall into an open palm, and gave a muffled, “No.”

He heaved an exasperated sigh and pulled his cowl low over his head as if covering his eyes could shield his frustration from her. After a moment, he sighed again, more resigned this time, and straightened.

“For the record, if anyone asks, I was against this plan from the start.”

“Your concerns have been noted and are now being ignored.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Bran padded up to Arual, then, returning from the game of fetch she’d sent him on. Arual accepted the short bow and single arrow that Bran had managed to scrounge for her, both now slimy with the taint and dog slobber.

“Good boy!” she praised, scratching the mabari behind the ear. She straightened and offered Alistair a grin.

“Shall we?”

“Maker preserve us…” Alistair whinged. He shook his head, but followed after her.

When the Wardens returned, they found things much as they had left them, almost as if the darkspawn where merely chess pieces waiting to be moved by some great unseen hand.

Arual needed no such guidance. She moved slowly into position, lining herself up with the genlocks and their bandoliers. Bran crouched beside her, muscles rippling beneath a short russet fur, hackles raised as he readied himself for a fight. She glanced at Alistair who, much like Bran, was poised for action. His face was set in a mask of determination. He may not like it, but Arual was coming to learn that once the man set himself on a path, he would not shy away from it. He nodded once. Arual nodded back.

She allowed herself a breath to steel her nerves. She notched her arrow.

This really was a terrible idea.

They would only have one shot at this. If she missed…

No. She couldn’t allow herself to think about that—couldn’t allow herself to falter.

She drew back…took aim…and fired!

The bolt whizzed through the air and disappeared from sight as the corridor erupted in sound and light. The bomb Arual had struck with her arrow set off another, and then another, the cacophony reverberating off the stone.

“Now!” Arual screamed over the din, though she needn’t have bothered. Alistair was already in motion, sprinting across the narrow hall and sliding into place behind one of the ballista. He pulled the trigger unceremoniously, and sent the tree-sized bolt flying.

It crashed through the mass of darkspawn, through the fire and flames, and crashed violently into the double doors that separated the corridor from the final floor of the tower and the beacon.

The Junior Wardens wasted no time in waiting to see if any darkspawn remained in the corridor.

“Bran, to me!” Arual cried and she, Alistair, and Brand surged forward as one. They burst onto the final landing, breathless and harried. They were running out of time. Arual didn’t dare to wonder what it would mean if they had already missed the signal.

Their footsteps came to a stuttering halt as they realized they were not alone on the landing.

The bodies of soldiers and darkspawn alike littered the floor, some of them long dead, and hunched over one was a hulking figure with its back to them. The crunching and squelching sounds of loud, mannerless eating filled the chamber as whatever this thing was feasted.

Muscles bulged grotesquely along its form, flesh tinged blue and black and purple, veins standing out along what must have been arms and legs like cords of rope. The hulking mass twitched, turning to face whatever had disturbed its meal with a guttural sound. Twin horns sprouted from it’s head, twisting like deformed tree trunks stained black by lightning. It’s face, it if could be called a face, was slick with gore. It’s milky white eyes locked onto the Wardens and narrowed in unadulterated hate.

“An ogre?” Arual breathed in disbelief. Her stomach turned to water. She was too afraid to move.

The ghost of a swear left Alistair’s lips, barely audible above a whisper.

As though in response, the ogre bellowed furiously, displaying rows of razor sharp teeth, flinging blood and spittle across the room.

Arual, Alistair, and Bran began a fight for their lives.

The ogre charged forward, swinging its meaty fists down at the Grey Wardens. Arual rolled to the side, barely avoiding the strike. The force of the beast’s attack flung stone and dirt through the air as if my a hurricane. Arual was able to find her footing, but the debris threatened to blind her. She held up her shield, taking what little cover she could.

“Alistair!” she called before a fit of coughing racked her body.

“I’m all right,” he called from across the room. Arual saw he’d come up in a readied stance, eyes trained on the creature. His cowl was down then, thrown back from the force of the attack and the effort to dodge. It was strange to think, but at this distance, she thought she could make out a pair of slightly pointed ears.

“We need to flank it!” Alistair shouted, bringing her attention back to the fight.

“Ah! Right,” Arual cried back in acknowledgement. Beside her, Bran barked once as if doing the same.

The ogre rounded on Arual, glaring as if it had become aware that none of them would be an easy kill. Arual gulped audibly.

