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Chapter Text

The towering silhouette of Minrathous loomed ahead, its ancient streets stretching beneath the shadow of the Circle of Magi—a cold, oppressive reminder of Tevinter’s power. But to Leto, all of it was swallowed by the slats of the caravan’s wooden walls. From here, his world was reduced to blurred stone and fleeting shadows, a haze of motion that had lost its meaning.

The caravan was filled with other slaves, all their heads bowed, their gazes fixed on the ground at their feet. House slaves.

None of them looked at him. None of them spoke. He wasn’t like them. He was different. In the inherent heirachry of Tevinter he was above them, a simple fundamental truth. Chosen for the arena at an age so young he barely remembered anything before the pain of training, the brutality of the fight. His body had been forged for battle. His purpose: to fight, to survive, to be the spectacle of power that elevated his master's prestige.

This was far from his first tournament. But this one was more than just survival. If he won, he would earn the coveted position of personal bodyguard to one of Tevinter’s most powerful men. It wasn’t freedom, but it was a 'promotion' of sorts. As a gladiator, he was already near the top of the slave hierarchy, but being a bodyguard would be the pinnacle.

And if he succeeded, if he won, he would be granted a boon - something rare for a slave.

A gift.

 

The boon could give him the chance to free both his mother and his sister. To break their chains. To make his mother’s dream come true, at least in part.

He couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been a slave. But his mother could. She had regularly whispered to him - stories of a place beyond Tevinter, where elves walked unchained and unbroken. She had known freedom once, and no matter how often others scoffed at her hope, she had passed it down to her children like a fragile ember that refused to die.

He would win the tournament.

His family would be free.

Kirkwall.

The city of chains.

He had stopped paying attention to the names of the places he passed through. They were all the same—unfamiliar faces, strange smells, the noise of too many people. The details were irrelevant. Survival was all that mattered now.

But this one, this one he knew.

Tevinter still held an unofficial and tenuous grip here, its influence seen in the investments and properties still owned by magisters. Even his master - ex-master, he corrected himself - had investments here, part of his vast web of power.

Towering statues flanked the gates, their cold, imperious faces watching as he passed. The city's very layout spoke of control—power here, as in Tevinter, was a weapon to be wielded, not shared. The strange script on the signposts and the foreign sounds of the Trade Tongue were the only clues he wasn’t in some crumbling outpost of Tevinter’s farthest reaches. This was Kirkwall—a filthy, backwater town in the Free Marches.

Rumour had it that Kirkwall had once been the beating heart of Tevinter’s expansion, its mines and quarries feeding the Imperial Highway. The streets had been carved out by the blood of slaves. It felt too familiar - a harsh reminder of a past he couldn’t escape, even in a city that had long since stopped belonging to the Empire. Whispers suggested the slave trade still thrived, the law rendered meaningless in the face of coin.

Pulling his hood up further, forcing his thoughts to the present. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and his bruised body ached with every step. The broadsword on his back and the hidden daggers would hopefully give the illusion of a dangerous mercenary - someone best left alone.

Usually, Fenris avoided cities. The customs of the south, the strange dialects—he never quite felt at ease with the people, with the constant worry of slipping up. Every glance, every word, felt like a trap. He’d learned to keep his distance. But now, here he was. Chased by imperial bounty hunters to the centre of the ancient slave trade – the irony was not lost on him.

In theory he was far enough south now. Far enough to not be automatically seen as Danarius’s property by the masses. But that did not mean that he was welcome, or safe. Here, no one called him a slave. But they didn’t need to. The distain for his race was obvious.

He may not be a slave here, but he was still an elf. And to the southern humans it seemed that made him something less. Less than human. Less than them.

He let out a breath, his hand brushing the hilt of one of his daggers. He needed to keep moving. He needed food, rest, maybe even shelter. But that came with its own risks. His body was still bruised from the last fight a few days ago, his muscles sore from months of running, he wouldn't last much longer at this rate.

The lower streets were packed, the scent of sweat and metal thick in the air. Mercenaries crowded the roads—warriors, rogues, sellswords. Their weapons were their statement. He even spotted a few elves, their clothing tattered and threadbare, clinging to the fringes of society. They walked openly, but it was the way they moved—always on the edge, always aware—that set them apart. Fenris felt the old instinct to stay hidden clawing at him as he kept to the shadows.

He scanned the crowd, eyes darting for an opportunity. Mercenaries, particularly after a successful job, were always an easy mark—too much confidence, too little caution.

The arenas had been simpler: win or die, survive or be forgotten. Even as a bodyguard, life had been clear—obey or be punished. But now, there were choices, decisions, survival no longer a “sample” case of pleasing the master.

His thoughts were interrupted when a small group caught his eye. Four figures—two humans, a dwarf, and an elf. They moved like they didn’t belong here, like they weren’t just another set of desperate souls. They walked freely, chatting, laughing, as if Kirkwall had no weight to bear, no dangers to face. Fenris narrowed his eyes, stepping backward, further into the shadows to watch them more closely.

Something about them felt wrong. They didn’t belong in the streets of Kirkwall. The elf, especially. A Dalish, from the tattoos across her face. He’d heard the stories—Dalish elves were reclusive, not seen often outside their clans. It was strange, then, to see one walking so openly through the human city. She didn’t even seem to notice the curious stares she drew.

Fenris watched them closely. The dwarf, too, was odd—a crossbow slung across his back, a golden chain draped over his bare chest. He narrowed his eyes. It was unusual to see a dwarf dressed so… lightly. Especially in a place this cold.

The dwarf’s eyes slid over him, calculating, sizing him up as if he could already sense the danger Fenris felt. A bad sign. No one should have noticed him yet, not with his hood drawn low, his movements careful and deliberate.

He swallowed the rising panic and slipped deeper into the shadows. His breath steady, controlled, despite the way his heart raced. He had learned long ago; panic was a luxury he could not afford.

The constant awareness, the edge of fear, and the weight of exhaustion were beginning to wear on him. His mind raced, always looking for the next threat, the next danger. Every corner, every glance—was it a bounty hunter? A slaver? Was someone following him? He couldn’t afford to let his guard down for even a second.

The dwarf’s eyes lingered on the shadows again, as if he could sense Fenris' presence, even if he couldn’t see him.

*Move. Now.*

The streets were too congested for a clean escape, but an alley to his left offered some cover. He slipped into it, his movements fluid and silent. It was damp and reeked of decay, but it offered a temporary reprieve from prying eyes. Still, it wasn’t safe to linger. He slipped into the marketplace, trading one chaos for another.

Emerging into the chaos of the market, Fenris kept his hood low, blending into the sea of moving bodies. The square was a blur of sound and motion. Grease from sizzling meats mingled with the sharp tang of overripe fruit and the stench of sweat. Vendors shouted their wares over the din, children darted through the crowds, and traders haggled with fervent voices that barely masked the tension hanging over the air.

He could barely remember the last time he’d eaten. Days? Longer? It didn’t matter. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, turning every other thought into background noise. His throat was dry, his left leg struggled to hold his weight, and he felt the pressure of fatigue pressing down on him, threatening to pull him under. The world felt out of focus, a constant swirl of people, but his eyes never stopped moving—calculating, analyzing, seeking.

The market offered so many distractions. Stalls loaded with baked bread, ripe vegetables, and spiced meats made his mouth water. Hunger was no stranger—his master had often withheld food for days at a time. But hunger in the relative safety of his master’s household was a different beast from hunger on the run.
A pair of humans bumped into him, jolting him out of his thoughts. His hand darted to the hilt of his dagger before he could stop himself. He flinched, forcing the instinct down.

Focus. No mistakes. No second chances.

They didn’t even notice him. It wasn’t the first time today, and it wouldn’t be the last. In the market’s chaos, no one paid attention to anyone for long. They were too busy with their own lives.

Reaching the edge of the market was a relief. Once he had coin, retracing his steps for supplies would be simple enough. Food was the priority, but if possible, he’d aim for potions or even elfroot.

Leaning heavily against a wall, he let himself rest for a moment, his vision blurring briefly as the dizziness crept in. His body screamed for respite, but rest was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not yet. He scanned the next street, eyes narrowing on a group of potential marks.

Three humans stumbled out of a nearby alley, their unsteady movements betraying their drunkenness. They laughed too loudly, the sound grating in the crisp air. Wealth was written in every detail: fine clothing, soft fabrics, and the unguarded ease of those who had never wanted for anything. No weapons were visible.

Perfect.

Pushing off the wall, he let the dizziness clear just enough to focus. His steps were deliberate, his movements fluid. No rush - there was no need. They were too absorbed in their drunken chatter to notice him drawing near.

A well-timed nudge was all it took, barely registering to the nearest man as anything more than the crowd’s jostling. The coin purse’s string cut easily. The weight of the coins was a reassuring pressure as he slipped away. He didn’t look back, his pace measured as he disappeared into the throng.

