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Chapter Text

For the record, Mira did not ask for this.

God knows how careful she had been these past three days after the rather-sudden, insane disappearance of her Huntrix-teammate-slash-best-friend Zoey into one of those space rifts that appeared out of nowhere during a perfectly normal—if deceptively normal—patrol. Right there. In front of her.

She would never admit how loudly she’d screamed at the time, nor how long she had bawled her eyes out in Rumi’s arms afterward. 

In her defense, she did think at the time that Zoey was—you know—most likely lost to them forever. 

Possibly. 

And… she may or may not have felt a little guilty that she hadn’t successfully prevented it, and that her last words had been a scolding about “watch where you’re going” and “stop your random freestyle rapping with words that don’t even make sense.”

…In retrospect, she could have handled that better. Probably.

I mean, sure, Rumi had somehow, impossibly, located Zoey’s signal across dimensions a day later—whatever that even meant. That girl had seriously gotten a power boost after finally accepting her true identity, and somewhere along the way, Mira had already stopped asking questions and just… accepted it as one of those “Rumi-things that happen” moments. 

Because honestly? Asking how would have fried what was left of her mental stability. Definitely above her pay grade. Definitely above sanity.

So yes, apparently, it was a thing: locating someone across dimensions using spirit magic powered by half-demons harnessing the true power of resonance. Mira didn’t bother asking how it worked. She didn’t need the headache. God knows it was beyond her capabilities anyway.

Whatever.

After tracking Zoey’s whereabouts across dimension, Rumi had gone even further. Somehow, against all logic, managed the impossible to have jumped dimensions herself, using her special brand of spirit-magic-fueled-demon-powers to check up on Zoey—and then, of course, brought her back.

…Only to discover that Zoey, being Zoey, had managed to have landed herself in a world infested with monsters that clearly needed Honmoon-building… and was now absolutely refused to leave until she could assemble a boyband and—somehow—functional infrastructure in that dimension.

Right—

Did Mira mention how strongly she is against the idea that their little maknae was now apparently left to her own devices to build a Honmoon from scratch in some strange foreign dimension?

Well, for the record, yes. She did objected. 

Loudly.

Vigorously.

Somewhat repeatedly.

And Rumi—being Rumi—had insisted they trust Zoey on this and all, of course. 

…There are definitely moments like this where she gets needlessly frustrated at how trusting Rumi can be at times towards them. Especially when the request bordered on “utterly insane and absolutely absurd”.

Anyways—she’d made her opinion very clear. Loudly, and not always politely.

Zoey was lucky their own world hadn’t sealed itself off in the meantime, otherwise Mira would have ended her little impromptu trip on that first visit right then and there by fireman-carrying her out of that dimension before she could say “Honmoon.” Responsible one, that was her. Guarding the universe against potential demon attacks while the world’s little rap prodigy ran off to chase cosmic boyband dreams in another dimension.

Either way, Rumi had been determined to trust Zoey, and Mira had no choice but to begrudgingly support her. Not that she hadn’t grumbled at every opportunity since then, swearing under her breath at Zoey’s chaotic genius and packing enough supplies to stock a small army in the largest suitcases she could find, all to be brought over later by Rumi’s next visit. Planning in earnest to collect any and all information known about the universe of Love and Deepspace…just in case any intel may come up helpful.

Yes. One could reasonably call her “over-cautious.” Or neurotic. Or slightly obsessed with making sure Zoey survived her own brilliance.

But right now…apparently none of that mattered.

One second she was running a rehearsal, practicing the spine-tingling high note that would’ve shattered glass while practicing a new part of a dance move; the next she was hurtling through some magical green tear in a sky gone feral—falling down at alarming velocity, with wind roaring past her ears, rain lashing her face, and a thunderous rumble shaking the ground beneath her. 

The world spun violently beneath her as she plummeted, thunder ripping through the sky, lightning clawing at the storm-tossed clouds like a manic conductor setting the tempo of doom. 

Really, it was starting to feel like that these space rifts are just out to get them Huntrix these days.

Around her, lightning flared. Waves roared and smashed in the distance. And somewhere overhead, demons—none of which were remotely human—plunged from the rift above, shrieking in octaves that would’ve given a banshee an inferior complex. 

Those horrors pouring out this gaping tear in sky in a writhing, screaming tide were unlike any she’d seen before—not human, not wholly corporeal, but grotesque fusions of muscle, horn, and claw, writhing as though nightmares had been stitched together and set loose. Faces melted their torsos, eyes flickering like candle flames, teeth jagged and wrong, limbs bending at impossible angles. Wrong in all the ways that made the hair on her arms stand up. 

And there were a lot of them falling from the sky. Like a black river pouring death into the world.

Mira closed her eyes for a brief second, growled with pure, unfiltered rage and aggression. 

Just when you think these shits couldn’t get any uglier…

Whatever.

She looked down.

If she was anyone normal, a fall this height would have definitely shattered her bones and probably end her existence right there in a wet, sad smear on the ground at the end of the drop—

But luckily, she wasn’t anyone normal. 

With a sharp exhale and a roll of her eyes, Mira recollected herself mid-air, manifested her dear reliable beloved Gok-Do, spinning it into existence with silver-blue light that snapped into solid form with a satisfying click. Vanquishing two nearby demons with a deliberate flick of her wrist, before dissipating it to allow for an effortlessly flawless spin that landed her neatly on her feet onto the earth—or at least what she assumed was ground here, a slick expanse of mud, saltwater, and jagged rocks eager to shred skin.

A heady mixture of screams, clashing steel, and the stench of burning ozone greeted her landing with enthusiasm.

Of course.

Just her luck to fall right in the middle of a battlefield. In midst of a crazy storm no less.

She groaned in frustration, made a face and straightened up, thoroughly soaked with mud sliding down her arms, water streaming down her face, and completely pissed off at this turn of event. 

“Yep,” Mira muttered to herself, brushing imaginary hair from her smoky-eyed face, “this is absolutely the right day to die. But sorry, stupid rift, you are not going to best me today.”

Her dark pink hair plastered to her face, Mira blinked through the chaos somewhat disorientedly, and took in the surrounding scene. Demons were pouring out of that green-and-black rift hovering above the cliffside—and those twisting, clawed monstrosities gathered in numbers every second. Around her, medieval mercenary-looking people were fighting desperately to hold them back.

She blinked, confusion lingered but instinct and training kicked in. 

Doesn’t matter who, what, or where. 

Demons are loose, and Mira knows exactly what to do.

Her hands instinctively reached for the familiar weight she could conjure out of her soul and the silhouette of her staff-blade shimmered into being in a silver-blue flash, spinning in her grip before locking solid with a snap. Mira rolled to a combat-ready stand and immediately threw herself in the heat of battle without any hesitation. 

Spirit magic hummed in the air around her as she threw a dart mid-spin, impaling a demon mid-leap. Then another. Then another, her movements precise, disciplined—the choreography in her body translating perfectly into instinct-honed killing efficacy. Boots sank into mud as she dove, spun, struck, and somehow—somehow—sang above the chaos.

Her voice cracked and soared, raw, jagged, rhythm threading over screams. No plan, no fans, no dedicated audience, but instinct said frightened people needed comfort, and that alone made her power sing.

Her strikes were swift and precise. She darted forward, spinning, her Gok-Do cleaving through a clawed arm with a burst of ethereal energy. The surrounding demons screamed upon impact—a horrible, wet sound—and collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs. She didn’t pause. Her kicks sent smaller demons tumbling into one another, while the staff-whip of her Gok-Do flicked out, impaling one creature with a dart conjured mid-swing. Sparks of spirit energy flared with each contact, and she felt the subtle hum of resonance in her veins, a faint echo of the power guiding her strikes.

The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Rain-drenched, mud-slick, the screams of dying demons and terrified humans blending into a single, deafening roar. Soldiers and mercenaries shouted orders over the storm, steel clashing against clawed limbs, flashes of magic streaking the gloom. Mira weaved through them like a whirlwind, every motion precise, every strike measured and lethal.

A shout from behind—a human voice, sharp and commanding—cut through the din and pulled her attention briefly. “Watch your left!” a nearby man yelled, ducking as a demon lunged at her from the side. Mira pivoted, spinning her Gok-Do and sending the creature sprawling into the rocks.

Another sickening crackle of flesh—accompanied by screeches and screams—snapped her attention sideways, and she plunged towards the fray of source without hesitation.

That’s when she saw the towering silhouette.

A massive demonic figure rose in the distance, looming like a mountain, one eye covered beneath a black eyepatch, the other gleaming with sheer bloodlust and intense focus. Horns curved outward and then upward, massive enough to impale a small horse. Greatsword in hand, he moved through the field of entangled fleshes like they were nothing more than flailing rag dolls. 

For a moment, Mira froze, considering—was this… an elite demon of this world?

Her instincts said yes. That was enough for her. “Alright, demon-boy with horns, let’s dance!” she yelled. Pink-haired, Gok-Do in hand, she charged forth with a wordless battle scream. 

“Stop! Wait—hey!” someone yelled behind her, barreling forward. She ignored him. She didn’t have the time. The threat was right there. Way too close to the surrounding humans.

The figure turned his head just in time to see her vault over a tangle of demon limbs, Gok-Do spinning. The first swing of her staff clipped his shoulder, enough to knock him off balance but not hurt him. He braced, his greatsword slicing through the air in a counterstrike, missing her by inches. Mira twisted, barely, feeling the wind of it shear past her cheek. The mud beneath her feet sloshed, her balance nearly betrayed by the chaos.

She caught herself just in time—pure will and instinct honed by decades of training—turned, and swung, using gravity and momentum to her advantage, Gok-Do snapping through the air with a hiss of spirit energy. The being shifted just enough, and she collided with a flying chunk of debris instead, stumbling to a halt. Mud coated her gloves, soaked into her sleeves, dripping into her eyes. She bared her teeth in a snarl as she twisted and launched herself into the air, readying another strike.

A human—thin, grimacing—unexpectedly tackled her mid-spin from blindspot behind, throwing her off just in time. “Whoa! Wait! The boss’s not one of them!”

Mira tumbled on the ground, grit and rain in her mouth, blinked through rainwater, eyes snapping toward her captor in sheer disbelief, “What? Are you insane?”

“No!” The man sputtered and gestured vaguely at the being behind her. “You are making a huge mistake. That one’s Bull, our boss. He’s a Qunari! Not a demon!”

Mira’s brain was still processing. One moment, she was about to cleave a ‘demon’, the next she was sprawled in mud with a half-drenched man glaring at her. She froze, and blinked in disbelief, grip on Gok-Do tight. “Wait… you mean that thing behind me? Not a demon?”

The Qunari in question, raised one eyebrow, chiming in and answered on the man’s behalf as he effortlessly cleaved through another demon with his greatsword despite the mud and storm. “The technically correct term is Qunari, little lady, not demon or thing,” he drawled, somewhat amusedly, not at all offended nor threatened by her death glare, “But you, on the other hand, do fight like one. A really pissed-off one too.”

She glared, already rolling to her feet despite the temporary loss of momentum. “Good. That’s a compliment.”

Bull chuckled as he smacked another demon out of the way, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. “Maybe. Or a warning. Either way, I like your enthusiasm.”

Urgh.

She glared with burning eyes and stared him down some more, just in case, as she subtly and fluidly vanished and reformed her blade on her side to get rid of all the mud interfering with her grip on the weapon. 

Not a demon.

Just a man—albeit a gray-skinned and horned one the size of a freight golem, who is still keeping an eye on her in his peripheral vision like she might still explode.

Mira scanned the back of this apparently sentient ally with a wary look and turned her attention back to the surrounding battlefield. 

She faltered for half a second as the grim reality around her sank in–with its strange inhabitants and endless swarm of demons. This wasn't her world, her battlefield, or her people. 

There is no backup. No Rumi. No Zoey. No safety net. No one to catch her if she fell.

And yet… the fear and pain in their eyes—that was something she knew.

It was always enough.

Her hands began glowing faintly with spirit energy anew. 

She knew she needed to keep going—demons are still pouring from the rift, the men around could not handle it alone. And instinct demanded action, as always.

Whatever.

Whatever this Qunari was…could wait—

There are demons that need to be taken care of right now.

She released a breath and blinked again, rain in her eyes, lungs full of wind and thunder. No time for questions. No time for doubts. Only the rhythm of battle—the only thing that ever made sense when the world lost its mind.

Demons ran amok, and Mira moved like she'd never stopped.

She crouched low, and with a twisting spin of her Gok-Do, a shimmering dart conjured from her spirit energy, arcing into a demon’s jaw. It screeched, stumbled, then fell into a tangle of others.

Her feet hit the mud, Gok-Do spinning, staff-blade gleaming in flashes of storm-light. She began singing again. Not loud at first, barely audible over the chaos. But her voice cut through the din, carrying rhythm and resonance. Each note seemed to bolster the courage of the humans nearby. The elf archer she had nearly tackled, the dwarf sapper ducking behind a boulder, even the Qunari—they all started listening in earnest, attuned to her voice, the vibrations linking their resolve and strength, amplifying it, connecting them.

Her hands and feet moved in perfect, brutal choreography, weaving strikes, blocks, and spins into a deadly dance. Spirit energy flared as she conjured Gok-Do darts and weapons from her own soul, striking demons mid-leap and sending them toppling into one another. The resonance built with every successful blow, her voice rising, louder now, a clear, sharp tone that carried over the storm.

Bull edged closer in silence, gripping his greatsword and intercepting a demon headed straight for her, pushing it aside with bone-cracking force. Every motion was protective rather than aggressive—a test, a barrier, a silent acknowledgement that she was, at least, an ally.

Mira’s chest heaved, mud dripping from her chin. She barely had time to think before a clawed hand reached for her. Gok-Do spun in her grip, slicing through the arm as she ducked another swing. She leapt atop the demon’s back, slamming it into the mud with a precise thud, and sang a particularly sharp note that resonated through the ground, causing the creature to shriek in anguish.

The men began to gravitate and gather around the two of them in loose formation, coordinated and deadly. Pushing the frontline of the encounters back towards the rifts and gaining ground by seconds. The second-in-command officer barked an order before ducked and rolled, slashing a demon with a twin daggers. A dwarf hurled an improvised explosive that blasted a trio of writhing limbs into the rocks; another human archer sent arrows through the air, their tips sparking with the faintest brush of Mira’s spirit energy. Yet they all moved in a protective circle around her, reacting to her movements as much as she did to theirs through the power of resonance.