The creature ran at her, faster than its size should have allowed, a living siege weapon with swiping talons. Any one of its attacks could have taken her head off! Moving more on instinct than certainty, Arual ducked under the first swipe and rolled forward to avoid the second, slashing at the monster’s legs as she passed beneath it. Her blade cut clean through the ogre’s thick blue hide, black ichor spitting from the wound.

With a roar that seemed more rage than pain, the ogre twisted to try and grab Arual. She rolled again, barely avoiding the creature. Dust and debris flew into her eyes, making them water, but she kept her gaze trained on the beast.

Bran barked a war call, leaping onto one of the ogre’s impossibly large claws and biting down with a force like a bear trap. The ogre roared again and shook it’s arm. Bran held fast, but the ogre reached up with its other hand and yanked him off as one might an insect.

Arual screamed as the ogre flung the warhound bodily across the room. Bran landed with a meaty smack and a sharp whine of pain against the far wall. Thoughtlessly, Arual turned and sprinted to him, calling for her beloved animal.

Behind her, the ogre let out an ear-splitting bellow and brought its fists (one now bloodied) down onto the stone with such incredible force that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the tower. Arual lost her footing. Her ears rang from the sound, the world spinning around her as she fell to her knees. She shook her head, trying to clear it, only to find that the blue giant was suddenly atop her.

It snatched her up in its meaty grip, easily hoisting her aloft. Arual’s arms were locked to her side, along with her sword. She struggled to get free, but the creature only squeezed harder until her armor dug painfully into her flesh and she screamed.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself face-to-face with the beast. She could see every ridge on its twisted horns, every vein on its bluish face, the bulge of its milky white eyes.

The ogre’s face twisted with malice, and it made a deep, ululating sound that Arual realized was laughter. It grinned wickedly, the rotten carrion stench of its breath filling her nostrils.

I’m going to die, Arual realized with stark and certain horror.

Her stomach turned to water. She clamped her eyes shut, too afraid to face the inevitable.

Suddenly, the thing roared again, louder this time, and arched it’s back. Arual tumbled to the ground, landing hard on the stone floor. She wheezed as the breath escaped her lungs in a rush  and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She gasped and sputtered, unable to move as the ogre slowly backed away. Blood dribbled lazily from one shoulder. It reached for it’s wounded shoulder with the opposite claw, turning with the effort, and Arual could see Alistair, sword buried to the hilt in the monster’s hide, hanging from the beast like some kind of ornamentation.

The beast thrashed, trying to get at Alistair, but the Junior Warden hefted himself up by his blade, and managed to plant a foot on the ogre’s shoulder blade, and wrenched his sword free. The ogre roared again, the sound shuddering the walls around them. Blood arched away from the wound as Alistair leapt backwards. He fell into a tumble to catch himself, and came up on one knee, sword and shield at the ready. The ogre rounded on him.

“That’s right big, blue, and ugly,” he snarled, baring his teeth. “Come and get me!”

The ogre roared up at her in response, bringing both its fists down onto the floor. The ground shook from the impact, and at first Arual couldn’t fathom what the monster was doing. Then she realized as the beast dug its massive talons into the stone. With a great, wrenching groan, the ogre ripped up a large piece of masonry from the floor. Arual watched the color drain from Alistair’s face as she struggled to her hands and knees. With a bellow of effort, the creature heaved the masonry boulder at the man.

“Alistair!” Arual cried as the boulder shattered into a cloud of dust and stone. Shattered bits flew in every direction, one large enough to crush Arual’s head landing not a foot away.

As the dust settled, she could see Alistair staggering to his feet. Blood was leaking from a gash along his hairline, coating one side of his face with gore. He leaned heavily against the wall, fighting to stay on his feet.

The ogre began to lumber toward him. Arual pulled herself to her feet. He leg burned with agony. She ignored it. The ogre got to Alistair first. The Warden brought his sword to bear, shield lost in his most recent escape from death. The ogre roared in victory.

Arual reached the ogre from behind and drove her blade up and into the creature’s back. The keen steel sliced through flesh, muscle, and bone. Arual pushed with all her might, screaming with the effort, plunging the sword even deeper.

A gush of cold ichor erupted from the wound, splattering on Arual’s hands and face. The creature squealed in torment, arching its back and clutching at the air with taloned fingers. It struggled in vain to reach for the impaling weapon, twisting frantically, but to no avail. Arual tried to hold on, but the hilt was slick with blood and she lost her grip.

The back of the ogre’s hand slammed into her with a force like a bolt of lightning. It took Arual a full second to realize that she was in the air, and two more to reconnect with the ground. Her head struck the stone, turning her vision white with pain.