Finding a quiet alleyway was easier than Fenris expected. The market’s noise faded behind him, replaced by a heavy stillness that felt unnatural. The alley stretched ahead, deserted, its silence broken only by the distant hum of voices and the occasional clang of metal. A few rats scurried through the gutters, their soft patter the only sign of life.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His fingers twitched toward his dagger, the cold steel grounding him as his body braced for danger. But there was nothing. No footsteps, no shift in the air. Just silence.

Taking a slow step forward, he winced as his left leg trembled under his weight. He pushed through the pain, finding a gap between barrels and crates just wide enough to sit. With a sigh of relief, he sank to the cobblestones, his back pressing against the rough, cool wall. The weight of his exhaustion pulled at him, his vision swimming briefly as his body rebelled

For a moment, he let his eyes close, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing. Slow. Deliberate. Each inhale and exhale filled him with uneasy calm. The city felt far away in this forgotten corner, the distant murmurs of the market reduced to a faint hum.

He worked the drawstring open, the leather rough against his fingers, and peered inside

A few small coppers and a single silver glinted back at him. His stomach sank. All that fine clothing, that careless laughter, and this was what they carried? A single silver and a few coppers. Frustration coiled in his chest, sharp and bitter. As a slave, there had been many things his master had decided he didn’t need to know. Reading, writing, even simple math—he'd never been allowed to learn such skills, deemed unnecessary for his "role." But in the year since his escape, he’d picked up what he could. Enough to understand the value of a coin. The inn in the last town he's passed through had characged him two silver for a single night in a cramped room, a hot meal was usually at least three or four copper... The was not enough. Not to keep going for long.

His stomach growled in protest, but he swallowed the discomfort down. Survival. That was all that mattered now. He had no choice but to keep moving. He would find the places the city watch feared to tread. And given the general layout of the city it should be downhill.

-

His heart stuttered as his eyes snapped open. His body reacting before his mind could catch up, he was already on his feet, the world spinning around him. His legs buckled, crashing heavily to the ground, the dull thud of his fall reverberating through his bones. For a disorienting moment, everything was a blur.

His breathing was ragged as he scrambled to push himself up, but the sharp pain in his left leg forced him to pause, his vision wavering.

“Kaffas.”

He had never intended to fall asleep. That had been one of the hard lessons learned during his escape: never let yourself fall into a kind of sleep that made you vulnerable. Never sleep where others can see you, never let your guard down. Never let anyone exploit your weakness.

With a grunt, he forced himself upright, his body shaking with the strain. The weight of his meager possessions felt heavier than it should, the strap of the small bag digging painfully into his shoulder. It had been a while since he’d had the luxury of feeling light, free, or even capable. Everything felt stiff, as he fumbled to fasten the sword back in place.

As he retraced his steps, heading back to the main road, the night seemed to press closer. Night was always strange when on the run—its emptiness a relief, yet its silence also more dangerous. The crowds were gone, but so were the distractions, leaving him exposed.

The only people out at this hour were the ones he wished to avoid—guards, slavers, gangs, and those who preferred the shadows.

A soft rustling of voices broke the stillness. Fenris darted into a doorway, his cloak pulled tightly around him, hoping the shadows would swallow him whole. The voices grew louder, until the figures emerged into the dim light: the crossbow-wielding dwarf and a human from earlier, both looking far too joyous for the hour, their laughter too bright for the dark street.

“… did you see the look on that guy’s face?” the dwarf chuckled. “I knew I was right about you, Hawke.”

Fenris froze, forcing himself to stay perfectly still. There was something off about these two. Too loud, too unguarded. And people who were too comfortable in the dark streets were never to be trusted.

“Right about me?” The human’s voice was warm, teasing, “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult, Varric.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, instinctively pulling deeper into the shadows. They were too relaxed, too confident. Were they mercenaries? A gang? No smuggler or slaver would be so careless.

He waited, holding his breath, until their voices faded into the distance. Only then did he release the tension from his body and continue his own journey.

It didn’t take long to find the alienage, easy to recognise the place for what it was with its large central tree. He was vaguely aware that the tree was meant to hold some sort of significance to elves, someone had even explained it to him a few months ago, not that he had really cared.

The alienages always reminded Fenris too much of the slums where the libertini—the so-called "free"—often ended up back in Tevinter. A cruel mockery of freedom.

He’d heard that some alienages even get locked away by the guards at night. Elven freedom, indeed. If anything, it was a confirmation of what he had known for months now - freedom was an illusion.

But as much as he loathed these places, alienages were often his best bet when it came to finding a place to hide. An abandoned house, a vacant loft, or a small, dilapidated squat—temporary refuges, yes, but better than nothing. Among the other elves, he could blend in more easily, escape the piercing stares, and maybe even lower his hood without drawing attention. With strange markings, granted, but no more out of place than any other.

Most of the people who lived here had learned to survive in silence, blending into the background. They were the forgotten ones. The overlooked.

As he navigated the alleyways of the alienage, he noticed several other elves slipping in and out of the shadows—some with empty, hungry eyes, others with the hard, wary look of people who had learned to trust no one. A few were in rags, while others looked to have some degree of comfort - looking more like a commoners than a vigrant.

As he passed a particularly dilapidated hut, Fenris paused, leaning against the crumbling brick wall. It was hard to tell whether these structures were truly abandoned—some were just run-down but still occupied. The door hung slightly ajar, the windows shattered and hastily boarded up. Likely abandoned. Possibly a squat?

He hesitated, his senses alert, scanning for any movement in the shadows. He looked around one last time, making sure he wasn’t being watched, before slipping through the broken doorway.

Inside was dark and quiet. Dust hung in the air like a heavy blanket. The faint smell of mold and old wood filled his nostrils. Crates sat amidst broken furniture, remnants of a life that had once occupied this space. It was being used as a storage area, perhaps. He scanned the dim corners, alert for any sign of life - rats, insects, or something worse.

Nothing.

It was safe – for now.

Chapter Text

The Minrathous Grand Proving Arena was unlike any ground Leto had ever fought on. Its sheer scale, both in size and grandeur, dwarfed every arena he had ever been in. The towering walls of the arena, made from dark stone that seemed to absorb the very light of the sun, were covered in faded frescoes and carvings that told the stories of battles long past. The air was thick with the heat of the sun and the stench of blood and sweat. It was not just a place for gladiatorial combat - it was a symbol of Tevinter’s might, a reminder that in this place, the power of the magisters extended even to life and death itself.

Before the tournament began, Leto was kept in a holding area beneath the arena, an underground cage where slaves were kept like cattle awaiting slaughter. The others around him were no different—broken, hollow-eyed men and women who had learned long ago not to look anyone in the eye, not to speak. His gaze never lingered on the others; he knew better. His fate was tied to the arena, and he had no use for distractions. But there was something unsettling about the silence, the shared understanding that most of them were about to die.

The magisters came to inspect the them one by one. Running their hands over their bodies, judging their strength, their endurance, their potential to entertain. Their comments laced with a cold indifference, slaves were little more than objects to be appraised after all. Leto had long since ceased to care about the judgments. He knew what they saw in him—strength, discipline, a gladiator forged for battle. He was a weapon, nothing more.

The fights themselves were a blur, a cycle of violence that seemed to repeat itself endlessly. Ten slaves would be led out into the arena at once, armed and hungry for survival. Only one would return. It was always the same—pain, blood, death. The crowd’s roars mixed with the shrieks of the dying, the clanging of weapons on shields, and the stench of fear in the air. To survive the first round meant a meal, a brief respite, and the rare treatment of a healer—a luxury in Tevinter, where magic was reserved for the privileged few.

The healer’s touch was cold, efficient. The pain was excruciating, worse than any wound he had ever suffered, as bones were set and flesh mended. It was a necessary evil. He could not afford to show weakness, to flinch or cry out. Every gasp of pain, every shudder of agony was swallowed, buried deep inside where it would never be seen.

The arena became a pit of carnage, a place where only the strongest, the most relentless, could survive. Leto fought with everything he had - there was no other choice. His only thought, his only goal, was the end. The thought of his family, of his mother’s dream for their freedom, drove him onward. It was all that kept him from collapsing on the blood-soaked sands of the arena.

Victory came, but at a price.

The last of the gladiators fell, their bodies broken and lifeless at his feet. Leto stood amidst the carnage, panting, his heart pounding in his chest. He had won. The thought barely registered, as if it was some distant concept that he couldn’t fully comprehend.

His new master—one of Tevinter’s most powerful men—came to claim him, his hand firm on Leto’s shoulder, guiding him away from the carnage. There was no celebration, no moment of recognition.

His new masters words - spoken as if he were bestowing a great honour upon Leto—drifted in and out of focus. "You’ve done well. Your family will be freed, just as you requested," a pleased smile on his lips.

But Leto barely heard him.

His first two days in Kirkwall had been surprisingly uneventful. No bounty hunters. No desperate chases. But with the absence of immediate danger came the stark realization that he hadn’t made any real contacts either. It was an overabundance of caution, perhaps, but so far no one had seemed worth the risk of approaching. Instead he'd spent those days scouting the city, committing its labyrinthine streets and alleys to memory. He knew better than to trust in luck or hope. The moment he let his guard down, he would be found.