She twirled again, Gok-Do crackling with blue light, and sang a higher note, letting the resonance flow outward. The rift pulsed violently in response, a writhing orb of black and purple, screaming in protest. Energy built inside her chest with every notes, a deep, humming pressure as if the rudimentary Honmoon she weaved was acknowledging her presence, feeding her power back to the battlefield.

And then it happened. With a final, perfectly timed flourish—a leap, a spin, a note sung at the edge of pain and fury, emerging from her throat like half a scream of defiance—her spirit energy surged into a brilliant blue aura, coaxing a rough net of Honmoon to manifest above the battlefield in shimmering light. 

The rift quivered, trembled, and then snapped closed with a sound like a great sigh released. Vanishing like a candle blown out.

Silence fell immediately across the battlefield, save for the rain and distant crackle of lightning. 

The ringing of silence pressed down on Mira’s ears like a living being, broken only by the shallow gasps of the wounded and the clatter of weapons being lowered. Her body trembled in its own uneven rhythm, unsure whether to collapse face-first into the mud or strike up another verse just to keep the chaos from gnawing through her skin.

The mud won the first vote. Her knees hit earth with a splash, wet grit sliding against her palms.  Chest heaving as she fought to steady her labored breath, mud and blood mixing into a chaotic smear across her skin. The aftershock of resonance still hummed through her veins—like a chorus trapped in her chest, vibrating and unwilling to settle.

And they were staring.

Around her, armored feet shifted, splashing in the muck. The circle of fighters who had instinctively defended and fought alongside her during the chaos now regarded her with something like reverence, disbelief written across their mud-streaked faces. Weapons that seconds ago swung with desperate fury now drooped at their sides, blades dripping, bows slack. The air still trembled faintly with resonance, Mira’s lingering spirit energy curling like faint smoke around them, settling into their chests.

“Andraste’s tits,” muttered the dwarf, wiping a black smear from his cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “Never seen anything like that in my life.”

A dozen cautious gazes lingered on her, half awe, half wary concerns—not quite sure if they were meant to keep on guard or carry her on their shoulders.

The massive horned one broke the formation first and stepped closer.

The giant. The horned one. The not-quite-demon-but-still-absolutely-terrifying silhouette who loomed above her with a greatsword balanced lazily across his shoulder. Rain slid down the black leather strap cutting across his bare chest, traced along the lines of corded muscle like nature itself couldn’t resist showing off his ridiculous size. One eye—just one—regarded her  appraisingly from behind a soaked eyepatch and a face scarred by gods-knew-what.

“Well,” he started, voice a deep rumble that Mira felt more than heard, far too calm for someone who’d just watched reality tear itself a new hole and stitched back together by a strange girl who fell from the sky. “Not sure what you did back there but that was… something alright. Loud… and surprisingly effective.”

Mira wiped at her face, smearing mud and blood across her cheek, and dragged herself upright. Her legs ached, but she forced them to straighten. She’d been on stages with worse bruises, smiled through cracked ribs and sprained ankles. Standing tall wasn’t optional; it was in her blood. “Still not sure what you are, big guy. But thanks, I guess? Compliment noted. Now—care to explain why the hell holes in the sky are puking out nightmare fuels?”

A snort. Not exactly hostile, but not indulgent either. 

The giant nonchalantly planted the greatsword point-down into the mud as a subtle sign of peaceoffering before answering, leaned casually against its hilt like it wasn’t taller than Mira herself. “Straight to the point. I like that. Thing is… that’s what we’ve been asking too.” His mouth twitched into something between a grin and a grimace. “But let’s not have the introductions standing around in the rain like idiots.”

He extended an arm out as a clear invitation.

Behind him, the second-in-command took a step forward—narrow, wiry, with close-cropped hair plastered to his head by rain—she squinted and recognized him as the one tackling her to the ground earlier. He slung bloodied daggers back into his belt in a fluid motion and spoke up in caution. “Boss, she just dropped out of the bloody rift. For all we know, she’s—”

“She just closed the damned thing, Krem,” Bull interrupted, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Unless demons suddenly started pouring themselves back in, I’m going to give her five minutes before we stab her.”

Mira raised her brows, not at all concerned. “Wow. Five whole minutes. Be still my heart.”

Krem snorted despite himself. A ripple of low chuckles and mutters ran through the group, breaking some of the tension. Mira caught a few of their faces: the dwarf who’d lobbed an explosive earlier, still smelling faintly of firepowder; the tall elf archer whose bowstring gleamed with spirit-light; a human with weathered hands, healer’s satchel slung at his side. A mismatched group of rag-tags. Rough edges, dirt under the nails, scars worn openly. Mercenaries, she guessed. But disciplined. Fierce. Loyal.

Her throat tightened with something dangerously close to relief. If she had to drop into hell, at least she hadn’t landed alone.

Her sarcasm kicked in before her heart could get sappy. “So. You’ve got a name, big guy? Or do I just keep calling you ‘possibly-elite-demon’?”

The giant grinned wide enough to show sharp teeth. “Name’s the Iron Bull. Most people just call me Bull.”

She blinked at him, then at his horns, which were every bit as wide as his shoulders and glistening wet like the world’s deadliest chandelier fixtures. “…Of course they do.”

Another laugh bubbled up from the group. Even the elf with the bow cracked a grin.

Mira tilted her head inquisitively and raised a finger to vaguely trace around his form as illustration, “Well Bull, it’s definitely the first time I see someone this huge. Do they grow everyone this size here, or just the demon-looking ones?”

That got another startled laugh out of him—low, rolling, unexpectedly warm. Some of the others chuckled too, tension now completely at ease. The wiry soldier with daggers at his belt smirked despite himself and hooted mockingly, “Yeah Boss, why are you so huge?”

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Bull said with a smirk. “It's a Qunari thing though. I know you don’t see much of them over here in the south but yeah, we tend to come in bigger packages. But enough about me. What about you? Got a name, sky-singer?”

“Mira,” she shot back, lifting her chin looking all defiant and proud despite the mud plastered to her knees. “Performer. Singer. Savior of your sorry hides, apparently.”

That got a louder laugh. The dwarf who’d lobbed an explosive earlier barked, “Performer? What kind of bloody performer closes a rift with a song?”

“The good kind,” Mira said sweetly, leaning on her staff lazily. “Back home, I filled stadiums. Music, lights, crowds screaming my name. Not exactly demons, but hey—audiences can be just as vicious.”

A ripple of confusion went through the group, but also amusement. The tall elf archer tilted her head. “Probably one of those Orlesian bards then, Boss?”

Mira flashed a tired grin, but something in her chest ached—the way resonance did when it latched on and refused to let go. These strangers had followed her rhythm without knowing her name, had fought in tune with her song. That meant something.

Bull studied her a moment longer, his grin widening until it was all teeth and confidence. “Well, Mira-the-Singer, you’ve got guts. And anyone who fights demons at my side earns a place at our fire. You can come with us.”

Mira blinked, warmth blooming unexpectedly in her chest. She had expected suspicion, interrogation, maybe even hostility. Instead, she found acceptance. Earned quickly, yes — but honestly. The battlefield was a cruel sieve; only those who bled together understood this kind of bond.

She nodded once, firmly. “I’ll come.”

The surrounding mercenaries and soldiers, hearing the exchange, began to relax visibly. There was laughter mingling with wet gasps of relief, some claps on shoulders, and a few nods in her direction. Even the elf archer, still dripping, gave her a subtle bow of respect. Mira’s grin widened.

Bull clapped his hands once, loud enough to snap attention back to him. “Alright, Chargers. You know the drill. We’ve got wounded, we’ve got questions, and we’ve got ale getting watered down back in camp. Let’s move.”

They moved like water—efficient, practiced, gathering the fallen, supporting the limping, keeping weapons ready in case the rift had one last trick. Mira found herself swept along without protest, her Gok-Do staff already dissipated from her hands. The rough semicircle of warriors folded her into their loose, protective orbit, like she was one of their own.

Bull fell into step beside her, his stride effortless despite the weight of his weapon. “So. Mira. You sealed a hole in the sky with a song. I’ve seen a lot of shit, but that’s a first.”

Mira smirked, though her voice rasped from the strain. “Stick with me, big guy. I’ve got more where that came from. Maybe even an encore if you’re lucky.”

He barked a laugh, so sudden that it startled a crow from the tree line. “Hah! You’re alright, you know that? Keep talking the way you do, and I might just keep you.”

And just like that, Mira realized that maybe she had landed herself in good companies.

They moved into the cave as a unit, the storm pounding overhead like a drumbeat fading into muffled echoes. 

Bull and his Chargers were a well-practiced ensemble in the smallest things—covering each other, checking for injuries, keeping spirits high even in the damp. 

Rocky, the dwarf, muttered under his breath as he prepped a poultice, tossing bits of mud aside with the precision of someone who had defused more explosives than he cared to count. Dalish, the elf with face tattoos, adjusted her bowstring absentmindedly, humming a dry tune that somehow fit the lull after chaos. Stitches, grumbling over the mess of mud in his poultices, flicked a glance at Mira as if silently judging the newcomer's efficiency while Skinner lingered in the background with flickering knives dancing between her fingers. Krem flitted among the group with agile precision, eyes darting like a hawk as he patched a graze on a soldier’s arm.

Mira followed, letting the rhythm of their movement carry her, and for the first time since falling, she felt the faint pulse of belonging threading through the fatigue in her bones. Bull himself guided her to a large, flat rock near the back of the cave, gesturing for her to sit.

“You sit there,” he said, “and let us check for cuts, bruises, mud… and maybe, just maybe, a chance to warm up.” He crouched beside her, quickly checking her over for wounds, surprisingly gentle with his hands that looked like it could have easily crushed a lesser being. “Don’t worry—I don’t bite unless you ask nicely.”

Mira gave him a half-smile, half-roll of her eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion settle on her. “You’d be surprised how many people would pay to get bitten by you.”

Bull chuckled, glancing around at his people. “True enough. But you? You fought alongside us today. A lot of them came back in one piece because of you. You earned a hell of a lot more than that.” His eyes flicked to his chest that previously glowed and hummed under her power. “I’ve seen plenty in my time, Mira. Soldiers, mages, mercs, knights… never seen anything quite like what you did back there. You made a difference today. That counts.”

Mira let out a long, tired breath, allowing herself a small, private moment of pride. This was the first time since the fall through the sky that she hadn’t felt like a stranger. Not really. Here, muddy, wet, and bleeding, she belonged for a moment. She had earned her place among them, not through words or introductions, but through action.

“And… you all have a name for this little band of yours?” she asked lightly, eyes twinkling, curiosity returning.

Bull’s grin widened, teeth flashing. “The Bull’s Chargers. We hit hard, fast, and leave nothing standing in our path.” He leaned back, resting on one elbow, water dripping from his brow. “Krem’s in the back tending to a cut or two, Stitches is probably grumbling about mud in his poultices, and the rest are… well, they’re grinning like idiots because the world didn’t end today.”

Mira shook her head, laughing quietly. “World didn’t end today. I like that version better.”

Bull chuckled, loud and warm, almost a growl that vibrated through the cave. “Stick around, bard. There’s more coming, but you survived the first act. That’s more than most do.”

Around them, the Chargers exchanged nods and quiet jokes—Rocky teasing Dalish about humming too loudly, Stitches muttering under his breath about ruined poultices, Krem darting to make sure everyone had water. 

The chaos of battle suddenly seemed a world away, and Mira realized that even in this strange place, among strangers, there was something like home in the rhythm of shared survival.

For the first time since falling through the sky, Mira let herself relax. No walls, no hesitation, no pretending. Just wet, tired, and utterly alive—surrounded by strangers who, through shared battle and mutual respect, were beginning to feel a little like comrades.

The storm outside raged on, but inside the cave, there was warmth, quiet laughter, and a sense of precarious but real camaraderie—the kind only born from surviving together.

Mira watched as Bull and the Chargers moved among each other, helping, laughing, arguing lightly over bandages and supplies, and she realized something: even in this strange, brutal world, even in this dimension that wasn’t hers, she had allies now. Real ones. People who fought, bled, and lived beside each other. 

And for the moment, that was enough.

Chapter Text

To be honest, all of this, more or less, still felt like a surreal dream to Mira.

I mean… Falling through the sky and fighting swarms of demons? Been there, done that, added those to the “Tuesday problems” list. All in a day's work at this point. Of course, didn’t make it less absurd on reflection—but hey, absurdity was apparently trending this week.

A space rift choosing the exact moment of her rehearsal to yawn open and swallow her whole, landing her somewhere that did not exist on any map she’d ever seen? Sure. Why not. Totally normal. On-brand for the week.

But fighting those hundreds of ugly-as-sin demons, swarming like locusts on steroids, alongside a medieval-looking mercenary band full of fantasy races pulled straight out of a D&D handbook? Elves, dwarves, and—whatever-the-hell-that-mountain-with-horns-is? Yeah, even her dream logic has limits.

Mira doesn’t really know what it says about her that she’s still half-convinced her delirious brain has the capability to even cook this insanity up while she faceplanted backstage.

But she files it under ‘dream until proven otherwise’. Works just fine.

The elves and dwarves, she gets. Easy. Thanks, pop culture. 

But the grey-skinned horned demonic-looking one though? The one towering over everyone like he personally wrestled the mountain range into existence and won? 

That’s new for sure. 

And… slightly alarming if she is being honest.

Nothing against him on a personal level. He hadn’t even once looked at her like he wanted to decapitate or bite her head off yet, which is more than what she can say for some people she knows. 

He is just… a little too close to her typical target and all. 

If it was a month ago, chances are her blade would have already come down despite what anyone might’ve said…but…let's just say they learned an important lesson of seeing past potential demonic looks through Rumi.

Still. She had questions. A hundred of them. Burning, dangerous questions that are probably most likely wildly inappropriate.

For example, Mira has half a mind to ask if his people eat other people—literally or spiritually—because it would be useful information to have right now.

You know, just to be safe.

…Suspicion is kinda second nature to her whenever it comes to anything remotely resembling demons.

Occupational hazards, she calls it.

But even Mira, reckless as she is, has just enough self-preservation not to blurt that one out during a first meeting around all his men after reaching this tentative yet accepting camaraderie. 

Shocking, right? 