The ogre arched its back even further, screeching as it tried to get to the source of its anguish. Arual could see the tip of her blade still jutting from the monster’s lower back. With a roar of his own, Alistair pushed off from the wall, swinging first one way with his sword and then the other in great horizontal slashes that caught the ogre across the stomach. The thing staggered backwards, groaning in agony but heedless of the guts that began to slip out from beneath it’s severed flesh.

With another cry, Alistair leapt, running up the creature as if scaling a steep hill, and plunged his sword into the thing’s chest. It toppled, crashing to the ground with a sound like thunder. Alistair held fast to the hilt of his blade, riding the thing all the way down. The tip of Arual’s blade shone through the front of the creature now, driven fully through it from the impact.

The ogre reached for Alistair one last time, both hands coming up as if to grab him, but Alistair was the faster. He braced his foot against the ogre’s sternum and yanked his blade free, only to bury it in one of the creature’s bulbous milky eyes.

He twisted the blade The ogre shuddered, and went still.

Panting, shaking, Alistair collapsed to his knees atop the monster, his grip on his sword the only thing keeping him upright.

There was a ringing sound coming from somewhere. Arual realized too late that it was her own head. It throbbed dully. She couldn’t move.

“Alistair,” she called, her mouth clumsy with his name. Weakly, he turned to look at her over his shoulder, eyes glassy with an adrenaline crash.

“The…beacon…”

A flash of recognition sparked behind Alistair’s eyes. Their mission was not yet finished. Sluggishly, he slid off the ogre and stumbled to his feet. Against one wall was a grand fireplace that may have been used to heat the space in peacetime. Now, it served a different purpose. Alistair’s hands trembled as he piled wood and kindling into the pit, sprinkling the herbs that would turn the smoke white to signal Loghain and his soldiers. His fingers were clumsy and shaking as he drew a tinderbox from a pouch on his belt. His breathing was ragged as he struck one match, then another, and another until finally, swearing as he drew the twig across the igniting point, he managed to keep one lit long enough to reach the kindling.

Placing the match, he stoked the flames to life, blowing gently on the embers to help them catch. Soon, flames licked up the dry wood. Alistair fell back, muttering something that was half a curse, half a prayer.

***

The land and sky were a torrent of rain and fire, blood and thunder. The din of the battle below matched only by the squall of the heavens so that all present found themselves trapped in a well of chaos with only one way out: victory.

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of Riverdane and father to the queen of Thedas, surveyed the battle below from his position atop the ridge and scowled.

The rain had long ago soaked through his cloak and found its way into the cracks of his armor so that he stood cold and wet and fuming as he watched the battle below. The ebb and flow of violence was mesmerizing even to the seasoned veteran, but it was impossible to miss the signal from atop the Tower of Ishal.

Great plumes of white smoke drifted up toward the raging storm and were lost among the tempest. It was the signal he and the troops behind him had been waiting for—troops who were as wet and cold as he was, troops who had been standing alongside him on the ridge waiting to join the battle that raged below.

“Sound the retreat,” Loghain growled to his lieutenant.

Ser Cauthrien rounded on him, brows pinched in confusion, certain she had misheard him. Over the sounds of battle, it was possible, but there was no mistaking the certainty in her lord’s countenance.

“But…what about the king?” she blurted. “Should we not—”

Loghain grabbed her roughly by the arm, just above the elbow, as one might a child who had done wrong. Ser Cauthrien’s voice faltered, her argument dying in her mouth.

“Do as I command,” Loghain growled again, voice harsh as though scolding her.

Ser Cauthrien hesitated. Quitting the field would mean certain death for the soldiers below—for the king—but she was helpless to disobey the teyrn, a man to whom she owed everything, least of all her very life. Her eyes fell shut in quiet resolve, and she wrenched her arm free of her lord’s grasp.

When she opened them again, she found Loghain watching her with a lingering, sour look. She nodded to him, and he turned to face the battle, leaving her to the dark business he’d set her on.

Ser Cauthrien turned away, stepping toward the awaiting troops.

Maker forgive me, she thought.

“Pull out!” she called out loud enough for everyone to hear and gave the signal. “All of you, let’s move!”

Like Cauthrien, a few of the troops hesitated, confused, but not a one of them failed to follow orders.

Loghain could feel the errant stares at his back as the soldiers, confusion and doubt in each set of eyes that bore into him. They had no way of knowing what was truly at stake. Like Cailin, they were too trusting of Orlais. Too few of them had lived to see the horrors of an Orlais-occupied Ferelden. But Loghain knew.