His left leg throbbed persistently as he limped through the docks. He hated the place. The briny air stung his nose, and the acrid stink of fish clung to everything. He loathed fish. But the docks were bustling with activity, a perfect place to lose oneself in the crowds—and, possibly, to find work.

Unfortunately, the docks were not the bustling harbor of ships he had imagined. Instead, it was a sprawling warren of warehouses and ramshackle piers stretching haphazardly along the waterfront. The air was thick with noise—creaking ropes, shouted orders, and the occasional crash of crates. Fenris kept his hood low, staying to the edges, wary of every glance and murmur.

His aimless wandering gnawed at him. Back in Tevinter, there had been purpose to every step he took, every action carefully calculated to meet his master’s expectations or secure his survival. Now, this so-called freedom felt hollow—paralysis masquerading as choice.

Just as the frustration began to claw at him, Fenris caught the sharp edge of raised voices. His steps faltered, his attention snapping to the source.

“Per noctem movemus. Custodes avertere possumus.”

Tevene.

His breath hitched, and his body moved on instinct, ducking behind a stack of crates. His heart pounded violently, the rhythmic thud loud enough to fill his ears. Slowly, cautiously, he peered out from his hiding spot, his muscles coiled and ready to strike—or flee.

A group of soldiers stood near one of the larger ships docked at the wharf. Their armor gleamed faintly in the late afternoon light. Their voices had dropped to murmurs, but Fenris caught enough to piece together the intent behind their words. They spoke of evading the city guards, of moving goods under cover of darkness. The rational part of his mind screamed at him to leave—to slip away unnoticed and put as much distance as possible between himself and these men. But his feet wouldn’t move. His gaze locked on the group, and a cold, creeping dread coiled in his stomach.

Were they here for him?

No, that didn’t make sense. Danarius would have sent bounty hunters, not a group of uniformed soldiers. And yet, their presence in Kirkwall was troubling.

“Dominus advenit?” one of the soldiers asked, his voice low and cautious.

The blood drained from Fenris’s face. Dominus. A master.

“Advenit,” another soldier replied with a nod, tapping the side of a large trunk with his boot. “Debemus truncum ad eum in Lowtown portare.”

The words sent a chill down Fenris’s spine. A magister? Here?

He strained to catch the soldiers’ conversation, but much of it was drowned out by the chaos around him. What little he could hear made his stomach churn. An address in the Alienage. Another in Hightown. His mind worked quickly, analyzing the information. If a magister truly was here, they would almost certainly be staying in Hightown. No magister would lower themselves to the indignity of setting foot in the Alienage—not unless they had a very specific purpose.

Curiosity warred with caution, and against his better judgment, Fenris crept closer, careful to keep himself hidden behind the stacks of crates. From this distance, the trunk they were moving became visible—plain and unremarkable, with none of the gilded adornments or intricate designs one might expect from a magister’s property. It didn’t fit. Why would something so nondescript warrant the attention of soldiers in Imperial armor?

His gaze shifted to the men themselves. Their finely crafted plate and leather stood out sharply against the coarse, practical clothing of the southern dockworkers. His eyes moved instinctively to their weapons, then to their hips, scanning for the telltale sign of heraldry.

He froze. His breath hitched as his eyes locked onto the sigil.

House Danarius.

Danarius himself couldn’t be here. Could he? No, surely not. He would never stoop to traveling so far south.

His first instinct was to run. The logical choice. There were too many of them, and he was alone. Taking on a group like this was suicide, especially with so many potential witnesses around. His body tensed, ready to slip away into the shadows and disappear before anyone saw him.

But he didn’t move.

The old, familiar fear clawed at him, urging him to flee, to find safety in the anonymity of the city. But another voice—smaller, quieter—spoke up within him. A voice that was weary of running, weary of hiding. It had been months of this: the endless cycle of fear, flight, and survival.

Running would be the sensible option, there are too many to fight alone. But he’s tired of running, tired of hiding, perhaps it’s time to make a stand.

--

Hawke stepped into the raucous chaos of the Hanged Man with a weary sigh, the dull hum of conversation and clatter of mugs doing little to soothe her growing irritation. Her eyes scanned the crowded room until they landed on Varric, who was already waving her over. The glint in his eye was unmistakable: whatever he wanted, it wasn’t going to let her have the peaceful evening she’d been hoping for.

“Evening, Hawke,” he greeted smoothly, leaning back in his chair with a casual air. “You just missed Red—came in with some fresh gossip.”

Hawke sighed again, dropping into the seat across from him. “Evening, Varric. Let me guess—whatever ‘gossip’ she brought is about to ruin my night, isn’t it?”

His smirk widened as he swirled the last of his drink. “Depends. You planning on ignoring trouble in Hightown?”

Her brow furrowed, already bracing herself. “What kind of trouble?”

Varric leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Word is, there’s a fight brewing. Shades in the streets, glowing mansions, magic flying left and right. Red thought you might want to lend a hand.”

“Great,” she muttered, running a hand down her face. “And yet here you are, waiting for me instead of already helping?”

Varric finishes his drink before laughing, “Hawke said with an exasperated tone”

"Varric..."

"Yeah yeah, I'm coming," he said, standing and slinging Bianca over his back.

“I swear no one in this blighted city can do anything without me”, HAwke muttered before turning back tot he door, “Let’s get this over with.”

By the time they reached Hightown, it was clear Aveline hadn’t been exaggerating. The area was covered in ichor and piles of ash, the remains of shades most likely. The worst of the chaos seemed centered on one of the grand mansions, its windows radiating an eerie, pulsing light. From within, there were flashes of movement – shadows, flashes of blue.

The city guard had formed a perimeter, their disciplined formations holding steady as they cut down the last of the creatures in the streets. Hawke scanned the area for Aveline, overhearing snippets of the guards conversations as she walked.

“Another fight in the Alienage—Tevinter mages, bounty hunters, dead everywhere—”

“Then why aren’t we there instead of here?”

“This damned mansion hasn’t been cleared! Whatever’s inside could spill out any moment.”

“Then let the Templars deal with it!”

Hawke’s stomach tightened at the mention of Tevinter mages. Trouble in the Alienage and Hightown? That didn’t feel like a coincidence. Her eyes flicked back to the glowing mansion, her instincts screaming that whatever was happening inside wasn’t going to fix itself.

“Maybe I should’ve brought Bethany,” Hawke muttered under her breath. “Having a mage might’ve been helpful with… all this magic.”

“Brilliant idea,” Varric quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s fetch Sunshine, Blondie, and Daisy while we’re at it. Then we can hole up at the Hanged Man and let the guards sort this mess out.”

Hawke was about to respond when Aveline stepped into their path, her imposing figure and stern expression cutting off any hope of retreat. The Guard-Captain wasn’t having it.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Aveline stated firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “The guards can hold the streets for now, but someone needs to deal with the source of this.”

Hawke threw her hands up in exasperation. “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be the rogue with no magic and the storyteller with a crossbow who gets sent into the glowing death trap?”

“You’re resourceful,” Aveline replied, before turning and walking towards the glowing mansion, “coming?”

Hawke exchanged a glance with Varric, her brows raised in a mixture of disbelief and resignation. “Resourceful,” she muttered, shaking her head. “That’s Guard talk for ‘You’re expendable.’ right?”

Varric chuckled before following after Aveline.

The closer they got, the more the air seemed to hum with power. It pressed against her skin, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The eerie light spilling from the windows pulsed like a heartbeat, casting strange, twisting shadows across the cobblestones.

"According to the records this place it owned by a Tevinter merchant," Aveline gesturing toward the grand, weathered structure. “It’s been abandoned for years. No staff, no tenants.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at the ominously glowing windows. Her hands brushed the hilts of her daggers, “So, naturally, it’s glowing and radiating magic now. Because why not?”

“Just another evening in Kirkwall,” Varric quipped, though his casual tone didn’t quite mask the wary edge in his voice. His hands tightened around Bianca’s stock as they stopped in front of the heavy oak door. “You know, Hawke, we should really start charging hazard pay for these late-night excursions.”

Aveline shot him a sharp look, but her focus quickly returned to the mansion. She stepped closer, her boots crunching softly against the gravel. Slowly, she reached for the door. “Let’s focus on sorting this out before worrying about your retirement fund.” She pressed her hand against the door and easing it open. It swung inward with a groan, revealing a cavernous foyer that might have once been a testament to wealth and power but was now in complete disarray.

The air inside was stifling, thick with the acrid stench of burnt wood and something metallic—blood, Hawke realized uneasily. Broken furniture was scattered across the marble floor, and jagged scorch marks marred the once-pristine walls. Long curtains hung in tatters from massive windows, their shredded edges singed as though licked by flames.

The light emanating from deeper within the house bathed the foyer in a sickly glow, casting long, unnatural shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The sound of distant magic—sharp bursts of energy and the low hum of power—echoed faintly, a dissonant melody that set Hawke’s teeth on edge.