Mira does, in fact, know when to keep her mouth shut. Rare skill, but it happens.

On the other hand… his men all looked like they respected him. A lot. 

So…probably not cannibals then. Probably.

Anyways.

She silently filed all that away in her mind in the “put on hold but look out for in the future” folder.

Mira shifted on the rock she had claimed as her temporary perch, groaning softly at the stiffness in her shoulders and the way her legs had gone completely numb. Her eyes wandered, taking in everything on and about her, not from boredom but from that insatiable curiosity of hers.

Every oddity, every feature that screamed “not human” drew her eyes unbidden. 

The way some of the elves’ elongated ears caught the firelight and seemed to shimmer; the broad, powerful shoulders of the dwarves— her curious mind soaked in all the different movement patterns, the sharp contrasts in respective height and builds, the unmistakable facial distinctions like a sponge, and filed all the information under her mental cabinets of their respective races.

And eventually, like gravity itself tugging at her attention, Mira’s eyes drifted back to the most prominent figure in the cave despite her best efforts.

Bull. Qunari. The one-man mountain.

She swept her gaze over him—hesitant, curious—trying to find a place to land her focus that didn’t feel like outright leering. But there was too much skin. Too much muscle. Too many scars. 

His left shoulder was the only thing partially shrouded by a battle harness; everything else—broad chest, rolling abs, sculpted arms—was on full, unapologetic display. Nothing left to imagination.

Each movement of his body was a show of sinew and raw power, the muscles rippling in a way that seemed both natural and deliberate. His abdomen was a living map of strength, a rolling tapestry of muscles that shifted with even the smallest movement. Tendons pulsed visibly under taut skin. Veins like small rivers mapped their paths along bulging arms and thick forearms.  

It was…hard to look away.

Not staring, Mira told herself. Just… observing. Sensemaking. For science.

His torso, broad and sculpted, told its own story—a brutal memoir etched in scars, burns, and knots of old trauma. Each a testament to battles survived, enemies bested, and mistakes learned. Wore these memories carved into the gray canvas of his skin like it was his armor. There was an ease to how he carried it all, a casual dominance that somehow made the violence and danger embedded in his skin seem almost…elegant. 

Mira’s mind couldn’t help but catalog it all—this wasn’t a myth or boastful exaggeration. 

This was a weapon forged in combat—and wielded like one.

…It was like staring directly at a weaponized work of art. 

She watched on with frank curiosity and morbid fascination as her mind wandered, only succeeded in producing even more questions. She can’t help wondering absently to herself if him or his people have a general thing against shirts. A taboo? A ritual? Something like that? Or is it a personal statement? She quickly chastised herself—completely inappropriate, and probably none of her business—but the question stubbornly lodged itself in her mind.

Even as she tried to glance away, Mira found herself drawn back. Not because she wanted to ogle, she told herself fiercely, but because his sheer presence demanded observation. 

Authority and power radiated from him, casual and effortless, a quiet insistence that he could survive anything and bend the chaos around him into order. And yet, underneath all that, there were subtleties, small details that gave him shape beyond the brute force: the way his shoulders flexed subtly when he shifted, the faint scuff marks on his pants from travel, the way his stance seemed calibrated to protect his men while letting them shine in their own spaces. He wasn’t just a mountain of muscle; he was the nucleus of this ragtag group, and they orbited him with respect and ease.

Bull scratched at a scar on his collarbone, oblivious—or maybe not.

Mira caught herself staring again and jerked her eyes away, cheeks burning despite herself. She muttered a quiet, “Get it together, Mira,” more for personal comfort than actual control.

Still, curiosity simmered and bubbled within her relentlessly, refusing to die down. Her eyes crept back to the safest place she could settle on him without feeling like a total creep—the horns emerging on top of his head. Thick at the base, tapering with elegant menace, arcing sideways before jutting skyward into the cavern’s shadows. They were impossible not to notice. Do they have any practical use? Symbolic? She had no idea, but the rational part of her couldn’t stop thinking about the logistics.

Like: doesn’t his neck hurt from the sheer weight of carrying those horns around? Won’t they get stuck in doorways? Or impale tent walls? How does he even sleep sideways? What are those for anyways? Does he ever… use them? Like, actually ram people into oblivion?

So many questions. 

Yet. All inappropriate. All utterly persistent.

For now, Mira filed all those questions piling up in her mind, like unmarked files on a cluttered desk, into the “later” folder. Not because she was done wondering—just because she knew better than to ask.

She sighed softly as she reluctantly teared her gaze elsewhere.

Like—

The fire that was coaxed into being near the entrance sometime while she was half spacing out—because apparently, yes, these people do light fire in caves, which seems questionable, but okay.

…They probably know what they are doing right?

A quick look out at the mouth of the cavern confirmed that rain still plummets out there like no tomorrow. Doesn’t look like it's about to stop any time soon.

Mira eyed the location of the flickering flame and the cavern roof above somewhat warily and decided to pay a little more attention to any crackling sounds, just in case.

Well, hopefully they know what they are doing and she will not be buried or need to dig anybody out in the middle of night…

Mira slumped against a damp rock nearby and let herself sag. For once in a very long time, completely uncaring of the way she looked, the way her clothes clung, torn and streaked with mud, human and demon blood alike with additional stains of god knows what, her arms grit-smeared and sore. 

Her manager Bobby would have probably screamed and combusted on the spot if he ever saw her being so indignified in the public.

But…

There’s something…freeing in the absence from the spotlight in this world where no one knows her name, knows who she is. Back into one of the nameless nobody that doesn't have to care about how she looks, how she talks, how she presents herself.

The weight of a million eyes on everything she does. 

Don’t get her wrong. Mira loved all her fans to death and doesn’t regret a single thing.

‘For the fans’ is after all, Huntrix’ favorite motto. There isn’t a whole lot she won’t do for those masses that hand her their bare adoring heart on a silver platter.

…but as with all things, there are pros and there are cons that come with being a world-renowned top idol. 

Not having to hide, not having to maintain an immaculate image and posture, the perfect smile, to be just herself and actually slouch in public without all that glamour seems like…a bit of a miracle really. 

Urgh.

She rolled her eyes at her own sudden sentimental feelings all the sudden.

…Didn’t matter. She was alive. People around her were alive. And even if the world she’d landed in made zero sense, this mismatched campsite—with its steaming pots and loud voices—felt like a bizarre kind of anchor.

Her thoughts ran in a million directions as she rested her cheek on her knees, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, watching the camp move.

Different races, different builds, but they meshed. The dwarf grumbled about herbs. The elf moved with sharp efficiency. Krem cracked jokes while fetching supplies. They worked together like an old, worn-in machine. Like a mismatched family of sort.

…Honestly, looked a lot more comfortable and functional than her own, come to think of it.

And then—

As if summoned by all her staring—The Horned Mountain Himself returned from checking on his people. He dropped onto the rock beside her, the stone giving a low, almost comical groan beneath his weight, and shoved a large wooden cup into her hands with no preamble.

Mira squinted at it suspiciously. The liquid sloshed warm against her palms, steam curling into the cave air with the heavy scent of meat and something green—roots or herbs, unfamiliar.

“Drink, warms you right up.” Bull rumbled, the sound carrying like a low drumbeat in the cavern. His grin tugged wide, teeth flashing, amused at her suspicious look. “Just broth, unless you’d rather ale. We’ve got barrels stacked back there.”

She warily sniffed it, then shrugged and threw it back in one go. Warm, savory, earthy—definitely edible despite the unfamiliar meats and vegetables. Broth was broth, and she wasn’t picky. The broth was hot enough to sting the roof of her mouth, fat and salt and the kind of straightforward nourishment that made her blink in gratitude. She immediately shoved the cup back at him in silent demand for round two.

Bull’s laugh rolled out like an avalanche. “That’s the way to do it!” He tossed the mug across camp with casual strength. Krem caught it without looking, already moving to refill.

“So. Mira.” Bull leaned forward, one huge forearm braced across his knee, his presence radiating heat like a forget in spite of the storm chill creeping in from the cave mouth. "Still in one piece?”

“Barely,” she muttered, leaning her head back against the rock with a groan. “But apparently, dream logic includes free soup, so I’m not complaining.”

He chuckled. “We’ve got more than that. You earned that and more.” There was a moment of brief silence as he made quick work of dropping the braces with a wince before picking back up the conversation, making small talks with her. “Not every day someone drops out of the sky mid-battle, and fights like you did. Thought we’d seen it all, but you proved me wrong. That was a damn good fight too. Thought it’d go sideways until you dropped in.”

Mira turned her head just enough to catch him in her peripheral, a sharp smile twisting at her mouth. The kind that carried a knife folded in its pocket. “What can I say? I like making an entrance and leaving an impression.”

“Mm.” He studied her for a long beat, then his gaze drifted toward the cave mouth, where the rain painted silver streaks in the dark. Thoughtful now. “Hell of an entrance alright. Only one other I’ve heard about like this? In that whole Conclave mess. Sky tore open and someone tumbled out. Word is, they’re calling ‘em the ‘Herald of Andraste’ nowadays. The whole south’s been in knots ever since.”

His tone was idle, conversational. Testing without making it sound like a test. Eyes trained on her reaction in a well-disguised display of nonchalance that might have fooled anyone with less experience with camera and paparazzi—very well played honestly, she’d give him that—not that she faults him for it, stranger in the midst of them and all.

But she was practiced too. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to deliver noncommittal answers in a way that looked perfectly natural when the situation called for it.

She lifted a brow, mild curiosity painted across her face. “Sounds like I missed the party. Something happened over at the Conclave?”

“Big one. Mages and templars tried to play nice, mixed in with a bit of politics. You can guess how that ended.” He mimed a slow explosion with one broad hand. “Boom. Only it got literal this time. Conclave blew up. Divine Justinia died. Chantry’s in pieces. Sky too. It was breached and has been bleeding all over Thedas since.”

There is probably relevancy in all the terms that he was throwing out left and right. Not that she has a first clue about them, but it sounded big, like something he expected everyone to know and care for, even for a strange girl from sky… Like anyone in Thedas would. 

Well…At least now Mira knows magic and religions are a thing in this world? 

Honestly…this all sounded more medieval and fantasy than ever. Some of those mumbo jumbos did sound weirdly familiar though, like a far off dream of sort….

Mages. And…Templars.

Those names pricked something in the deep recess of her mind. Like echoes of a half-remembered rant from Zoey—the ever-enthusiastic gamer who also happened to be her best friend/fellow Huntrix teammate. She could have sworn that she’d once heard Zoey excitingly gush over those terms before, once upon a time…

What was she talking about at the time?

Mira fumbled her brows, digging through memories in earnest.

What did he say earlier again? …Herald and Thedas? 

Wh—

A newly filled mug was handed to her, breaking her out of her silent reverie, and she took it with a quick thanks. Focusing back on now.

“Lucky me then. To have missed that.” She blew on her broth and sipped again, before continuing the conversation like she never stopped, keeping the words flat and dismissive. “Did you have a side or stake in that?”

A glint flashed through Bull’s eyes. He laughed, “To mages or templars? No. I follow nothing but my Chargers. My people. I believe in steel. In coin. In keeping my Chargers alive. Faith doesn’t fill bellies. So,” He shrugged with a lazy smile on his lips, “no. Never did get the whole Chantry deal myself. Doesn’t mean I’ve got a grudge. Just not my faith.”

Mira studied him thoughtfully for a second before deciding to change the topic. To the more important question she has in mind at the moment. 

“Right…so what now? There’s a literal, giant hole in the sky. Anybody fixing that up…? What’s the plan here?”

Iron Bull snorted, amused that she assumed there’d be one, “Now? Now the south’s in chaos. Chantry’s screaming heresy, nobles screaming opportunity. Classic power play. None of them looking forward and thinking of the future—no, just clawing for thrones, or scapegoats.”

Mira’s eyes widened in disbelief, soup all but forgotten in her lap, “But what about the people?” 

“Same as always.” He tipped his chin toward the wounded huddled in the corner. “Hungry. Angry. Dead.”

What?

Her breath snagged. 

For a second, Mira could only stare, trying to read his face. Hoping he was exaggerating. Joking, maybe. But the casualness of his tone only made it worse.

And there was no joke behind it. No punchline waiting. Just grim, grounded fact.

The cave, the fight, the magic—it had all felt like a story up until now. But there was nothing fantastical in the way Bull made this remark. No irony. No detachment. 

Just facts. 

Real people. Real pain. Real death. 

And it slammed into her like cold water.

Mira looked down to hide the dawning mask of horror that flashed across her face and swallowed hard.

“Cheerful outlook,” she muttered.

“You don’t hire mercs for cheer.” Bull replied, matter-of-fact. 

“No,” she allowed after a beat, tipping the cup toward him in acknowledgment . “You hire them for survival.”

His grin sharpened slowly and there was a moment of silence before he nodded in return, “Exactly.”

Her gaze lingered, weighing him in return. “And what of this… Herald that you spoke of?”

Bull’s answer came with yet another shrug, but there was steel in his eyes. “A banner for the desperate. A mark for the hunted. Pick one.”

Mira replied with a lift of brow, “You sound unimpressed.”

“Just some poor bastard with a glowing hand. I’ve seen enough ‘chosen ones’ die screaming. I’ll wait and see.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Was going to have Krem go and scout their so-called Inquisition and situation out after this demon mess but…Rumor has it that this ‘Herald of Andraste’ fellow was also the only one who can seal these rifts… after falling from the sky. Sounds familiar?” 

Mira smirked, rolling her hands side by side in a mock display. “Sorry to disappoint. No glowing hands here.”

“Close enough,” Bull scratched the base of his horn absently, “Where’d you drop in from anyways? Didn’t sound Fereldan to me.”

She rolled a shoulder, vague but honest. “Not from around here.”

Bull’s grin widened like he appreciated the dodge. He didn’t press. Instead he stretched out, one long arm braced on a crate, settling in like they had all the time in the world. “Well, wherever you’re from, you fought with us. And fought well. That matters. Chargers notice this kind of things.”

From the other side of the fire, Krem called over, “She kept pace, Boss, and nearly matched you in body counts of demons. Not bad for someone who just fell out of a sky hole.”

“High praise,” Mira murmured, hiding a smirk in her cup, half-amused, half-exhausted.

“Like I said, you did good out there today, Sky-singer. A damn good fight that turned the tides and got a lot more of my people back in one piece. We owe you one.” Bull tilted his head. “So where to next? Any people you are looking for? The Chargers can lend you a hand if needed.”