And he would ensure it would never happen again.

Duncan swung his sword in a vicious arc, rendering a genlock’s head from its shoulders, and sending the still snarling head into the air. At his back, King Cailin parried a blow from a charging hurlock, driving his blade through an opening in the thing’s armor and into what counted for its blackened heart. He brought an armored foot up and kicked the dead thing away and into a group of it’s comrades, sending them sprawling.

But, Maker, there was no end to them.

For every darkspawn the Grey Warden or the King, or any of his innumerable troops cut down, it seemed that there were at least two ready to take its place.

And then Duncan heard the whispers. The Calling. The fate of all Grey Wardens who did not perish on the field of battle. The Old Gods who whispered to the darkspawn now began to whisper to him through the taint he had taken into himself at his Joining.

“So, it is that time already,” he murmured to himself.

A thunderous roar behind Duncan made him turn, blades at the ready. An ogre had Cailin in his grip, talons digging into the king’s gilded armor as if it were made of parchment. Cailin raised his enchanted longsword, ready to drive the thing into the beast’s jagged maw, but the ogre squeezed. Blood erupted from punctures all along the king’s flank as the ogre’s talons bit into the soft human flesh.

Cailin did not even have time to cry out before the light left his eyes.

The ogre, bored with his prey, tossed the body aside as it if were nothing more than a nuisance. Cailin’s form came to rest at Duncan’s feet. Blood and gore spattered the king from golden head to gilded toe. His one blue eyes were grey and lifeless as they stared up at the sky.

Duncan’s knees buckled, bringing him to kneel at the king’s—no, at the son of a man he once called friend’s—side. He placed a hand over Cailin’s chest. The man was beyond even healing magic now, for there was nothing that could bring back the dead.

Duncan followed the corpse’s vacant gaze to the Tower of Ishal, where his newest recruits waited to join him on the field. White smoke billowed out from the spire’s chimney, signaling Loghain’s soldiers to join the battle. But they were nowhere to be seen. The reinforcements King Cailin had been counting on, the push the Grey Wardens had needed to stem the tide long enough to put an end to the coming Blight, were gone.

***

“Alistair…”

It was Arual’s voice, reaching out to him across the darkness. When had he closed his eyes? With an effort, Alistair opened his eyes. His head swam and his eyes fought to focus on the scene before him. Arual lay sprawled on the stone mere feet away, her warhound curled into a ball against the nearest wall. She did not move.

“Are you still there?” she asked, her voice a soft whimper.

“I’m here,” he assured her, though his own speech was slurred with bloodloss and fatigue.

“I…I can’t see you.”

Alistair had never thought it could be this difficult to move. Every inch of his body protested as he forced himself forward on his belly, his head, his back, his shoulders and parts of himself that didn’t bear mentioning screamed out as he forced himself to crawl toward the woman.

Still she did not move. Even at a distance, Alistair could see her eyes roaming the ceiling above her, searching for something he could only guess at. At last, he made it to her side, and her eyes found his. Bloodshot and rheumy, and yet hauntingly lovely. Blue, like the sea.

“I don’t want to die alone,” she confided, voice wet with tears.

“I’m here,” he told her again. He fell back onto his backside, shifting his weight so he could take her hand between two of his. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

But Alistair knew better than most that death was a lonely act. In his twenty years, he had seen more death than most men three times his age. War had a funny way of doing that to a person.

“Did…we do it?” Arual asked, the pale column of her throat working as she tried to swallow a mouthful of blood and spittle.

“Yes,” he told her.

“Good.”

She closed her eyes. Tears cut streaks through the gore covering her face, but her expression was…peaceful. In another life, she might only have been sleeping.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” she whispered. “About Loghain and the tower.”

A startled laugh escaped him. Of all the things she could have been concerned with in that moment, she chose this!

“That’s all right,” he said. “Happens all the time.”

The ghost of a smile stretched her mouth for half a second.

“Funny,” she mumbled, lips sluggish, the word a slurred sound.

“Nah, you haven’t even heard the good stuff yet,” he said, patting the back of her hand. “I do I great routine all about ponies. You’d love it.”

For a moment, she looked about to say something, but all she was able to conjure were more silent tears.

Thoughtlessly, Alistair cupped her face with one hand, still holding onto her hand with the other. Her hand was heavy in his own, and yet impossibly delicate. With one calloused thumb he wiped at her tears. They had known each other all of a day, and yet Arual had been kinder to him than most.