“Pleasant,” Varric muttered, his crossbow raised as his sharp eyes scanned the room. “Really makes you wonder what Tevinter’s definition of ‘hospitality’ is.”

Hawke stepped cautiously over the debris, her daggers drawn now, their faint gleam catching the unnatural light. “Maybe we’re dealing with squatters who have a terrible sense of interior design?”

Aveline’s voice was low, steady, as she replied, “Squatters don’t usually summon demons or radiate enough magic to make my teeth buzz.”

“Fair point,” Hawke conceded, glancing back toward her friend. She paused at a doorway, her gaze sweeping the room beyond. More destruction: overturned furniture, scorch marks, and a metallic tang in the air that made her stomach tighten.

"Hey, Hawke," Varric called from across the room, holding up a pair of tattered trousers with a mischievous grin. “Look more torn trousers!”

Hawke shot him a glance, one eyebrow raised. "Why is it that there are old ruined trousers everywhere we go?"

The dwarf chuckled, shaking the trousers for emphasis. “You know, I’m starting to think the ‘owner’ of this mansion had a very interesting taste in décor.”

Hawke couldn’t help but roll her eyes, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Can you two not ‘loot’ in front of me?” Aveline signed, shaking her head, before walking into the next room, "more dead bodies in here..."

Hawke stepped gingerly over the wreckage, her eyes flicking around, "more shade too," she pointed out poking a pile of ash with her foot.

"Slavers I think," Aveline muttered as she crouched over one of the dead bodies, “someone has done us a real favour clearing this out. Though something feels fishy still”

Varric moved to her side, his crossbow still held at the ready, his gaze flicking between the bodies and the door at the far end of the room. "Slavers, huh? That explains the blood... but not the magic." He raised an eyebrow.

Aveline stood up, brushing dust from her knees as she surveyed the room. She was about to speak when a loud bang broke the silence. Hawke spun around, daggers in hand, listening carefully, "Upstairs?"

"Upstairs," Aveline confirmed, her voice low and commanding. "Let's move."

They made their way cautiously through the shattered mansion, stepping over broken furniture and scorched rugs. The low hum of magic grew louder the higher they climbed, the atmosphere thickening with each step. Every creak of the floorboards under their boots seemed amplified in the oppressive silence that had settled in the house.

At the top of the stairs, they reached the end of a long corridor. A door stood ajar, casting a faint light that spilled through the crack, bathing the hallway in an unsettling red hue. Aveline exchanged a glance with Hawke, signaling for them to prepare themselves.

With a quiet nod, they moved as one, creeping forward toward the doorway. The air in the room was thick with an ominous energy, the walls suffused with a red glow that seemed to pulse and breathe with an unnatural rhythm. The ground at the edges of the room writhed as several shades clawed their way up from the floor, their grotesque forms writhing and twisting in a frantic attempt to escape whatever magic had been woven into this space. They were still, though, compared to what was at the room's center.

At the heart of the room, looming above the floor, stood a creature unlike anything Hawke had ever seen. Its form resembled that of a walking corpse, draped in tattered mage robes, its frame skeletal and hollow. A rusted metal helmet obscured its head, leaving no trace of a face, only a terrifying presence that filled the space with an overwhelming sense of menace. The creature hovered just above the ground, exuding an aura of raw, suffocating evil. The very air around it felt heavy, as if it was pressing down on them, warping reality itself. A coppery, iron-tasting sensation clung to the back of Hawke’s tongue, as if the room itself were bleeding.

Before they could react, the creature lunged—its target wasn’t them, though. Instead, it shot toward an elf standing at the far end of the room. The elf, his back to the group, was fending off the shades with a gleaming sword, his strikes swift and precise. As he spun to face the threat, Hawke held her breath, bracing for a collision. But then, just as the creature lunged toward him, a brilliant blue light erupted from the elf's body. The creature’s lunge passed harmlessly through him, as though the elf had become intangible, a shimmering barrier of magic surrounding him.

Varric raised an eyebrow, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “Neat trick.”

Hawke mumbled under her breath, “Maybe you can ask him about it if we survive.”

Varric gave a smirk but raised Bianca, lining up his shot. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Aveline’s sword flashed as she struck down the first shade, Hawke’s daggers a blur as they tore through the air with deadly precision. Varric’s bolts flew true, taking down one shade after another. Despite the chaos, the creature—an Arcane Horror, though they did not yet know its name—remained, floating still at the center of the room. In a burst of blue light, the creature released a wave of raw magic, an area-of-effect attack that spread outward from its core. The light radiated across the room, washing over everything in its path with blinding intensity.

Hawke instinctively raised her arms to shield her eyes from the radiant blast, but the light was overwhelming, burning with the heat of raw magic. It felt as if the very air was searing, the force of the magic pressing down on her, threatening to crush her under its weight.

When the blinding light finally began to fade, Hawke blinked, her vision clearing just in time to watch the strange elf collapse, unconscious onto the floor.

The creature moved, it’s eyes—or whatever passed for them—glowed with an eerie, sickly light as it turned its focus to Hawke and her friends. "Any bright ideas?" she asked quietly, glancing at Varrric and Aveline.

Aveline was already moving, her sword and shield held ready, “We need to focus on the creature."

As if in response, the creature released another powerful burst of arcane energy, sending a shockwave through the room. The blast hit Aveline square in the chest, and Hawke watched, horrified, as her friend stumbled back, the force of the magic nearly knocking her off her feet. But Aveline didn’t fall. She gritted her teeth, steadying herself with her shield.

“I’m fine,” Aveline grunted, but it was clear the attack had taken its toll.

"I vote for avoiding the magical shockwaves," Varric called over, releasing a barrage of bolts towards the creature.

Hawke’s thoughts raced as she scanned the room, her daggers still raised in a defensive stance. Her mind worked furiously, considering their options. "Varric, I need you to cover us. Aveline, going to need you to fight like a rouge on this," she grinned, "keep moving, retreat out of its range after every hit."

Aveline nodded without hesitation, though she looked far from convinced by the strategy.

The creature let out a horrific screech, an unnatural sound that reverberated through the room, sending a shiver down Hawke’s spine. She took a step forward, eyes narrowed, before leaping at the creature, hitting it with several fast swipes before twisting away out of its reach.

"Nice dodge!" Varric yelled over the growing chaos, releasing another bolt at the creature.

Aveline, sensing their opening, moved in, her sword flashing in a series of quick, calculated strikes as she kept the creature occupied. Before moving back and Hawke lunging once more. "Keep it on the defensive," Hawke yelled.

She wasn;'t sure how long the dance went on, the melee fighters taking it in turns to put pressure on the monterous form, Varric keeping up an almost constant string of bolts. But eventually it let out a ear splitting scream before letting out a wall of heat and disintegrating into a pile of ash.

“Is it over?” Varric asked, lowering Bianca but keeping a wary eye on the room.

“For now,” Aveline grunted, her armor dented and scorched from the creature’s attacks. She winced but didn’t stop moving. She walked cautiously to the unconscious elf, kneeling beside him to check for signs of life.

Hawke moved closer, her breath still coming in sharp bursts from the battle. She looked at the elf, who lay sprawled on the ground, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. "So... what do we do with him?"

"I'm not sure," Aceline admitted getting back to her feet, “I can leave him out of the report for now—won’t be the first time I’ve bent the truth. But once he wakes up, I’ll want answers.”

Hawke nodded slowly, her thoughts flickering between the aftermath of the fight and the elf’s sudden, unexplained appearance. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Aveline looked at Hawke,“Good. If you can handle him, I’ll leave it to you for now. I need to report in, make sure the rest of the city stays quiet for once.” She glanced at the destruction around them. “Though I’m not sure what part of Kirkwall’s ever quiet.”

“Never a dull moment,” Hawke replied with a dry smile.

Aveline nodded, she turned and headed toward the mansion’s door, her steps echoing in the eerie silence.

"Reckon we should take him to Blondie?" Varric asked as he approached.

Hawke glanced down at the elf, still unconscious on the floor. She crossed her arms, “Not sure Anders will be thrilled... but yeah, maybe. I am certainly not equipped to deal with whatever this is."

Varric chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t wait to see Blondie’s face when we show up with a glowing, unconscious elf."

"Can you get his sword if I get the efl?" Hawke asked as she crouched down.

"Hawke..." Varric frowned, "that thing is twice my size."

Hawke shot him a look that bordered between playful and exasperated. “What, are you telling me you’re too short to handle a sword now, Varric?”

Varric scoffed, rolling his eyes. “The things I do for you, Hawke." With a grunt, he managed to heft the sword, dragging it awkwardly behind him as he moved back toward Hawke and the unconscious elf. "Voids... this thing's heavy."