The question struck like an arrow she wasn’t ready for…And just like that, all mirth faded and a dozen and more of questions it gave rise to relating to the grim reality facing her came into sharp focus.

Her breath was caught. Just for a second, and all the bravado and banter fell away.

She hadn’t let herself think that far ahead. Not really.

Where would she go? 

When will Rumi be able to find her? If ever? 

How will she keep herself alive and well until then? In this dangerous world? 

How long could she survive in this world, fighting like this every day?

The fire didn’t feel so warm now.

Mira chewed on her lips and flashed him a tired smile, looking just a bit lost for the first time since her landing, “Honestly. I…I don’t know yet. I will have to think a bit more on this.” Her voice softened a notch, “But I’ll take you up on the offer in the meantime, if that’s alright. Just until I can figure out my next step.”

“Consider it done. You are welcome to stay with us in the interim.” There was something soft and understanding in his gaze as Iron Bull reached out and clasped her shoulder reassuringly, “Chargers don’t ask questions unless you want them to. You stay with us, eat what we eat, fight when you must. That’s all to it.”

Silence lingered as her head dipped in a grateful nod.

Around them the camp kept its pulse—gear clinking, low voices trading jokes and barbed banters, Bustling with activities as they continue on their battle aftermath routines as rain continued hammering silver bullets into the cave mouth. 

After a last measuring glance at her, Bull pushed himself to his feet and stretched, shadow rising like the mountain she’d pinned him for. But now, somehow, the weight of him felt less imposing. More solid. A shelter, maybe. If only for now.

“Rest while you can,” he said, voice rumbling back over his shoulder as he moved away. “You’ll need it.”

Mira drew her knees up under her, perching on a low stone at the edge of the firelight while the Chargers worked around her with mechanical ease. 

She had seen teams move in sync before—tight choreography on stage, pop bands drilling moves until each turn and gesture felt inevitable—but this was different. Their rhythm was born of muscle memory born out of survival, not rehearsals. 

No one raised their voice. No one needed to. A motion of a hand, the scrape of a pot lid, the way one mercenary leaned their shoulder against another—everything was understood instantly.

Mira’s gaze drifted to the small chest of supplies they had opened. 

Inside were bottles and jars, packets of dried leaves tied with twine, little glass vials holding liquids that shimmered faintly like ruby when caught by torchlight. 

She watched Krem pour out a measured swallow of that mysterious liquid into the palm of his hand and tilt it back like a shot of vodka, wincing as it burned down his throat. 

Mira blinked.

She could have sworn the ragged slice along his forearm pulled together a little faster than it had a moment ago. The bleeding slowed. His breathing steadied.

Right—

Magic. 

That was a thing in this world.

Back in hers, she would have called bullshit. 

Miracle cures belonged in commercials that preyed on the desperate, in shady too-good-to-be-true product launches with hashtags and “limited-time offers”. Not real life.

But here, in the midst of the wilderness with men and women who had stared demons in the face only hours ago?

The impossible seemed to work without question. 

They trusted the little red vials and green salves as if they were lifelines. Maybe they were.

She tilted her head, watching the faint shimmer burn through an open gash before dying back into dull scar tissue. Not neat. Not pretty. But effective.

She stayed quiet, studying them in barely concealed fascination. It wasn’t only the effects—it was also how they used them. 

Always small amounts. Always measured. Never more than needed.

One Charger cradled his arm in a makeshift sling fashioned from his own cloak, declining a second dab of ointment. 

Another pressed torn cloth against her ribs instead of reaching for the bright red curative draught Mira had seen passed around. 

At first, Mira assumed it was triage in motion, making sure the most severe getting treatment first.

It wasn’t until the third time she saw a potion was half-poured and corked midstream with a still open wound, that her brows drew together. 

Another salve jar scraped with a fingertip, a smear stretched across skin far too wide for it. Bandages tightened over what hadn’t been healed. 

Mira’s eyes narrowed.

She didn’t catch every exchange, but she caught enough. 

It hit her then: they didn’t have enough to waste.

The potions weren’t endless. 

They were rationing. Carefully. Deliberately.

Mira pressed her lips together, tucking the realization away. She could have asked, but instinct held her back. She had spent too long navigating audiences, critics, managers, paparazzi—reading people without ever letting them know she was doing it.

And so she watched and observed. 

The way Stitches lined up tools with surgeon’s precision, how he set broken bones and wrapped them tight before giving only the tiniest swallow of red liquid to blunt pain. 

The quick exchange between Krem and Dalish, where Krem waved off an offered salve with a muttered, “Save it. Bleeding’s half the fun anyway.” 

Bull, too, was binding one of his own, his arms streaked in blood beneath the gauntlets he’d removed. Long deep gashes striped his shoulder and chest, but he hadn’t let anyone near him with anything stronger than torn cloth. He grunted, tugged the bandage taut, then shrugged one massive shoulder like it was nothing.

Mira’s eyes narrowed. 

If even their leader wasn’t taking more than the bare minimum, then yes–supplies were definitely low.

Bull caught her watching. Of course he did. 

He met her eyes, held them. She raised a brow, sharp, the question unspoken.

He gave her a crooked grin, more teeth than warmth, and rolled one heavy shoulder again for show.

“Looks worse than it feels,” he rumbled. “Thick skin. Comes with the horns.”

She let the silence stretch a moment, then said quietly, “You’re rationing.” 

It wasn’t a question.

Bull’s good eye flicked toward her, gauging. Then he chuckled low in his chest. “Caught on quick, didn’t ya?” 

He nodded toward the camp. “Yeah. Supplies are tight. Coming back from a long run already burning through a decent amount of what we had. Then the sky decides to drop demons on our heads? Heh. No one plans for that. Burned through most of what’s left just keeping people on their feet out there.”

He flexed his cut arm, blood still seeping. “And I’m fine. Qunari hide’s thick.”

That was it. Matter-of-fact, no complaint. 

The easy tone, the shrug—he wasn’t trying to impress her. He was trying to reassure and put her at ease. She recognized the move. She’d done it herself a thousand times, laughing off bruises and injuries after rehearsals, telling backup dancers she was fine when her voice was half gone. 

The words were casual and well practiced, as if he were describing the weather or the taste of ale. He didn’t complain, didn’t dramatize. Just laid it down like stone.

Mira felt something tug in her chest. Respect, maybe.

For a heartbeat she wrestled with the impulse. She could stay quiet, let them keep their systems. They’d managed this long without her. She was an outsider, just a bard in their eyes, someone useful with a blade and a song, but hardly vital.

Except she wasn’t just that.

Mira exhaled through her nose, leaning her head back against the wall. She stayed like that for a long moment, biting down on the urge sitting on her tongue. Her whole life she’d hidden this, in her world—kept it behind closed doors, only used in front of the fellow Huntrix, never in the eye of the public…

But these people whom she fought together with were bleeding in front of her, and the air in the cavern was already vibrating with needs, aching for a cure.

I mean…they have mages and magics in this world. How much does this secrecy matter here really? In this world that’s not hers?

Mira shifted with a soft sigh, arms uncrossing, straightening. “I might be able to help.”

Bull looked over at that, with his head cocked and brow lifted. “What, you got a secret stash of potions tucked away in that pack of yours? Or planning to sing the cuts closed?” His grin widened at his own joke, then softened into curiosity when she didn’t smile back.

“Not exactly,” she said. Her voice stayed calm, but her pulse hammered inside her chest. “It’s… different. Where I come from, it’s a rare gift. But I can… mend. With my special type of… magic. Heal.”

A faint ripple passed through the camp. The sudden quiet that followed was subtle, but she could sense the pressure building around them like under water. A few of the nearby Chargers glanced over, wary, skeptical. Stitches’ hands paused over his kit.

Bull didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff.

He leaned forward instead, resting his thick forearms on his knees, studying her. His expression stayed open but deliberate, weighing her the way he might a weapon in his hand. “So…apostate?”

Whatever that means.

She blinked. “Not really. Something like that. But… if you’ll let me, I could show you.”

For a long moment he said nothing. 

The air between them rippled orange from the campfire and torchlights. 

Bull didn’t look away as he pondered on the offer, and that steady, assessing weight built up in his gaze again — the kind that made her want to cover up and square her shoulders at the same time. He’d been doing that since the moment they met, and Mira couldn’t decide whether he was sizing her up for a fight or just reading her like some field report.

Regardless.

Mira narrowed her eyes and kept her chin high, refusing to flinch under the scrutiny.

The moment seemed to stretch on between their locked gaze. 

—and held until a log cracked and a Charger hissed as thread bit through skin.

Then Bull huffed a short laugh. “Well, shit. Not what I expected when you said you wanted to help. I figured you meant bandages, maybe carrying a few packs.” 

His grin tugged wider as he spread his hands. “But if you’re offering? I don’t let anyone touch my people with untested tricks. You want to prove it—prove it on me first.”

Relief and nerves tangled sharp in her gut. She had expected resistance, suspicion, maybe even flat refusal. Instead he offered himself.

“Alright,” she said. Her voice was steadier than she felt.

Bull rolled one massive shoulder and turned slightly, baring the fresh stitches beneath. Blood still seeped faintly between them. “Have at it, then. Worst case, it gets messy. I’ve been messy before.” His grin flashed. bright and sharp. “Best case? You save me from smelling like wet dog for a week.”

A ripple of laughter circled the camp, tension breaking. Bull’s grin softened, not unkind.

“Besides,” he added, “told you. Thick hide.”

He just stood there with an expectant look on his face, arms wide, no armor, no guard. 

Waiting.

It was clear that The Iron Bull was serious in his offer. Dead serious. 

Mira flexed her wrists and exhaled through her nose, half a short incredulous laugh escaping her. Well, fortunately for him—so is she.

“Fine,” she said, pushing herself up to her feet. “You first then.”

The murmurs dimmed as she extended her hands, fingers steady despite the heat curling through her chest. The familiar hum of spirit magic gathered low in her sternum—warm, alive, hungry to be used—and Mira let it rise, a faint shimmer spilling like breath between her palms.

Bull had already braced himself, muscles tensing under skin marked by old scars. He’d agreed, sure—but Mira caught the small tells anyway. The faint shift of weight, the slow exhale through his nose. He looked less like a man about to receive help and more like one preparing to take a hit.

Her mouth curved, sharp and knowing, like someone who was about to flip a coin she already knew would land in her favor. “Don’t flinch on me now.”

Then she drew in a breath, let her focus sink deep—and let the first note loose.

It wasn’t a delicate thing — not crystalline nor airy, not neat nor refined into the perfect edges of a prayer. It wasn’t meant to be pretty — not in the way the stage might demand, not the way an audience expects perfection. It was husky, raw, unpolished in all the ways that made it real. 

Mira’s voice hit the air like a storm breaking — alive and defiant, beautiful because it refused to be caged. It wasn’t crafted to soothe or sweeten; it carried the scrape of grit in the throat, the rush of lungs pushed hard, the pulse of a heartbeat that refused to quiet down. A resonance that rumbled more than it floated, carrying the scrape of smoke and the heat of breath. It wasn’t fragile hope she offered, but the kind that claws its way up through ash. Defiance, raw and alive, bled into the tone. Her sound was the kind that made you want to square your shoulders, lift your chin, and dare the world to try again.

She didn’t tailor it. Didn’t temper or tame it. Mira let it loose, and the resonance rippled outward, sharp and hot and wild. The entire cave seemed to bend toward her at that moment, every chest tightening, every breath caught, as though they’d all been hooked in the ribs and pulled into her orbit.

The pitch wavered once, then locked in, and the air itself seemed to thrum against the walls. Bull’s face flickered once — the briefest break in his granite expression — before he stilled, and Mira knew she had him. Not only because of the spark of resonance she can see in his chest, but also because the steel in his eyes that demanded him to answer her challenge, he had no choice but to rise to her fire.

Mira’s eyes flicked to him, the single tilt of her head a silent question as she swept her gaze through the crowd. He returned a small, firm nod. Good. Then the song grew in volume and began to take shape fully, alive and unapologetic.

Her song didn’t comfort. It challenged. It tore down walls, dug its claws into marrow, and reminded everyone listening that they were not broken. That they had blood still pumping, bones still holding, a spirit still capable of defiance. That living hurt, yes — but it meant they were here. That you were still alive. That you had no excuse not to stand.

Something shifted in the air. Everyone paused mid-motion, one after another, enchanted by the sound. The wounded in the room, the weary slumped against walls, the restless pacing the edges — all stilled. Heads tilted, spines straightened. Eyes lifted. Shoulders uncoiled. Mira’s song hit them and held, tangible and impossible to ignore, not asking them to follow but dragging them along by sheer force of will. There was no conscious thought, just the magnetic pull of something larger, something untamed and free. It tugged at them like tide pulling at driftwood, and for a heartbeat, the weight of exhaustion, the ache of battle, even the sting of cuts and injuries, felt suspended and faraway in the moment.

Though they didn’t move forward, they leaned closer in their own ways. One shifted a shoulder, swaying slightly to listen, another straightened a back long stiff from tension, eyes wide. Pain forgotten, tension unwound and anxiety softened. The spark of resonance lit within them, one after another as their spirits synchronized to her music, they were feeding her energy through it — the silent connection born out of music. Mira felt it, subtle and humming, like electricity just beneath the skin. Her spirit magic, her gift, drew from it, from the life in the room, weaving it into something tangible and alive.

Mira took a step forward to the Iron Bull and his awareness returned, guarded and expectant. He shifted, bracing, letting her step close. She didn’t falter. Her hands hovered just above the bruises and scrapes along his side, letting the spirit magic coalesce silently around her, drawing on the resonance already established. A subtle hum threaded through her, part of her song, part of her essence, binding her will to the task. The blue glow from his chest pulsed brighter, warm, steady. She could feel the tension in his muscles relax under the gentle pull of her magic, the smallest sigh escaping him—a grunt of acknowledgment rather than discomfort.

Bull’s chest rose once, sharply, and then his shoulders eased. The long gash at his side, still puckered from the fight earlier, began knitting itself together. Mira held the note, shifting her melody upward, and the room seemed to brighten as the wounds on his shoulder and arm followed suit. 

Mira tilted her head slightly, husky tones trailing into a cadence that carried unspoken question. That enough? Or do you want more?