He smiled knowingly. Duncan had made a good choice.

“Fergus…” Arual mumbled, barely more than a whisper, and was still.

Beaten, bruised, bloodied, bleary, and some fifth adjective probably starting with B, Alistair slumped forward. He’d lasted long enough to give his fellow Warden what meager peace he could offer. It was more than most Warden’s got. And now, truly spent, he lay beside her on the stone, one hand still clasped around hers.

***

In the days to come, what few survivors there were of the battle at Ostagar would tell tales of a great shadow that swept over the battlefield, massive wings darker than the storm that raged above.

Some feared it was the Archdemon rearing it’s ugly head, circling the ruins of Ostagar in mocking victory before landing on the Tower of Ishal. A few would go on to claim they saw the creature fly away with something heavy in its claws.

Chapter Text

“Fergus!”
The name clawed its way from Arual’s throat as she shot up in bed, her hand reaching for a blade that wasn’t there. Adrenaline thundered through her veins, her mind spinning; her breath coming in sharp, rasping gasps. A spike of pain shot through her skull, turning the world briefly white as if she had been struck by lightning. The cry of pain and alarm died in her mouth as she cradled her head. She felt bandages beneath her fingers. But how? The last thing she remembered was…
“Ah, your eyes finally open,” came the voice—sultry and laced with amusement and no small amount of sarcasm. Arual looked up to see a familiar dark-haired woman moving toward her, a small box in-hand. She stood over Arual, looking down at her with a glint in her hawk-like golden eyes, one corner of her mulberry dark lips stretching upward. “Mother shall be pleased.”
I know her, Arual thought. What was her name? Morrigan?
Slowly, Arual took in her surroundings.
A modest hut of waddle and daub, surrounded her on all sides. In the central hearth, a crackling fire licked at the sides of a small bronze cauldron, filling the space with the earthy aroma of herbs and root vegetables. The smoke from the hearth rose up, curling through drying herbs which hung from nearly every rafter, before escaping through hatches built into the thatch roof.
“Where am I?” Arual asked.
“In the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds,” Morrigan’s voice lilted upward coquettishly at the end, making Arual squirm.
Arual looked down at herself. She lay on a soft mattress of heather, piled high with blankets and furs. A dozen bandages crisscrossed her body. Her very naked body.
Arual snatched up the nearest blanket and pulled it up to her chin to cover herself, embarrassed. Morrigan merely laughed, as if Arual were a child, which made the younger woman feel even more embarrassed. She supposed a Witch of the Wilds wouldn’t be cowed by something like nudity, especially that of another woman, but outside of her bathing chambers, the same was not true for Arual.
With leonine grace, Morrigan perched on the edge of the mattress and began examining Arual’s bandages with a clinical regard. Her hands were warm and calloused. This woman was no stranger to hard labor, Arual realized. Though, she could see that plainly enough in the tone and definition of her arms. They weren’t as big as Arual’s but there was no mistaking the signs of real effort.
“How fares your memory?” Morrigan asked as she checked the bandages around Arual’s brow. The motion drew Arual’s eyes away from Morrigan’s arms. It was only then that she realized she’d been starring. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she offered up a silent prayer to the Maker that Morrigan had not noticed.
“Do you remember mother’s rescue?”
“I remember being overwhelmed by darkspawn…” Arual admitted straining to recall details, but it felt like waking from a dream—the harder she tried to remember, the less she could recollect. Then, something clicked. Had Morrigan said her mother rescued her? Arual blinked, recalling an ancient and withered crone when they had passed through before with Daveth and Ser Jory. How could someone like that rescue Arual from the Tower of Ishal?
“Mother managed to save you and your friend,” she spoke the word with a level of disdain usually reserved for something one steps in when being careless at the stables. But to Arual, it was like music.
“My friend?” she repeated, speaking so quickly she almost stumbled over her words. “Do you mean Alistair?”
“The suspicious dimwitted one? Yes. He is outside by the fire, along with your…hound.” She made a disgusted noise, lips curling away from her teeth and her eyes rolling back into her head.
No amount of contempt on Morrigan’s part could douse the quickly building excitement in Arual’s chest. Alistair and Bran were alive. Alive!
She started to rise, eager to see the with her own eyes, before she remembered her state of undress and sunk back into the blankets and furs of the bedding. Morrigan gave her a sisterly look that reminded her strangely of Fergus, and stood.
“They are both by the fire,” she said. “You should go. Mother will want to see you.”
Morrigan turned to leave, but Arual found herself reaching for her.