Chapter Text

There was once a young child living in a small, quiet village in Ferelden, nestled between the hills and forests where the seasons turned the landscape into a patchwork of golds, greens, and browns. The child was loved, surrounded by friends, family, and the kind of freedom that only youth could bring. The fields were endless in their expanse, the hills perfect for climbing, and the woods a place of wonder. He spent hours playing in the sunlight, chasing the wind, and making up games with the other children. It was a life of simple joys, and yet there was a sense of purpose that came from the work that balanced the carefree days.

His mother was the heart of their world. She was a healer, a herbalist, known for her gentle hands and deep knowledge of the land. No ailment, no injury, seemed beyond her ability to mend. With a garden full of herbs and flowers, she would weave together potions and salves. The child learned early that plants held power, that the earth itself could offer the most profound healing. His mother would sit him down by the fire and teach him about each leaf, root, and flower, explaining their uses in soft, patient tones. The child believed their mother was a miracle worker, capable of mending the broken, soothing the ill, and turning pain into relief. And, with an eager heart, he dreamed of one day being able to help others in the same way.

But everything changed when he was twelve.

It began as a strange sensation, a feeling deep in the pit of the stomach that couldn’t be explained. It was subtle at first - an odd tingling, a slight warmth – but it grew, a pulsing, vibrating feeling that spread through the veins. There were times when his hands would glow with a soft green light, an eerie light that seemed to come from within. He was frightened, unsure of what was happening or why. And yet, some instinct told them that this was not something to be shared. It was something to hide, to keep to oneself, a secret that would only bring trouble. But the child did not understand why.

But the fear became overwhelming. The warmth of his hands, the glowing light, the sudden bursts of heat that would cause things to smoulder or catch fire - it was as though something inside his was alive, uncontrollable.

It was terrifying.

So, with trembling hands and a heart full of dread, he went to their mother. They told her everything - the strange sensation, the glow, the fear that they could no longer hold in.

The mother listened quietly, her face a mask of calm, but her eyes betrayed the sorrow she felt. She did not scold, did not panic. Instead, she embraced the child, whispering words of comfort.

“It’s a gift,” she said softly. “Your uncle had it too. It’s not a curse. But it is feared. It must stay a secret. You must never tell anyone, not even your closest friends.”

But the secret was heavy, like a weight that he could not bear alone. And despite his best efforts, it wasn’t long before the truth slipped out.

One evening, in a burst of anger and fear, the child’s hands flared with uncontrollable light, setting a pile of dry leaves on fire. The flames spread quickly, consuming the barn that had been nearby. It was an accident, a moment of lost control - but the damage was done.

The village soon found out, and the child became a symbol of fear. Whispers spread through the streets, and eyes once warm turned cold. The villagers spoke of bad omens, of misfortune, of the danger that the child now represented. It didn’t matter that the child had done nothing wrong - that they had never meant for any harm to come.

His ‘gift’, or curse, depending on who was speaking, was a threat that no one was willing to ignore.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, his father appeared at the door. There was no kindness in his face, no comfort to be found in his eyes. Without a word, he brought the Templars to the house, soldiers who had come to take him away.

He tried to run, to escape, to find some way back to his mother, but the Templars were too strong. They seized him roughly, dragging him away from the only home he had ever known.

His cries filled the air, a mixture of desperation and confusion, but no one listened. He was whisked away, his mother’s voice the last thing he heard - sobbing, calling out, asking them to be brave. He clung to a single pillow, the only thing his mother had begged the Templars to let him keep, and with it, he was taken from everything he’d had ever known.

Anders slumped onto the nearest empty cot, exhaustion pulling at him like an anchor. His mana was dangerously low, the magic he’d used to heal the elf earlier leaving him drained. He exhaled deeply, rubbing at his face with a tired hand. The events of the past hour blurred in his mind—Hawke and Varric barging into the room, Hawke half-dragging an unconscious elf, Varric struggling with a sword nearly as large as the dwarf himself. There hadn’t been time to get the full story, not with the immediate need for healing. He’d dropped into healer mode without hesitation, trying to keep the elf alive as best he could.

At some point Hawke had left, probably off to stir up more chaos somewhere. The room was quiet now, the only sound the occasional shuffle of Varric’s boots as he leaned against the far wall, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He was unfazed by the situation, as always.

Shifting, sitting up straighter as he turned his attention to the dwarf. "Alright, Varric, let’s hear it."

Varric’s smirk widened. "Well you know Hawke," he said, his tone dripping with amusement, "when shades start popping up in Hightown and an abandoned mansion starts glowing, there was almost no chance of her not wanting to check it out."

"And what about…" Anders waved his arm toward the cot at the back of the room, where the elf still lay unconscious. "What about him?"

"Well, Blondie," Varric replied with a shrug. "When you find a half-dead elf in a creepy, glowing mansion at the epicenter of a shade invasion, bringing him to the local friendly apostate for healing just seems... logical."

Anders raised an eyebrow. "And no one thought maybe he was connected to the glowing mansion? Or the shades?"

Varric grinned, the mischievous glint in his eyes never fading. "Or demons... fancy mages, bounty hunters..." he trailed off.

"Fancy mages and bounty hunters?" Anders echoed, incredulity in his voice.

"Tevinter, I think," Varric clarified nonchalantly.

Anders glanced back at the elf on the cot, "We know anything about him?"

Varric’s grin faltered for a moment, then he shrugged. "Beyond the obvious - elf, spiky armour, massive sword, and the glowing tattoos? Not much."

"Wait, hang on." Anders’s attention snapped back to the elf. "The tattoos… they glow?"

Varric nodded. "Yeah. Saw it just before he passed out. He glowed, and then… well, he sort of phased through an attack. It was really something."

Anders’s brows furrowed as his mind raced, the fatigue slowing his thoughts. "Right," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Not filling me with confidence here. What happened with the mansion and the…" He gestured vaguely, as if hoping the right words would materialize. "The glowing."

Varric scratched his chin, deep in thought. "The mansion? Or the elf?"

Anders’s gaze flickered between the two. "Either? Both? Neither are things that usually glow."

"Don't know what to tell you, Blondie," Varric said with a shrug. "The mansion just looked like a mansion again when me and Hawke left, and the elf stopped glowing before he passed out."

The dwarf’s eyes shifted back toward the elf on the cot. "He going to live?"

Anders took a deep breath, "Yeah. He’ll live... wouldn't expect him to be awake any time soon though."

Varric raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "Guess we'll have to wait and see then, eh? You sure you’re up for babysitting this glowing mystery? Red wants a chat with him when he wakes up."

Anders groaned, "I’m really not in the mood for babysitting," he muttered under his breath, sinking back onto the cot. "But I suppose I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"Well, Blondie," Varric said with a playful lilt, "I’d love to stay and swap more ominous theories about our glowing guest, but it's been a long day of monster slaying and mansion exploration. I’ll swing by tomorrow to see if our mystery elf decides to wake up and spill the beans."

Anders rolled his eyes. "You mean you’ll come by to see if he does something else weird."

"Details, details," Varric quipped with a wink as he pushed himself out of his chair and headed for the door.

Anders couldn’t help but shake his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Varric had a way of making even the strangest of situations sound like an adventure. The door clicked shut behind the dwarf, and Anders was left alone in the quiet room, save for the soft sounds of the elf’s shallow breathing. He glanced back at the stranger on the cot, wondering about the man’s story—what he was doing in the mansion, how did the tattoos glow, and more to the point were they lyrium? Lyrium was dangerous. Toxic. How he was even alive with it embedded in his flesh? That was beyond Anders’ understanding.

The elf shifted slightly on the cot, a faint movement that caught Anders’ attention. He stood quickly, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, instinctively drawn to the still form. The elf’s hands twitched and curled, fingers grasping at the air as if searching for something—perhaps a weapon? Or something to anchor him to reality? Anders hesitated for a moment, watching the elf closely.

The elf’s tattoos suddenly flared to life, flickering with a strange, eerie blue glow. Anders took a cautious step forward, unable to tear his eyes from the flickering light. His mind racing. Lyrium wasn’t supposed to behave this way. It was dangerous enough in its normal state, but this—this was something entirely different. It pulsed, it throbbed, as though it had a life of its own. Was it tied to the elfs emotions?

Without thinking, Anders reached out, drawn by an impulse he couldn’t explain. His fingers brushed lightly over the elf’s arm, just below one of the glowing tattoos. The effect was immediate. The elf’s body jerked at the touch, muscles tightening under Anders’ fingers. A tremor ran through the elf’s skin, the glow in his tattoos intensified, rippling and flickering like a storm contained within the elf’s flesh

Before Anders could process what was happening, the elf’s bright green eyes snapped open. There was a brief moment of stillness. Anders’ heart thudded in his chest as his gaze locked onto the elf’s, sharp and piercing, though clouded with confusion.

Then, in one fluid motion, the elf jerked upright, his muscles tight and coiled, his grip snapping around Anders’ throat and slammed him against the wall with a speed that stole his breath. The pressure was immediate, brutal—like iron clamping down on his neck. Anders’ heart raced, pulse pounding in his ears as his hands shot up in panic, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the elf’s forearm.