Bull exhaled through his nose, low and surprised, and his hand pressed over where the wound had been. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eye — grudging respect mixed with a little awe — was answer enough.

Someone else stepped forward right after that silent approval. A soldier with a bandaged arm, staring at her with tight jaws like he’d just been dared not to. Mira quirked a brow, gave the barest shrug, and kept going.

The notes climbed higher, then dropped into gravel, husky edges rough enough to scrape the heart raw. She looked unrepentant, every line of her posture wild and free, hair spilling loose as if the sound itself had fingers and tugged it free. No neat stage, no practiced choreography. Just Mira — alive, defiant, unapologetic — and her voice pulling the room tighter and tighter into its orbit.

It wasn’t a question of whether the others would step forward. They couldn’t not. Drawn like moths to flame, one by one they moved closer, caught in her resonance, pulled forward by something older and truer than logic.

She didn’t acknowledge them directly. She didn’t have to. The song itself was the net, wide and irresistible, binding them in. They came bleeding, bruised, limping, but their eyes were wide, mouths parted, not with pleading but with awe. She didn’t sing for them. She sang, and they couldn’t help but fall into sync, ensnared by her melody, their bodies remembering strength again in the wake of her untamed courage and raw defiance.

Mira reached out again. The soldier flinched at first, then stilled as the healing spread. His bandage loosened as fresh skin closed over what had been torn. His eyes widened and shone just a little wet.

Mira didn’t pause. She didn’t have to ask anymore at this point. By then, more had started lining up — a quiet, unspoken current running through the room. One by one, they came forward: bruised, bloodied, weary. She met each with a healing touch powered by their collective resonance, magic shifting like instinct: sharper for the ones slumping with despair, rougher for the ones clinging to anger, steady for the ones too tired to keep standing. 

Muscles mended, cuts vanished, breath steadied.

Like a miracle.

Her voice never wavered. It was as natural as breathing, as if this defiant magic had always lived in her chest, waiting for its moment. The air thickened with it, every note threading through bodies like a spark catching kindling. The wounded straightened. The exhausted breathed deeper. Even the unhurt found themselves standing taller as they are swept forward in spirit, carried by the wild, defiant flame she wove into song.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Bull stopped leaning against the wall and stood straighter, arms unfolded, watching her. Not like a skeptic anymore, but like a man witnessing something dangerous and holy at once.

By the time Mira let the last note fall away, the line had dwindled, wounds closed, spirits steadied. The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not mournful, but charged. Like the room itself had remembered how to breathe, thick with a quiet awe.

Mira let the silence hang a beat, chest heaving, lips parted, sweat at her brow. For the first time since the note left her, she blinked back into herself — saw the way they were all staring. Pulled, changed, held by the echo of her wildness. The room was full of straightened spines, clear eyes, unbowed shoulders. They hadn’t been soothed. They’d been set alight.

And then her stomach growled. Loud.

The sound cracked the silence like a hammer to glass. A ripple of laughter broke out among the Chargers, half relief, half release of tension. One of them clapped the man next to him on the back. Another wheezed, “Maker, she heals us and then demands tribute.”

Mira groaned and pressed a hand to her middle. “Seriously?” she muttered, shooting her own body a nasty look. “A whole damn concert with standing ovation, and that’s my encore?”

Bull barked a laugh, full and booming, shaking his head. “Figures. Magic that runs on an empty stomach. Should’ve guessed.” He pushed himself upright, rolling his shoulder as if testing it, then nodded once at her with the weight of a man who knew when something was worth respect. “Not bad, Songbird. Not bad at all.”

“Just admit that you are thoroughly impressed. I’d say you definitely owe me dinner all that,” Mira lifted her brows and shot back, still half doubled over. She didn’t even bother trying to smooth the moment — hunger wasn’t shameful, not after what she’d just done. If anything, it made her human again.

“Oh, I’m impressed,” Bull agreed easily, grinning with a flash of teeth. “Just not sure if I should be more impressed at the magic, or at that stomach of yours. Sounded like it’s about to eat the cave whole.”

She shot him a flat look, but it cracked when another rumble rolled out of her belly and the laughter spiked again.

“Alright,” he said, turning to his men, “let’s see what we can scrape together before she starts gnawing on one of you.”

The Chargers roared with laughter again, scattering to dig through packs, the scent of rations and cooked meat already seeping back into the cavern. Mira let herself breathe, finally, finally, letting the silence sit.

“Good,” she said, straightening, voice husky but playful now. “Because if one more person lines up for a miracle, I’m charging.”

The room laughed with her — warm, unforced. The tension that had clung to them since the fight was gone, burned away in song, leaving only the lift of shared breath and the promise of food.

Mira stretched her arms overhead, still smirking. “All right. Who’s cooking?”

A grunt answered her from near the fire. Just a grunt. Low, guttural, and final — the kind that belonged to a man too large to need vocabulary to stake his claim over the food pot.

The sound rolled across the cavern like a punctuation mark at the end of everyone else’s chatter.

Krem jerked a thumb toward the source, smirking. “That’s your answer. Grunt’s on duty.”

She looked over.

Grunt—who happened to a thick-necked human built like a siege wall that had learned how to scowl—was hunched there beside a couple of battered cookpots. He stirred like he was daring the stew to offend him. The contents hissed with every turn of the ladle, somehow managing to sound vaguely threatening.

Krem leaned forward, half conspiratorial. “It’ll probably be edible in five,” Krem said. Tilted his head and took another look at the pot, gauging the steam, “Ten, if it’s one of his creative days. Either way,  we’ve got time to wash off the demon gunk before food.”

Dalish, a face-tattooed elf, stepped past Mira and sniffed dramatically. “Especially necessary for you. You smell like the Fade sneezed on you.”

Carly, passing by with her bowl, gave Mira a once-over and winced theatrically. “Oh yeah, you’d need it. We’ve got spare kits. You’re not going to fit Skinner’s leather, but I’ve probably got something that'll hang better than…” She gestured vaguely to Mira’s outfit. “Whatever that’s supposed to be.”

True enough.

Her “outfit,” as it stood, was a war crime against fabric. The once-tight stylish grey top now clung in dark patches of blood and dust, torn across one shoulder; her pants— or what remained of one — hung shredded, revealing flashes of leather straps, chains, and something metallic glinting underneath. Every move sent a dull shimmer through the stains and gores: bits of silver jewelry and chain caught in her hair and cuffs. It was armor of a different kind — street shine turned battle grime.

Another voice—Stitches—piped up from where he was wrapping the last of his kit. “Honestly, Dalish’s extra set would probably suit you better, or maybe one of the recruits who didn’t grow up eating bricks for breakfast.”

“Right…” Dalish slithered close with a grin, elbowing Mira lightly. “You sure you’re human? You wear clothes like an elf—with even fewer complaints about the breeze.”

She tilted her head with a smile. “But yeah, I can lend you something,” she continued with a mischievous glint in her eyes, vaguely gesturing around her bosom, “ if you don’t mind it being… a bit snug in the places for you, that is. Elf build tends to be a bit more flatter in those areas”

Mira looked down at herself in her current sorry state— the torn fabrics accompanied by the half-dried mud and the splattered stains of blood and better-left-unnamed suspicious bits— and wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t even a decision that need any consideration. “Honestly? I’ll take whatever isn’t covered in guts at this point.”

“Good. It’s settled then. You can grab Dalish’s spares. Anyway,” Krem turned back to Mira, tossing her a dry cloth from a nearby pack, “since we’re not actively dying right this second, go clean up. Unless you’re planning to serenade us again smelling like a slaughterhouse filled with blood and demon remains.”

Mira caught the cloth mid-air, raising a brow in mock offense. “Are you suggesting my performance could be anything less than absolute perfection regardless of my dress code?”

“I’m suggesting,” Krem replied dryly with a chuckle. “we’ve got a miracle window right now where we’re not actively dying nor marching towards one. You should take advantage of it. Like the rest of the ladies already calling first dib to cleaning rights. The spare gears are over at the washing area so just go with them. Might not be haute couture for a Diva, but at least you won’t drip on dinner.”

Mira ducked behind the makeshift privacy curtain of hanging cloth strung between two jutting rock pillars, separating out this corner of the cavern for washing. Steam curled from the large stone basin where water had been poured and heated by the heat runes glowing beneath, not scalding but warm enough to chase away the chill.

It was nothing luxurious, but after the recent ordeal and the resulting stench of demon blood, it looked positively divine. God knows that she was totally bracing for a cold rinse and wipe-down when she walked in.

Already inside were three of the women—Carly, the sturdy human from earlier, a sharp-eyed elf called Skinner, and a younger one she hadn’t met yet with short-cropped hair and a crooked smile. They made space without ceremony, nudging a stool toward her and nodding toward the water.

MIra peeled the grime-slick fabrics off in record speed and jumped in without hesitation, sinking into the warmth with a blissful sigh.. 

Carly gave her a grin, scrubbing her arms with a threadbare towel. “Not bad, what you did back there. Haven’t felt this good after a fight since before Val Royeaux.”

The short-haired girl also bounced on her heels and piped up, “Hi, I’m Piper by the way! Thanks for saving Merek too just now. My brother lost a lot of blood by the time we dragged him out of that pass. I was really worried about him not being able to made it before you sung him back together so thank you! Really!”

Mira blinked, a little startled, heat flaring in her cheeks—compliments always hit her sideways, “It was nothing.”

Dalish’s voice drifted over as she leaned back against the cave wall, dropping off the spare kit for Mira on the side and kicking her boots off. “No, it wasn’t. That kind of magic doesn’t just happen. Especially not out here.” Her tone wasn’t accusing—more like impressed. Curious. “You Circle-trained?”

Mira hesitated, thinking of how to respond as she resumed letting down her pigtails, her long pink hairs flowing down in a loose wave. “No. I’m… not from around here. Never needed those anyways, where I came from, these little tricks only happen in bedtime stories.”

The room went quiet—not hostile, not tense, just suddenly… still. Silence heavy with understanding.

Carly nodded slowly, reaching for a tin of soap. “Right. So… apostate, then.”

That word again…Mira had no idea what the hell it meant yet, but the tones were never flatter.

Mira braced for a shift—suspicion, distance, anything.

But Dalish just waved a dismissive hand as she slipped into the water and find herself a good spot between Skinner and Mira. “We don’t care.”

“Seriously, we don’t. Who cares what Circles think anyways,” said Piper, earnest and bright as a sunrise. “None of us are Circle-lovers. You could’ve pulled spirits from your ears and we still wouldn’t report you.”

Carly laughed. “Unless you can conjure hot stew and better ale. Then we’ve gotta report you to Boss and put you in the roster.”

Dalish grinned. “Point is, we’ve all got stories. None of us are templars. No one here’s gonna go whispering to the Chantry or the Circle of mages.”

“Or what’s left of it,” Piper muttered, half under her breath.

“Boss already said you’re with us,” Dalish added. “That’s good enough. We’ve got each other’s backs, so don’t worry.” 

“Yup,” said Piper. “Always. You don’t rat, we don’t rat. Chargers don’t sell secrets, and we don’t scare easy. Especially not when you’ve pulled us out of the Fade’s teeth.”

Mira exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders like a rolling tide. “Thanks.”

“Relax,” Carly said, tossing her the soap. “You’re just another bard to us. Same way Dalish here’s just our backup archer with terrible taste in bow.”

Dalish looked personally offended. “My bow is pure art.”

“Your bow is a chipped piece of wood, with threads literally barely hanging on, with a glowing crystal on top,” Carly said flatly. “You seriously need to start thinking of a better excuse soon, not everyone buys that whole old elven trick for targeting tip. Last thing we want is a repeat of what happen last time with that idiotic noble convinced that it was enchanted weapon that is worth a fortune.”

“I–”

“Just tell them it’s fashion from Orlesians the next time, you know, for good luck and things.” Mira interjected and came to her rescue. “And if anyone ever presses further, just look down on them like this.” 

She demonstrated — chin up with a bored condescending half-lidded look that oozed aristocratic superiority, “And tell them this is what is trending, huff, and ask them what do they know about the latest fashion. That usually shuts people pretty quickly. And if they ever persist, just sigh dramatically and walk away while giving them a pitying look. Works like a charm every time.”

“Ha!” Dalish burst out laughing, nearly slipping on the wet stone. “Exactly! It’s Fashion! From Halamshiral!”

Mira sunk deeper in the warm water with a satisfied little smirk at her excitement, happy to be of assistance. Damn if she knows where these Orlesians come from but the fashion excuse? Works every time.

The water rippled as Skinner, the clear-faced sharp-looking elf who had been silent so far, shifted next to her. “You know what? You’ll do.”

Mira blinked. “What?”

Skinner met her eyes, sharp and unflinching. “I don’t like shem— humans,” Skinner said flatly. “Most of ‘em treat us like dirt under their polished Orlesian boots. But you—” she pointed a wet finger “—you stepped in to fight for us, healed us, and cared. You bled for elves. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t ask coin. You just did it.”

A pause. Then she said grudgingly with a sniff. “So I don’t like you. But I respect you.”

Mira nodded slowly. “I’ll take that. Better than lots of compliments I get”

Dalish grinned, “From Skinner, that’s basically a pedestal and medal of honor right there. What she means is that you are totally awesome and she won’t stab you in your sleep.”

“Don’t push it,” Skinner muttered. “She’s still a shem.”

“She saved your sorry shem-hating ass, didn’t she?” Carly pointed out.

Skinner shrugged. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I like her. Just means I’ll let her eat near me.”

Mira leaned back against the smooth stone, eyes closing for just a second. “I’m touched.”

Another round of laughter rolled through the space, easy and warm. Mira leaned into it, the sound rinsing away what little fear she still held. The water helped too. She let herself relax.

Dalish stretched out with her arms out of the basin, head tilted back with a sigh. “Ugh. Storm Coast is just the worst. I swear it smells like moldy boots most of the time.”

“Could be worse,” Carly said, already rinsing off and starting to dress. “Could be Nevarra during Festival Week. One giant, perfumed parade. You breathe in and your lungs get slapped by twenty kinds of lilies. Perfume thick enough to choke a mabari.”

Piper laughed and chimed in. “Val Royeaux was like that when I first arrived. Everything smelled like wealth and candles. Even the air had attitude.”

“Could’ve brought some of that here,” Dalish muttered, wrinkling her nose. “This place smells like wet dog and regret.”