“Wait,” she called. The older woman paused and turned to regard Arual over her shoulder. “Please, I have questions. My sword…”
“Ah, yes,” Morrigan said. She moved to a blanket at the foot of the bed and threw it back to reveal Arual’s sword still it it’s scabbard. She snatched it up without hesitation, ignoring the way the motion tugged at her bandages and made her body ache. She held it tightly against her, relief flooding her as she did. Her parent’s legacy had not been lost.
“Mother was not able to save most of your equipment, damaged as it was,” Morrigan explained, placing a hand on her ample hip as she watched Arual with amusement. “Though this, she said, seemed important.”
“I don’t understand. How did your mother save us?”
“She turned into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from atop the tower. One in each talon,” Morrigan’s tone was light and jovial, even if her expression did not change. No answers there, then. Arual supposed that was to be expected. The Witch of the Wilds surely wouldn’t give up her secrets so easily.
“Now, then,” Morrigan said, “if there is nothing else, I shall take my leave.”
She turned to leave, giving Arual the privacy she desired without having to ask for it. In fact, she and her mother had done so much for her and her friends without being asked. Arual couldn’t see what benefit or profit there was to it. Could it have been out of the kindness of their hearts? Would a Witch of the Wilds go that far for complete strangers? Even if their true intentions were not altruistic, the fact remained that they had saved her life, Alistair’s life, and Bran’s life. For that, Arual could never thank them enough.
“Morrigan,” Arual called out. The older woman stopped and turned back toward Arual, looking as though she expected Arual to ask her more questions or favors. Arual met her gaze earnestly. “Thank you for helping me.”
Morrigan flushed, her expression showing confusion and perhaps something else. “I—” she began quickly, but her voice failed her. She cleared her throat, and spoke in a small voice, “You are welcome…”
It was strange. It almost sounded as if she were…
Embarrassed?
“Mother did most of the work,” Morrigan added quickly. “I am no healer.”
“All the same. Thank you.”
Morrigan turned away as if someone had called her name. She cleared her throat again. “There are clean clothes for you over there,” she indicated a small chest. “Ready yourself so you may speak to mother and be off.”
Before Arual could say anything more, Morrigan disappeared through the door to the hut. Arual deflated somewhat, her relief exhausting her. Alive. Again. After yet another close call.
“The life of a Grey Warden, I suppose,” she laughed mirthlessly. Though, was she still a Grey Warden? The battle didn’t remove the taint from her blood, but the Ferelden order…without Duncan, all that was left was her and Alistair. Could they even call themselves Grey Wardens anymore? What could the two of them do alone?
Arual shook her head.
Best to put those thoughts aside for the time being. She’d know more once she spoke to Alistair. He was, after all, her senior in the order. What was left of it, anyway.
The chest Morrigan had indicated contained a simple mossy green hemp dress and a sullen grey wool mantle. There were also thick woolen socks and soft leather shoes. Arual hoped they were Morrigan’s mother’s old clothes and not something the women had stolen. They certainly didn’t seem to suit Morrigan’s particular…fashion.
By the time she’d finished dressing, her head was pounding and her whole body felt bruised. Laying back down sounded quite appealing, but the thrill of seeing Bran and Alistair again pushed her out into the Wilds.
In front of the hut, another, smaller fire crackled merrily. The white-haired crone she’d met before sat by the fire, dressed all in black just as before, knitting with a pair of needles that looked eerily like bone. She did not look up as Arual stepped away from the door, seeming satisfied to wait for the young woman to make her way in her own time, as if her approach was some inevitability the old woman was prepared for.
Before she could, an excited bark drew her attention—a very familiar, very welcome bark.
“Bran!” Arual called, turning. Her faithful mabari bounded toward her, muscle’s pumping, and tongue lolling. Her eyes went wide as Bran’s forepaws did not touch the ground. Instead, he kicked off with his hind paws not five feet from her and launched himself into the air.
“Bran no—” Arual began, but Bran’s fore paws slammed into her chest like a pair of furry mauls, knocking the wind from her lungs and the words from her mouth. The tidal wave that was Bran crashed into her, bearing her down to the unforgiving earth. She coughed, trying to recover, but the hound stood firmly atop her, slathering her with endless slobbery kisses.
“Bran…st-stop—” Arual wheezed between passes of the beast’s tongue and his high-pitched whines of elation. She pat his side twice, four times, six, eight. Eventually, Bran backed up enough to allow his mistress to catch her breath. Arual scrubbed her face with the sleeve of her borrowed dress, grimacing.