The elf’s breath was shallow, ragged, his sharp eyes burning with a wild, frantic energy. He spoke in a language Anders didn’t understand—low, guttural sounds that vibrated in his chest and sharp, fluid vowels that seemed to spill from his lips with urgency and fear. The words were harsh, almost frantic, as though he was trying to communicate something in desperation, but Anders couldn’t make sense of it. His world narrowed to the crushing pressure on his throat, the coldness of the elf’s
skin against his own. struggled for air, his mind racing in panic as he tried to form words, but nothing came. His thoughts were muddled, the pressure on his throat preventing anything coherent from reaching his lips. The elf’s eyes narrowed, as if scrutinizing Anders for a moment, before his grip tightened once more, pushing the apostate’s head back against the wall.

His vision started to blur at the edges. He could feel the heat in his chest, the adrenaline flooding his system, but it wasn’t enough to break the elf’s grip. Think, Anders, think! It wasn’t that he had never been restrained before, at the circle Templars would regularly using their strength to overpower the mages. Back then his default reaction had been to antagonise them further, to fight back verbally – never physically he’d learnt that lesson the hard way. But this… this situation was different. He forced himself to speak, trying to make himself understood. "P-Please... stop... I'm not... your enemy..."

The elf didn’t seem to hear him, or if he did, it made no difference. The grip didn’t loosen. Without fully thinking, he summoned his magic. Power crackled through his veins, and before he could even process it, the elf was thrown backward, slamming into the far wall with a sickening thud.

Anders staggered, his heart pounding in his chest, and barely managed to steady himself against the edge of a nearby table. His breaths were shallow and ragged as he fought to clear the fog clouding his mind. Finally, his vision cleared just enough for him to see the elf crumpled on the floor—motionless, like a broken doll discarded carelessly. The harsh reality of what had just happened hit him like a slap. "Shit," Anders muttered under his breath, frustration and guilt roiling in his stomach.

He hadn’t meant for it to go this far. He hadn’t wanted to hurt him. He only wanted to defend himself, to stop the elf from choking the life out of him. But somewhere in the heat of the moment, things had escalated too quickly. In his panic, he'd lost control.

A low groan from the elf pulled Anders from his spiralling thoughts. He stiffened, his heart skipping a beat, and immediately moved toward him, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him. The groan became a rasping breath, and Anders hesitated, then approached cautiously, trying not to make any sudden movements. "Look, I didn’t mean to -"

The elf’s breath hitched again, his gaze flickering to Anders’ staff before moving back to his face. "Magus..." he closed his eyes for a moment looking frustrated with himself before locking his gaze on Anders again, “You are a mage,” he said flatly, the statement more of a realization than a question.

Anders exhaled slowly, trying to steady his breath, his hand instinctively moving to his staff as if to assure himself that he still had a modicum of control over the situation. “I am,” he said softly, "I am a healer."

The elf’s eyes narrowed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, one hand braced against the wall for support, his movements stiff and measured as though he were trying to control every muscle, every instinct that threatened to betray him.

For a long moment, he stood there, silently surveying the room. His eyes flickered across the dimly lit space, assessing every detail—every possible exit. His gaze lingered for a beat on the door, a moment of hesitation before his attention shifted to the cot on the far side of the room. Anders’ eyes followed his line of sight, and he winced as he realized what had drawn the elf's attention.

The elf's weapons.

When Hawke had brought him in, Anders had been too preoccupied with getting the elf stable to really pay much attention to the absurdly large assortment of arms he’d carried nor the intricate leather and metal armour - now scattered across the cot in an almost ridiculous display. A huge sword, several small daggers, and knives, a haphazard collection, almost laughably over the top for a single person.

Without a word, the elf moved across the room with careful, deliberate steps, a slight limp in his gait. He was clearly in no condition to be walking, let alone fighting. As he reached the cot, the elf hesitated for only a second, eyeing the weapons again before lowering his gaze to the armour. With a grunt of effort, the elf began to gather his armour, donning it slowly. His fingers worked quickly but with a slight tremor as he fumbled slightly with the complex clasps and straps.

Anders stood frozen, unsure of what to say, unsure of whether he should intervene. The elf had made no move to acknowledge him, nor had he made any attempt to explain himself. It was as if Anders were invisible, a mere spectator to the elf’s silent ritual.

"You can't leave," he said quietly, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. It wasn’t what he had meant to say—he had intended to keep the situation calm, to not press the elf—but it was too late now.

The elf paused, shooting him a venomous glare. "Am I to be your prisoner?"

Anders flinched at the sharpness of the question, though he kept his ground. His grip tightened instinctively around his staff, as if preparing for a fight, but his gaze softened slightly in response. The elf wasn’t threatening him—not exactly. But there was something there, something guarded and raw that spoke of a history Anders didn’t know. A history that had led the elf to this moment.

"No," Anders replied, his tone quiet but firm, "You’re not my prisoner." He paused for a heartbeat, then added, "But you’re hurt. And you’re in no condition to be running off."

The elf’s eyes flickered for the briefest moment, a flash of uncertainty, but it was gone before Anders could fully decipher it. He didn’t answer—not verbally, anyway. Instead, he reached into the pouch on his belt, fingers trembling slightly as he fumbled with the leather tie. For a moment, Anders thought he might reach for a weapon or some other hidden tool, but instead, the elf pulled out a small handful of coins.

Anders blinked in surprise as the elf placed them gently on the cot beside him. Two copper coins. Small, unremarkable, and seemingly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. The gesture itself, though, felt like a strange sort of offering—a gesture that held weight despite the lack of value in the coins themselves. It was as if the elf were trying to say something that words could not capture. A quiet attempt to regain control, or perhaps to reaffirm his independence. I am not helpless, the action seemed to say. I do not owe you anything, and I will not be indebted.

Anders felt a pang of something, a sharp, almost painful recognition of what the elf was trying to convey. It wasn’t the first time someone had offered him payment, despite the fact that the clinic was meant to be free. Many of the people in Darktown had little to give—some of them barely had enough to survive—but there was a strange pride in not accepting charity. In not being beholden to anyone. More often than not, patients who came through his doors would leave behind something—food, a trinket, a few coppers they had no business parting with—all to avoid feeling indebted. Sometimes it was awkward, almost painful, like they were trying to preserve their own dignity, even as they had nothing left to give. He understood the unspoken need to hold on to whatever scraps of autonomy a person could, even if he hated it.

"I don’t expect you to pay," Anders said softly, his lips curving into a tired but genuine smile. "This is a free clinic."

The elf stared at the coins for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, his gaze shifted slowly to Anders, lingering there with a mixture of confusion and perhaps a touch of something else—something less clear, but no less intense. He didn’t take the coins back. He didn’t offer an explanation, or even a simple thank you. Instead, he reached for his sword, lifting it effortlessly and strapping it onto his back. He moved toward the door, his movements deliberate and calm.

But then, to his surprise, the elf paused. The silence between them thickened, and Anders’ eyes widened slightly when the elf spoke, his voice unnervingly calm—too calm, in fact. "I do not mean to seem ungrateful.”

There was something in the way the elf said it—something that made the hairs on the back of Anders' neck stand on end. Was he... apologizing? Was that what this was?

Anders hesitated, a part of him still bracing for whatever might happen next. "You shouldn’t be going anywhere," Anders repeated softly.

The elf stood there for a moment, his hand on the door, gaze flickering back toward Anders. It wasn’t much—a split second but it felt like an eternity. Then, without another word, he pushed the door open, stepping through without looking back.

Chapter Text

The Circle Tower smelled of damp stone and smoke, a fortress built to keep the outside world at bay. But to the boy dragged here, it wasn’t the sanctuary peopel claimed — it was a prison.

He hadn’t spoken a word since the Templars had torn him from his mother’s arms. Not during the journey south. Not when they’d stripped him of his belongings. Not when they’d locked him in a dormitory full of strangers.

He kept his lips pressed tight, his voice buried so deep inside that even he began to wonder if he’d ever hear it again. Speaking felt like surrender. If he gave them his name, then he gave them a piece of himself. And they had already taken too much.

The other apprentices noticed, of course. Whispers followed him through the halls, as relentless as the templars’ boots on the stone.

“Does he even talk?”
“Maybe he’s mute.”

Anderfells kid.

That's what they staretd callign him. 

The name stuck quickly, passed from templar to apprentice to enchanter until it was the only one anyone used. The boy never corrected them. He wouldn’t give them his real name. His name belonged to the family he’d lost.

But silence was lonely. It built walls higher than even the Circle’s towers. He sat in classrooms, stone-faced, ignoring the teasing and the taunts. When they shoved him, he shoved back. When they whispered, he glared until they stopped. But still, the silence cut him off, left him apart.

It wasn’t until months later, when a harried apprentice shoved a book into his hands during a lesson, that he broke it.

“Anders, take this.”

The boy froze. The name felt foreign and sharp — not his, but close enough to snap him from the fog. He wanted to argue, to deny it. But the word hung there, heavy and expectant.

Anders.