Mira smiled faintly, carefully lathering her hair. The end of the long pink strand brushed against thighs, leaving trails of droplets down her bare arms. She absently wiped them off and joined their conversation. “So do you folks know where we are heading next?”

Dalish shrugged. “I think the plan was Haven. That’s the original plan at least. Word is, the Inquisition’s trying to pick up the pieces since the Breach tore open. Setting up camp there, trying to close Rifts, rally survivors. Lotta mage and templar deserters crawling through the hills.”

Carly added, “And with healing stocks this low, we either head to Haven and hope the Inquisition has something to trade, or we trek back to the Free Marches and risk half the wounded not making it.”

“Val Royeaux won’t take us in right now,” Dalish said bluntly. “Not with the Chantry up in flames. Ferelden’s still arguing with Orlais. No one's offering sanctuary without strings.”

“And Nevarra?” Piper asked, a towel slung around her shoulders.

Dalish snorted. “Never trust a country that builds their homes next to their crypts.”

“I’ve never been to Nevarra,” Mira murmured.

“You’re not missing much,” Carly said dryly. “Gravestones and politics. All cold.”

Piper leaned back, voice thoughtful. “You think the Inquisition will hire us?” 

Dalish shrugged. “Depends, the Boss calls the shots as always. We will see.”

By the time Mira successfully wringed out her long hair to a non-dripping presentatble state and returned to the main cavern, dinner was ready—or, at least, steaming and vaguely food-shaped.

Grunt ladled something thick into rough tin bowls while the others gathered around in loose circles. Mira accepted hers with a cautious sniff. It smelled... fine. Edible. Maybe even good.

“Does it glow?” she asked, eyeing it warily.

“Only if you squint,” Dalish called over without missing a beat.

Krem waved her over to join his group, where Bull already sat, cleaned. The firelight caught his horns as he leaned in to grab a hunk of bread.

“Hey, Songbird,” he said around a mouthful. “Still hungry?”

Mira brandished her bowl. “Depends on whether this stuff is half-decent.”

Piper dropped beside her, legs stretched out. “Oh! You missed some excitement. Word from a scout: they spotted a group of templars heading north, two valleys over. Looked like they were tracking someone.”

“Or something,” Krem muttered.

“Everyone’s tracking someone these days,” Bull said, voice low. “Templars after mages. Mages after the Chantry. The Chantry blaming the Maker. The Maker staying quiet.”

“Maybe he’s got the right idea,” Mira muttered.

Laughter rippled again. The fire cracked.

“Hey,” one of the Chargers across the fire piped up, “anyone else heard the rumor? That the Herald of Andraste’s an elf?”

Krem nodded. “And glowing. Don’t forget that bit.”

Dalish rolled her eyes. “They said the same about a goat once in Orlais.”

Piper grinned, “Heard the Herald can walk through fire untouched. Also that they can’t read. Or that they speak to the Fade like it’s breakfast conversation.”

“No but really, they said the Herald has a glowing hand, just like the breach in the sky,” another added. “Some say the Chantry made it. Others say it’s a trick from the Circle.”

“I heard they’re going to try forming an Inquisition again, not just in name,” Krem said. “The old ones. Big teeth.”

“Herald’s an elf though,” someone muttered. “Doesn't that make things complicated for them?”

“Not as complicated as this,” Carly said, gesturing at the cave roof. “We’ve got a sky trying to kill us, demons popping like blisters, and people keep wanting to pick sides?”

But a few of the soldiers were eyeing her hand again—just subtly. As if checking.

Bull noticed. His one good eye cut across them like a blade. “She’s not the Herald.”

Silence.

Then, someone sheepishly cleared their throat and pretended to stir the pot again.

The tension hung a heartbeat longer before dissolving into the low hum of spoons and soft talk.

Mira looked down at her hands, suddenly feeling their weight. They didn’t glow, no sigil burned bright. Just the faint shimmer of firelight on damp skin.

But still–everyone kept stealing glances at them, even when they tried not to. 

The image of that Herald flickered in her mind again—some elven stranger who’d apparently fallen out of the sky.

Someone with a glowing left hand raised towards the sky. Green like the breach in the sky.

And something in that moment just suddenly clicked.

The words. The names. The sky torn open. Haven. The Breach.

Her pulse kicked, a chill creeping up her spine.

Her stomach clenched as the pieces slid into place.

Zoey’s voice from a hundred sleepless nights came rushing back — half a world away, laughing at 3 a.m. as she gestured wildly through another “you-have-to-play-this” rant.

Dragon Age: Inquisition, she’d called it.

Elves, gods, glowing hands.

Companion and romances. 

War tables and the impossible choices with consequences.

Mira had nodded along, half-listening, already thinking about choreography and rehearsal call times. Just another fantasy game, she’d thought.

Except now she was sitting here, bruised, bloodied, and breathing in its air.

This wasn’t just fantasy anymore.

This wasn’t fiction.

This was it.

Dragon Age.

And she was standing in the middle of it.

This is her life now.

If the Breach was real,  if they were still at Haven, starting out inqusition—then the story hadn’t fully begun yet.

And if she remembered anything Zoey had said, it would all go downhill fast.

They needed to get there.

She needed to be there.

Before everything started burning.

The moment passed. Someone coughed, someone else asked if there was more bread.

The conversation turned, easing back into the mundane—bad weather, poor supplies, the merits of goats over horses. Mira ate slowly, almost absently,  her bowl nearly empty before she realized it.

She felt the weariness creeping back in, but softer this time. Like the kind that came after surviving something instead of running from it.

As the fire popped, Mira sat back against the cave wall and let her gaze drift to the smoke curling up into the rocky ceiling.

Her hands rested in her lap.

Not glowing.

Not divine.

But not powerless either.

Whatever this world thought she was—apostate, bard, anomaly—none of it mattered right now.

She had a direction.

A place to go.

A story to walk into.

Disasters to prevent.

“We go to Haven,” she said softly, mostly to herself.

But Bull, seated just beside her, grunted in agreement.

“Figured you’d hear that from the Chargers, saved me the trouble,” he said, voice low. “We head out in the morning.”

Mira met his gaze, a small sharp half-smile ghosting across her lips. “Good.”

Chapter Text

The first morning on the road, Mira woke to the sound of rain hammering against canvas.

Not the polite drizzle of her world—the kind you could wait out under an awning with a coffee in hand. This was Storm Coast rain: cold and relentless, the soul-sucking kind that found every gap in your clothing and settled into your bones like it planned to stay.

She sat up from the spare bedroll laid out in the space she’d been assigned to between Dalish and Piper, every muscle in her body protesting. Her thighs ached—a deep, satisfying soreness from the fight on the beach and the evening spent healing afterward. Her shoulders were stiff. But it was manageable. The kind of ache she knew from years of performances and demon hunting.

She could work with this.

Around her, the Chargers were already moving. A blanket of muted noises drifted through the rain—low commands, the clatter of gear being packed, the jingle of harness buckles. Voices murmured—status updates, jokes, the occasional grunt of effort as someone hefted a supply crate onto one of the mules. No one was complaining about the weather. No one was moving slowly.

Mira rolled her shoulders, stretched her legs, and pushed herself upright.

Dalish was already lacing up her boots—staff bow, Mira corrected herself mentally—propped against the tent wall. The elf glanced over, taking in Mira’s borrowed clothes with a critical eye.

“How’s the fit?”

Mira tugged at the leather vest that pulled tight across her chest with one hand as she struggled to freshen up with her other. “Snug.”

“Yeah, well.” Dalish’s mouth quirked. “Elves don’t really… build like humans do. Up top, I mean.” She gestured vaguely at her own flat chest, then at Mira’s decidedly not-flat one. “Or back there either.”

Mira shifted, feeling the way the leather pants dug into her hips and pulled tight across her backside. “I noticed.”

“At least it’s not falling off,” Piper offered cheerfully, already rolling up her bedroll. “That’s something.”

“Sure,” Mira muttered, tugging the vest down for the third time. It immediately rode back up.

She gave up and focused on what’s important instead.

The thing about falling into another dimension, Mira had discovered, was that your concept of “normal morning routine” went straight out the window.

Back home, mornings meant: wake up, shower (hot water, blessed readily accessible hot water), skincare routine, hair styled with actual products, makeup applied with precision, outfit selected from an actual wardrobe, jewelry coordinated to match the day’s aesthetic.

Here?

Here meant waking up in a borrowed bedroll, finger-combing pink hair that desperately needed some detangling, and digging through her pockets to figure out which pieces of jewelry she could actually wear without jingling like a walking coin purse or getting them caught on every branch between here and civilization.

Mira sat cross-legged near the remnants of last night’s fire, her small collection of jewelry spread out on a flat rock in front of her like she was doing inventory. Which, in a way, she was.

She fell through the tear during a rehearsal—which meant full performance gears. Silver chains looped around her neck, platinum bracelets stacked on both wrists, rings on four fingers. Piercings climbed both ears—studs, hoops, an industrial bar on the right. Even the series of chain anklets on her left leg and the thin chains that wrapped around her right thigh, hidden under the borrowed pants at the moment.

All of it high-grade. Expensive. The kind of thing stylists picked for magazine shoots, fitting for the stage presence of a world-renowned idol. The kind of thing she has thrown away without thinking twice in the past after being worn once.

Now it was her entire fortune.

Rocky eyed the chains across the cave with the calculating look of someone appraising weight and purity out of habit. She met his gaze flatly with a pointed glare, and he grinned and moved on.

Smart man.

Mira looked down again, staring at her little collection with a forlorn expression.

This is literally everything I own in this world. Everything.

Aside from her boots that is.

Her combat boots—flexible, designed for dance and quick movement—were still mostly intact despite yesterday’s chaos. Nothing a quick rinse in the rain couldn’t fix. Black leather with reinforced soles. They weren’t meant for cross-country hiking, but they were expensive, custom-fitted, and hers.

Mira’s determined to keep them until they fall apart.

She sighed and thought hard on what’s suitable for the travel.

The platinum bracelets—six of them, varying widths—went into her belt pouch. Too much noise, too easy to catch on things. The ankle chains followed, along with the decorative thigh piece that had looked edgy and cool for performances but was absolutely impractical for, you know, existing.

The rings she hesitated over. Three of them were simple bands, and wouldn't cause problems. Those could stay. The statement pieces with the chunky setting? Pouch.

The choker—black leather with silver details that she’d loved—and the chains that usually hung at her throat in layered perfection? She held them up, watching them catch the weak morning light, and grimaced.

Choker and chains. In a medieval world that apparently has actual slavery. Great aesthetic choice, Mira.

Into the pouch they went. 

That left her industrial bar piercing and the studs climbing her left ear—along with her belt and one simple silver necklace that is thin enough it would sit flat under clothing if needed.

She fastened the necklace back around her neck, tucked it under the borrowed leather vest that still pulled tight across her chest, and shoved the rest of her wealth into her belt pouch.

World-famous idol, reduced to one necklace and some earrings. How the mighty have fallen.

“Traveling light?”

Mira’s head snapped up.

Bull stood a few feet away, and she hadn’t even heard him approach. For someone his size, he moved with unsettling quiet when he wanted to.

“Practical,” Mira corrected, pushing to her feet and brushing dirts off her borrowed pants. “Everything else jingles or catches. Not exactly tactical.”

Bull’s eye tracked over her—assessing, she realized, checking for readiness the way a commander checked his troops.

“Smart,” he said approvingly. Then his expression shifted, grew more serious, as he passed her a waterskin and a cloak. “Just heads up. Stick close with the Chargers out there. Don’t wander off. You never know what’s crawling in these hills, and storms like this make it harder to spot trouble.”

Mira swallowed hard and nodded without a word. Not sure what to say to that.

“Good. Just in case.” Bull patted her on the shoulder reassuringly before turning away.

Somehow…that just gave her a whole new sense of anticipation for this upcoming journey.

They broke camp in the rain.

The Chargers moved with practiced efficiency, bedrolls packed and gear stowed in minutes. The four pack mules stood patient and miserable, water streaming off their backs as soldiers loaded supplies with methodical precision.

Mira pulled up the hood of her borrowed cloak—oiled canvas that shed water reasonably well—and joined the flow.

Bull stood at the front of the column, greatsword already strapped across his back, rain running in rivulets down his bare chest and arms. He didn’t seem to notice the cold. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

“Alright, Chargers!” His voice carried easily over the deafening roar of the storm. “We’ve got two days to Haven if we push. Three if we don’t. Weather’s shit, terrain’s worse, so keep your eyes open and your feet moving. Scouts out front. Krem, take the rear. Let’s move.”

No one argued.

They fell into marching formation—Bull and a pair of scouts at the front, the main column in the middle with the mules, Krem and Grim bringing up the rear.

Mira walked in the middle, hands loose at her sides, and tried not to think about how much she already hated the rain.

The Storm Coast was miserable.

Not in a dramatic, tragic way. Just… persistently, relentlessly, soul-crushingly awful.

The rain never stopped. It pounded down in sheets, turning the road into a slick ribbon of mud that sucked at boots with every step. The sky was a uniform grey, low and oppressive, pressing down like a weight. The air was cold and damp, the kind of wet cold that sank into your lungs and refused to leave.

Mira’s borrowed cloak kept her dry for the first hour.

After that, water found its way in—dripping down her neck, soaking through the seams, creeping into her boots. Her hair—long, pink, usually styled with precision—hung in wet ropes down her back, the tips brushing her thighs. 

Her fingers went to the wet fringes clinging to her cheeks on autopilot at the thought — the old, ridiculous habit of a thousand stage checklists. She caught herself with a small, annoyed huff and smoothed a soaked strand back anyway, more because she liked the illusion of being put-together than because anyone here would notice. There were no cameras, no audience in the rain, only mud; wasting energy on maintaining hairstyle in this weather is just plain dumb.

She kept walking.

Around her, the Chargers slogged through the mud with grim determination. No one talked much. There was nothing to say. Just the steady rhythm of boots squelching, mules bells chiming softly, the endless hiss of rain.

The silence clawed at her worse than the rain.

Back home, every breath fed a web of sound—resonance loops, million of essences and heartbeats braided with Honmoon. Here there was only dead air. Dead, unreturned. 

No return pulse when she hummed under her breath, no shimmer of someone else’s spirit brushing hers in response, no echo of timber. Just the dull thud of her boots and the hiss of water falling all around. 