“Yuck…”
“Need a hand?”
Arual opened her eyes. Alistair stood above her, leaning down with an outstretched hand. His shield arm was in a sling. He smiled gently, mirth and relief dancing across his features. He wore a roughspun tunic and trousers, clearly a man’s garb, affirming that the clothes Morrigan had offered were, indeed, stolen. It didn’t matter. Arual returned Alistair’s smile and took his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet.
“Thank the Maker you’re all right,” he said as she righted herself.
“Oh, it’s not the first time Bran’s seen fit to knock me off my feet, and it won’t be the last,” Arual said, dismissing his words with a wave of her bandaged hand.
“I was referring to the darkspawn, but I suppose danger could come from anywhere.”
“Not from this sweetie!” Arual cooed, scratching Bran in his favorite spot behind one ear. His nub of a tail wiggled back and forth in delight as he nuzzled into her hip.
“He’s been a great comfort while you recovered,” Alistair agreed, stooping to scratch Bran’s other ear. Arual looked him up and down once. His arm was the only bandage she could see, though she wasn’t about to go snooping beneath his “borrowed” clothes to search for more. His face and the knuckles of both hands were riddled with small scrapes and bruises, but they didn’t seem to be bothering him. Even so, there was a heaviness about him—in the way his shoulders slumped, in the way his smile didn’t quite meet his eyes…
“Are you all right?” she asked, voice careful. Like poking a bruise. Alistair was quiet as his gaze wandered slowly toward the middle distance.
“Duncan is dead,” he said, voice barely above a whisper as if each word caused him pain. “The Grey Wardens are dead. Even the king… It doesn’t seem real. If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead atop that tower.”
“Do not speak of me as if I am not present, boy,” came a voice from beside them. Arual and Alistair jumped in unified surprise. Had the old woman managed to approach so quietly they hadn’t heard her? No, it was more like she had been beside the fire one moment and there the next. Like magic.
“I-I’m sorry,” Alistair stammered. “I didn’t mean… But what do we call you? You never told us your name.”
“Name’s are pretty, but useless,” the woman said with a roll of her cold, hard eyes. “The Chasind people call me Flemeth, and I suppose that will have to do.”
“Flemeth…” Alistair echoed, voice going low and incredulous. “Like in the legends? Daveth was right. You’re the Witch of the Wilds! All this time, I thought you were joking—”
Arual could hear the fear at the edges of his voice, but there was also a sort of reverence to it. Even with all that, he seemed to try to place himself between Arual and Flemeth, while simultaneously trying to back away. The result being an awkward sort of maneuver which resulted in him stepping on Arual’s foot.
“Be at ease, boy,” Flemeth intoned, sounding almost bored as if they did not all stand within a country that feared magic. If Flemeth was indeed the Witch of the Wilds, it would make her an apostate—an offense that, if discovered, could lead her to being imprisoned in the Circle of Magi, or executed. Yet she acted as if those possibilities…were not possibilities at all…
“I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well. Has it not?”
“We are grateful for your aid,” Arual cut in, trying to pitch her voice into something nonthreatening, lest she incur the ancient witch’s ire, “But, if I may…why did you save us?”
“Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once now, can we?” Flemeth said, shrugging. “Someone has to deal with these darkspawn.”
Alistair and Arual exchanged a significant look. By the grace of the Maker, they had survived the Tower of Ishal, but what could the two of them, alone, do against a Blight?
“It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight,” Flemeth reminded them in a tone not unlike a mother’s scolding. “Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”
“The land is hardly united after what Loghain did,” Alistair grit out.
“Loghain?” Arual echoed. “What does he have to do with this?”
“After we lit the beacon, Loghain was supposed to respond to our signal. Instead, he quit the field. Without the support, the darkspawn overwhelmed everyone in the valley.”
Arual felt as if she’d taken a sledge to the gut. Teyrn Loghain was supposed to be a great man. She’d gone to bed with stories of his and King Maric’s exploits dancing in her head. He was supposed to be a hero! And yet he’d betrayed them all…
Arual could see the tension building in his shoulders, noted the clenched fist at his side, the muscle feathering in his jaw. Instinctively, she reached out and took hold of his wrist, trying to steady them both.
He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing into long, slow, deep strides. Bit-by-bit, the tension eased out of his shoulders. When he opened his eyes again, the rage and hurt was still there, but he was in control of them; not the other way around.
“I just don’t understand,” he admitted, voice low. “Why would Loghain do this?”