Not his name, but a name. Something to fill the silence, to answer back when the templars barked. Something to keep him from disappearing into the void of namelessness.

So when the instructor asked, “Do you understand, Anders?” he forced himself to nod.

Anders.

And slowly, painfully, he became the boy with a name that wasn’t his.

 

Maybe, if the world didn’t seem to take a personal joy in antagonising Anders, the day would have gone better. Or the week. Or the month. Or his entire blighted life. Maybe he could have healed the mysterious, violent elf once, nearly been strangled for his trouble, and then washed his hands of the whole business. But no — less than a week later, Hawke came knocking again, all bright eyes and reckless energy, asking for a healer on a foolhardy trip.

To the Bone Pit.

Even the name made his stomach knot.

Hawke’s explanation had been typically thin on details. The mine had “trouble.” Hubert, that pompous merchant owner, had sent one mercenary. The man hadn’t come back. Anders suspected Hubert had more concern for his profits than his workers, but Hawke — Maker help her — saw “a job” and went running. And, apparently, dragging him along in case she or her friends ended up in pieces.

Not exactly reassuring.

The road narrowed into the quarry, the cliffs rising steep and jagged like broken teeth. The air grew heavier with every step, thick with the copper tang of old blood and the dust of stone long since stripped bare. Even without stepping inside, Anders felt it: the Fade pressed thin here, the way skin stretches over a half-healed wound. 

Justice stirred in response, shifting in his mind liek a half herd song. 

“Generations of slaves died in that mine,” Anders murmured, unable to keep the words down. “I can still hear their cries for justice.”

“Cheery as always, Blondie,” Varric muttered.

His eyes darted to the cliff walls, to the empty watchtowers, to the absence of life itself. “Place gives me the creeps. Probably the name.”

Anders arched a brow. “What would you prefer it be called?”

“How about the Pie Fields? Everybody likes pie.”

“Perhaps if hundreds of pies had been slaughtered here, that would be fitting.”

“Blondie…” Varric shot him a sidelong look. “You’re doing it again.”

Justice pressed harder, demanding Anders argue the point — that forgetting suffering was its own crime. But Anders forced it down with a sharp inhale. The pit itself was loud enough without Justice shouting too.

They walked on. The silence of the place wasn’t true silence — it was worse. Their boots scraped across stone, breaths echoing too loudly, Bianca’s strap creaking when Varric adjusted it—her?—on his shoulder. The air smelled wrong: burnt ash, metallic like old forges, undercut by something reptilian and sour.

Then Bethany’s soft gasp snapped Anders’ head up. Ahead, the path opened into a wider clearing. 

The stench hit first — burnt scales and blood baked in the sun.

Anders slowed, boots crunching against gravel. A carcass sprawled across the path, dragonling. Then another. And another. Claws splayed, wings torn, each body split open in the same way.

His gut twisted.

The mercenary. The one Hubert had supposedly sent ahead. Had he actually managed this? One man, cutting his way through a pack of dragonlings? It seemed absurd — suicide, really — and yet the corpses were here. And the marks weren’t flame or claw. They were steel.

Anders crouched near one, tracing the wound with his eyes. A sword. Not some messy hack job either. A clean, brutal cut. Whoever had fought here had known what they were doing.

A shame, then, that the path still ended in silence.

“It looked like he made it this far,” Anders murmured, more to himself than the others. Maker’s breath, and Hubert sent him alone? The thought made his jaw clench. Typical merchant logic: weigh a man’s life against the cost of hiring two.

Varric stepped carefully over a severed tail, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve lived in Kirkwall all my life, and until now, I’d managed to avoid coming here. Wish I’d kept that streak going. Can I suggest we never come here again?”

“I agree,” Bethany said softly, hugging her staff a little closer. “This place makes me uncomfortable.”

“See? Sunshine gets it.” Varric swept a hand toward her as if she’d just delivered his closing argument. “And judging by Blondie’s face, he’s on our side too. You’re outvoted, Hawke.”

Anders shot him a look but didn’t argue. The dwarf wasn’t wrong. The place pressed in on him, thick with wrongness, the Fade whispering under his skin.

Hawke sighed dramatically and halted, hands on her hips. “We’re here now. I’m not leaving a job half done — especially since so far, we haven’t done anything.”

“That’s my point.” Varric gestured at the strewn carcasses. “Somebody’s already cleared the welcoming committee, and I don’t want to meet whatever managed that.”

Hawke turned, grin tugging at her lips despite the grim setting. “You worry too much, Varric. Just think — we might find a dragon. How perfect would that be for your next book? And besides, we’ve got a healer with us. We’ll be fine.”

Anders muttered under his breath, “No pressure there.”

“The faster you move,” Hawke said briskly, turning back toward the path, “the faster we get back to Kirkwall. Drinks are on me when we do.”

Predictably, both Varric and Bethany perked up at that. Anders rolled his eyes. Typical. But if it got them moving, fine. He already felt the Bone Pit pressing against him in ways that had nothing to do with the corpses. The Veil was too thin here, too loud, and the longer he stayed away from the clinic, the more guilt gnawed at him. Lirene was a saint, but the work wasn’t hers. It was his.

The ground shook.
Small stones skittered across the path, clinking against one another.

A mine collapse?

No.

The air shifted. Hot. Sharp. Too deliberate.

“You had to mention a dragon, didn’t you…” Varric muttered nearby, the sound of Bianca locking into place sharp against the rumble. “Honestly, Hawke, your talent for attracting trouble is a menace.”

“Well, this doesn’t look good,” Bethany added softly, her voice tight.

Anders glanced at her. The concern on her face was enough to knot his stomach. He followed her gaze up the quarry wall—

—and his breath caught.

A shadow stretched across the stone. Vast. Intentional. Then wings unfurled, leathery membranes catching what little light there was. Claws curled like sickles. Scales glimmered with a heat that wasn’t light but fire — fire building, ready to pour from its throat.

Andraste’s holy knickers.

The roar hit first, then the flame. His staff was already in his hands, barrier flaring. The fire slammed into it, rattling his bones, scorching the hem of his robes even through protective wards.

This wasn’t a fight. This was suicide.

“Move!” Hawke’s voice sliced through the crackle, sharp and commanding. She was already darting left, daggers flashing.

Varric scrambled up onto a jut of rock, bracing Bianca. “I’ll try to keep it distracted!”

Distracted? Anders thought bitterly, watching the dragon’s tail crash down where Bethany had been standing a moment earlier. Distracting a dragon is like distracting the ocean.

Bethany recovered, staff blazing with frost. Shards burst from the tip and shattered across the dragon’s chest. Anders threw his own cone of cold into the fray. Frost spread, clinging to scales—then cracked and flaked away as the beast roared again.
Snowballs against a fortress wall. That was all their magic amounted to.

They were outmatched.
Entirely.

Hawke’s agility was impressive, yes, but speed didn’t topple mountains.
And his healing would only delay the inevitable.

The dragon lunged.

Stone shattered where its jaws struck, spraying shards sharp as glass. Hawke rolled clear, twin daggers carving shallow lines along its foreleg. Barely scratches. It howled, the sound reverberating through Anders’ ribs like a drum.

Anders’ staff flared again, another burst of frost searing the air. His mana burned low, warning edges sparking at the back of his mind. Not yet. He couldn’t afford to crash yet.

“Blondie!” Varric shouted from his perch, Bianca loosing bolt after bolt into the dragon’s shoulder. “A little less ice, a little more keeping us alive!”

“You’re fine,” Anders snapped back, voice thin with strain. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be talking.”

grit his teeth, slammed the base of his staff into the ground, and forced more power into a cone of cold. The spell hit true — the beast roared, stumbling for half a breath — but then its tail whipped around, catching Anders across the side.

The world lurched. His ribs screamed. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked clean out of him.

Dust filled his mouth. He gagged, dragged in a burning inhale, and forced himself up onto an elbow. His vision swam. For a moment, all he saw was heat, scale, claw—

—and then, just beyond, a glint.

Steel.

A sword half-buried in rubble.

Not just a sword. A monstrosity of iron.

And beside it, a shape crumpled against the stone. A flash of white... hair?

Anders blinked, coughed blood from his lip.

His stomach dropped.

He dragged himself upright, ribs protesting. The fight raged on behind him—Bethany’s voice, Varric’s bolts snapping through the air, Hawke swearing cheerfully at death—but his gaze was locked on that shape slumped near the sword.

The elf.

The same blighted elf Hawke had hauled into his clinic days ago. Tattoos carved of lyrium, temper like a bear trap, strength enough to nearly crush Anders’ throat.

The smart choice was to leave him. Save his mana. Maker knew they’d need every last spark of it.

But that sword. And the sheer, unholy size of the dragon.

They needed a warrior.

Anders muttered a string of curses under his breath, half prayer, half defiance, as he staggered toward the elf. His staff clattered to the ground as he dropped to his knees, hands pressing against the elf’s chest. The marks thrummed under his palms, alive, wrong, like he was touching lightning wrapped in skin.