She swallowed the instinct to sing louder—as if volume could conjure connection out of nothing and bring the comfort of her fellow Huntrix’s presence—and the music died right there in her throat, the emptiness hit harder than she’d care to admit.

A half-memory surfaced—Rumi’s voice in her ear before every run-through: Hydrate, dummy. Rest your voice when you can.  Zoey’s laugh followed, bright as a snare hit. Yeah right, like she ever listens. Right before she started to excitedly chatter about plans for them to do afterward.

Mira almost smiled. Then a nearby branch snapped, jolting her out of the memory, and the world was all rain again.

She fell silent.

The terrain was brutal—rolling hills of slick mud and loose rock, patches of scrub clinging to the slopes, everything grey and brown and wet. The road, such as it was, wound through the hills like a scar, rutted and treacherous.

Mira’s combat boots—designed for grips on stages and studio floors—still slipped on every fifth step. She caught herself each time, muscles compensating, but it cost her energy she couldn’t afford to waste.

Her thighs burned. Her calves ached. The vest dug into her ribs with every breath.

But she was fine.

For the first three hours, she was fine.

She’d done harder. Longer rehearsals. Back-to-back concerts. Demon hunts that lasted until dawn.

This was just walking.

Wet, miserable walking, but still.

She could handle it.

…Somehow when Bull talked about traveling to Haven, Mira has naively imagined inns and carriages, not two honest days on your own two feet. 

She also learned something practical within that hour: outdoor journeying here did not include paved roads and basic plumbing. 

Mira, who had toured arenas with VIP restrooms, now understood the humble glory of a single tree with no witnesses. 

Idol training for sure had not covered this particular hell.

Hour four was when the cracks started to show.

The inclines grew steeper, the mud deeper. Her legs burned with every upward step, muscles screaming in ways they hadn’t since her early days of combat trainings in Huntrix. Her lungs worked harder, breath coming shorter in the thin, cold air.

And her feet.

God, her feet.

The combat boots had turned into waterlogged torture devices somewhere along the way. Her toes were numb. The leather squelched with every step, and she could feel the beginnings of blisters forming hot and angry against her heels.

She kept her face blank and kept walking.

The Chargers didn’t slow.

Krem jogged past, splashing through a puddle, to deliver something to Bull at the front. Barely winded. Rocky hummed tunelessly as he walked, hands shoved in his pockets like the rain was a minor inconvenience. Even Piper—gods, even Piper who couldn’t be more than her early twenties—moved like this was normal.

Mira’s jaw tightened.

The rational part of her mind told her that they’ve been doing this for years. She’d been doing this for hours. It’s not a fair comparison.

Her pride didn’t care.

She’d never been the weak link. Not in Huntrix, not on stage, not anywhere. She was the one who pushed through injuries and exhaustion, who smiled through pain and made it look effortless.

Being the one who struggled—being the one who needed accommodation—felt like failure branded across her back in giant neon pink blocks.

Up ahead, Krem jogged back from the front, breathing steady as ever, and fell into step beside them to play the messenger. “Boss says we’re making good time. Should hit the waypoint by sundown.”

“Thank the Maker,” Piper breathed a sigh of relief. “My feet are killing me.”

“Your feet are always killing you,” Carly pointed out with a laugh.

“Because we’re always walking.”

“That’s the job, kid.”

Mira’s jaw tightened as she pushed herself to match their pace. Sure, she says that but they’re not even breathing hard. What the hell.

Her foot slipped in the mud.

She caught herself on instinct, boots scrabbling for purchase, and kept moving, jaw clenched.

No one said anything.

But Bull’s head turned slightly at the front of the column.

Mira’s scowl deepened and turned him away with a narrowed glare sharp enough to cut.

Don’t. You. Dare.

The last thing she needed was pity.

By hour five, her breathing was ragged at the edges.

Not gasping—nothing obvious—but too fast, too shallow. The burn in her thighs had spread to her hips, her lower back. The stitch in her side was a constant, nagging presence.

She pushed harder, lengthening her stride to match the pace, ignoring the way her body screamed at her to slow down.

Around her, conversations drifted through the rain.

“—think we’ll make the waypoint by dark?”

“If the rain doesn’t get worse.”

“It’s the Storm Coast. It always gets worse.”

Bitter laughters all around.

…yeah well, Mira wanted to scream.

Not at them. At herself.

She was fit. She knew she was fit. Years of training had carved her into something dangerous and precise. She could fight for hours, dance until her legs gave out, sing until her voice cracked.

But this—this endless, grinding endurance—was breaking her down in ways she hadn’t trained for.

She was built for sprints, not marathons. Honed for bursts of intensity that burned bright and fast, not the slow, relentless grind of just… continuing.

Her body was built for the wrong kind of suffering.

And her pride—her stupid, stubborn, unshakable pride—twisted sharp and bitter in her chest regardless because she’d never, never ever been the one who couldn’t keep up.

And she’d be damned before she’d let herself start now.

They stopped at midday in the dubious shelter of a rock overhang, the stone doing almost nothing to block the rain but at least breaking the wind.

The Chargers dropped packs and slumped against the rocks, water streaming off cloaks and armor. The mules stood patient and miserable. Someone tried to coax a fire to life and gave up after the third attempt.

Mira lowered herself onto a flat rock, moving carefully, and focused on keeping her breathing even.

Her legs trembled. Her feet were numb. The cold had sunk so deep into her bones she wasn’t sure she’d ever be warm again.

She sat perfectly still, back straight, chin up, and showed nothing, as she dumped out the water logged within her boots with mechanical motions.

Across the clearing, Bull crouched beside one of the mules, checking the straps on its pack. His hands—massive, scarred, capable of crushing skulls— moved around it with surprising care, testing buckles, adjusting weight distribution. Rain ran down his arms in rivers, dripping from his horns, and he didn’t seem to notice.

Mira watched the deliberate precision of his movements, the way he murmured something low to the animal—soothing, almost affectionate—and the mule leaned into his touch trustingly.

There was no wasted motion. No hesitation. Just efficiency and focus, the kind of command presence that made people follow without questioning.

She’d seen leaders before—managers, directors, choreographers. People who commanded rooms and stages.

But this was different.

Bull didn’t demand attention. He just had it, effortlessly, and the Chargers orbited him like he was gravity itself.

He’s good at this, she thought, filing it away in her mental cabinet reserved for him. Really good.

The Iron Bull straightened, brushing water off his hands, and his gaze swept the clearing in one smooth arc as he often does—checking, assessing, cataloging.

It landed on her.

She met his eyes, chin up and foxy eyes sharp with unspoken challenge. What?

His mouth twitched—amusement, not mockery.

A wordless quirky little curl of lips.

He looked away first.

Mira told herself the flush creeping up her neck was from exertion and absolutely nothing else.

Twenty minutes later, they were moving again.

And the pace was different.

Not obviously. Not enough that anyone would comment.

But the breaks came more frequently—every forty minutes instead of every hour. The path Bull chose curved around the worst of the mud pits, taking longer routes that eased the incline just enough to matter. He called stops with casual, invented reasons that sounded perfectly natural.

“Mules need a rest. Check those loads, Krem.”

“Stream up ahead—top off your water.”

“Dalish, scout that ridge. Eyes sharp.”

Mira’s hands curled into fists, nails biting crescents into her palms.

He knows.

He’s slowing down the whole team because of you.

The realization sat bitter and sharp in her chest.

She’d spent her entire life proving she didn’t need help. That she wasn’t a damsel in distress waiting to be rescued. That she was strong enough, fast enough, good enough on her own. That accommodations were for people who couldn’t hack it.

And now—

Her breathing was easier, though. Her legs stopped shaking. The fire in her lungs banked to something manageable instead of critical.

She hated that she was grateful.

Hated that her body betrayed her pride by sagging with relief every time they stopped.

Hated that Bull had read her so easily, seen through the carefully constructed mask she’d worked so hard to maintain, and just lent a hand without ever saying a word or making her feel small for needing it.

But she kept walking.

And kept her mouth shut.

They made camp that evening in a miserable clearing where the rain was marginally less terrible.

The Chargers set up tents with grim efficiency, working in the downpour without complaint. Fires were deemed pointless—everything was too wet to burn—so dinner was cold rations eaten huddled under canvas.

Mira sat under the edge of her tent, chewing mechanically on jerky that tasted like salted leather, and watched the camp settle.

Every muscle in her body ached. Her thighs burned. Her calves felt like they’d been beaten with hammers. Her lower back was a knot of misery, and her feet—god, her feet throbbed in the too-wet too-stiff boots like they had their own malicious heartbeat. 

They were definitely disasters, that much she knew—she could already feel the flaring blisters, hot and angry, but she didn’t dare take off her shoes to check. Not here. Not where people could see.

She’d fix it later.

When everyone was asleep.

Across the clearing, she caught sight of Piper chattering animatedly with Merrek—her brother, the one of many that she’d healed yesterday. He was checking his gear, methodical and focused, with a soft smile on his face as he nodded to his sister’s words. He glanced up and caught her eye, he nodded once.

Slow. Deliberate. A wordless note of Thank you.

She nodded back in acknowledgement.

No words needed.

Later—much later, when the camp had settled into the rhythm of sleep and the only sounds were rain and snores and the occasional shifts of restless bodies—Mira slipped out of her tent.

She found a spot behind a cluster of rocks, out of sight, and finally pulled off her boots.

The damage was worse than she’d thought.

Blisters on both heels, raw and weeping. The balls of her feet were rubbed down to something that barely qualified as skin, angry red and screaming. Her toes were wrinkled and pale from being wet all day, pruned like she’d spent hours in a bath except infinitely less pleasant.

She stared at the mess for a long moment, jaw tight, grimace pulling at her mouth.

Urgh.

Okay yeah, that definitely needs fixing. Now.

She closed her eyes with a sigh and hummed.

Low. Almost subvocal. Just breath and vibration, thrumming deep in her chest where the magic lived.

The resonance in camp was faint—everyone deep in exhausted sleep, their spirit quiet and distanced—but she didn’t need much for this. Just enough to coax her body into cooperating.

The melody was soft, wordless, almost like a lullaby that Rumi used to hum during late-night practices when they were all dead on their feet but still had hours to go. The magic raised warm and familiar within her.

The blisters began to close. Skin knitted itself back together, raw patches smoothing into fresh tissue. The pain faded to a dull ache, then nothing.

She flexed her toes experimentally.

Functional.

Good enough.

“You really should’ve said something.”

Mira’s head snapped up, heart slamming into her throat.

Bull stood a few paces away, arms crossed, rain dripping off his horns. Watching her in the dark with that unreadable expression he wore when he was assessing.

Her jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“I’m handling it.”

“By sneaking off to heal yourself in the middle of the night?” His grin flashed white in the darkness. “That’s one way to handle it.”

Urgh. 

Why does this guy have to be so observant anyways? This literally has nothing to do with him.

She scowled and reached for her boots. “Were you spying on me?”

“Just making sure no one was dying in the dark.” He tilted his head. “Feet that bad?”

“Were.” She corrected sharply.

“And now?”

“Fixed.”

He studied her for a long moment, rain droplets running down his face, and something shifted in his expression—something that looked almost like respect mixed with exasperation.

“Mind if I sit?”

Mira shrugged.

Then he moved closer, lowering himself onto a nearby rock with a faint grimace, and stretched his left leg out toward the remnants of the fire.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The rain filled the silence, steady and relentless.

Then Bull said, voice low and matter-of-fact, “You did good today.”

Mira’s jaw tightened. “I kept up.”

“Barely.”

Her head snapped toward him, fox-like eyes flashing dangerously. “Excuse me?”

Bull met her glare evenly, no mockery in his expression. Just fact and honesty. “You’re pushing too hard. I can see it.”

“I’m fine.” She growled, the word sharp enough to draw blood.

“You’re stubborn,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Mira opened her mouth to snap back, to tell him exactly where he could shove his observations—

Bull reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small leather coin purse. He tossed it into her lap without ceremony, the weight of it settling against her thighs.

She stared at it like it might bite. “What’s this?”

“Wages.”

“I’m not—”

“You fought with us. Healed us. That’s work. Work gets paid.” His tone was matter-of-fact, leaving absolutely no room for argument. “Haven is right up ahead. You’d need it. Consider it an advance.”

Mira’s fingers closed around the purse, feeling the weight of coins inside.

Her throat tightened.

She wanted to refuse. Wanted to throw it back and tell him she didn’t need his charity. That she had been taking care of herself just fine for years, thank you very much.

But she did need it.

She had nothing. No money, no supplies, no plan.

Just jewelry she couldn’t sell without raising questions, and a borrowed shirt on her back that doesn’t fit quite right.

“…Thanks,” she said finally, the word scraping out rough and reluctant.

Bull’s grin flashed. “Don’t mention it.”

Silence settled again, easier this time. More comfortable.

He rolled the ankle once unconsciously, jaw tight, and Mira’s eyes tracked the motion automatically, cataloging the hitch in the movement, the way he compensated.

Old injury. Healed badly. Probably ached like hell in this weather.

“That ankle,” she said before she could stop herself. “Still bothering you?”

Bull glanced at her, surprised. “What?”

“I saw you favoring it earlier.” She gestured vaguely. “Yesterday too. Old injury I’m guessing? How long has it been bothering you?”

His expression shifted—guarded, assessing. A brief moment of silence as he debated with himself, weighing whether to answer honestly or deflect.

The moment passed and he answered offhandly, ”…Few years. Took a warhammer to it. Healed, but…” He shrugged. “Aches when it’s cold. Or wet. Or when I’ve been marching all day.”

“So always, on the Storm Coast.”

His smile flashed again, head tilted in acknowledgement. “Pretty much.”

Mira stood, ignoring the way her pulse kicked up for absolutely no reason, and crossed to him. “Let me see it.”

He blinked. “You offering?”

“I’m telling you.” She crouched beside him, hands already reaching for his leg. “Hold still.”

For a moment, he just stared at her—weighing, considering. Probably running mental calculations about trust and vulnerability and whether this was a good idea.

Then he rolled up his pant leg without a word, baring the scarred mess of his ankle to her scrutiny.

The ankle was a disaster up close—thick scar tissue, the joint slightly misaligned where bone had broken and set wrong. The kind of injury that healed enough to be functional but never stopped hurting.

Mira shifted closer, ignoring the way her pulse kicked up and the heat radiating off his skin even in the cold, and placed her hands just above his ankle.