“Now that is a good question,” Flemeth said, almost amused. Like a teacher whose pupil had finally asked the right question.
“Perhaps he’s after the throne?” Arual offered hollowly. “He is the queen’s father. It wouldn’t be the first time a king has gained a throne that way…”
Alistair’s shoulders tightened all over again.
“If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he would never stand for it. The Landsmeet would never stand for it! There would be civil war!”
Arual didn’t doubt Alistair’s words. King Cailin had been beloved by all. Even if he had been a minor noble instead, she had little trouble imagining the political upheaval his death would have caused. What it must be causing now…
A sudden thought struck Arual like a bolt of lightning. “That’s it!” she cried. “Arl Eamon. We can go to him! He is—was Cailin’s uncle. Surely, he’d be able to help us.”
Alistair perked up at this, turning to face her fully. Arual realized then that she still had a grip on his wrist. She let him go, but Alistair’s hand flew to her shoulder and gripped it as if she were a lifeline in a storm.
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help! He wasn’t at Ostagar; he still has all his men.”
“And you think this Arl Eamon and his soldiers will be enough to stop the Blight?” Flemeth asked, her voice taking on a slight edge.
“I know him,” Alistair insisted. “He’s a good man.”
“But will it be enough?” Flemeth demanded. Alistair went silent, lips thinning into a line. His hand dropped from Arual’s shoulder to run through his hair. It looked more like he wanted to pull it out.
“Wat about the rest of the Grey Wardens?” Arual asked. “There must be a way to contact them.”
“If Loghain hasn’t already taken steps to stop them,” Alistair groused. “He was never keen on Cailin fighting alongside the Wardens in the first place. Even if we sent word for them today, we must assume they won’t arrive in time.”
“Perhaps Arl Eamon can help us appeal to the other nobility…” Arual said, pinching her chin thoughtfully.
“Wait!” Alistair cried suddenly, making Arual and Bran both jump. “The treaties!”
He looked at her, excited and expectant, as if she should know what he was talking about. She raised a single brow to indicate that she didn’t.
“Grey Wardens can demand aid from anyone. They’re obliged to help us during a Blight! It’s like the Act of Conscription, but on a much, much larger scale.”
Arual felt ready to smack Alistair in the back of the head. “Why didn’t you say any of that before?”
“A lot’s happened, I can’t be relied on to remember everything,” Alistair offered sheepishly. Arual rolled her eyes and groaned. Alistair’s apologetic expression turned into a pout. “Well, I don’t see you offering any ideas.”
“It was my idea to go to Arl Eamon,” she shot back.
Alistair opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it and shut his gob.
“Well, then,” Flemeth said, sounding amused all over again, “it sounds as if you two are finally ready to be Grey Wardens. Before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”
“The stew is bubbling, Mother,” Morrigan said, wiping her hands on a cloth as she approached. “Shall we have two guests for dinner, or none?”
“The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you are going with them.”
“Ah, such a shame—wait, what?” Morrigan shrieked, eyes going round with shock and fury.
“Yes, what?” Alistair echoed. Clearly, he didn’t want Morrigan coming along any more than she did.
Flemeth looked between them like a cat about to pounce on a particularly delicious mouse.
“You heard me, girl. Your ears worked fine, last I checked.”
“Thank you,” Arual began delicately. “But if Morrigan doesn’t want to come with us, then she should stay here.”
Flemeth rounded on her, eyes burning. “I did not think you were in a position to be turning down allies, girl.”
Arual opened her mouth to argue, but Flemeth was right. They were desperate. They had a plan, but there was no way to know if it would be enough. She closed her mouth and lowered her gaze.
“Have I no say in this?” Morrigan demanded, arms crossing beneath her breasts.
“You have been itching to get out of the wilds for years,” Flemeth reasoned. “Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this my repayment for saving your lives. Her magic will be useful. Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde.”
“Mother!” Morrigan snapped. “This is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready—”
“You must be ready.” Flemeth said. There was a finality in her words that broached no argument. “Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. You are going to help them. Without you, they will surely fail.”
Arual pursed her lips at that particular show of confidence…
“I…understand,” Morrigan conceded.
“And do you understand, Wardens?” Flemeth said, rounding on the pair of them. “I give you that which I value above all else in this world. I do this because you must succeed.”
“We understand,” Alistair and Arual said in almost perfect unison, bowing their heads as if they were guilty children being scolded.
“Allow me to get my things,” Morrigan said, her voice quiet. Was it Arual’s imagination, or was there a quiver in her voice?