“Maker help me,” Anders hissed, pushing healing through cracked ribs, torn muscle, faltering breath.

The lyrium fought him. It bucked against the spell, thrumming with a rhythm that wasn’t his. Like forcing water uphill. But Anders grit his teeth and shoved harder, knitting flesh, coaxing lungs to pull air, dragging the body back from the edge of collapse.

At last, the elf gasped — a ragged, wet sound, like a drowning man breaking surface. His back arched, tattoos blazing faintly beneath his skin.

Anders flinched as the reaction kicked through his hands, wild, unstable. Not healing. Not really. More like barely holding him together.

Green eyes snapped open.

Not calm, not clear — unfocused, feverish, darting like a cornered animal’s. The elf rolled onto his side, coughing hard, a strangled curse in that harsh tongue ripping from his throat. His hand fumbled for the sword hilt, missed once, caught the second time.

He shoved himself upright in a stagger, braced against the stone with one arm while the other clung to the massive blade. His breath came in uneven bursts, each one making his tattoos flare and gutter like coals in a draft.

Anders lifted both hands, palms out. He forced his voice steady, though his heart was still hammering. “Let’s try this again. Hello. I’m Anders. Healer. And your rescuer. Again.”

The elf’s glare found him through the haze. Sharp. Suspicious. His grip on the sword trembled with effort, but the hostility was steady enough to make Anders’ gut twist.

For a moment, Anders thought he might strike.

the elf’s gaze flicked — sword, dragon, Hawke ducking a claw swipe — and back to Anders. Calculation warred with raw fury.

“You are a mage,” he rasped, voice flat as stone.

Anders gave a crooked smile, far more tired than brave. “Guilty. Now, if you’re feeling up to it, there’s a dragon that would very much like us dead.”

The elf didn’t move. His hand clenched tighter around the hilt, jaw locked, but his gaze stayed pinned on Anders — sharp, hostile, as though he were still weighing whether to gut the mage first and deal with the beast second.

“I will not be indebted to a mage."

Anders groaned internally. This might have been an error.

The dragon’s roar shook the ground, and a wave of heat seared across the quarry, rattling through his already-bruised ribs. Stone split near his head as a claw came down, gouging a crater where he’d been kneeling seconds before.

“Brilliant,” Anders muttered through clenched teeth, "You planning to help, or just wait until we’re ash?"

The elfs eyes narrowed — Anders could swear he saw the flicker of disdain there — but then he pushed fully upright. For a heartbeat, he swayed, tattoos flaring in uneven pulses, his knuckles white where they clenched the sword hilt. Then, with a guttural sound that was half snarl, he rushed past Anders towards the beast.

The addition of a second close combatant worked better than Anders had expected. 

The elf moved like he’d been forged for this — every swing of that massive sword carving arcs of raw force through the air, every strike carrying weight enough to make the dragon stumble. Hawke, to her credit, didn’t falter at the intrusion. There was a heartbeat of confusion — Anders caught it in the twitch of her shoulders — but then she adjusted, falling into step as though they’d trained together for years.

She darted where the elf struck, her daggers flashing quick and precise, targeting joints and softer seams between scales. He took the brunt of the beast’s fury, pulling its focus,

and she punished every lapse in its guard.

Anders almost forgot to breathe. It was brutal, reckless, effective — and far too practiced for coincidence. Whoever this elf was, he knew how to fight with a team, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

The dragon took an age to die. By the time it finally collapsed, a mountain of scorched scales and stinking blood, the sun was already slipping low and every one of them was running on fumes.

Varric wandered off almost immediately, whistling under his breath as he vanished into the cliffs, no doubt chasing rumors of treasure in every crack and crevasse.

Anders sank onto a rock beside Bethany, his ribs still aching despite the healing he’d forced into himself during the fight. She was laughing softly, eyes bright with amusement as Hawke wrestled with a dragon’s tooth. Anders himself wasn't really invested in the dragion tooth fiasco, but... it was a useful distraction from the elf.

He sat apart from the group, sword laid across his knees. To anyone else, it might have seemed like he wasn’t paying them any attention at all. But Anders had spent too many years dodging templars, too many years learning to sense a gaze even when it came sideways through the dark. The elf was watching. Subtly, carefully — but watching all the same.

There was a more obvious issue though: the blood soaking through the elf’s armor. He hadn’t let Anders lay a hand on him since the fight. Wouldn’t even accept a potion at first. It had taken Hawke’s persistence — and Varric’s sarcasm — to coax him into swallowing one. Even now, the stubborn fool sat rigid and silent, clearly in pain, but unwilling to show it.

Anders had seen this before. Refugees in Darktown refusing aid, even when they were half-dead. Some feared magic. Some feared charity. Others had been broken by debts, slavery, or the threat of it, to the point where accepting help felt like walking back into chains.

Perhaps the elf was no different.

The words he’d spat earlier — I will not be indebted to a mage — had obviously not been posturing. They were bone-deep. A conviction carved as sharply as those glowing marks in his skin.

Hawke let out a wordless growl and kicked the dragon’s jaw again, leather boot thudding uselessly against scale.

“Come out, you stubborn piece of—”

Varric wandered back at just the right moment, grin tugging at his mouth. “What’d that tooth ever do to you, Hawke?”

“I can’t get this blighted thing out of its blighted mouth!” she snapped, driving her heel in again. "Herbalist said dragon tooth, not dragon skull.”

Bethany covered her mouth with one hand, hiding a smile. Anders didn’t bother — he was already smirking. Watching Hawke wage war on a corpse was the closest thing to entertainment the Bone Pit had offered so far.

A sigh cut through the air. Not Hawke’s.

Anders’ gaze flicked sideways. The elf was rising, slow but steady, sword balanced against his shoulder.

He crossed the ground without a word. Stopped beside Hawke. Stared down at the dragon’s head like it had personally offended him. Then, flatly:

“Move.”

Hawke blinked, caught off guard, then stepped back warily.

The elf drove his sword into the dragon’s gum line and leaned hard on the hilt. Flesh split with a wet, sucking sound, dark blood spilling fresh across the stone. The tooth shifted, but stayed stubbornly in place.

The elf grimaced, muttered something low and sharp — Anders could swear it was “disgusting” — and yanked the blade free. He wiped it clean in one efficient motion, slid it back into place across his back, and turned away.

Anders felt laughter bubble up before he strangled it down. So much for deadly confidence. The great dragon-slayer, undone by dental work.

He leaned toward Bethany, about to suggest they use a little magical force between them, when the air prickled.

A low hum crawled across Anders’ skin, raising every hair on his arms.

He turned just as light flared blue across the elf’s markings.

For a heartbeat, it was like standing too close to a lyrium vein — alive, thrumming, wrong. The elf thrust one hand into the dragon’s ruined gum. Flesh tore, light seared, and with a sickening rip, he hauled the tooth free by its roots.

Hawke practically bounced forward, clutching the fang to her chest like a child with a new toy. She raised it overhead with a triumphant grin, then tucked it under her arm and thrust out her free hand.

“I’m Hawke. Thanks for the assist.”

The elf regarded her hand like it might bite him. Slowly, deliberately, he folded his arms across his chest instead, gaze steady.

“Fenris.”

Hawke’s grin faltered for half a heartbeat before snapping back into place. “Well, Fenris, pleasure’s ours. You’re the elf from the glowing mansion, right?”

“Glowing mansion?” His voice was low, formal, each word weighed before release.

“Last week in Hightown,” Hawke explained breezily. “Don’t see many elves that… glow. But hey, if I’m mixing you up with another glowing elf, my bad.”

Silence. He stared, unreadable, long enough Anders wondered if he’d frozen in place. Then, at last:
“…Yes. I am grateful for the assistance. I have no coin. But if you require aid in the future…”

Hawke’s eyes lit up. “I think dragon beats floaty-mage-thing, but another sword never hurts.”

Fenris’ brow furrowed. “Floaty mage creature?”

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. Maker, save me from conversationalists.

Hawke gestured vaguely. “Y’know, in the mansion. Rotten robes, creepy helmet, lots of glowing.”

Fenris went still, then inclined his head slightly. “Arcane horror.”

Hawke glanced over. “Anders? Arcane horror?”

He sighed. “Corpse plus pride demon. Terrible combination."

“Lovely,” Hawke muttered. “At least the name fits.” Her sharp gaze flicked back to Fenris, catching on the stiff way he held himself, the blood soaking his armor. “Do you need healing? Anders is a very good healer.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. “No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Hawke looked at Anders, one brow raised expectantly. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. What did she want — for him to wrestle the man into a healing spell?

“Alright,” Hawke said at last, tilting her head back to squint at the sky. Dusk had started to creep along the cliffs, shadows stretching. “It’s late. We should get back to Hubert,"

She glanced back at Fenris, tone lighter. “You heading to Kirkwall too? You’re welcome to travel with us.”

Fenris’ expression didn’t shift, but Anders could feel the weight of that gaze. Calculating. Distrustful. The kind of look that made his skin itch.

Maker help him, the road back was going to be long.