The joint was warm under her palms, scar tissue thick and uneven. She could feel the damage beneath the skin—old fractures that hadn’t set right, inflammation that never quite healed.

Tricky. But doable.

Mira closed her eyes and reached for her magic.

No resonance to pull from. The camp was too quiet, everyone too deeply asleep.

So she reached inward instead, drawing on her own reserves, and began to hum.

The melody was deeper this time, slower, meant to sink into bone and marrow to convince stubborn tissues to remember what whole felt like. She threaded the magic through muscle and scar tissue, coaxing inflammation down, easing the constant ache, coaxing the old hurts to heal.

Bull’s breath was caught against the sensation.

She kept going, pouring warmth into the joint, smoothing the rough edges of fractures, feeling the way the magic responded to intent, reconnecting and reshaping flesh and bones to where they should be.

When she finally pulled her hands away, the ankle looked about the same outwardly—scarred, worn—but Bull rolled it experimentally and his eyebrows instantly shot up so fast that they nearly hit his horns.

“Huh.” He tested some weight on it, flexing his foot with increasing confidence. “That’s… a lot better. Like, a lot better.”

“Good.” Mira stood quickly, brushing off her hands and stepping back before the moment could get weird. “Don’t make it a thing.”

Bull pushed to his feet, still testing the ankle with visible amazement, and his grin returned—slow, warm, edged with something she couldn’t name and wasn’t sure she wanted to identify.

“Wasn’t planning on it, Songbird.” He paused, then added quieter, “But thanks.”

She shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the sincerity in his voice. “Yeah. Whatever.”

He studied her for another beat, then nodded once and walked away, footsteps silent despite his size.

Mira stood there in the dark, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with magic, and told herself to get it together.

The second day was worse.

The rain, if possible, intensified. The mud deepened. The cold sank claws into Mira’s chest and refused to let go.

Her body—marginally recovered from the night’s healing—started breaking down faster than it had the day before. The endless grind wore her down in increments she couldn’t quite compensate for: thighs burning, lungs working overtime, feet aching despite last night’s quick repairs.

But she kept walking.

The Chargers slogged through the misery without complaint, and Mira matched them step for step, jaw tight, pride refusing to let her falter even when her body screamed for mercy.

Around midmorning, Dalish fell into step beside her.

The elf didn’t say anything at first. Just walked, bow slung across her back, rain dripping off her hood. 

Comfortable silence stretched between them for several minutes.

Then, in a voice pitched low, “You handled yourself well that first day. Back on the beach.”

Mira glanced over, surprised by the opener. “Thanks.”

“That thing you do. With the singing.” Dalish’s tone was carefully neutral. “It’s useful.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Yeah.” Dalish was quiet for a moment, watching the path ahead. Then, even quieter, “Just… be careful where you do it.”

Mira frowned, pulse kicking up slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning the Chargers don’t care. Boss doesn’t care. We’ve seen worse, and frankly, anyone who can close rifts and patch us up is worth their weight in gold.” Dalish’s eyes cut toward her, sharp and serious. “But out here? With us? That’s different from doing it in a town. You follow?”

Mira’s chest tightened. “Different how?”

“Folks down South are pretty scared of magic,” Dalish said bluntly. “Most of them, anyway. They see power they don’t understand, they don’t think ‘helpful.’ They think ‘dangerous.’  And dangerous gets reported. Fast.”

“To whom?”

“Templars. Chantry. Doesn’t matter.” Dalish’s mouth twisted. “Either way, you’d end up in a Circle if you’re lucky. Dead if you’re not. Templars have a tendency to smite first, you know?” 

She made some vague gestures in the air and added, just so the severity of the situation soaks in, “even if you do manage to escape by some stroke of miracles, they are like damned bloodhounds. Really hard to shake off one’s trails after they latched onto the scent of apostates—which basically includes any mages they see outside of Circles.”

The words settled cold and heavy in Mira’s chest.

“I know you’re not from around,” Dalish continued, voice softer now, almost gentle, “So I figured…might be good to know, Out here, you’re fine. Do what you need to do. But keep an eye out. If we got company, roll into a village, or past a Chantry…” She met Mira’s eye directly with a meaningful tap on her bow-staff. “Best to be just a bard. With some clever Orlesian tricks, maybe. Nothing that glows. Nothing that makes folk nervous. You understand what I’m saying?”

Mira held her gaze, reading the concern beneath the careful neutrality, the way Dalish was trying to protect her without making it obvious and weird. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Good.” Dalish’s expression softened slightly, something like relief flickering across her face. “Hate to see good works punished. You’re smart. That’ll keep you breathing.”

She peeled off without another word, jogging ahead to rejoin the scouts.

Mira walked on, turning the conversation over in her mind.

Magic is apparently considered dangerous here. And people hunt them down for it. God, Salem witch trial era vibe much?

She looked down at her hands—deceivingly delicate and flawless despite the residual powers humming faintly beneath her skin.

Great. One more thing to worry about then.

Mid-afternoon brought demons.

Just a small rift this time that they unwittingly got too close to—and a pack of shades emerged from the shadows.

The Chargers reacted instantly.

“Contact!” Dalish’s shout cut through the rain.

Weapons materialized. The line tightened. Bull’s greatsword came off his back with a sound like a bell tolling.

“Dalish, Skinner—flanks! Krem, center! Don’t let them scatter!”

Mira’s Gok-Do snapped into existence, silver-blue light flaring through the rain, and she moved without thinking.

A shade lunged—claws extended, face a writhing mass of wrongness.

She spun, staff-blade slicing clean through its torso. It shrieked and dissolved.

Another from the right. Dalish’s arrow took it mid-leap.

“Mira, right flank!” Krem’s voice, sharp.

Mira pivoted in response, and kicked the shade into Rocky’s trap. The explosion shook the ground, rattling her teeth.

Her body moved on autopilot—reading the field, anticipating strikes, flowing through chaos with muscle memory honed over years.

This, she knew.

This, she was built for.

This, she was good at.

Her breath came fast and controlled. Her feet moved on autopilot, reading the battlefield like choreography—where to step, when to strike, how to flow without getting caught.

Bull’s voice boomed over the chaos. “Mira, your six!”

She looked back—

A shade, mid-leap, claws extended.

Bull’s greatsword took its head off before it reached her.

He didn’t even glance back. Just moved to the next target, already calling orders.

Mira’s heart kicked once, hard. Teamwork. Just teamwork. She told herself.

She threw herself back into the fray. Twice as fast and ferocious. 

Fought and sang loud above all the noises, closing the minor rift with a swift snap of resonance before any more demons crawled through.

When the last shade fell, silence crashed down like a weight.

Bull laughed—loud, booming, utterly alive. “Hell of a workout!”

Nervous laughter rippled through the group.

“Everyone intact?” Krem called, already moving through the line.

Mira dismissed her weapon and crossed to where Stitches knelt beside a warrior with a gash across his ribs.

“Let me.”

Stitches glanced up, nodded, stepped back.

She didn’t bother with asking this time. Just placed her hands over the wound and reached for the threads of resonance still humming in the air.

Adrenaline. Relief. The fierce joy of survival.

She pulled on it, shaped it, and began to hum.

The melody rose—low and steady, vibrating through her chest and extending outward through resonance—the wound began to close, skins knitting together into flawless fleshes in slow, deliberate increments.

By the time she finished, five Chargers were patched up and the resonance in her chest had frayed to nothing.

She straightened, legs shaky, and caught Bull watching from across the clearing.

He nodded once.

She nodded back.

They walked for hours after that, boots squelching through endless mud.

Around midday, the grumbling started.

“Maker’s breath, how much farther…”

“My legs are done.”

“Pretty sure I’m dying. Actually dying this time.”

The mood dipped sharply, exhaustion settling extra heavy now that the adrenaline from the fight had faded. Leaving them with nothing but cold and wet and endless walking.

Mira, hanging in the middle of the pack, started to hum again.

Quietly at first. Just a thread of melody, barely audible over the rain.

Heads turned.

She let it build, rising into something brighter—a rhythm meant to match marching feet, steady and strong and forward.

The resonance flickered to life like embers catching.

The Chargers caught on.

Steps lightened almost immediately. Breathing eased. The oppressive weight of exhaustion lifted just slightly—not gone, never gone, but manageable.

Someone tapped the beat against their thigh. Someone else hummed along, picking up the harmony without thinking about it.

By the time the song faded, they’d covered another mile without complaint.

Krem grinned back at her. “Do that more often.”

Mira fought a smile, keeping her expression neutral. “Maybe.”

Also that afternoon, Mira quickly learned an important lesson: it’s critical not to jinx things while traveling.

Because the universe—or whatever malicious force governed this godsforsaken world—was apparently listening.

Thedas, she discovered, was infested not only with mages and templars and demons, but also with bears and bandits that had an unfortunate tendency to appear at the worst possible moments.

Like when you were exhausted, soaked to the bone, and really just wanted to find a dry spot to collapse.

The bandits were dealt with efficiently—Bull and the Chargers moved like a well-oiled machine, and Mira’s Gok-Do sang through the chaos with vicious precision.

The bear was… more complicated.

It somehow, just so happened to crash on their party from the back support line, which remained a good distance away from Iron Bull that was leading the team from the very front.

“Why is it so big?!” Piper shrieked as the massive creature charged.

“Because it’s a bear!” Rocky shouted back, lobbing an explosive that did absolutely nothing except make it angrier.

Mira made a mental note: bears in Thedas were apparently made of spite and bad decisions.

They survived.

Barely.

But her respect for this world’s wildlife increased dramatically, along with her determination to stay the hell away from forests in the future.

That night, they camped in the ruins of an old watchtower, crumbling stone walls offering marginal shelter from the rain.

And she sang for them.

Not a grand performance. Nothing she’d have planned for a packed stadium.

Just… a simple song.

The Chargers were scattered around the fire, exhausted and bruised from the earlier skirmishes. The mood was low, tension thick.

Mira, sitting on her rock, started the melody.

Quietly at first. Wordless and warm.

Heads turned.

She kept going, letting the sound build, letting it curl through the camp like smoke.

The resonance flickered to life—faint threads connecting her to the Chargers, their weariness feeding into her magic, and her song feeding strength back into them.

Shoulders relaxed. Breathing eased. The weight lifted, just slightly.

When she finished, the silence felt lighter.

Krem let out a long breath. “Maker, I needed that.”

“Don’t thank the Maker,” Dalish said, grinning. “Thank the bard.”

Mira shrugged, casual, like her heart wasn’t pounding. “Just doing my job.”

Bull caught her eye across the fire.

His grin was soft. Knowing.

She looked away, heat creeping up her neck.

The conversations picked up after then as the Chargers huddled under canvas around the fire, eating dinner, and Mira sat on her rock, listening.

“—heard the Herald’s Dalish. From some clan up north.”

“Lavellan, I think.”

Some snickers emerged. “Bet the Chantry loves that.”

“They don’t have a choice. Herald’s got the mark. Only one who can close rifts.”

A pause.

Then Rocky drawled, “Well, not the only one.”

Silence.

Everyone’s eyes cut toward Mira.

She kept chewing her jerky, expression neutral.

Krem cleared his throat. “Point is, the mark on that glowing hand works. That’s what matters.”

“Just because they can both close the rifts,” Dalish said carefully. “Doesn’t mean they work the same way.”

More silence, thoughtful and heavy.

Bull’s voice rumbled through it. “Doesn’t matter how it works. Matters that it does, and we are not forever stuck with holes in sky that keep pouring out demons.”

The conversation moved on, but Mira felt the weight of their curiosity, their questions.

What makes you different from the Herald? 

Are you really, actually different?

She didn’t have an answer.

But she had a feeling she’d need one soon.

The third day brought a shift.

The rain finally eased to a drizzle. The terrain changed—less mud, more rock, patches of frost appearing as they climbed in elevation.

By late afternoon, Haven came into view.

The valley spread below, white with snow, the village huddled at its center. Tents sprawled in chaotic rings. Supply lines snaked between buildings. Soldiers moved in formations.

And above it all, the Breach loomed.

Through the breaks of clouds, Mira finally got her first clear view of the thing that had been lurking at the edge of her vision ever since she’d landed in this world.

The Breach in all its sickening glory.

It tore across the sky like a wound that refused to heal—a massive gash of sickly green light that pulsed with wrongness, tendrils of corruption crawling outward like grasping fingers. Even from this distance, it dominated the horizon, impossible to ignore. 

Mira stopped walking.

Her chest tightened.

She’d seen it before—glimpses through the fall from the sky, the chaos of that first fight, flashes between demon attacks. But she hadn’t really looked at it. Hadn’t known what it meant back then.

Now she did.

The air around it shimmered with distortion, reality bending wrong. It's close enough that Mira could see every pulse of bleeding energy, sense every crawling vein of wrongness, and feel every hymn of discord in the harmony.

She could hear it even from here—a discordant hum that scraped against her senses like nails on glass. The absence of harmony. The void where resonance should be. 

Back home, the entire world hummed with underlying harmony. The Honmoon threaded through everything, a network of spiritual energy that connected people, places, performances. Even when she wasn’t actively drawing on it, she could feel it—that background hum of life and connections.

Here though?

Nothing.

Just dead air and that sick green wound in the sky, bleeding corruption into a world that had no immune system to fight it.

That’s what they’re trying to close, she thought, stomach dropping as she takes in the sight. Throat tightened as her instincts scream for her to move, to fix the hum of dissonance saturated the very air itself, ringing in her ear — too loud, too wrong. That’s the apocalypse everyone’s scrambling to survive.

“First time really seeing it up close, huh?”

Mira jerked, turning to find Krem standing beside her, arms crossed, rain dripping off his hood.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

“Hits different when you stop and look.” His voice was grim. “Been there since the Conclave exploded. Gets bigger every day.”

There was a moment of silence as they both stood there, looking up in that giant hole in the sky. 

“Welcome to the apocalypse,” Krem muttered beside her.

“Yeah,” Mira said quietly. “Thanks. I hate it.”

He laughed despite himself.

The moment passed and Krem turned away with a sigh, “Come on, we are getting close.”

She swallowed and took one last look before turning to follow, at the scene of Haven in the distance, overshadowed by the Breach above.

This is it. Haven. The Inquisition. The story I need to survive.

Chin up, shoulders squared and eyes emblazed, Mira stepped toward the start of the story that’s about to unfold.